“Doctor,” Banner replied automatically, then caught himself. “Doctor . . . Bruce Green.” He’d grown accustomed to using pseudonyms under any circumstance.
“Dr. Green,” sniggered Tony.
“Tony,” Rosanne said threateningly. “Well, Bruce, you seem to be a fellow prisoner.”
“Great,” he replied. “But, again, why? What is going on around here?”
“You should have gotten the gist of it from our dear dead bodyguards,” said Tony. “Our pop the doctor was one of the world’s great bomb babies.”
“Bomb babies?”
“Radiation specialists,” Rosanne translated. “Tony thinks that means all Dad knew about was nuclear devices.”
“Well, it does mean the big boom in today’s world, little sister,” Tony retorted smugly. “And back in South Africa, the General wants that expertise very badly.”
“The General?”
“Think of the worst despot in history,” Rosanne took up with sudden vehemence. “Then change his appearance into that of an obese swine. Next turn him into a crafty, well-spoken, bloodthirsty fool with a gorilla’s drive and IQ. Add power, money, and guns and you have the General.”
“Not a pretty picture,” Banner concurred. “And I suppose he’s your father’s—and our—captor.”
“For sure,” said Tony. “And that means we’re not long for this world.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” cried Rosanne. “Dad would never work for him if we were dead.”
“It’s all the same in the end,” grumbled Tony. “Now that he has us, Dad will do as he says. And once he gets what he wants from him, we’ll all be jungle meat. I know that fat madman.”
“But where are we?” Rosanne pressed. “I don’t feel any movement. I don’t smell any fuel. We could still be in the United States.”
“It makes no difference,” said Tony with finality. “We’re prisoners. And we’re the General’s prisoners. It makes no damned difference anymore.”
Agent Matthews brought the jet around in a tight circle. And with this particular jet, that circle was unbelievably tight. The sea shone a beautiful silver under the blazing sun, the small and seemingly innocuous government jet spun above the water, creating an atmospheric whirlpool.
“That’s it,” said Agent Curtiss. His finely boned forefinger stabbed at the green blinking screen before him.
“You sure?” crackled a low voice over the jet’s intercom.
“It’s running silent, it’s running deep, it has no markings, and it doesn’t answer my repeated signals. The U.S. Coast Guard, Navy, and Defense Department know nothing about a submarine in these waters, and it’s coming on a direct configuration from the U.N. conflagration. Right timing, too. That’s the General’s escape vehicle, all right. I’d stake my job on it.”
“You will. You are,” came the voice in his ear. “We can’t afford to take chances. We’re deploying a sufficient military force to control the situation. It will arrive in waves: para-scuba forces in ten minutes, submersibles in fifteen, and heavy cutters in twenty. But it’s up to you fellows to hold that sub in our waters. Do you understand the situation? Pour enough ‘persuasion’ into that water so that they surface and stay put.”
Agents Matthews and Curtiss shared a momentary glance through their faceplates. Then Matthews silently whistled to the horizon and Curtiss grinned like a shark.
“Understood,” he replied with gusto.
“See you in ten,” Matthews put in.
Curtiss snapped off the outside communication and returned his eyes to the specially equipped “raynar” screen—a newly developed radar-sonar device.
“What if the enemy were listening in?” asked Matthews at the controls, shaking his head toward the quiet ocean. “I know this jet is one of a kind, but you never know the opposition’s capability.”
“I hope they were,” said Curtiss, like a wolf discussing a large and very well-fed herd of sheep. “So they know exactly what they’re in for. Maybe they’ll even surface without a fight. But, in the meantime, let’s see what this baby can do.”
“You asked for it,” said Matthews with a hint of pride.
And with only a slight move on his part, the comparatively tiny jet simply dropped out of the sky. It did not roll; it slipped over backward and dove like a cliff diver toward the water. Then, with a whisper, it pulled up slightly so that it skimmed over the waves at a height of twenty feet.
In the completely pressurized cabin, Curtiss was hooting like a banshee and Matthews was grinning like a maniac. The plane shot across the sky until its shadow approached the spot where the sonar pegged the sub. Then what looked like four bolts spat out from the jet’s underbelly. The thin bands of yellow snaked into the waves, and then the aircraft was up and spinning around for a second sweep.
Seconds later four rumbling booms rolled into the afternoon air. Then four cones of water pointed to the sky and the sea seemed to bounce. The jet streaked by again, this time dropping eight disks, roughly the size of hockey pucks. These slowly drifted down through the water as the plane zipped back and forth four hundred yards beyond. All eight exploded at once, rocking the sub like a cradle.
“Why don’t we just sink the thing?” asked Matthews, who was a brawny blond with skin like sandpaper.
“Because,” said Curtiss, who looked like a young Warren Beatty, “our job is to make sure the General doesn’t get Wittenborn’s kids back to his own country. Now, if we were sure the kids were on this sub and there was absolutely no way of stopping it, we’d probably have no choice but to sink it. But, until we’re positive, we’ve got to keep it in one place. Think that’s too tough for you?”
“Just watch,” said a grinning Matthews.
The horizon did a flip and the jet was zooming back toward the shaken sub. At that moment several half-balls of light beckoned on the flight board and a panel slid silently open.
“Uh-oh,” said Curtiss. “They’re going to shoot back.”
Several numbers appeared on a screen the panel had uncovered.
“A sea-to-air missile,” continued the brown-haired agent. “Bearing 2023.”
“Groovy,” Matthews drawled. He stabbed a few buttons and turned a dial. The jet immediately banked down and back. A small funnel opened up in the water and a missile shot up. Out of the bottom of the jet came another, smaller missile. For a second, the two projectiles made an upside-down “L” with their vaporing exhausts. Then the sky was obscured by a yellow and orange cloud of fire. The ocean surface wobbled in protest while the jet laughed through the smoke.
“This is almost criminally easy,” said Curtiss.
“Best money can buy,” said Matthews.
“Only takes a year to learn all its tricks,” said Curtiss, remembering the twelve months of training.
“Let’s have these guys surface.”
The jet moved down into its attack position and skimmed the waves, heading at near supersonic speed toward their quarry. As they honed in, a glimmer appeared on the horizon opposite them.
“Whoa!” said Curtiss. “Are we capable of reflecting our own image?”
“Say what?”
Curtiss blinked and tapped his raynar board.
“What is it?” asked Matthews.
“Humph. Never saw anything like this . . .”
“Hey! We don’t have time for your senile mutterings. I’ve already missed one attack approach. What is it, already?”
“Could this baby break the time barrier?”
“Don’t be stupid, man. Spit it out.”
“Well, as impossible as this may seem,” Curtiss finally revealed, “we’re heading right at ourselves.”
Matthews hastily double-checked his own equipment, then pulled out of his reapproach. Their mirror image pulled up at the exact same, but opposite angle.
“Ohmigosh,” sputtered Matthews. “There wasn’t supposed to be another one of these craft in the world. We were supposed to be the prototype—the one and only!”
<
br /> “No communication possible,” said Curtiss. “Either not answering my signal or, uh, not answering my signal.”
The jets tied an invisible bow with their flight paths. Then the mirror image moved into a collision course. The two American pilots pulled back and dipped down to avoid the sudden confrontation.
“One thing’s for sure,” said Matthews, manipulating madly. “He’s not a friendly twin. It seems as if the General’s circle of influence is wider than we ever imagined.”
Curtiss grew pale inside his airtight outfit. “You mean, that one is owned by . . . it comes from . . . they aim to . . .”
“Yup,” said Matthews, feeling much more frightened than he sounded. “Hold tight. Win, lose, or draw, this is going to be quick.”
The two craft, equipped with the latest in weaponry, buzzed about each other like angry wasps, occasionally sending their laser strings arching out. As soon as one’s weapons had centered on the other, the latter had neutralized the former’s with its backups. Each individual move was invisible to the naked eye, but the water’s surface gave crackling evidence of the onslaught above it. And, for the moment, the submarine was safe.
“I’ll call in,” grunted Curtiss.
“No. Need your attention here. If that one gets any edge, we’ll be freaking gone. Our one hope is that our training is better. Let’s peg this guy!”
Curtiss and Matthews gritted their teeth and moved in again. One moment the sky was filled with their zapping madness; the next moment the red cross-hair fit between the green cross-hair on the blue board. The Americans’ jamming devices had a solid connection, and suddenly, in a flash of fire, the enemy jet exploded out.
As the debris settled, Curtiss checked his board’s timepiece. The battle had taken all of thirty-two seconds.
“Better living through science,” Matthews sighed, breathing for the first time in half a minute. “Now let’s really stick it to that sub.”
The surviving jet pounded the ocean with a vengeance, pouring in enough firepower to slow a leviathan. The metal hunk beneath the surface did not fare well. It would have to rise or be ripped apart by shock waves.
As the first American cutter appeared on the horizon, the foreign underwater craft chose the safe route and surfaced like a log. It was all black and devoid of markings and it rocked quietly on the waves. By the time the gathered might of the military had encircled it, its black-garbed crew had collected silently on the hull.
Curtiss wanted to yell at someone—anyone. He felt subtlely betrayed by a nation which could build a fabulous defensive weapon, train him for a year to help run it, and then either let spies get the plans or sell them outright. When that enemy jet had appeared, he’d wanted to punch somebody.
Now both he and Matthews, after landing their jet on an aircraft carrier and shedding their protective gear, had demanded to lead the sub boarding party. And both agents, in and out of the sky, were men to be reckoned with—especially when they were angry.
After the military had mopped up the black-garbed prisoners, the C.I.A. men met the sub’s captain in the engine room. Curtiss desperately wanted to unleash his tensions, but the captain was of no help.
“What are you doing on my ship?” was the first thing he yelped.
Surprisingly, he was blond, and he should have been tall, but the years of commandeering an underwater craft had left him hunched. Curtiss felt like flooring him then and there, but he kept a cool demeanor.
“Can the games,” he said smoothly, moving his compact automatic submachine gun into easy access. “Where are they?”
“Who? What?” cried the captain with a distinct Swedish accent. “Where are which?” he finished, visibly paling as more armed men packed into the little room.
Curtiss moved his sidearm in small patterns in front of the captain’s face, like a symphony conductor, and spoke in accompanying metered time.
“A woman. And two men. You stole them. From the U.N.”
“We are a test submarine,” said the man trying out his last line of rehearsed defense. “A fault in navigation accidentally put us in American waters . . . an unfortunate accident which I’m sure our embassy can straighten out. No need for strong-arm tactics, my fine fellow.”
Curtiss swore. The man was purposely stalling for time. But why? The agent decided to draw the charade to a close.
“A test sub? With no markings and a disguised crew? Quit wasting time. You have five seconds to lead us to the Wittenborns or I blow your face off.”
The Swede suddenly became very cooperative. Curtiss, Matthews, and their cohorts were led the length and breadth of the ship quickly, but to little avail.
“All right, that’s it,” spat Curtiss as he rounded his fiftieth corner. He pushed his gun barrel into the back of the captain’s head. “You’re a dead man.”
“No, no, we are here,” said the captain in a panic, hastily swinging open a last latch.
Curtiss pushed the man into Matthews’ ample arms and looked. In the midst of a large metal room lay a gigantic wooden crate with three people lying inside on a hay mat.
“Hey!” Curtiss called with relief. The three figures didn’t move. “Miss Wittenborn!” the agent said louder. No reaction. “Hey! We’re here to rescue you.”
Finally, one body shook as if chilled and began to roll over. Then the remaining two followed suit, as if just coming out of a long, cold sleep. One was female; the others were men. Two were black; one was white. They were the right height, the right, weight, and had the proper hair color, but one thing was for sure—none of them was Rosanne Wittenborn, Tony Wittenborn, or Bruce Banner.
“Congrats, gentlemen,” said the Swede, his voice a verbal smirk. “You have just rescued a New York actor and a husband-and-wife dance team. By now your proper prey are well into international waters.” The captain smiled in smug triumph.
Curtiss slowly turned, his expression strangely jolly. He took a moment to gaze at the blandly superior visage before him, then hauled off and buried his fist in the captain’s face.
Banner was laughing.
“What the hell are you laughing at?” said Tony, who did not understand the psychological underpinnings of Bruce’s mirth. He was stretched out across one side of the box. Rosanne was curled up beside Banner, ostensibly napping, but also showing one well-shaped expanse of leg from beneath her skirt. Banner ignored her beauty by standing with his back to both of them, testing the strength of the timber.
“You must excuse me,” he replied, unsuccessfully trying to quell his bitter jocularity. “But I could get us out of here in a minute.”
“Yeah, right,” said Tony. “What are you going to do? Bore the wood into tinder?”
Banner didn’t answer, but kept pulling at the logs.
“What do you mean, Bruce?” said a sleepy voice. He turned to see Rosanne sitting up and innocently rearranging her skirt.
“Nothing. Nothing, really, Miss Wittenborn. I was just blowing off a little steam.”
“It’s not nothing,” she returned. “You said you could get us out of here. What did you mean?” Her steady gaze was sympathetic, but serious, as well. Banner lowered himself down to her eye level.
“Well, my professional specialty is the hidden reserves of strength we all can tap in moments of stress,” he explained. “I am also an expert on harnessing the power of radiation.”
“Just like our father,” said Rosanne with growing awareness.
“Just like your father.”
“What?” exploded Tony. “You mean you’re a bomb baby, too? This is great—just great! The General is not only going to have Dad under his thumb, but you, too. Well, thank heaven I’m going to be a pampered captive for a while. I sure would hate to be anybody else in the world when that maniac has power like this!”
“Tony, don’t make it worse,” Rosanne chastised. “Go on, Bruce. What about our hidden resources of strength?”
“All I mean is that in the right set of circumstances I could rip this plac
e apart like toothpicks.”
“Hey, great,” said Tony. “What would I have to do to put you in the right set of circumstances? Beat you up? Tell dirty jokes? Play 1001 Strings records?”
“It’s not as easy as that,” Banner replied. “That’s the point. I’d have to be pushed to the absolute limit of my patience and endurance. I would have to believe that I was willing to die for something before the necessary power could be unleashed. Indeed, I would have to believe I was going to die.”
“Well, hell, that could be arranged,” Tony said easily, rising to his full height and approaching threateningly. “I could very realistically convince you and my sweet little sister that you were about to die right this very minute.”
“It wouldn’t work,” said Banner with calm certainty, unmoved by the tall man’s words. “None of this is real to me. That slaughter at the U.N. is like a fantasy in my memory now. I don’t know what it all meant. It was senseless.”
“No wonder you were laughing,” said Rosanne with empathy. “You knew all your research didn’t do us a bit of good in the real world.”
“It’s just as well, Miss Wittenborn,” reported Bruce. “You must understand that even if I could call up these powers right now, I couldn’t control them. I would rip this box apart, but might very well hurt you both without knowing it.”
Tony eyed Banner’s slight frame. “Fat chance,” he muttered.
“Bruce, do me a favor,” said the girl with a touch of exhaustion.
Banner waited for the inevitable request for silence. He had learned early that people just didn’t appreciate their finer points of his Curse. They considered the ability to turn into a raging, mindless powerhouse a blessing.
“Yes?” he said.
“Please,” stressed the Wittenborn girl, “please call me Rosanne.”
Banner smiled in surprise. He suddenly felt an interesting kinship with this brave woman.
At that moment the first movement they had felt since their abduction shook the wood crate. The entire room vibrated for several seconds. Then a jolt threw them into the air. Tony smashed into the opposite grid, Rosanne bounced and rolled to the center of the cage, and Banner found himself sliding forward on his stomach and coming to rest against the girl’s side. The next thing they were aware of was a wheezing laugh.
Marvel Novel Series 03 - The Incredible Hulk - Cry Of The Beast Page 4
