"It doesn't matter who the
enemy is, how big or how many.
Make ready for them. That is
the essence of being a soldier."
-Frank Castle,
Punisher: War Journal
On the third day of preparations for the Tyrant-2, Kurtis Boe ran across a major problem in Dr. Tyrant's plans. One of the hackers aboard the sub had intercepted naval chatter, and relayed to Boe that the Department of Defense was far from stupid. The U.S. Navy had a fleet of eight destroyer subs waiting in the arctic waters for the arrival of any hostile vessels within a hundred miles of their perimeter.
Abe and Lester had responded to this news rather well, saying that they would simply use the sub's on-board teleportation systems to jump as close to the key land area they needed to use the Freeze Ray on as they could. The sub would act as their getaway if they should complete their mission.
Lester, meanwhile, spent much of that day sending encrypted emails to numerous friendly contacts in the media, telling Abe's side of the whole story, hoping to sway popular perception and perhaps highlight the shortcomings and corruption of the HAC. He wanted people to know that Aberdeen Tyrannus was trying to save the world, not conquer it.
Unfortunately, he was getting no responses from any of his contacts. Nothing he'd sent to these journalists was showing up on any of their associated news outlets, either. Lester suspected he was shouting into the wind.
Big Three continued with his duties in the equipment bays, now working his men into the mix, having them perform dry run drills in a sublevel of the base devoted to training exercises. The burly henchman had kept pretty much to himself since beginning these final preparations.
In the final base of Dr. Tyrant, all was nearing completion.
The Leader looked up at the hulking metal monstrosity and felt a tremble of anticipation. Yes, he thought, this is it. This weapon, this tool, will be the undoing of Aberdeen Tyrannus and the Hero Action Committee.
"For you, pop," he whispered, staring wide-eyed as the mechanized suit was powered up. "This is for you. We're going to get the bastards who ruined it all for us." He took a couple of steps forward, careful not to step up onto the teleporter pad he'd requisitioned months before and had shipped up here.
Maurice Franco came into the hangar behind him, chuffing smoke from a cigarette. "He's asleep, boss," the stout hoodlum said. "I have to admit, this thing is pretty intimidating. But Patriot ripped the last one apart with no problems."
"You forget, Mr. Franco, that Mr. Block's power makes the copied technology far more durable, stronger. Even the ammunition loaded into the suit is more potent. Besides, I expect the Major will be too busy killing henchmen and trying to rip out Captain Righteous's eyes to pay much attention to the suit. At least, not until it's too late."
"Right." Franco took a last drag on his cigarette and dropped it, crushing it under foot. "Your pops would have been proud of you. This whole setup has been, well, incredible. I wish I'd have gotten to know your old man better."
"That makes two of us," the Leader said wistfully. "I didn't get to see a whole lot of him growing up. And I never really got to know him as an adult. Because of the HAC, and because of Dr. Tyrant."
"That reminds me, I been meaning to ask, didn't Patriot already wax the motherfucker who used this suit?"
"He did, but the Tiger Tank suit was built by Dr. Tyrant. He designed and constructed the original for a colleague. Thus, if not for him, my father and the life I should have lived would still be in play."
The two men approached the construct, a bulky, weapon-adorned, humanoid battle suit that could easily have found a home in science fiction films of the 50's. The controls were all adjustable, as was the pilot seat. When the time came, the new Tiger Tank's pilot would be able to rain down destruction without hesitation.
"Do you have the returner device," Chambers asked.
"Yeah, in the house. You sure you still want to pilot this thing yourself? Things are gonna get very hairy up there. I could do it."
"No, Mr. Franco. You have your tasks ahead. As for me, I'm only waiting for the signal. Come on, let's head inside. I want to see if anybody's tried contacting me."
Congressman Bantor understood the measures being taken by the Navy, with numerous submarines being dispatched to patrol both polar regions. If Tyrant were clever, and he was, he wouldn't risk aerial transport now that he had the Freeze Ray. Sneaking up via submersible was the only other option besides teleportation.
Ground troops in both regions kept that in check. Ever one to make sure his i's were dotted and his t's crossed, Bantor had surveys done by scientific teams at both polls. This morning, the results had been emailed to him.
According to the research teams' data, the scenario Tyrannus had laid out for them was certainly possible, but not for another fifty years or so. The final line of the report went as such: 'While there is legitimate cause for concern, the catastrophe implied by Dr. Aberdeen Tyrannus could only be arrived at by manipulating our instruments' time drives and sensors. Given what we now know, careful study and enhancement of the Freeze Ray's design and function can easily prevent these cataclysmic events far before the point of no return.'
This didn't sit well at all with Bantor. He'd played the game of politics, of power, long enough now to know when a fix was in. The very idea that Tyrannus had been so close to the truth told him one thing; Tyrannus genuinely believed in the threat he'd brought to the HAC high command.
Captain Righteous wasn't a traitor, then, not if he had been presented with the same data that Tyrannus had. The original Ultra Soldier would still be the hero, at least as far as he knew.
Someone had duped Dr. Tyrant, and the HAC had played right into that third party's hands!
He clicked on his intercom. "Stacy, tell Tolworth to get in here," he snapped. A minute later, Dick Tolworth, his media expert and handler, came huffing into the room, his hand mopping at his sweaty, smooth head. "Dick, get in touch with Renee Hastings over at NBC. I want her here, fast as possible."
"I'll try, but there's no promises," Dick said, looking around nervously. "Maybe you haven't heard, but there's been a bit of a media firestorm since last night."
"What are you talking about?" Instead of answering, Tolworth turned on the television sitting to the left of the congressman's desk, already tuned to Fox News. Bill O'Reilly was on screen, with a red banner across the bottom reading 'Media Attack- Literally'.
The commentator was already speaking. "-just smacks of conspiracy, and I gotta tell you folks, I'd love to say this is a liberal cover-up of some kind, but several of the victims have been members of the left."
"Victims," Bantor squeaked.
"Just listen," said Tolworth.
"With the disappeance of Mr. Olbermann, the total number of reporters and journalists reported missing in the last twenty-four hours now climbs to thirty-eight nationwide. We here at Fox News have still had no word from our own beloved Sean Hannity, and in just two hours, he will officially be listed among those missing."
Tolworth muted the television. "It started a couple of days ago," he said, hand shaking on the desk. "Nobody thought much of it until the tenth reporter went missing, and people started to take notice. When was the last time you heard of Wolf Blitzer not showing up for work?"
"Dear God," Bantor wheezed.
"He was number ten. I'll try to get hold of Hastings, but she might be leery of a government official trying to arrange a meeting." Bantor didn't care, though. He quickly jotted down a list of names, handing it to Tolworth.
In his years supervising the Hero Action Committee, Bantor had come to know the habits of many of the superheroes who worked in conjunction with the HAC. He knew the people Captain Righteous would trust; he only hoped a few were still available to talk to.
It was mid-afternoon when Abe, Lester and Big Three led their troops to the teleporter room. They would depart for Alaska and board the Tyrant-2 in four waves. The sub would be filled to capacity, and eight drone soldier robots, brought back to life by Calvin the day before (with Abe's great thanks and a long, tearful farewell, as Calvin intended to retire) would be loaded in last.
The drones had a single purpose; shield Abe while he used the Freeze Ray to stabilize the region. Acting as the center of a wheel, Abe would move over the terrain surrouned by a full compliment of five hundred armed and trained henchmen. Lester himself would stay close to the aged super-scientist, acting as a last line of defense if anyone should break through the ranks of henchmen.
There weren't enough returner devices for everyone. The outermost ring of skirmishers was therefor composed of those men and women (for almost half were female) brave enough to volunteer to go without one. If they survived what awaited them in the arctic, they would find their own way back to civilization.
That left three-hundred and fifty troops, along with Abe, Lester, Kurtis Boe and Big Three, equipped with returners. The devices would quickly become nearly freezing against the skin, but nobody would take it off; doing so scrambled the return coordinates.
This failsafe was the only thing that kept HAC from simply following dead henchmen back home.
Lester and Abe stood bundled next to one another outside of the teleporter room with the last group as the first one departed. Abe took out his medication and dry swallowed the pill, shuddering afterwards. "I must be the first supervillain in the history of this country more threatened by his own heart than any punk in tights."
"Hey, I wasn't a punk," Lester replied.
"No, but the tights still looked ridiculous," Abe joshed with a smile. Lester snickered, thinking back on the various outfits he'd worn over the years, the different types of armor he'd used before the one he now wore. He'd only gotten this suit in the late 70's. Prior to that, he'd always been lucky enough to never have to put his gear to a heavy test.
A heavy thrum shook the floor beneath their feet, and the first group was away. Everyone in the corridor shuffled forward, the second group entering the teleporter chamber.
Lester looked around at the troops, taking in their smiles and nervous laughter, their easy comraderie. He leaned in close to Abe. "It's more than a payday for them, isn't it?"
"Hmm?"
"I just always thought of henchmen as glorified mercenaries," Lester said quietly. "It seldom crossed my mind that they're really just soldiers of a different sort."
"That's about how they like to see themselves. These folks don't care about the politics or the ethos of their boss one whit most of the time. To them it's both a job and a way of life. Take that fellow, for instance," Abe said, pointing out a stolid, gray-bearded man in light skirmishers' gear. "See the red star tattooed on his neck, with the date underneath? He served The Crimson Star, an old Soviet supervillain bent on making himself the Party Leader by force back in the 70's."
"I never even heard of him," said Lester.
"No surprise. A hero by the name of Brightline did for The Crimson Star back in '78. Guy could manipulate light, focus it into lasers he shot out of his fingers. He died in '88 of a cocaine overdose. He was strictly a European superhero."
"Why is it you know more about my contemporaries than I do?"
"Lester, please," Abe said, shuffling forward as the next group moved into the teleporter room. "Calling him your contemporary would imply he was on your level."
Lester Collins smiled to himself, stepping up next to his friend once more.
Renee Hastings had, as Tolworth feared, been among the newest batch of journalists to go missing. The only difference in her case was that someone had seen her being abducted by three large men in gray nailhead suits. Four witnesses across the street from her house had been shot calling 911; one of them had survived.
To Erin Bantor this was important, but had to be filed away for the moment. Jerry Kortins, a reporter at a small paper in the suburbs of Atlanta, had been brought under heavy guard to his office, a jowly man in his late-middle-age years with watery blue eyes. Kortins looked like a man on the verge of tears, and Bantor could understand why. His peers were disappearing left and right, and suddenly a group of heavily armed commandos crash into his offices and abduct him. That he hadn't pissed himself was a testament to the man's self-control.
"Mr. Kortins, allow me to introduce myself. I'm Erin Bantor, representative of Virginia and head administrator of the Hero Action Committee. You're familiar with Captain Righteous, yes?" Suddenly there was a new light in the reporter's eyes, a gleam of rebellion.
"Yeah, I am," Kortins said, leaning forward and pointing a finger at Bantor. "And I think you people are wrong about him! You've got a brand new playmate, this Major Patriot, and now you want an excuse to put Righteous to pasture like some old nag!"
"Mr. Kortins," Bantor began calmly, bringing his hands up defensively.
"No! You're gonna hear me out, you weasely little suit! That man is a real hero, he's saved this country more times than you and your cronies have tried to sell it to the highest bidder!"
"Mr. Kortins, I assure you that-"
"And now you people are trying to say he's a traitor? I'd sooner believe Elvis was still alive and fucking the Wolf Man under the bleachers at Yankee Stadium!"
"Mr. Kortins," Bantor shouted, slamming up out of his seat and knocking the chair over, his teeth clenched, his shoulders hunched and stiff. "Shut up! Listen to me, and shut up!" An awkward silence fell over them as Kortins seemed to shrink in his seat. Bantor cleared his throat and picked up his chair, sat down, straightened his tie, and tried to smile. "I brought you here, Mr. Kortins, because I think we might be wrong about Captain Righteous."
"Oh."
"Yes, oh. Mr. Kortins, Captain Righteous was known to keep in personal touch with several journalists over the years, yourself included. Has he by any chance tried to contact you?"
There was a moment wherein Kortins looked away, but after a brief pause, he nodded. "Yeah, he sent me an encrypted email. Well, 'encrypted' isn't the right word for it, I suppose, so much as 'coded'. Do you have a computer I could use to show you?"
Bantor motioned Kortins around to his side of the desk. The jowly man used Bantor's computer to bring up his own email, and he opened one marked 'Ceasar Message, 2 Right'. Bantor wasn't the smartest man in America, but he knew about substitution codes. Using a notepad from a desk drawer, he wrote down Righteous's message.
'To whomever reads this, rest assured that I, Lester Collins, known to most of the world as Captain Righteous, am only trying to help Aberdeen Tyrannus save us all from certain doom. The Hero Action Committee refused to accept Abe's data, which proves that the polar ice caps will fully melt within five to seven years, flooding the world and demolishing the human race in a series of cataclysmic events brought on by massive climate shifts.
'I have been wrongly branded a traitor, and Abe wrongly branded a villain. In this instance, Dr. Tyrant is the hero; he's trying to save us all!
'Contact your local congressmen and senators. Get the word out that the HAC has betrayed the people not only of America, but of the whole world!'
Bantor sat trembling, staring at the translated message. He hadn't listened to Tyrannus, or Collins. He had assumed that the wily old supervillain was just up to his old tricks, using faulty data to deceive Righteous into helping him.
But this second plea from Righteous, combined with his recent research data, told a much different narrative. Dr. Tyrant, Captain Righteous, and the entire HAC had been played. How, though?
"An insider," Bantor said.
"What?"
"Nothing, nothing. Mr. Kortins, the men who brought you here have orders to take you to a safe location when we're done here. If you hadn't picked up the phone when Mr. Tolworth called, you likely would have been collected by someone quite a lot less interested in keeping you safe. When you get to the location, you're going to sit tight, but you are going to do everything short of naming me to put the word out that the Hero Action Committee got this one wrong. Do you understand?"
The reporter just nodded, then walked out of the room, guided away by two Green Team HAC soldiers. Bantor thought about the implications of what he now suspected. Somebody knew who Tyrannus's colleagues in the scientific community were, well enough to manipulate the data readings that would inevitably be looked at by the retired supervillain.
The only people with that thorough information worked within the organization. It would be simple enough to get the whole ball rolling, and once it did, nothing would stop it. Everybody was still scared of Tyrannus, due to his genius and ingenuity. But few if any members in the Committee's ranks had ever expressed the kind of hate that would spur such a complex series of events in order to take the old man down.
What was more, this entire debacle would bring outside fire down on the organization itself. Nobody would defend the Committee if an official inquiry were launched.
Bantor would spend many fruitless hours that day trying to figure out who could be on the verge of bringing his beloved organization to its knees.
Abe sat in his cabin, making adjustments to his scanning aparatus. Using the scanner, he would locate the single best spot to use the Freeze Ray, then concentrate his device there.
The Tyrant-2 thrummed all around him, the sounds of men passing by his cabin filtering in through the crack he'd left in the doorway. He didn't like being underwater, and any company who chose to come was welcome while in the submarine. He suspected Lester would be busy going over final strategy discussions with Boe in the ship's war room, but even at the Nevada base he'd passed some time talking to skirmishers and heavies.
The vessel had only been at sea an hour when Big Three poked his massive head into the room. "Doc?"
"Ah, Big, come on in, please," said Abe, motioning to a large recliner across from his bunk. The super-scientist himself was seated behind a small oak desk against one cabin wall, the scanner finished and set to one side, the Freeze Ray secured in a bullet-proof case by his right hand. He smiled at the awkward heavy commander, who slunk into the seat and let out a long, low breath.
"I hate being on the water," Big Three muttered.
"If it's any comfort, we're not on it, but in it." Big Three cocked his head to one side, then shook it vigorously.
"Nope, not a comfort." Abe chuckled and brought a bottle of brandy out of his desk, along with two short glasses. "Now that might do the trick." Abe poured them each out a measure of brandy and they raised their glasses to one another. "To completing the mission," Big Three said.
"Yes, I'll drink to that," said Abe, tossing back the harsh liquid in one pull. "You seem a good lad, Big. What got you into the Henchmen's Union?"
"Oh, that's easy," said Big, finishing his drink. "See, I got myself in some trouble in the Marines years back, had a scrap with an officer. We was over in this little shitsplat country in southeast Asia, can't remember where now, back in '88. Nobody knew we was there, we wasn't officially supposed to be, you see. Well, I go into town for some supplies, and when I come back, he's on top of this local girl in the middle of the camp. She's screaming and clawing at him, he won't stop, so I go over and yank him off, tell him the girl don't want it, anybody wit' ears can tell that. He takes a swing at me, and I sort of lost my temper on him."
"Oh. I suppose it didn't go well for you after that."
"Damn right. Levenworth for a year and a half, dishonorable discharge. I was a Marine, though, not much good at being anything other than a trooper. So I joined the Union, took off for Claw's compound. Moved my way up pretty quick, served as a 'number two' a couple of times briefly. It's not a bad life, but you gotta put your money on the right clients."
Abe had an idea what Big Three meant. Some supervillains remained free and on the loose for long stretches of time, carefully plotting large robberies and thefts, committing small-scale crimes. Most operated specifically within the confines of a single metropolitan area. These tended to be long-haul villains, the sort of clients who kept the Henchmen's Union on retainer.
"What was the longest stint you pulled," Abe asked, pouring out two more drinks. Big Three took his and sipped at it.
"Worked for a guy out of Portland, Oregon. Called himself Chronomaster. Did all of his jobs based on historic times and dates. Only got caught twice in the five years I worked for him. Course, then Hailstorm did his 'Hero Tour' and that did for Chronomaster."
"What happened?"
"Hailstorm hit the boss with a gust of wind that accidentally impaled him on a wrought iron fence. Hailstorm put the brakes on his little tour for a whole month. I guess he was pretty shook up about the whole thing, prided himself on never killing his enemies."
Abe sipped at his drink and thought back over the years at the small-time villains he'd helped over the span of his career. There had been close to two dozen assorted rogues for whom he'd developed weapons and gadgets, and in a couple of instances, his creations had spawned entire villain careers.
"What about family, Big? Got any kids?"
"Me? Naw. Never been married. This life doesn't make it easy to date. I ain't got nothin' against it, mind you. Look at Mr. Boe! His parents got together while they was workin' fer you! It can be done, but I think I'd like to retire before I settle down with a lady. How about you, Doc?"
"No. Never had the time," Abe said with a reluctant sigh. "I was almost married once, but she turned out to be a HAC mole. She turned me in the week before we were to be married." Big Three winced. "Huh, tell me about it."
Big Three finished his drink, then excused himself to get some rest before the big moment. Abe let him go with a brief farewell, then poured one last drink for himself. He raised the glass to his empty guest chair. "To what never came," he said quietly.
They're coming, Major Patriot thought, his hands frozen in the act of cleaning his sidearm. I don't know how I know, but I do, he thought. Swiftly he finished cleaning the Ruger, loading fresh shells into the cylinder and slapping it shut.
Echo substation three was an insulated cabin equipped with state-of-the-art monitoring equipment and communications systems, stocked to allow five servicemen to remain without outside supplies for up to three months. Two staff quarters held bunk beds, and a third single man bedroom stood at the end of the west hallway past the bathroom. In this third bedroom Patriot had spent his first couple of days in near perfect silence, his paranoia running like a rabbit through his mind.
Today, he'd awakened feeling refreshed and in control. Sitting in the commons room, he hurried to a computer and typed up a quick message for the Leader. 'Can feel Tyrant and the traitor coming, will destroy them soon', he'd typed, printing out the sheet in a rush. He took the sheet to an outdated fax machine sitting on a rolling cart by the end of the control panel. The Leader had had it brought to the cabin months before.
Patriot dialed the Leader's fax line number, then quickly hand-wrote a final line before putting the sheet in for transmission. The line: 'what are your orders, Leader?'
The message winged away along the lines, out into the world.
Maurice Franco plucked the paper out of the fax machine and read it over quickly. "It's from one of our people in Alaska," he said to Colonel Chambers, the Leader. "He says the sub's been out to sea five hours now, they're on the outer edge of his sensors. They'll probably arrive in two more hours."
The Leader, dressed in a plain gray jumpsuit with a helmet sitting on the couch next to him, opaque face-plated, turned a grim smile to his man. "Places, everyone," he rasped. "Vengeance is at hand."
Franco followed him out toward the hangar. "Hey, what do you want me to do about Technoclone? He might wake up before you get back."
"No, he won't," said the Leader calmly, passing through the hangar door. "You're going to go back to the house and kill him when I'm gone." The Leader walked to the hulking suit, donning his helmet before climbing up the rungs into the pilot seat. He looked over the side once more at Franco. "Remember your final orders, Mr. Franco. You have never failed me. I have all faith in you."
Franco tipped his gray fedora up at the boss as the cockpit's bubble engaged, closing him off. The suit whirred to life, then took two shuddering steps up onto the teleporter platform. Franco walked over to the control panel, flipped a switch, and with a flash of green light, the Leader and the new Tiger Tank were gone.
Franco left the pad on standby, so that the Leader could use his returner when the time came. "On to the next order of business," he said, whistling a diddy as he drew out his old snub-nosed revolver. He stepped out of the hangar into a bright New England afternoon. Yes, it was beautiful out here.
Franco took a deep breath of the crisp air, then began walking toward the house. He was ten feet away from the porch when he realized that the front door was open. He heard a 'click' and spun around, found himself looking at his own gun in the hands of Terry Block. The superhuman looked wan and pale, but he wore a sickly grin of malice.
"But," Franco said.
"A machine is a machine," said Technoclone, and he fired a single shot, creating a bloody hole in the center of Maurice Franco's forehead. Technoclone lurched over to Franco's side and dropped the gun next to the one from which it had been copied days before. "And I clone machines, Mr. Franco."
Yes, it was a fine New England afternoon.