Marvel Novel Series 06 - Iron Man - And Call My Killer ... Modok!

by William Rotsler

  Tony nodded. Frequent tours of the vast main Stark International plant were necessary. Stark had to keep in touch with all the various scientists and engineers working on a myriad of projects. Sometimes he had to solve some problem, sometimes he had to soothe ruffled feathers. Other times he had to stimulate, or even transfer people when they had gone stale. His greatest problem was to keep his scientists from feeling they were second-class. In the shadow of the accomplishments of Anthony Stark, many a person had felt inferior. Some days he had the delight of handing out raises and promotions, compliments and bonuses. Other days—less happy days—he had the distasteful task of “kicking rumps” and even firing people. Being the head of a company as diverse and as large as SI was not always a bed of roses.

  “Dinner will be ready in a few minutes,” Pepper said. “Just as soon as Hilary gets here.”

  “Hilary?” Tony asked. Then he understood. Pepper was incorrigible. Once she was married, she wanted Tony married, too. She had an endless list of “friends” whom she constantly tried to “fix up” with Tony.

  “Hilary James. She’s really a lovely woman, intelligent and—”

  “Pepper,” growled Happy ominously.

  “Pepper, I don’t feel very hungry right now,” Tony said, getting up. “I’ll catch a bite at the office.” Stark’s private office and living quarters at Stark International had its own kitchen.

  Disappointment swept over Pepper’s face. “But she’ll be here any minute now . . .”

  Tony touched her arm. “Give up, Pep. See you in the morning.”

  Pepper watched Tony leave. Her eyes were wet. Her husband put his arm around her. “Ease up on him, Pepper,” he said. “He’s got a lot o’ troubles right now.”

  His freckle-faced wife nodded. “I know. But he always has problems. A good wife would help him with things like that. Oh, Happy . . .”

  “Not now, Pepper honey. We got a full day tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, the tour and the dignitaries.”

  “And figuring out why AIM tried to put the snatch . . . or the hit . . . on Tony.”

  Pepper’s eyes popped open and she stared up at her tough-looking husband. “Do you think they . . . ?”

  Happy Hogan nodded. “They’re up to somethin’, darling.” But what, he wondered.

  Four

  From the windows of Tony’s penthouse atop the Special Housing and Recreational Building he could see all of his special kingdom. To the north he could see the main factory complex, where the devices designed by him or his staff were manufactured. Directly adjacent to his own penthouse-topped building was the Administration Building, where Pepper Hogan was waiting for him.

  The monorail ran from the main entrance past Administration, with one branch going to the factory area, another past the all-important Research and Development Labs to the Solar Convertor area. Beyond it all, to the northeast, was the airfield, and the monorail arrowed to it. It was a vast empire, worth billions of dollars in potential, and having cost many millions to construct—and it was his.

  Tony Stark was proud of what he had accomplished, but he was not egotistical about it. Stark International was a tool, not a self-serving edifice. Tools did things for you. Some tools worked better than others. A hammer was fine for driving nails, but not much good for painting. Pliers were excellent for a number of things, but inefficient for driving nails. Stark knew that he had created an efficient tool, one responsive to his thinking and his needs—and the needs of his country.

  But it was not all harsh efficiency. While Tony Stark did not know every one of his employees by face or name, he knew most of the several thousand who worked there. He knew them as human beings, as mothers and fathers, as members of the SI Bowling Team, or the Stark Chess Club. He had no intention of being the “benign employer” or a remote authority figure. He had only the desire to do what he wanted to do—and needed to do—in the best and most efficient manner. In the course of that he met and worked with a vast variety of people. Some he liked, some he didn’t, but he tried not to let his personal feelings affect the promotions or demotions, the assignment of work, or the many other factors he had to deal with.

  Buzz.

  Stark shook his head and pulled himself away from his musings. It was Pepper, reminding him—none too discreetly—that he was wanted. But Stark was not yet ready to go to work. Unhappy thoughts kept nagging at him.

  Why had the AIM thugs come at him?

  As far as he knew he was not immediately involved in any of their nefarious schemes. He hadn’t stumbled upon anything that stank of AIM, nor had his fellow Avengers. A call the previous night to the Avenger headquarters, followed by another to the Baxter Building, had verified that right now AIM was quiet.

  “They’re up ta sumpin’, all right,” Ben Grimm had said in his gravelly voice. “They always are.”

  “We’ll keep alert,” Captain America had promised him.

  So why had they tried a kidnapping? Or had it been an attempted killing?

  There was no answer. There was not yet enough information. Tony Stark sighed and turned away from the windows. Dressed in a dark business suit he dropped swiftly in his private elevator and stepped out into his private office. He thumbed the intercom and told Pepper he was in.

  “Mister Sitwell is here, sir,” she said. Her voice was just a trifle chilly, Stark thought. Well, he’d run out on her dinner and her carefully invited blind date. She had a right.

  “Send him in, please.”

  Jasper Sitwell strode in, Mr. Efficiency at work. Blond, crew-cut in an age of full heads of hair, freckled and wearing a modern version of old-fashioned wireframed glasses, he was Stark International’s special liaison with SHIELD.

  SHIELD: Supreme Headquarters, International Espionage Law-enforcement Division. The vast anti-crime, anti-evil organization headed by Nick Fury, that cigar-chomping, black-clad relic of World War II. The one-eyed former sergeant was a colonel now, and ran his tough group with a fist of steel . . . and there was no velvet glove on it.

  “Sir,” Sitwell began, “I am extremely worried about this attack on you by those miscreants at AIM.”

  Stark nodded and waved his hand to dismiss the problem. “I suppose you have tightened security and all that?”

  “Naturally, sir,” Sitwell said. Stark sighed inwardly. Sitwell was good, but he was boring. He’d never quite gotten out of the straight-laced college fraternity cycle. He did everything by the book, even when there was no book, or when the book was outdated or out of print. He lived by the principle that there was a wrong way and a book way of doing everything. Everything. Stark tried not to think what his love life—if any—was like.

  “You should never have been allowed to go to Benford University without a full prior security check and an adequate security force in situ well before you arrived.” He shook his head. “If I hadn’t been away in a conference with Colonel Fury this would never have happened.”

  “I approved the arrangements, Jasper,” Tony said. “You know I don’t like a lot of security men hanging around me.” Stark never knew when he might be forced to become Iron Man at a moment’s notice, and a lot of sharp-eyed security jocks would only get in the way.

  Jasper Sitwell still shook his head. “I’m setting up a conference, sir. We are going to reevaluate both your personal security procedures and Stark International’s from the ground up.”

  Stark nodded. It was to be expected. It wouldn’t do any harm to redesign the security methods. Frequent shake-ups were good. They kept the juices flowing—and they confused the enemy. And Mr. Jasper Sitwell had just the nit-picking mind to do it right.

  “Anything else, Jasper?”

  “Yes, sir, but it can wait until after the tour.”

  Stark nodded and got up. Jasper followed him into the outer office, where they collected Happy Hogan. Their first stop was at the solar conversion plant at the southern edge of SI’s sprawling complex.

  Iron Man’s suit had highly efficient solar cells
for power, but they were far too costly for mass production. Here scientists labored to increase the efficiency of mass-produced solar cells. Solar power was, in Tony Stark’s opinion, the best and proper energy of the future. At their next stop plans for the outer-space use of these solar cells were shown to SI’s top man.

  In the R and D division were multiple plans and intricate models for the first of the space colonies that Stark International hoped to soon build in orbit. Based upon the imaginative concepts of Gerald O’Neill these space colonies would someday become independent of Earth. They would collect solar energy in immense, mile-square solar panels and beam the energy to collecting panels on Earth. Cheap energy, pollutionless energy would be the result.

  In addition, the colonies—to be situated in one or another of the points between Earth and the moon where the gravitational pulls would be equalized, thus stabilizing the orbits—would be manufacturing centers. They would be able to construct, due to the lack of gravity, perfectly spherical ball bearings, crystals “grown” in perfect alignment, and many other items of commerce. The vacuum of space would be another manufacturing asset only now beginning to be understood. All this, Stark scientists were experimenting with, researching, investigating. In another part of the complex, agronomists were trying to find the optimum size for vegetables grown in tanks of nutrient—in space, heated and fed by the sun. Outer space was the next great frontier—and one that was limitless. Stark International—with contracts from NASA, and on its own—was going to be heavily involved.

  As they rode the monorail toward the main factory area Stark looked at Happy Hogan sitting ahead of him. Dour, unsmiling, unswervingly loyal Harry Hogan, inevitably called “Happy” because of his manner and expression of pessimistic doom. As the monorail car hummed along, Stark was drawn back to the time he had met the ex-prizefighter. It had been a long time ago. His Iron Man costume was all gold then, still bulky and less efficient than now.

  He had been more strongly into his playboy facet then—fast cars, fast women . . . and slow wine.

  The Stark Special. What a beauty. The best engine on any track—sleek and fast . . .

  The motor caught with a roar and Stark grinned. He let it idle back and pulled down his goggles. Then he zipped the special fire-resistant jump suit as Mike Logan, his mechanic, bent toward him. The sleepy-eyed mechanic shouted over the noises of the racetrack.

  “We thought you weren’t going to make it, boss!”

  Tony smiled. He had been late, but it had been Iron Man business. He’d raced across country roads on Iron Man’s built-in, powered roller skates, just to get himself in the mood for the big race. Highway police had tried in vain to catch up, but the Golden Avenger had pulled away from them with ease. However, it had made him late. Stark just grinned.

  “Everything set up?” he asked.

  “With this new engine you ought to pass them other crates like they was standin’ still,” Logan said, the cigarette in his mouth bobbing with every word. “It’s gonna be a long enduro, boss. How do you feel about the grind?” A lot of people knew about Stark’s heart wound and some worried.

  “I’ll put it this way, Mike . . . Iron Man couldn’t be in better shape!”

  The mechanic nodded in relief and slapped the cowling. “Let’s roll it out,” he ordered the crew. At once two men began pushing the sleek race car. Racing machines don’t carry extra weight and starters are part of that unneeded weight. These cars are started up externally, once everything is ready. Every drop of gas is potentially important, especially so in long endurance contests such as the one about to begin.

  Stark watched the starting lights. Everything was electronic these days, even starting “guns.”

  Red.

  The motor was purring beautifully. Stark did not look at any of the other drivers. They were all pros. They looked down on Tony Stark a bit—the rich boy buying his way into the big time. They ignored his record of wins and seconds, but liked his “stable” of models, actresses, and jet-set beauties that appeared at all his races. But he was still the “amachoor,” the rich kid playing games.

  Yellow.

  The tenseness was building. Hands at the two and ten position. A quick look at the tachometer. The car was custom-built around him, as all professional race cars are. It fit snugly, but was comfortable. Everything was made to his body measurements—the size, shape, and position of the bucket seat; the distance of the gearshift; the pedals; everything. It was a mechanic sculpture, a different kind of metal suit than what Tony Stark sometimes wore.

  Green.

  Foot to the floor, slamming the head back. The car raced out, burning rubber, jockeying for position. Don Arrow shot ahead, into the lead position, a nifty bit of driving, but Stark was right behind. Bits of crud peppered the high-impact plastic windscreen, and on the curves in the winding dirt track thick clouds spattered against Stark’s windshield. At the first turn, Renaldo Garcia’s car pulled abreast, showering Stark with more clods. A big one hit his helmet, making his head ring, but as the curve straightened out and the lead cars came out of their four-wheel drift, Stark once again put the pedal to the metal.

  He pulled ahead at once as the powerful motor was given its head. Stark grinned tightly, exulting in the feeling of speed and power.

  “If I keep up this pace,” he thought, “I’ll not only win every lap, but set a new track record!”

  The other cars were behind him. Don Arrow was trying hard to keep up, but his engine simply was not as powerful as the experimental new monster installed in the Stark Special.

  Then the next curve was coming at him. It was sharp and not banked all that much. It was Killer Kurve, the place that wiped out more drivers than any other. You had to be alert—going in and coming out. Some drivers went in perfectly, failed to hold their drift, and didn’t come out. The much-repaired curve was proof of that.

  Tony Stark stared through his dirt-spattered goggles at the vicious curve, feeling the rumbling thunder of his engine, estimating the exact moment to begin the drift.

  Then a terrible pain knifed into his chest. It was an agonizing, squeezing pain that ripped mercilessly at him. In that fleeting moment Stark remembered he had forgotten to recharge his suit after his miles of high-speed racing across the highways. In his anxiety to get to the track he had simply forgotten.

  And his forgetfulness was about to kill him.

  He seemed frozen—unable to make his body work, to control the hurtling car, or to bring it expertly into the curve. There was not enough energy left in his chest plate, hidden beneath his flameproof jumper, to keep his heart pumping.

  So this is death, he thought.

  Will it hurt?

  He almost laughed. Will it hurt?

  No one comes back from the dead to tell you, not ever.

  The car did not turn, not expertly, not at all. The pain that had paralyzed his body kept him frozen as the car smashed through the guardrail, through the wall, flipping high, shredding against the barrier and sending broken parts of itself flying in every direction.

  All Stark thought was: at least no one will be hurt but me—and I’m a volunteer. The racetrack authorities don’t let anyone watch in the vicinity of Killer Kurve.

  The car flip-flopped once more, then crashed back to earth, skidding across the dirt, twisting and bending. The roar of the engine, sputtering and dying, was lost in the shriek of metal and rending of parts.

  A different kind of pain slammed into Stark as the car came to a screaming halt within a cloud of dust. A part of the frame had bent, pinning him in and beneath the wrecked automobile. At once a fantasy came to him: in his Iron Man costume he could have risen immediately, ripping away the crippling metal, bending the frame, stepping out unharmed.

  But he wasn’t in his Iron Man suit, at least not in the powered part of it. His electric sinews and metal muscles were in the attaché case locked in the trunk of the car in which he had arrived.

  The stink of spilled gasoline was in his nostril
s. He heard the cries of the ground crew and the blurred boom of the loudspeakers. A siren was going somewhere. But with horrified eyes Stark saw that a little river of high-test gasoline was wandering through the dirt and dry grass . . . toward a small grass fire the wreck had started. If one met the other, there would be nothing that could save Anthony Stark from being cremated alive.

  Nothing.

  The first civilians to run up to the wreck stopped as someone pointed out the gasoline river and the smoke. Then they fought to get back through the crowd. No one had a taste for being part of a fireball.

  No one except one man. Big, tough-looking, and wearing a loud sport jacket, he shouldered his way through the departing crowd and sized up the situation at once. He did not hesitate.

  “Can’t leave ’im there,” he muttered as he raced across the dirt through the smoking shards of the expensive racing car.

  “No! Go back!” Stark cried. “You can’t help me—I’m pinned in here!”

  “Big deal,” the man grumbled and bent his back. His red face grew redder as his muscles strained against the bent metal. Something gave way. “Now you’re unpinned,” the man said, reaching for him.

  “The gas . . . the fire . . .”

  “Yeah, yeah,” the big man said, tugging none too gently at Stark’s body. “Look, bub, I’m scared enough without any help from you. So let’s clam up and get out of here, huh?”

  Stark’s suit caught on a projecting knife of metal but the big civilian ripped Stark away, half carrying him. Stark could hardly move, although the first paralysis from the pain had dissipated fairly quickly. His whole body was bruised and battered.

  The stranger dragged Stark only a short distance before the gasoline reached the burning grass. The explosion sent shards of bent metal arcing everywhere. One bounced off the back of Stark’s rescuer as he protected him with his body.

  “Too bad no bookie was around,” the stranger grumbled. “He would’ve given me ten-to-one I’d be strummin’ a harp now.”

  Stark gasped out his next words. Although he could move, he was weak, and the pain in his chest continued. “I’ll pay you fifty times as much if you rush me to the nearest motel . . . lock . . . lock me alone in a room . . . and . . . and no questions asked.”