Bucky isn’t lounging in an easy chair or lying on his bed as he absorbs the news from the Internet, cable feed, and data link. He’s working out, practicing his moves, and honing his skills. Four to six hours a day, every day. It’s his job.
The news is grim. If it wasn’t grim, it wouldn’t be news. School bake sales and lost puppies with happy endings can only sell so many toasters and cheap car-insurance policies. The financial crisis is the big story, and every other story is just another falling domino.
“…shocking increases in world oil prices in the wake of energy giant Kronas Corporation’s loss of CEO Aleksander Lukin—”
“…new Kronas CEO Vladimir Morovin set to double price of oil per barrel—”
“…Peggy Day Finance, a subsidiary of Kronas, announces it will foreclose on thirty thousand mortgages across the United States—”
“…very few of the Peggy Day foreclosures are linked to the subprime meltdown, but instead are the result of homeowners failing to read the fine print—”
“…outraged citizens take to the streets in demonstrations—”
“…hundreds arrested in cities across the nation—”
“…huge police presence as thousands protest at Kronas Tower in Midtown—”
The images freeze on the screens, and the same banner rolls across all of them: “Your country needs you.”
He had been wondering when his first assignment was going to come through. It takes Bucky two minutes to don pants and boots, grab the shield, and climb the stairs to the roof with the rest of the new uniform rolled in a bundle. The shield is housed in an anonymous black case that might pass for an artist’s portfolio.
A blacked-out S.H.I.E.L.D. light troop transport is hovering above the ventilator units with Black Widow in the pilot’s seat. Bucky respectfully straps the shield into an equipment rack, then slides into the copilot’s chair and buckles up. He refrains from speaking until Natasha lifts off and is at altitude.
“I can’t help noticing that on my first sanctioned mission as Captain America, they send you to nursemaid me.”
Too much maneuvering around buildings is happening for her to look him in the eye, yet there is a hint of a smile there that almost goes unnoticed.
“I’m giving you a ride and providing backup, period. S.H.I.E.L.D. has no record of your existence. Total security wipe. Director Stark’s deal with you was strictly personal. Officially, he can’t publicly advocate an unregistered hero.”
Bucky squirms into his uniform shirt and pulls on the gloves.
“But here you are. An Avenger. How’s he going to answer that one if it gets out?”
“I am the Black Widow. I live among shades of gray.”
Bucky snorts.
“That sounds like a catchphrase from an old radio melodrama: ‘Evil-doers beware my sting!,’ music up, insert Wilhelm scream.”
“So you have a sense of humor, Mr. Barnes.”
Bucky pulls on the mask as well as a whole new demeanor.
“Not when I’m on the job as Captain America.”
The trace of a smile disappears from Black Widow’s face.
“You’ve been practicing with the shield, I take it?”
“Yes, but I didn’t really have to. Stark’s tech people gave my arm some tweaks, programmed in trajectory codes, and rigged up a direct-targeting link with my right eye.” He adjusts the eyeholes and tugs the mask taut. “I may never have Steve’s integrity and selfless honor, but my aim and throwing arm may come close to his.”
The Kronas Tower looms ahead. The avenue below is packed with protesters for three blocks in every direction.
“Damn, Natasha. The Red Skull has his agents provocateurs out in force tonight—wait a minute. I’m not expected to address the protesters, am I?”
But the S.H.I.E.L.D. transport has already passed the demonstration and is heading south down Park Avenue. Black Widow calls up an infrared surveillance image on the control panel’s multifunction display. It shows two A.I.M. heavy transports alighting in vertical-take-off-andlanding-mode in front of the Federal Reserve Bank in the Financial District. She taps the screen.
“We received a tip that R.A.I.D and A.I.M. were going after the gold reserves in the vault on Liberty Street. Of course, all the police are tied up miles uptown at Kronas Tower.”
The new Captain America retrieves his shield, takes it out of its case, and stands bracing himself at the hatch. He automatically reaches for where his pistol should be and touches an empty belt. But the weight of the shield on his arm feels comforting. It feels right.
“I’m glad that the first time I go into action carrying Steve’s shield, I’ll be battling minions of his old foe. It looks like Red Skull wants to hit our economy from all sides until we’re ripping ourselves apart from the inside. All these years, he’s wanted to see our cities burn, and he’s finally getting all his ducks in a row to make it happen.”
“Apparently.”
“All right, then. Let’s go stop him.”
THE “bucket-head” A.I.M. techs have secured the twenty-kilogram shaped breaching charge to the bank wall, with R.A.I.D. troopers providing cover with assault rifles and rocket launchers. There are no firing cables to be compromised or radio detonators to be jammed. A simple, mechanical timer set for thirty seconds and protected by an anti-tamper device has been activated. The countdown cannot be stopped.
“Fire in the hole!”
Yellow-suited terrorists duck for cover. They have their heads down when the man in the red-white-and-blue costume races past them to pluck the explosive device from the wall with one hand.
A.I.M. techs are quick to assess the situation and order the deployment of their two Turbo Walkers. The articulated-leg armored fighting machines that resemble twelve-foot-tall steel ostriches lumber down the cargo ramps of the A.I.M. transports, their dual electric Gatling guns sweeping the street in targeting mode. But their intended target refuses to cooperate by presenting a clear shot. The star-spangled figure is in among the A.I.M. techs and R.A.I.D. troopers, swinging the heavy-shaped charge into their heads and deflecting bullets with his shield.
At twenty seconds from detonation, the techs rescind the firing order for the Turbo Walkers to preclude friendly fire devastation. It also dawns on them who they are fighting.
“It can’t be him—he’s dead!”
The shield ricochets off a terrorist’s head and returns to the red-gloved hand that threw it.
“You can’t kill what he stood for.”
Said with utter conviction by the new embodiment of that idea: the new Captain America.
At twelve seconds from detonation, the techs have no choice but to reinstate the firing order to the Turbo Walkers. Two sets of laser dots begin to converge on the target with the star at its center. A voice rings clear over the gunfire: “Widow—cover me. I have to take down those machines.”
The woman in black steps out from between parked cars with her MP5K submachine gun blasting accurately grouped three-shot bursts.
“Stop talking and do it.”
Five seconds left.
The R.A.I.D. troopers who aren’t hit by Black Widow’s covering fire are mowed down by the Turbo Walker Gatling guns as they traverse horizontally following their locked-on target. The techs had inserted an “identify friend-orfoe” override when they reinstated the firing order, so the guns do not cease fire when the target passes between the two fighting machines.
The Walker that put its predicted-target-point “pipper” on the other first by a microsecond is the one that survives. The remaining Walker’s targeting computer makes the error of traversing 180 degrees to track its “lock-on” as the new Captain America leaps above and over the turret.
There is one second left on the timer when the surviving Walker’s threat sensor detects the shaped-charge clamped to its back. One second later, the adjective “surviving” no longer applies.
Black Widow slings her empty MP5K and takes down the last two A.I.M. techs
with her Widow’s Bite wristlets, but not before the yellow-suited fanatics activate the self-destruct charges within the two heavy transports. She uses a remote to summon the S.H.I.E.L.D. light troop transport as the newly battle-tested Captain America joins her. Fragments of still-smoking A.I.M. technology and shards of window glass rain down on the street.
“Did you know what you were going to do with that shaped-charge when you yanked it off the wall?” she asks. “Wait—don’t tell me. Nothing matters as long as it works out. We should clear out. We’re needed elsewhere already. You kept them so busy that none of these creeps was able to get a message out. Red Skull is going to be perplexed, and I like that.”
The Captain America who isn’t Steve Rogers lifts his gaze to the buildings facing the Federal Reserve Bank.
“All those windows. All those people with phone cams. It’ll be all over the news.”
Black Widow lifts one perfect eyebrow.
“New Yorkers don’t go to the window when they hear shots and explosions. I thought you knew that by now.”
INTERLUDE #12
AS a precautionary measure, the Red Skull has transplanted Arnim Zola’s lab yet again, this time to another remote location in upstate New York. He finds it amusing to stand in the doorway and watch Zola work: the relentless robot movements, the tireless plodding. Zola is sometimes indistinguishable from the machines and devices he operates, being more akin to them than to human beings. Red Skull finds that aspect of Zola alien and disturbing, but he also has an affinity for Zola: They are both trapped in bodies they weren’t born in.
Red Skull clears Aleksander Lukin’s throat. Zola pretends he doesn’t hear. Red Skull speaks to him nonetheless.
“What news is there from your field operatives in the city? Have they secured the gold reserves like they were supposed to?”
As usual, Arnim Zola continues the task he was involved in before being spoken to. He acknowledges the Red Skull by turning the psychotronic box that sits where his head should be slightly in the speaker’s direction.
“They are not my operatives. I had nothing to do with training or outfitting them.”
“You’re not passing the blame, are you, Zola?”
Moving to where he can see Zola’s “face” in the holographic screen in his chest does not result in eye contact.
“Hardly. They have not reported in yet. Their GPS and communications signals have stopped. This could possibly mean they are being pursued and have gone into stealth mode or activated passive cloaking devices. Unable to extrapolate their current situation with available data. Next question.”
“When will you finish your work for me?”
“Later than when I projected if you continue to distract me. Do you want the chamber completed in a timely fashion or not? And what about the upgrades on the schematics for Faustus’ contraption?”
Arguing with Arnim Zola is like arguing with a refrigerator. Red Skull turns back to the door.
“Very well, Zola. Continue with your work. You should know that we have succeeded in knocking them to their knees. I am merely concerned with keeping them there until we are ready to strike the final blow.” He stops and turns at the door. “And it’s nearly time for Faustus to launch the first wave of his psychological assault. You should come watch this with me, Zola. I am certain you will appreciate the irony of it.”
Zola sets his machines on “automatic” and follows the Red Skull.
“Irony is at the core of the joke life has played on me—and you as well. Yes, this should be amusing.”
THIRTY
AS a precautionary measure, the Red Skull has transplanted Arnim Zola’s lab yet again, this time to another remote location in upstate New York. He finds it amusing to stand in the doorway and watch Zola work: the relentless robot movements, the tireless plodding. Zola is sometimes indistinguishable from the machines and devices he operates, being more akin to them than to human beings. Red Skull finds that aspect of Zola alien and disturbing, but he also has an affinity for Zola: They are both trapped in bodies they weren’t born in.
Red Skull clears Aleksander Lukin’s throat. Zola pretends he doesn’t hear. Red Skull speaks to him nonetheless.
“What news is there from your field operatives in the city? Have they secured the gold reserves like they were supposed to?”
As usual, Arnim Zola continues the task he was involved in before being spoken to. He acknowledges the Red Skull by turning the psychotronic box that sits where his head should be slightly in the speaker’s direction.
“They are not my operatives. I had nothing to do with training or outfitting them.”
“You’re not passing the blame, are you, Zola?”
Moving to where he can see Zola’s “face” in the holographic screen in his chest does not result in eye contact.
“Hardly. They have not reported in yet. Their GPS and communications signals have stopped. This could possibly mean they are being pursued and have gone into stealth mode or activated passive cloaking devices. Unable to extrapolate their current situation with available data. Next question.”
“When will you finish your work for me?”
“Later than when I projected if you continue to distract me. Do you want the chamber completed in a timely fashion or not? And what about the upgrades on the schematics for Faustus’ contraption?”
Arguing with Arnim Zola is like arguing with a refrigerator. Red Skull turns back to the door.
“Very well, Zola. Continue with your work. You should know that we have succeeded in knocking them to their knees. I am merely concerned with keeping them there until we are ready to strike the final blow.” He stops and turns at the door. “And it’s nearly time for Faustus to launch the first wave of his psychological assault. You should come watch this with me, Zola. I am certain you will appreciate the irony of it.”
Zola sets his machines on “automatic” and follows the Red Skull.
“Irony is at the core of the joke life has played on me—and you as well. Yes, this should be amusing.”
INTERLUDE #13
TRANSCRIPT of National Cable News Affiliates’ interview with Senator Gordon Wright, chairman of the Appropriations Committee. Interview conducted by Roseanne McCarthy.
McCarthy: May we have your reaction to last night’s brutal and tragic incident when S.H.I.E.L.D. agents opened fire on protesters outside the White House?
Wright: Appalling. Absolutely appalling on so many levels. As you know, I am a big one for accountability, which is why I supported the Registration Act. We are in need of tighter controls on how organizations like S.H.I.E.L.D. operate on American soil. And we need to protect our cities from rampaging mobs of mindless protesters who want nothing better than to tear down our way of life.
McCarthy: S.H.I.E.L.D. has yet to make an official statement, but there has been a leak indicating that Director Stark will claim that last night’s shooters were not active agents.
Wright: Whether they were active or not is a quibble. What a pile of evasive hokum! They are not an American agency but an arm of the United Nations. We need our cities protected by real Americans.
McCarthy: But who will do that, Senator? With cutbacks on municipal police forces, deep budget slashes in federal military spending, and the deployment overseas of so many National Guard units, who is there to do that protecting?
Wright: I am diligently working on that, Roseanne. My committee is proposing an emergency bill—which I am sure will meet with bi-partisan support, and pass both the House and Senate. We propose to enter into a contract with an American company, Kane-Meyer Security, to restore order to the streets of our great cities and especially right here in Washington, D.C.
McCarthy: I understand that Kane-Meyer provides security for many American holdings overseas and has contracts with our Departments of Defense and State protecting installations, bases, and embassy personnel.
Wright: It’s a company operated by Americans, and it employs Americans. And this will be put
ting tax dollars to work, protecting Americans while providing new jobs for Americans. How much more win-win can you get?
“…HOW much more win-win can you get?”
Extremely pleased with himself, Senator Wright hits the pause button on his DVR remote so the screen freezes on his smiling face. He turns to the man with the beard and monocle sitting on the GSA-approved leather couch in the Senator’s office.
“Brilliant line for something I improvised on the spot, don’t you think? I might use it as my campaign slogan when I run for the presidency—of course, that’s going to take a lot more money…”
Doctor Faustus likes dealing with politicians. They are so reliably true to form.
“We shall do more than fill your campaign chest, Senator. We have the means to smooth your way to higher office by persuading your opponents to relent. And if they are resistant to persuasion, they can suffer a fatal fall in the bathroom, or fail to survive a crash on the interstate. You do understand these unfortunate accidents can also curtail the lives of those who fail to deliver what they have promised us?”
The temptation for the Senator to ask, “Is that a threat?” is strong, but he wisely resists it. Faustus senses this and is gratified. He breathes on his monocle and wipes it clean.
THIRTY-ONE
THE bloodshed that marred the protest at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue only days earlier did not diminish the turnout for the demonstration at First Street SW and Independence. It is Bucky, in jeans and broken-in leather, and not his costumed alter ego, who mingles at the edge of the crowd picketing the Capitol Building. To his way of thinking, a demonstration protesting violence that occurred at a previous demonstration seems nothing less than an invitation for more of the same. He shakes his head at the way righteous indignation can blind so many people to the obvious and override the instinct for survival.
“Where are your people, Natasha? What’s the plan?”
Black Widow’s voice is clear and crisp in his micro-earpiece.
The Death Of Captain America Page 15
