"I don't need a report,
Castle. Just tell me he's dead."
-Nick Fury, Punisher MAX
The blinding flash of yellow light sent Major Patriot into a seething rage, and the secret level of his predecessor's old base now lay in ruins. He was faster than Captain Righteous, stronger, and younger. He should have been able to crush Righteous easily.
But the older Ultra Soldier had experience and finesse on his side. There could be no denying that. In a head-to-head battle, Major Patriot would have the edge only if he kept up with Captain Righteous blow-for-blow for a longer fight.
Or, if he managed a pure ambush. This had not been one, for he'd engaged those henchmen first, letting the older superhuman observe him and take his measure. If he got the drop on Righteous, the older man would stand little chance.
It didn't really matter, in the long run. He would get another shot at Righteous, he was sure of it. The massacre here had been severe, and in his field report he would be able to claim that commander Pitch had been killed in action. The HAC never went through the official process of confirming that the bodies of their operatives were actually there; when dealing with powers and technology that could vaporize every trace of a body, such a process had proven impossible from the early going.
Climbing up the ladder to the first floor of the Brownstone, Major Patriot wondered how the Leader would react to hearing that he had failed to kill the traitor. The Leader always seemed confident, assured that things would go right in the end. What was more, the Leader was a true patriot, with the true good of the country in his heart and threaded through his plans. The Major would do anything for him.
He hadn't wanted to kill commander Pitch, but the Leader had explained, point by point, why it was for the greater good. The Hero Action Committee, he had explained, was the forefront of the nation's defense. Commander Pitch's interference was, therefor, a threat to national security and American interests. Pitch was only doing his job as a soldier, the Leader had said, but in this instance, doing his job would stand in the way.
Hence his desire to let Patriot kill the man, to let it be an honorable death.
Ultra Soldier he was, but Major Patriot certainly was no genius. He couldn't peel through the layers of poor logic or vague and foggy reasoning the Leader used. He was in every way the average American intellect; following orders blindly until he felt the need to question, and once questioning, falling prey to manipulative word play and iron command.
God bless America.
"They've already begun knitting back together," Kurtis said, looking through the medical scanner at Captain Righteous's inner workings. "The upper rib was a clean break. The one below it looks like it was a lesser fracture. You're lucky you are what you are, sir. Otherwise, you'd be completely out of commission."
Lester grimaced at the thought. He had never fought against another superhero before. He had worked side-by-side with a few, and a couple of them had bordered on antihero behavior in their methods, but Major Patriot was a monster. There'd been no attempt to subdue or injure the heavy combat henchmen Lester had been with. Patriot had been a walking weapon of slaughter.
"Any good news from the footage our boys got," he asked Boe as he laid back on the gurney. Peeling the armor off had been agony, but now that he had painkilllers in his system, Lester felt he could lay back and get up without help.
"Not much," Boe admitted, going around the gurney and shutting off several machines. "This Major Patriot has some phenomenal weapons skill, superior speed, superior strength. But he's a brawler in close quarters. I suspect he has very limited hand to hand combat training."
"I got that impression fighting him," Lester said with a shuddering wheeze. "If I didn't know any kind of martial arts, he could easily wipe the floor with me."
"There's one other factor working in your favor," Kurtis said, taking a seat in the chair next to Righteous's gurney. "You've been dealing with superhumans and the HAC for nearly half a century. You know how they all operate."
"True, but as Abe pointed out a couple of days ago, they know me pretty well too. And I'm sure that if Patriot and I clash again, he's going to be much better prepared for me." Kurtis grunted softly, but offered no other response. He now had a datapad on his lap, and though Lester couldn't hear any audio coming from it, he could see part of the screen. It was playing a video taken from one of the henchmen's gear kit rigs.
It showed the henchman and four of his allies firing on Major Patriot, who held his forearms up to cover his exposed throat and head, barreling at one of the men as they reloaded. Kurtis paused the video. "His armor suit looks a lot like yours, with a couple of exceptions," he said, looking intently at the datapad.
"It's a newer design," Lester pointed out. "And they didn't make him a cowl to go with it."
"I think they did, but he didn't choose to wear it," Kurtis said, a weird half-grin forming on his lips.
"Why wouldn't he?"
"I've watched every bit of footage we have of Major Patriot, and one thing sticks out every time, Captain. Watch," he said, handing Lester the datapad. "Hit the play button and watch." Lester did so, watching as the camera-bearer backpedaled behind cover, firing at Patriot from the man's left flank. The Ultra Soldier was still keeping his head covered with his arms, and as the henchman ceased fire to reload, Patriot turned toward him and charged.
Lester felt a small tremor behind his eyes as the camera unit changed to another operative. This one was getting up out of the wreckage of some piece of furniture, wobbling and groaning. A pistol, shaking in the outstretched hand on screen, fired loudly, belching wild shots off target. Major Patriot dropped the limp body of the first operative and turned his whole body to face this second man. Patriot drew his own pistol and fired twice. The camera angle twitched back and up toward the ceiling.
The datapad went black as the video ended. Lester looked over to Kurtis, eyes narrowed. "I don't understand."
"It took me five other videos to figure it out," Kurtis said. "I suspect you'll see it with one repeat of that one." Lester played the video again, and as it drew to a close, he felt something in his mind click. "You see it, don't you?"
"I do. He can't turn his head more than maybe thirty degrees in either direction. His upper body trunk's the same. Why's he so stiff?"
"Dr. Tyrant has a theory about that," Kurtis said. "He caught it after the first watch-through. When the HAC went and picked out a candidate for the first Ultra Soldier program, they chose you. You were described as a soldier of average condition and physique. Patriot was probably already huge when they put him through the program."
"Unintended side effect," Lester mused. "Works to our advantage. I'll have to keep it in mind when I face him next."
"Let's hope you don't have to do it one-on-one again. I know you're feeling responsible for the men we lost, but we all understand the risk being henchmen. And those HAC agents understand their risk too," Kurtis pointed out, putting the datapad into a carrying case and getting up out of his chair. "I have to go check with Dr. Tyrant, find out what still needs to be done around here."
Lester lay his head back on the pillow on his gurney, listening to Boe's fading footsteps. Though the man was a consummate professional, Lester had heard the regret in his voice. Like himself, Boe was feeling responsible for the deaths of his men.
He wondered, briefly, who was taking the burden of the lives lost on the HAC agents' end.
Abe set his glasses on the desk and pinched the bridge of his nose, his eyes closed in concentration. He took several deep breaths, then opened the top right drawer of the desk. From within he drew out one of his prescription bottles, popping open the lid and grimacing at the sour smell of the pills within. He'd become proud of many of his life's achievements, and being a respected member of the scientific community carried him through most of his days.
But being old sometimes just sucked. He thought this for perhaps the tenth time that day as he swallowed the pill, scrunching his face up at the aftertaste.
A knock at the door brought him around from his inner musings. "Enter," he said, leaning back in his chair and staring up at the ceiling of his office, feet propped up on the open drawer. Kurtis Boe came in, trailing the scent of aftershave and the sound of his own clomping combat boots. He held a clipboard outstretched in one hand.
"Readings on Captain Righteous, sir. He's healing well."
"Good," Abe replied, reaching blindly for the clipboard while still looking up. He finally brought his gaze down, putting his glasses back on and reviewing the notes briefly. "I'd like to put the two components together. Are they in my work chamber as requested?"
"They are, sir," Boe said, standing to attention. "And sir?"
"Hmm?"
"I was wrong about him, and I'm sorry I doubted your judgment," Boe said in a rush. Abe brought his feet down off the drawer, took a deep breath, and stood up. He tucked his hands into the deep pockets of his lab coat, coming slowly around the desk.
"Wrong about who, Mr. Boe?" Abe suspected he already knew the answer, but he preferred to let Boe spell it out for him. It was more therapeutic that way.
"Righteous," said Boe, head lowered slightly toward the floor. "I just, I don't know," he said, shrugging his shoulders. "I guess I thought he was trying to lull us into a false sense of security. I've gotten so used to not trusting anyone out of the HAC that I assumed the worst."
Abe nodded, now standing next to Boe in his chair. He brought his left hand out of his lab coat pocket, and made to put a reassuring hand on the young man's shoulder. He then cuffed Boe lightly instead.
"Lester Collins is an honorable man," Abe grumbled aloud, now looking into the wide eyes of a shocked and confused Kurtis Boe. "He may have been my enemy for most of my adult life, but I can tell you that the man is incapable of the sort of subterfuge you'd suspect him of. That is no insult; no, he's a hero, and our ally. So I order you to treat him as such."
"I meant no disrespect, sir," Boe whimpered.
"I know you didn't, son," Abe said, and now came the soft hand of companionship on the shoulder, the old man leaning down slightly so he could speak more quietly. "You were just doing your job. I appreciate that much." He patted Boe on the back and headed out of the office, into the corridors of his base.
The smell of hot metal engulfed him, streaming from the nearby assault vehicle repair bay. The base felt stuffy and cramped, despite the high and wide corridors. The illusion of openness didn't serve Abe, because he couldn't shake the pure knowledge that they were all underground.
"Fitting place for a man my age," he mused aloud, walking along alone. When he reached his personal work lab ten minutes later, Abe felt the familiar rush of anticipation. Ah, to be working on a device again! True, he wasn't bent on conquering any nations for this campaign, but he felt something of the old glory returning to his heart as he thrust open the doors.
They almost knocked him over when they swung back on their hinges. Grumbling under his breath, an embarassed Dr. Tyrant set to work on his Freeze Ray.
Congressman Bantor read through the brief field report again, furious at the implications. Captain Righteous had installed a secret lower level on a HAC-owned property, and nobody had been any the wiser. That in and of itself was frustrating. The fact that he'd apparently grabbed some unknown piece of equipment before escaping was infuriating.
Lastly, the fact that he'd stood toe-to-toe with Major Patriot and apparently come out on top of their first encounter was enough to gall and enrage the Congressman. Since taking control of the Hero Action Committee, he had overseen quite possibly the most efficient and powerful organization in the world. He had personally given the green light to the renewal of the Ultra Soldier program.
And yet his people and his new and improved Ultra Soldier had failed to take down the aging Captain Righteous. The death of commander Pitch was an especially tough blow to the organization. Pitch had been the perfect example of a HAC soldier at their finest.
The latest report to cross his desk, delivered a few minutes ago, showed the overall casualties. Twenty-six henchmen of Dr. Tyrant, forty-eight HAC agents, three of whom had been listed as 'vaporized'. Tyrant had clearly outfitted his people with high-powered energy weapons, at least a couple of them, to achieve that. The rest had fallen to standard weapons' fire.
Well, no, that wasn't exactly true. Bantor came upon a section of the casualty report that fairly screamed for his attention, just before he was about to simply file it away. One of the henchmen working for Dr. Tyrant had apparently died from an impaling wound to the face and brain, one wherein the man's own arm had been used after being ripped off.
Not a HAC agent, but a henchman. Yes, a few of the HAC agents had been brutalized, no doubt by Captain Righteous. But the older hero had shown at least enough mercy and restraint to make those deaths clean and quick. Having one's arm ripped off and then shoved through their face just sounded sick and impossible.
The first seed of doubt took root in Congressman Bantor's mind.
The Leader read the request form with a half-grin on his face, quickly setting it on fire and tossing it into a solid metal trash can next to his desk. It landed atop the ashes of other documents, all burned faxes received from his Grays around the country.
Everything was falling into position beautifully. The only hiccup would soon be soothed, and Bantor would swing right back to a position of full confidence. The Congressman had requested readings from the Arctic Circle, and they would soon be delivered compliments of the Leader's people.
He hadn't come all this way to have a pencil-necked geek like Bantor ruin his plans. That was why the Leader always stayed a few steps ahead of everyone else. A program embedded in Bantor's computer system at HAC headquarters and at the Congressman's D.C. office automatically sent a copy of any email he sent from his business account to the fax machine in the Leader's office. Bantor was none the wiser, and the program itself was harmless to his system. As such, it ran silently, slipping through every antivirus and spyware sweep sent its way.
Bantor had sent a request an hour ago to the HAC science center in Des Moines, Iowa. He wanted the labs there to send him all of their data on the Arctic Circle, and they would. The Leader only had to have his men there make a few adjustments to the data before handing it over.
His fax machine finished dialing out, and his orders were received in Des Moines. Soon he would speak with Bantor, and the next stage of his designs would be underway.
Abe looked down at the connected components of the Freeze Ray on his work bench, his eyes hazy, his mind focused elsewhere. The smell of oils used to clean and fine-tune the device lingered, the silence loomed, yet even the presence of these sensations could not keep him in the moment.
Abe was thinking back on all the times his efforts had come crashing down around him over the years. Aberdeen Tyrannus was a genius of the highest degree. This much had been agreed upon by his colleagues in the scientific and academic communities for years. Yet despite his intelligence, he was always bested.
Usually, he mused, by the same person and in the same fashion. He would send out his minions in an assault on some city or other, retreat to his base, and try controlling things remotely. Then, when he sent out another strike force, Captain Righteous and the Hero Action Committee would smash them flat, question a survivor for the location of his base, then swoop in on his lair.
Abe realized now that he'd fallen into a predictable pattern early on in his career as a supervillain. "That's how they get you," he muttered to the empty room. "They figure out your pattern, and then they just come along and knock you down. Well, not this time, duckies."
Abe walked across the small workshop area to a cabinet filled with vials containing an experimental compound he'd developed years before. The compound itself was still viable; now he only had to discuss the matter with Boe, Big Three, and Lester.
He smiled as he carried one of the vials out of the workshop, heading for the medical bay where Lester was recovering.
Congressman Bantor could not make heads nor tails of the data that he'd printed out, but thankfully, one of the HAC agents on the premises could. Bantor liked these Purple Team people; they may not be the best in a firefight, but they were all clearly intelligent people.
The Purple Team trooper, one of the Leader's Grays inserted into the division eight months earlier, informed Bantor that the data indicated that someone had been monkeying around with monitoring equipment in the Arctic Circle. He further posited that Dr. Tyrant had used some kind of unknown technology to try and produce falsified readings and send everyone into a panic.
It made a sick sort of sense. Tyrannus served with one Dr. Raymond Hoff on a scientific board that met once or twice a month to compare their various studies. It was Hoff's equipment that had been tampered with, the Purple Team member explained.
Bantor knew from the reports filed with the parolee program that Tyrannus regarded Dr. Hoff as the only man in that group who came close to his level of intelligence. Was that what started this all, he wondered. Dr. Tyrant doesn't want to have competition, so he tries to discredit a colleague? In the process, the old super-scientist sees one last chance to grab glory, and sets up a request for his old Freeze Ray device, going for a one-two combo, fooling the HAC and retrieving his old weapon.
It was convoluted and overly complex, as theories went, Bantor thought at first when the Purple Team member had left his office. Bantor tried writing out this line of logic on a blank legal pad. When he read it back to himself, it seemed even less plausible than it did before, like something-
"Like something out of a comic book," Bantor said, and slammed his fist on the desk. Yes, like something out of a comic book, and that, Bantor thought, is precisely why he felt sure he had it all figured out.
Because Dr. Tyrant was exactly like a comic book villain, and always had been.
"Sounds a bit risky," Big Three said, gobbling baked beans out of his brown ceramic bowl. "I mean, is the stuff safe?"
Seated across from the hulking heavy trooper was Abe and Lester, the former still holding up the vial of blue liquid, the latter sitting as upright as he could with his ribs still aching under the bandaging on his midsection. Boe sat next to Big Three, now dressed in a mission-ready uniform of black and gray BDUs with gear belt.
They had all agreed to meet in the officers' mess hall, a small, keycard-access room off of the main cafeteria that hadn't been used yet. The air inside was stale and tight, but this didn't stop Big Three from eating like a slob while Abe explained the next little step in operations.
It boiled down to this; the compound in the vial was something he'd devised some twenty years before and had stocked at all of his large facilities. Put into a heating device, the fluid would turn gaseous and be inhaled. Whoever inhaled the substance immediately went into a hypnotic trance.
In order to keep the henchmen from possibly giving up the location of the Nevada base, Abe wanted to hypnotize them all and program them to never yield this information to anyone outside of his organization. A simple and harmless order, one that might go a long way toward holding their campaign together.
In answer to Big Three's question, Abe said, "It's perfectly safe, my good man. Nobody in our files has any allergies to any of the components of the mixture, and we've got no asthmatics in the ranks. What say you, Lester?"
Collin nodded, trying hard not to wince as one of the ribs finished healing itself. "I think it's a smart move. That's actually how we always managed to find you. We'd nab one of your men and beat him senseless until he coughed up the location of your base."
"You tortured people," Boe asked, incredulous.
"I'm not proud of it, but yes, in the 60's and 70's, I had my own hand in it a couple of times," Lester admitted with a sigh. "They always told me it was for the greater good. Back then, I still believed that."
"Jeez, even we don't go in for that," said Big Three, shaking his head.
"Really," asked Lester.
"Every member of the Union registers whether they're willing to perform torture or not," said Boe. "Lord Claw doesn't allow for degrees about it, either. Thanks to that, eighty-three percent of the members are now non-torture. Any client ordering a non-torture henchman to do it voids the contract, and the whole unit goes back to their closest Union station."
"Very progressive of you," said Lester.
"We're henchmen, not savages," Boe replied. "I agree with Captain Righteous and you, Doctor. I say we use the mixture."
"Excellent. Boe, you help me set up the heating devices and fans in the meeting hall. Lester, fetch gas masks for the four of us from the main equipment room. Three, go round everyone up when you're done eating."
Lester, Abe and Boe departed then, leaving Big Three alone with the last of his meal and the first of the noxious vapors they forced out of his system. "Whoa, man," he said as he got up with his emptied bowl. "That's some fierce stuff. Hope the guys don't notice."
But oh, they did.
Major Patriot remained utterly silent as the plane made its way toward Area 51. He had agreed to come out here because the Leader predicted that this would be where Captain Righteous appeared next. Bantor suggested the same thing only twenty minutes later, so the Ultra Soldier had climbed aboard a troop transport plane with close to two-hundred HAC agents, all from various color Teams, to fly out to the restricted base.
The moment they were airborne he'd closed himself off from the others. The Leader informed him that there would be five Grays among the troops going with him, and three more already on duty at Area 51.
His silence, born out of uneasiness, held fast. Even when his fellow HAC agents occasionally approached him with questions, he said nothing, offered no interaction. These men would not understand what was going through his mind.
Something was wrong. He couldn't put it into words, but Major Patriot, once a stalwart soldier and now a superhuman, knew that something was wrong with him.
He had not lost his love of his country, nor his obedience to his master, the Leader, the greatest patriot there ever was in his eyes. He had not lost any of his strength or speed or ability, and the recent battle with Dr. Tyrant's minions and the traitor, Captain Righteous, proved that.
Yet something was wrong, and getting worse. Every time he looked too long at one of his companions, Patriot began envisioning the various ways he could kill them. There were at least a dozen that he could easily carry out here on the plane, probably more if he looked around.
He wondered how many of them he could slaughter before they took him down. With a vigorous shake of his head he cast aside these thoughts. They weren't healthy, or normal. He couldn't kill these men and women, they were red-blooded American soldiers, each and every one!
But they aren't as American as me, he thought bitterly. I'll bet all of them have some complaint about this country, some petty concern or problem that doesn't really mean anything.
Even as he thought it, Major Patriot knew that he was making irrational assumptions and judgments. He couldn't keep up like this. He needed to tell the Leader that something was wrong, yet he could not. If he admitted to some failing, he might be removed from the mission ahead, and the mission ahead was the ultimate in service to his country.
He would suffer in silence instead, until the mission was over. Then, he thought, then I can get some help. The mission comes first.
Ten minutes later, the transport touched down, and Major Patriot readied himself to prepare for the innevitable arrival of Captain Righteous.
The mass hypnosis experiment had concluded twenty minutes earlier, and Abe had already tested one of his people. Using a computer-generated interrogator, Abe, Lester and Boe had questioned one of the rank-and-file henchmen for five minutes. Every time the AI interrogator asked about the location of Dr. Tyrant's base, the man's eyes glazed over and he began humming tonelessly, until another question was asked.
"A provable success," Abe said when they dismissed the henchman. "I think we've now come to another obstacle that needs hurdling, Lester."
"Oh?" Lester Collins was now dressed in loose fitted jeans and a blue chambray shirt, his lined and weathered face combining with the outfit to give him the appearance of an old working cowboy. "What's the obstacle, Abe?"
"You said that the HAC had no idea that you had only given them one component of the Freeze Ray. It was splendid that we were able to get the one from your brother without anyone being the wiser, but now they must know something is amiss. They'll be even more prepared at Area 51."
"What do you suggest, Abe," Lester asked.
"They'll be expecting us to come to 51 for the part they have," Abe said, now pacing with his hands clasped behind his back. "If we send a unit, they'll likely wipe out most of the group and try to keep one back for questioning. True, they won't learn anything, but they'll add even more security. What I propose," Abe said, coming to a halt and turning to face Lester and Boe, "is a diversion."
"A diversion, sir," asked Boe. "They would probably sniff it out."
"Not necessarily," Abe countered with a grin. "Lester, where was your armor developed?" The aged superhero furrowed his brow, trying to remember.
"Dymatech Industries R&D Center," he finally said with a snap of his fingers. "It's outside of Austin, Texas."
"And your armor, along with Major Patriot's armor, are composed of the same materials I used in making the Freeze Ray."
"So," Boe said, interrupting. "We stage an assault and infiltration of those labs, and draw their attention and forces."
"Not quite," said Abe. "First, we stage a recon break-in, leave obvious clues," Abe said, pacing once again. "We wait and watch their response. When they pad the security, they'll likely bring in Patriot, expecting that Lester will be there soon. But he won't be. We send a skeletal combat group with returners prepared, they start the battle and then boogey out. Meanwhile, Lester, at that time you will be leading a full crew into Area 51 for the component."
Lester thought over the plan as Abe had laid it out. He thought about his brother, who had no idea that three of Boe's best infiltrators had been in his home. But his brother wasn't the most observant man; the HAC had some of the most brilliant men at its beck and call. The fake break-in would have to be expertly staged.
But if it worked, they could conceivably pull a fast one on the HAC. Their organization was heavily tied to Dymatech, who engineered almost all of their modern electronics and equipment. Any move against them would surely draw the full attention of the organization.
"I like it," he finally said. "Kurtis?"
"I'll give my infiltrators special instructions to leave subtle sign," he said, saluting the two men and darting away. Lester smiled at his former nemesis, who coughed once then returned the expression.
"And they say you can't teach an old dog new tricks," Lester said.
"You can't," Abe replied. "I'm not a dog."
Two days later, the whole of the HAC high command, Colonel Chambers included, sat around the large table in the main conference chamber. Bantor, mopping nervous sweat off of his forehead with a kerchief, looked at them all silently as they read the copied report he'd received that morning.
When he was done reading it, Senator Wolfe broke the silence. "He's going to try and steal the raw material, isn't he? There's enough at that lab for him to make a new Freeze Ray, according to this," he said, tapping the sheets.
"That's what their chief of operational security suspects," said Bantor in a quavering voice. "It is my recommendation that we relocate Major Patriot and his unit to the Dymatech lab immediately. Dr. Tyrant likely realized he would be at Area 51 and so he's changed his plans. He would know that Captain Righteous's armor was made of the same material, and Righteous must have told him about Dymatech."
"I have a direct line to the Major," said Colonel Chambers. This drew the attention of everyone present. "He needed to process a request for equipment on-site at Area 51, so he got in touch with me," Chambers lied smoothly. It was a lie couched in perfect logic; as the Logistics Director, he would be the most likely contact Patriot would make.
Bantor looked relieved, smiling a little and letting out a sigh. "Do get in touch with him immediately, Colonel. That base already has enough security to handle anything else that might come along."
The Leader silently chuckled to himself. Breaking into Dymatech had to be Captain Righteous's idea. Surely Tyrannus, old and set in his patterns like any other villain, wouldn't have had the imagination to change direction so sharply. Genius the man may have been, but he was a creature of habit at heart.
The Leader was the first one out of the conference room, and he immediately called Major Patriot. The Ultra Soldier received his new orders without a word beyond his greeting and acknowledging the order. There was a stiffness in his voice that troubled the Leader.
As soon as he was off of the phone with Patriot, he went to his office to fax new orders to Maurice, his best Gray in the field besides Patriot. The orders were simple; keep an eye on Patriot. If the Ultra Soldier seemed like he was going to go rogue on them, Maurice had authorization to bring him down.
The Leader downed an Aleve with some water. He'd been wondering when some factor of the whole play he was orchestrating might go askew. He feared he might have discovered it was already happening. If Patriot could kill Righteous at the Dymatech lab, all would yet be well.
So long, he thought, as the rest of us can nail Tyrannus. Then it will all come tumbling down, just as designed.