by Alex Irvine
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CHAPTER 1
In a packed auditorium, Lieutenant Colonel James Rhodes, Tony Stark’s best friend, stood at the podium and narrated as a film about Tony’s life played on a huge screen behind him.
“Tony Stark. Visionary. Genius. American patriot. Even from an early age, the son of legendary weapons developer Howard Stark quickly steals the spotlight with his brilliant and unique mind.
“At age four, he builds his first circuit board.
“At age six, his first engine.
“And at seventeen, he graduates summa cum laude from MIT.”
A picture of a smiling young Tony dissolved into a portrait of his father, Howard. Rhodey went on, his tone somber. “Then, the passing of a titan. Howard Stark’s lifelong friend and ally, Obadiah Stane, steps in to help fill the gap left by the legendary founder, until, at age twenty-one, the prodigal son returns and is anointed the new CEO of Stark Industries.”
Another series of pictures showed Tony’s incredible successes at Stark Industries. “With the keys to the kingdom,” Rhodey went on, “Tony ushers in a new era for his father’s legacy, creating smarter weapons, advanced robotics, satellite targeting. Today, Tony Stark has changed the face of the weapons industry by ensuring freedom and protecting America and her interests around the globe.”
Rhodey paused as the slide show ended. “As liaison to Stark Industries,” he said, “I’ve had the unique privilege of serving with a real patriot. He is my friend and he is my great mentor. Ladies and gentlemen,” Rhodey finished, pointing off to one side, “this year’s Apogee Award winner… Mr. Tony Stark.”
The crowd broke into thunderous applause. A spotlight moved across the stage and landed on… an empty chair. The applause quickly faded into surprised murmurings.
Rhodey gritted his teeth as Obadiah Stane, Stark Industries’s second-in-command, strode out onto the stage and took the podium. The spotlight shone on his shaven head.
“Thank you, Colonel,” he said, accepting the award statuette.
“Thanks for the save,” Rhodey said, away from the microphone so the crowd wouldn’t hear.
Stane nodded and stepped to the podium. “This is beautiful. Thank you,” he said. “Thank you all very much. This is wonderful.”
He looked at the statuette for a long moment and then said, “Well, I’m not Tony Stark. But if I were, I’d tell you how honored I am and… what a joy it is to receive this award.” He took a deep breath and forced a grin. “The best thing about Tony is also the worst thing—he’s always working.”
Tony was not working. Rhodey found that out right away. In a nearby casino, Tony sat at a gaming table, betting enormous amounts of money. He paused and threw the dice, turning up another winner. The crowd around the table cheered.
Tony spotted Rhodey across the casino floor striding toward him. “You are unbelievable,” Rhodey said when he reached the table.
“Oh no!” Tony exclaimed. “Did they rope you into this awards thing?”
Rhodey scowled at him. “Nobody roped me into anything. But they said you’d be deeply honored if I presented the award.”
“Of course I’d be deeply honored,” Tony said. “And it’s you. That’s great. So when do we do it?”
Rhodey plopped the Apogee Award down on the gaming table. “Here you go.”
Tony stared at it, surprised. “There it is,” he said. “That was easy.” When he saw that Rhodey was still irritated, he got a little more serious. “I’m so sorry.”
Rhodey waved the apology away. “Yeah, it’s okay.”
Tony held up his dice to one of the women next to him at the table. “Give me a hand, will you?” he asked. “Give me a little something-something.”
She smiled and blew on the dice for good luck.
Tony held the dice out to Rhodey then. “Okay, you too.”
“I don’t blow on dice,” Rhodey said.
But Tony talked him into making the roll instead. He picked up the dice, shook them, and rolled—but they came up losers. The crowd around the table sighed and glared at Rhodey. Tony didn’t seem bothered, though. He collected a huge stack of chips from the table and headed for the door with Rhodey. People gawked and took pictures of him with their cell phones.
“A lot of people would kill to have their name on that award,” Rhodey said angrily. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Hold that thought,” Tony said, and strode toward the restroom. Once inside, he splashed water on his face.
“A thousand people came here tonight to honor you, and you didn’t even show up,” Rhodey said, following him. “Now you’re going into a war zone tomorrow just for an equipment demo. We should be doing that here in Nevada.”
Tony sighed. “This system has to be demonstrated under true field conditions.”
Just then, the door to the restroom swung open and a woman in her late twenties walked in. Rhodey recognized Virginia “Pepper” Potts, Tony’s executive assistant. She wasn’t the kind of person who let a MEN’S ROOM sign get in the way of doing her job.
“Tony, you’re leaving the country for a week,” she said, following him as he dropped the Apogee Award in the tip basket and went back onto the casino floor. “I just need five minutes of your time.”
Before Tony could answer, a young woman holding a digital voice recorder pushed her way through the crowd. “Mr. Stark!” she called. “Christine Everhart, journalist. Can I ask you a few questions?”
“Can I ask you a few back?” Tony replied, slowing down to talk.
“You’ve been described as the da Vinci of our times,” Ms. Everhart said. “What do you say to that?”
“Ridiculous,” Tony said. “I don’t paint.”
“And what do you have to say about your other nickname: the Merchant of Death?”
Tony shrugged. “That’s not bad.” He sized her up, figuring from her appearance and accent that she was one of those do-gooder journalists who came from a privileged background and had never spent a day in the real world. “Let me guess,” he said. “Berkeley?”
“Brown, actually,” she said.
“Well,” he said, “it’s an imperfect world, but it’s the only one we’ve got. The day that weapons are no longer needed to keep the peace, I’ll start manufacturing bricks and beams to make hospitals.”
“Rehearse that much, Mr. Stark?” Ms. Everhart asked.
“Every night in front of the mirror. But call me Tony.”
She frowned. “All I want is a serious answer.”
“Okay, here’s serious,” he said. “My old man had a philosophy: Peace means having a bigger stick than the other guy.”
“That’s a great line, coming from the guy selling the sticks,” she shot back.
Now Tony was starting to lose his patience. “My father helped defeat the Nazis. He worked on the Manhattan Project. A lot of people, including your professors at Brown, would call that being a hero.”
She didn’t bat an eyelash. “And a lot of people would also call that war profiteering.”
“When do you plan to report on the millions of people we’ve saved by advancing medical technology? Or the millions more we’ve kept from starving with our intelli-crops? All those breakthroughs came from military funding
, honey.”
“Did you ever lose an hour of sleep in your whole life?” she asked him. Now her temper was up, too.
Tony winked at her. It was time to defuse the situation.
CHAPTER 2
Tony Stark’s home was a sprawling, ultramodern mansion atop a tall bluff on the edge of the Pacific Ocean, with a commanding view of the surf far below. Tony wasn’t admiring the view, though. As usual, he was working in the huge laboratory-garage beneath the mansion. This morning, his project was tuning up one of the cars in his collection, an old ’32 Ford. He looked up as Pepper entered the workshop.
“Boss,” she said, “you still owe me five minutes—”
“Just five?” he asked, cutting in. “We really should spend more quality time together.” He smiled at her, but she merely sighed.
“Focus,” she said. “I need to leave on time today.”
“Why the rush?” he asked. Tony gazed into her eyes. “You have plans tonight, don’t you?”
Pepper lifted her perfect nose just slightly. “I’m allowed to have plans on my birthday.”
“It’s your birthday again?” Tony said.
“Yep,” she replied. “Funny—same day as last year.”
“Well, get yourself something nice from me,” he said.
“I already did,” Pepper said, smiling indulgently. “Thank you, Mr. Stark.”
“You’re welcome, Ms. Potts.”
James Rhodes paced the tarmac. “Where is he?” he grumbled. Behind him, Tony’s private jet sat waiting.
Just then, a sports car roared up, a limousine right beside it. Tony’s chauffeur, Happy Hogan, popped open the trunk and pulled out Tony’s overnight suitcase. Tony hopped out of the car and headed directly toward the jet. “You’re good,” he said to Happy. “Thought I lost you back there.”
“You did,” Happy said. “I had to cut across Mulholland.”
Rhodey followed Tony to the plane, fuming. “I was standing out there for three hours!”
Tony stopped at the top of the stairs to his plane, a custom-built jet bearing the company slogan: STARK INDUSTRIES—TOMORROW TODAY. “Waiting on you now,” he said. “Let’s go. Wheels up! Rock and roll!”
Shaking his head, Rhodey followed Tony.
The flight attendant shut the cabin door as Tony and Rhodey settled into the jet’s plush leather seats.
After dinner, Rhodey and Tony got into another argument. “You just don’t get it,” Rhodey said, annoyed. “I don’t work for the military because they paid for my education; it’s a responsibility to our country.”
Tony regarded his friend coolly. “All I said was, with your smarts and your engineering background, you could write your own ticket in the private sector.” He flashed a smile. “And working as a civilian,” Tony continued, “you wouldn’t have to wear that military straitjacket.”
“Straitjacket?” Now Rhodey wasn’t just annoyed. He was angry. He unbuckled himself and got up to move away from Tony. “You know, the heck with you,” Rhodey said. “I’m not talking to you anymore.”
One of the flight attendants brought a tray with a bottle and two glasses.
“We’re working right now,” Rhodey insisted.
But after a while, he wasn’t as angry anymore. Tony was Tony; what could you do?
The next morning, they touched down in Bagram Air Force Base in Afghanistan. Once there, a convoy of Humvees took them from the base to a fortified test site in the desert. As Rhodey settled in among the generals and VIPs, Tony went to work. He walked up and down the makeshift stage, boasting the virtues of Stark Industries’s latest equipment.
“The age-old question,” Tony said, “is whether it’s better to be feared or respected. I say, is it too much to ask for both?”
His eyes gleamed as he walked over to a Jericho missile perched atop a mobile launcher.
“With that in mind,” Tony continued, “I present the crown jewel of Stark Industries’s Freedom Line of armaments. This is the first missile to incorporate my proprietary Repulsor Technology—or RT, as we like to call it. A breakthrough in energy control and guidance.”
He pressed a button on a remote, and the missile streaked into the air. The rocket arced gracefully toward a nearby rocky mountain peak.
“Fire off one of these babies,” Tony said, “and I guarantee the enemy is not going to leave their caves. For your consideration… the power of Jericho.”
He pointed as the Jericho missile divided from a single weapon into a swarm of minimissiles. The missiles smashed into the nearby peak. With a deafening roar, the mountain exploded into a shower of debris.
Dust washed over Tony and the generals. Tony continued smiling, unfazed by the sudden blast. When the smoke cleared, much of the mountaintop was gone. The generals and Afghan officials nodded and muttered among themselves, impressed.
“Gentlemen,” Tony said, “Stark Industries operators are standing by to take your orders.” He walked off the stage to where Rhodey stood waiting.
“I think that went well,” Tony whispered to his friend.
Rhodey started to say something, but Tony was already answering his satellite videophone. He punched a button and Obadiah Stane’s weary face appeared on the screen.
“Obie, what are you doing up so late?” Tony asked.
“I couldn’t sleep until I found out how it went,” Stane replied. “How did it go?”
Stark grinned. “I think we’ve got an early Christmas coming.”
“Way to go, my boy,” Stane replied blearily.
“Why aren’t you wearing those pajamas I got you?” Tony asked.
“Good night, Tony,” Stane said, and hung up.
Tony passed the phone to Rhodey, and then walked over to a row of soldiers waiting by the group’s Humvees. “All right,” Tony said, “who wants to ride with me?” Reading the name tag of a young soldier nearby, he asked, “Jimmy?”
Jimmy’s young face lit up. “Me?” The two soldiers with him—Ramirez and Pratt, according to their name tags—nodded as well. Tony and the three soldiers piled into the vehicle. Rhodey was about to get in as well, but Tony stopped him.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “This is the Fun-Vee. The Hum-Drum-Vee is back there.”
The look he got from Rhodey was part bemusement and part irritation. “Nice job,” Rhodey said.
Tony accepted the compliment like he deserved it. “See you back at base,” he said.
As Rhodey headed for another vehicle, Tony slammed the door shut. Ramirez cranked up the stereo, and their Humvee roared off into the desert.
CHAPTER 3
Tony watched as the bleak landscape of Afghanistan rushed past the Humvee’s window. The vehicle was cramped, sweaty, and hot—a far cry from the air-conditioned luxury Tony had known all his life. He adjusted the collar of his expensive suit and glanced at the soldiers riding with him. None of them seemed bothered by the heat or the bumpy road. Buried under their gear, all three soldiers looked alike to Tony.
“Oh, I get it,” Tony said after a time. “You guys aren’t allowed to talk. Is that it?”
“No,” Jimmy replied. “We’re allowed to talk.”
Ramirez flashed Tony a smile. “I think these boys are just intimidated.”
Tony nearly jumped. “You’re a woman!” he blurted.
The other soldiers chuckled.
Tony’s face reddened as he straightened up in his seat. “I would apologize for not realizing, but isn’t that what we’re fighting here for? The right of all people to be equal?” He smiled back at her, but Ramirez merely shook her head.
“Mr. Stark, sir?” Pratt asked. “Is it cool if I take a picture with you?”
“Yes. It’s very cool,” Tony said. Then he added, “I don’t want to see this on your page.”
Grinning, Pratt crowded next to Tony as Jimmy framed them in a digital camera. Tony unbuckled his seat belt and put his arm around Pratt’s shoulder. One of them was making a peace sign.
Just then, a huge explosi
on rocked the truck. Tony watched through the windshield as an enormous ball of fire knocked the Humvee ahead of them off the dirt road.
Tony slammed into the side of the Humvee. His gaze fell on the right side-view mirror just as the Humvee behind them blew up.
Trapped between two burning vehicles, Tony’s Humvee skidded to a stop. The sound of gunfire rattled the Humvee’s windows. Rhodey was right, Tony thought. We should have done this in Nevada.
“Stay here!” Pratt commanded. He, Ramirez, and Jimmy piled out of the Humvee, ready to fight. As they left, another explosion filled the air with dust.
Tony peered out the window, trying to see what was happening. The soldiers took up defensive positions, firing through the clouds of dust kicked up by the bomb. One of them ran into the billowing cloud, trying to secure the Humvee’s position.
As Tony ducked down, yet another explosion rocked the vehicle, shattering the window above his head. A shower of glass rained down on Tony’s two-hundred-dollar haircut. He knew he was doomed if he stayed in the Humvee. So he scrambled across the seat and out the far door.
Tony stumbled across the rugged landscape, looking for cover. Smoke stung his eyes and the sound of gunfire echoed in his head. The whole convoy had ground to a halt. They were trapped.
Something landed nearby with a soft thud—an unexploded rocket-propelled grenade. Tony gaped at the info stenciled on the side of the explosive: USM 11676—STARK MUNITIONS.
The enemy was shooting at him with weapons made by his company. Tony turned and ran. Please let it be a dud! he thought. Please let it be—
A blaze of blinding white light surrounded him as the grenade went off. The blast hurled Tony through the air and he landed hard on the ground. The air rushed out of his lungs, and the world around him faded away.
When Tony came to, he found himself tied to a chair in a dark cave. Ragged, makeshift bandages covered his body. Every part of him hurt—especially his chest. It was all he could do to stay conscious.
