"Soldiers of Misfortune"
May. 18th, 2022 04:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dochermes"Soldiers of Misfortune"
(12/7-12/8/1995)
I.
Bane watched Steven Weaver slide out from under the stealth copter CORBY and get to his feet. A canvas strip holding assorted tools was stretched out next to him on the hangar floor, and Weaver replaced two into their slots, then rolled the strip up. He was a tall, lanky black man in his late thirties, with short hair and a thick mustache. For once, he looked tired. Weaver went to the sink in the corner and started scrubbing his arms and hands with hot water and liquid soap.
"She's in good shape, Jeremy. But honestly, you need to make friends with a Trom. Most of those systems are beyond Human knowledge, and I sure can't get new parts if anything wears out." He rubbed his face with a towel and sighed. "Len's been dead for five years now, and the CORBY misses his tune-ups."
The Dire Wolf was standing with folded arms, watching Weaver thoughtfully. Nearing forty, he was as lean and restless as ever. Still dressed all in black, still regarding the world warily through pale grey eyes. "I've been thinking of starting a new KDF team," he said.
"Really? Well, that came out of nowhere." Weaver grinned. "I'm glad. I know that night in Necropolis took a toll. Emotionally. But to be honest, you NEED to be busy, my man. You were born to be the Dire Wolf... and operating a one-man detective agency isn't enough for you. Are you picking out potential members yet?"
"Just one so far," Bane said. "One of the Blind Archers of Chujir, a European named Josef. When the KDF was operating, I would have nominated him for membership in a blink. But I have feeling a few more candidates will be popping up. Steve, I was thinking maybe you could help train them? Stay here and start a new team?"
Weaver hesitated. "Man, don't put me under pressure to make a decision like that. You know I lost my levitating. If I can't fly under my own power, I'm not really Black Angel any more, am I? Just an ex-USAF chopper pilot and mechanic." He unzipped his grease-stained coverall and tossed it in a bin in the corner. Underneath, he was wearing jeans and a plain white T-shirt. From a hook, he took down a red flannel shirt and yanked it on. "Not sayin' I'm not tempted..."
"You'll always be Black Angel. One of the few men I can trust in a tight spot, someone who has my back. I never had too many people I could count on, Steve."
Weaver came closer and softened his voice. "Dude. Listen to me. It's okay to have feelings. Tell you what, I still have a full-time job out in New Mexico at the HCE Project, and although we're not supposed to talk about it, we both know I'm working for some Trom. Let me drop a few hints that you need a replacement for Leonard Slade. A new Trom member in the KDF. I bet they're already considering it."
"I imagine so." Bane exhaled and gestured at the CORBY. "So, she's good to go?"
"Yep. A Mach-plus jetcopter with stealth capabilities and sensory array decades ahead of anything anyone else has. It's coated with refracting armor veneer that is better than heavy ceramic plate armors, but it's not heavily armed. All you have are the two chain guns."
"It's been enough so far," Bane said. "Listen, if you're wrapped up, let's go get Italian food at Three Brothers over on Ninth Avenue. I want to get your opinion on a new KDF."
Weaver shook his head. "Sorry, my friend. I already have plans with Julie. We're not getting back together but we do want to stay in touch, so we're catching a movie. But I don't have to be back to the Project until Monday, and I'll come back here tomorrow morning and you can tell me about the new KDF. Come on, I have to get going," Black Angel said as he headed for the door. They walked down one flight to the elevator; it only went to the ninth floor because the hangar had originally been the roof of the KDF building. As they rode down, Weaver said, "I'm sorry I missed Cindy. And Ted. Bad timing they're both out of town tonight."
"Cindy's been at Tel Shai a lot since the Final Halloween," Bane said. "And Ted puts in long hours at the ER at Mount Sinai these days. But you come visit more often and we can all get together."
"It's a deal." Weaver paused at the front door and turned to shake hands, gripping his friend's shoulder with his free hand. "You're not the only one who misses the KDF, Jeremy!" He turned and headed down the steps to where his rental car was parked, then glanced back. "Hey, make sure you have a member who's black! You don't want trouble with Affirmative Action. See ya!" He climbed in and drove off.
The Dire Wolf stood outside for a few minutes, watching traffic and people going by. It was just getting dark. He turned and went back inside, closing and arming the door behind him. Walking back to his office just inside the front hall, he dropped down behind his desk and thought over what Weaver had said. A new KDF... Of the original team, so few remained and they were retired from the Midnight War, sick of heart and weary. Maybe it was time to start actively looking for new members, to start planning a new KDF. The Kenneth Dred Foundation had technically been a non-profit research organization investigating the paranormal but in actuality, that was the cover for a team of Tel Shai knights he had led. They had gotten so much done in those years...
The front doorbell rang. Bane glanced up at the wall clock behind him, it was ten after six. He was out of his chair and at the front door in a second. On the wall to the right of the door was a hinged wooden panel that swung open to reveal a ten-inch monitor screen and array of controls. On the steps aside, he saw the image of a man and a woman waiting. Bane smiled almost imperceptibly, said through the intercom, "Please come in, I'll be right with you," and unlocked the front door. As they stepped into the tiny foyer, he activated the Trom scanning systems, more detailed than any MRI. ID was positive instantly. These were agents Marlene Bonita and Edgar Chappell, veterans of Department 21 Black. They were both armed.
Bane opened the inner door and said, "Hello, come in but leave your sidearms in that cabinet to your right. Yes. Thank you."
"Were we X-Rayed or something?" asked Chappell. He was a meek-looking little man with round-rimmed glasses and not much hair, but he took out a 9mm semi-automatic and placed it on a shelf in the cabinet. His partner did the same with her little Beretta Brigadier. Bonita was a busty Spanish woman with gorgeous hair and severe expression. As Bane closed the cabinet door, she repeated Chappell's question.
"Oh, I just assume FBI field agents are carrying heat when they come here," Bane answered. "The way you agents dress and walk and check each other's reactions... very FBI. Follow me to the office and we can talk." He led them across the hall, showed them to leatherbound chairs and took his own seat behind the desk. "So. What brings you to the Dire Wolf Agency tonight?"
Chappell sternly said, "A rogue group of military veterans going mercenary within the United States!"
"Bravo Nine," Bane replied. "The Soldiers of Misfortune..."
II.
"Well, that gets things rolling," Chappell said. "What do you know about Bravo Nine?"
"Just rumors, I hear things. Out in Los Angeles, for the past two years, these guys calling themselves Bravo Nine have been hiring their services out. Some of them are Gulf War veterans, I understand one is a Navy SEAL. They are all wanted for desertion and live on the run. As I hear it, they started off as Robin Hood types, taking on drug cartels and extortion rings and recovering kidnap victims. But lately, they seem to have lost any pretensions of right and wrong. They've shot up families and robbed eighteen-wheelers carrying valuables." He leaned forward. "But this is just gossip. I haven't looked into Bravo Nine myself."
"You hear rightly," said Agent Bonita. She seemed to have a permanent frown. "Our department has dealt with you before, Mr Bane. You can be a valuable asset but you aren't always cooperative."
The Dire Wolf met her cool gaze straight on. "I don't work for your Department 21 Black. If I agree with what they want me to do, I'll go ahead but I decide for myself. That's always been clear."
"And yet you have been trusted with classified information that frankly I don't think you should know."
"That's up to you." Bane stood up and leaned forward on stiff arms. "If I choose to, I will look into Bravo Nine myself. If you want to provide me with information to make success more likely, fine. But I am not one of your agents."
"Settle down, everyone." Chappell raised his hands in a placating gesture. "Our superiors accept the arrangement. To be honest, it gives them deniability if you are acting on your own.
"Back to business then," Bane said. "What brings you two here tonight? Specifically?"
"All right. Bravo 9 is operating away from LA for the first time. They had a firefight with the Los Lobitos gang in Chicago. Now they have been reported in upstate New York." Bonita smiled for the first time. "More in your turf, so to speak?"
"Anything more specfic you can give me?"
"Not much. We have a taped phone call from someone in Ronald Hatch's empire. Something about a load of pharmaceuticals that must not be delivered. A voice on the tape has been identified as belonging to the Major-- that is, Major James Karkowski, the leader of Bravo 9 but he says only that the team is ready to act."
Bane shook his head dubiously. "I think you guys have more than that to go on. If you can't play straight with me, you might as well leave now."
Agent Chappell said, "In my opinion, Hatch has built his billion-dollar organization through shoddy practices. Years ago, he financed a casino that was built with inferior materials and six people died when the roof collapsed. He has been accused of providing organic meat that he knew was contaminated with salmonella but he's wealthy and has an army of lawyers."
"So. The idea would be that there is a shipload of medical supplies that is worthless or downright dangerous. Hatch wants to stop delivery without taking a loss. That's where Bravo 9 comes in." Bane looked from one to the other. "Give me a location. A time. Something to get started on."
"Cobleskill. Tomorrow afternoon. That's as close as we can figure. One of our teams is in the area but frankly, we don't have the staff we need. We've asked the State Police for help and only gotten vague reassurances."
The Dire Wolf asked, "Anything else? No? Well, I guess it's enough for a start. I'll let you know what I find."
Unexpectedly, seemingly out of character, Agent Bonita grinned. "From your file, I imagine we'll know when you find them because of the scenes of mayhem and destruction."
After the 21 Black agents left, Bane stood there for a long time watching the street, then closed the door and went back to his office. He didn't fully trust them, any more than he could trust what agents of the Mandate said. Both organizations had tried to use him as a weapon and had tried to set him up as a fall guy. He only cooperated with them because they so often pointed him toward some threat he wanted to attack anyway. The Dire Wolf went back to his office and mulled the situation over. He had been vaguely thinking of heading out to California to investigate Bravo Nine and here they were, coming into his territory.
Under his clothes, he was already wearing the silk-thin Trom armor that protected him except for head and hands. He always had the matched silver daggers strapped to his forearms, and an anesthetic dart gun was holstered behind his left hip. Remembering everything he had heard about these Soldiers of Misfortune, the Dire Wolf went down the hall to the kitchen and brewed a big mug of tagra tea. This was the source of the healing factor Tel Shai knights possessed, that let them quickly recover from trauma that would mean a stay in the ICU for anyone else. The tagra plant was only available at Tel Shai. Bane rinsed out the mug and wondered if someday the healing factor would reach its limit and all the shootings, beatings, poisonings and other damages he had survived would hit him all at once. Maybe he would just fall apart where he stood.
He had decided to get started immediately. Bane sprinted up the stairs to his rooms on the third floor and got his field suit from where it hung just inside the door. He packed it all, including the helmet, in a travel case to take with him. He also checked his long-barrelled Smith & Wesson 38 Masterpiece and included it. The dart guns were useful but he had a feeling he might need more substantial firepower. Turning off the lights, he went downstairs again. Suddenly, he was eager to get going. He left the subdued light on in the front hall in case Cindy or Ted came back. Bane went through the back panel of a walk-in closet, down steep concrete steps and along a narrow corridor to reach the underground garage. It was just big enough for two cars. He chose the dark blue Mustang, loaded the case with his field suit into the back seat and started the car up. In the trunk he always kept a knapsack with a change of clothes and personal items. Bane headed up the ramp with its sharp curve near the top and eased out onto Lexington Avenue. He had hours of driving ahead.
III.
It was past ten when he approached Cobleskill. He was farther upstate than he usually operated, and he had only been in this area once before. It was an agricultural area of apple orchards and corn fields and grazing cows, with towns scattered farther apart the farther he went. Cobleskill itself was a college town. He pulled into a gas station to fill the tank, check the tires and oil, and grab a twelve-inch roast beef sub and bottle of seltzer. A few miles earlier, he had passed a roadside motel and he went back to check in for a few days. The PEACEFUL REST was a strip of a rooms in a row, with the manager's office at one end and a diner across the highway. It would serve while he figured out his next move. First, he called the head of the local State Police unit, a man named
Harmon Daley. They had worked together three years earlier, when Bane had captured Richard Moore Wilkins, "the Slaughterman" in a nearby village and turned him over. Daley had been objective enough not to resent an outsider putting an end to Slaughterman's killing spree and had treated Bane well. It was ten-thirty and Bane got him at home, but Daley was interested in the situation and agreed to tell his officers to keep alert. He had heard of Bravo Nine but never expected to find them in upstate New York. Bane said he would report as soon as anything developed.
The next half hour was spent on three more calls to his network of people who owed him favors. A man named Oliveras who worked for the Highway Department owed the Dire Wolf the life of his brother, who had been tied up in a shack and was about to be gutted when Bane had broken in and tackled Slaughterman. Oliveras gave him information about the Sunrise Pharmaceutical schedule and said he was sorry he couldn't help more than that.
The Dire Wolf kicked off his boots, hung his jacket over a chair and stretched out on the bed. He slept for ninety minutes and snapped awake, fully alert. It was now two in the morning, and he had decided to get what little rest he needed before heading out. Getting dressed again, he used the bathroom, scrubbed his hands and face and went out into the night. The next three hours were spent driving at random through town, looking for anything that seemed out of place. There had been a lot of snow that winter and the wind chill was low enough that the streets were deserted of the usual students wandering around socializing and getting high. He saw nothing of interest. At dawn, he pulled into a convenient mart to top off the gas tank, grabbed a buttered hard roll and bottle of ice tea and went back to patrolling the town. Maybe I'm wasting my time, he thought, but you never know. He rolled past a Holiday Inn on the outskirts of town, near a Thruway exit, and spotted an RV that caught his eye. Two men were standing next to it, one of them with a cigarette.
Bane rolled past, came into the parking lot from the other end and started walking toward the RV from their blind side. The two men matched the vague descriptions he had been given of two members of Bravo Nine. Anthony Ferraro, the driver, and George Bassett, the fighter. He got almost within reach when Bassett suddenly swung around and spotted him. He was a big black man in a red checked coat and leather gloves. Bassett was very dark, with a shaven head, gold hoop earring and a thick mustache that drooped down the side of his mouth to his chin. For someone on the run from both the police and the armed forces, he kept himself conspicuous, Bane thought.
"I smell the Man," Bassett growled, shoving Ferraro toward the RV. "Crank her up, little buddy, this won't take long." He held up his open hands and edged sideways toward the oncoming stranger. Bane threw a roundhouse punch, holding back to about as fast as a good boxer could mange and Bassett slapped it aside. The ex-SEAL whipped a jab and right cross combination that were excellent but he exposed himself in doing so, and suddenly the Dire Wolf struck with his full speed and power. A blurring backfist crunched into the Bravo Nine fighter's face, skewing his jaw to one side and dropping him to the freezing parking lot. Even as he hit, Bassett was abandoned by his teammate. The RV gunned its motor and peeled out just as Bane reached for the door.
As the big motor home sped out onto the street without stopping or looking around, the Dire Wolf was already racing for his Mustang. He jumped in and took off in pursuit. It was daylight by now. He roared out into the street and caught sight of the RV heading south. Bane pursued, but held back a little. He wanted to keep the enemy in sight but not engage them while still in town. Bravo Nine was famous for throwing bullets in all directions and Bane wanted to keep civilian casualties to a minimum. The motor home speed out of town into the country with the Mustang following at a distance. Soon they were out in the country.
IV.
At seventy-five, Bane pulled up alongside the RV. It was a 26-foot GMC motor home, white with black trim. Behind the wheel was the little Italian guy, wearing a black jumpsuit. As he spotted Bane, he could be seen shouting something. The road ahead was clear. To Bane's right, the bank dropped steeply down for fifty yards to a depression. The Dire Wolf sped up a little more and started winding down his window. With his right hand, he got the Smith & Wesson from the glove box and thumbed off the safety. As he shifted the gun to his left hand, he saw the roof panel of the RV slide open and a woman stood up with long black hair whipping wildly, her upper torso in the open air. She raised a 45 Caliber Thompson Submachine Gun with a round drum and let off a short burst. Bane ducked down as the bullets ripped through the space where his head had been a second ago. Her second round of fire tore the two tires apart on that side of the car and he lost control.
The Mustang went over the embankment, flipping left over right with a horrendous crunching noise and landed on its roof. Even the shatter-resistant windshield had broken into tiny fragments with the impact. Up on the road, the RV slowed and backed up. Standing in the open roof slot, the black-haired woman played the entire drum over the crashed car until it was a shapeless wreck. In the cabin, Ferraro inspected the scene with binoculars, spotted an arm hanging out of the driver's window and seemed satisfied. He barked a harsh laugh and the RV started to roll forward again.
Down in the depression, silence held for twenty minutes. Then, painfully, the arm dangling out of the open window moved. The hand fumbled and gripped the edge of the window, another hand appeared next to it and a bloodied head raised itself. With slow, dogged determination, Jeremy Bane pulled himself through the window to sprawl in the dirt. He lay there motionless for awhile, then managed to sit up. The Trom armor had kept him from having the bullets pentrate his body, but some of the impact got through and he was battered. Bits of broken glass had sliced up his face and scalp, and he was covered with blood. The Dire Wolf tried to get to his feet, fell back and waited. Another ten minutes passed and he had healed enough to get to his hands and knees. Everything hurt. Bane waited until he got some strength back, reached into the wrecked Mustang and yanked out his knapsack. There was a bottle of water in it and he sipped some.
Up on the road, a red Nissan rushed past but evidently the driver was not looking in his direction. With every minute, Bane recovered some strength. The tagra diet and his Kumundu training allowed him to survive and heal, but he was not indestructible and he had taken a lot of damage this time. Finishing the water, he fished out a Granola bar and munched it grimly. His head had cleared. Bane checked out his injuries, finding a cracked rib and general bruising from the bullet storm. His face had stopped bleeding, and he yanked out two tiny pieces of glass but couldn't grip the third one. It would work itself out in an hour or so, he knew from experience.
Finally, he managed to get to his feet and walked around a little. A Tommy gun...! The Bravo 9 woman had blown him off the road with a 1920s style Tommy gun. Bane struggled to get the travel bag with his field suit out of the back of the battered car. He ripped off what remained of his jacket and turtleneck and painfully tugged the black shirt and field jacket on. Everything seemed to take forever. From the first aid kit in the knapsack, he cleaned his face with some alcohol swabs that stung as bad as the broken glass did. He poured the rest of the water over his hair and wiped most of the blood off with the shreds of his jacket. Now he was feeling more like normal. Bane got his belongings out of the ruined Mustang, including the Smith & Wesson which he stowed in the knapsack. He managed to get the knapsack strapped across his back and picked up the travel kit. His ribs still ached and he was sore, but he had survived worse. Getting up to the road was not easy, but he was moving better. As he stood by the side of the road, looking down sadly at what was left of his Mustang, a State Police car slowed and pulled over and two young troopers got out in a hurry.
"We heard there was an accident," one said as he rushed up. "Are you hurt?"
"Me? I'm okay. Listen, I need to talk to your supervisor at the nearest barracks." He tugged out his leather billfold, which now had a long gash across it, and showed them his PI license. "Harmon Daley knows me. Let's use your radio and I can explain to everyone at the same time." They went over to the cruiser and Bane got on the radio with Daley. The next hour was spent answering questions and making suggestions. Both Troopers listened intently, surprised at what they were hearing. Finally, Bane agreed that a tow truck could be sent to take his car to the dump and that he would have to come to the barracks to fill out a report within 48 hours. But, because Daley had worked with the Dire Wolf twice before, he would allow Bane to continue on the case for the moment.
One of the Troopers helped Bane get in the back and they made a U-Turn back the way they had come. "I heard stories about you, Mr Bane," the one driving said. "Always thought they were exaggerated but now I'm not so sure."
"I was lucky not to get killed," Bane said. "I'm just a Private Investigator like a thousand other detectives but I seem to get mixed up in unusual situations."
"Right. Like bringing in Samhain or Seth Petrov. Or all the weird supernatural events down in Manhattan." He slowed as they approached town. "Where are we taking you anyway? I think it should be the hospital, to be honest."
"I'm fine," Bane insisted. "Drop me at a car dealership. There. That Johnston Toyota place, that'll do. I need to get back on the case." As the cruiser came to a stop, Bane got out with his travel bag and slung the knapsack over one shoulder. "Thanks for everything, boys. I know Daley will brief you more fully." He headed inside the showroom, and the Troopers reluctantly pulled away.
Bane got a salesman to show him around and settled on a used Subaru with 20,000 miles on it. He did not need financing, a call to his bank certified that Bane could have bought the dealership if he wanted to, and it was just setting up the insurance and paperwork that kept him tied up for an hour and a half. By the time he got behind the wheel, it was almost noon. Bane drove into town, stopped at a diner and devoured enough food for two men. Part of the price for his enhanced reflexes and healing was that he was always starving. As he was finishing the turkey dinner, he touched his face gingerly and tugged the last piece of glass out with relief. With some food tucked away, he felt ready to tackle Bravo Nine barehanded.
Back in his new Subaru, he took out his Link. The screen had a star-shaped crack across it, but it still worked. He patched into the Verizon network and called Steven Weaver. Luckily enough, he got through. Weaver had returned to the KDF building after a friendly date with his ex-girlfriend and had slept in a guest room. He was eating lunch and watching the news when Bane called.
"I'm glad you're there," the Dire Wolf said, "because I have to ask you to step up. I know you're retired and everything, but you're the only one who can help. Have you heard of Bravo Nine, the so-called Soldiers of Misfortune? You have. I'm tangling with them now and they filled my Mustang full of bullets. I'm up by Cobleskill. Here's what I need you to do...."
VI.
The sign on the roof still read KINGS OF THE ROAD -HARLEY DAVIDSONS REPAIRED AND DETAILED, but there hadn't been a motorcycle on the property in six years. The garage doors stood open, and anything of value had been stolen long ago. Discarded broken engine parts, empty oil cans, old manuals stained with oil were all that were left. By the side of the road was a yellow marker on a pole PROPERTY FOR LEASE, DUNCAN REALTY, and the white RV rolled past it into the garage. Two men and a woman jumped out, swinging the sagging doors shut and got to work. They changed the license plates, replacing them from a stack of plates in a metal box. The black plastic trim snapped off and was replaced with bright red detailing that also snapped into holes drilled for just that purpose. A press-on decal along one side said RETIRED AND LOVING IT. More changes followed until the RV did not match its description.
Major Witkowski had been waiting for the return of his Soldiers of Misfortune and he took their reports while checked every detail as thoroughly as he did everything else. In his early sixties, he still held himself tall and erect. The white hair and mustache on the lined face contradicted his quick movements. Witkowski was wearing tan slacks and white long-sleeved shirt with two breast pockets under a long cloth coat. A gunbelt held a Army Colt 45 at his side. Satisfied the RV was camoflauged, he turned to his two teammates. Ruth Choi was as tall as he was, slim and long-legged and flat-chested in a down-filled ski jacket, red T-shirt with an open vest, jeans and sneakers. She had tied her long hair back with a clip and was watching the Major with worry in her eyes.
Off to one side, Anthony Ferraro took a can of beer from a cooler and popped it open. He was the smallest, not more than five feet eight and wide, with thick hairy arms and a somber face. Ferraro wore black slacks, a dress white shirt and a suit jacket but no tie. After he chugged a little beer, he broke the silence. "I still can't believe that guy beat our SEAL like that. I would have sworn George could hold his own against any man alive. But that guy took him down in three moves and jumped over him to come for me. Who IS he? Major?"
"I think I know, Private. I believe he's from back East, a man called Dire Wolf. His name is Jeremy Bane. He has quite a reputation. Maybe he deserves it. Lieutenant Bassett was a dangerous man, and I also would have bet on him against any opponent."
Ruth Choi spoke. She had no accent, being second-generation Korean-American and growing up in Seattle. "You're speaking of him in the present tense, sir. You saw how I took care of him."
"I know, I know. You still should have stopped and verified the kill. It seems unlikely any one could have survive that." The Major shrugged and peered out through the sagging door at the road. "We have three hours before we will leave to intercept the target. Everyone at ease, nap or eat to suit yourself. I'm going to call our counsel back in California and see what can be done to free Sgt Bassett. We know George won't talk but we also take care of our own."
As Ferraro went behind the garage and stretched out under a tree with a hat over his face, Choi opened a hamper and took out some sandwiches wrapped in wax paper. She munched on a ham and cheese and watched the Major trying to reach the lawyer who represented them indirectly, working through third parties. Choi's face was troubled as she saw how worried Witkowski was.
VII.
By two o'clock, Bane was parked by the side of the road miles from the nearest town. It was a bitter sunny day with a good stiff breeze to add to the cold as he sat behind the wheel of his new Subaru. After the shootout had shredded his clothing, he had changed into the jersey and field jacket, which had its own inner layer of Trom armor, and he had switched into the heavier boots. Now he lowered the war helmet over his head and slid its visor shut to check its systems. The light enhancers, directional sound amplifiers, air filters, phone links... everything was working. As he raised the visor, there was a sudden crackle in his earpods and he heard a familiar voice say, "Captain?"
"Steve! Hi. What's the situation?"
"I picked up your tracking blip when you activated the helmet," said the voice. "Looks like rendezvous in twenty-three minutes. I'm at one thousand feet. What's your situation?"
"I'm sitting in a dark blue 1992 Subaru, by the side of the road," Bane answered. "I expect to see an 18-wheeler go by shortly and the bad boys are likely to be in pursuit inside an RV."
"Copy that," came Weaver's voice. "I'm coming in from the south-southeast. If I spot either vehicle, I'll sing out."
"Okay, Steve. And thanks." Bane got out of the car and leaned up against it, cradling the helmet in the crook of one arm. Over the twenty years of his career, he had saved many lives and rescued many hostages, and he never took rewards directly. Instead, he had asked that the people help out by keeping an eye for the inexplicable or supernatural and letting him know. Or, if he called them for information in their area of expertise, they could repay him by digging up answers. This was how he had learned from someone in the Highway Department that a Sunrise Pharmaceuticals shipment would be leaving the plant at one-thirty that afternoon, heading south to Manhattan and the Hatch Industries distributor. He had planted himself on the route and waited.
At two-twelve, sure enough a big 18-wheeler rolled by at seventy miles an hour. On the side was painted SUNRISE PHARMACEUTICAL - NEW YORK NEW JERSEY CONNECTICUT with a picture of a blissful yellow sun smiling down. Bane watched it rush by. Ten minutes later, an RV whipped past at only sixty or so. It looked different from the one he had seen that morning, but he got a glimpse of a man with a white mustache glaring out at him from the passenger seat. These guys are clever, Bane thought, they must have detachable decals or panels to disguise their vehicle. He smiled at the look of shock on the old man's face seeing him standing by the road.
Let them stop and try that Tommy gun again, he thought. Bane now had a double layer of the Trom armor over his torso and a bulletproof helmet. The heavy Smith & Wesson in his holster was ready. A second encounter would turn out differently. But the RV sped past without slowing. A few minutes later, a red Dodge pick-up went by the other way but there sure wasn't much traffic out here, he thought. Then he spotted a big dark shape dropping silently out of the sky. Even right below it, the CORBY made no more noise than a stiff breeze might. The three landing wheels lowered and the passenger hatch on the left side slide aside with a hiss as the pressurized cabin opened. Bane seized a handle and vaulted inside, dropping down in the seat.
Next to him at the controls was Steven Weaver, now wearing the Black Angel flightsuit with its red trim along the arms and legs, and its own version of the helmet with a crest extending back from the crown. The artificial wings were nowhere to be seen. The opaque goggles turned to look at him. "Afternoon, captain."
"Hi, Steve," said Bane, fixing the restraint straps across his chest and shins. "Great to see you in the Black Angel rig again."
"Yeah, well, it seemed like a good idea. More official." Weaver lifted off the ground and swung the CORBY around. "I saw the vehicles you described just now. Pursue?"
"You bet. This is the payoff." Bane leaned back. He knew Weaver was a much better pilot than he would ever be. The copter rose up two hundred feet and swept forward over the highway. In less than a minute, they had overtaken the RV and the pharmaceutical truck. As the Dire Wolf gazed down, he saw the roof panel slide open in the RV. "Swoop low over them," he told Weaver.
The CORBY swept past the RV so closely that the vehicle rocked a little and slowed. The driver of the pharmaceutical truck accelerated sharply, having no idea what an unmarked black helicopter was doing right behind him. Black Angel brought the CORBY in a tight circle to face the RV, flying backwards to keep it facing him. The Bravo Nine vehicle slowed and Ruth Choi emerged to be exposed from the waist up in the roof slot. She lifted a heavy rifle and drew back the bolt.
"That's a Weatherby Mark V," observed Weaver placidly. "Shoots .460 Magnum. Nice gun but a little old."
"She used a Tommy gun on me this morning," Bane said. "Like a 1920s mobster would have."
Choi opened fire, blasting away five shots that pinged off the windscreen of the CORBY without leaving a scratch. The Korean woman had her hair tied back and was wearing mirrored sunglasses but the still on visible her face was comical. She ducked down out of sight. By this time, the RV had slowed to fifty and they could see the bewildered faces of Ferraro and Witkowski in the cabin. Choi popped up again, this time with a weapon with a huge shotgun-like barrel.
"Okay, that's a M79 Grenade Launcher," Weaver said. "That's going to damage us, Jeremy."
"Pull up out of range," Bane said. The CORBY rose straight up with missile speed, leaving the RV a mere dot below them. Choi knew better than to launch a grenade vertically. The Dire Wolf glanced over at his teammate. "I suppose we should disable them with the chain guns, Steve, and get this over with."
"No, wait, there's something I always wanted to try." Weaver turned the copter around, went a half mile down the road at treetop level, then swung back to face where the RV could be seen slowing almost to a stop. He moved the CORBY forward, disengaged the rotors and cut in the Trom impulse engines which were the craft's real source of lift and thrust. The black copter hurtled forward at just under the speed of sound and thundered low over the RV, which rolled entirely off the road and violently crashed upside down. Weaver slowed the copter, cut the rotors back on and went back to land near the wreck.
"After what they did to you, that seems only fair," Weaver said.
"I have to agree," Bane answered. "Let's get out and see what kind of shape they're in." The landing gear lowered and they both disembarked as the rotors slowed. The RV was in bad shape, with twisted jagged pieces of metal hanging off and broken glass everywhere.
Weaver drew his short-nosed Colt 32 Detective Special from its holster across the small of his back. "I looked up these guys while I was waiting to hear from you," he said. "They started off as genuine heroes, protecting people from gangs and drug lords. Wonder why they went bad?"
"Who knows?" answered Bane. "Maybe better money to be had as plain mercenaries. Maybe more jobs working for the bad guys." As he spoke, Ruth Choi scrambled out of a bent side door and got up on one knee, pointing the grenade launcher at them. A sharp cracking noise sounded and she dropped straight down as a bullet smacked into her forehead. Bane had drawn and fired faster than any gunfighter of the Old West. "I wanted to take them in for questioning," he said. "But honestly, I don't feel like trying to survive a grenade." He went over and peered into the interior, still holding his gun. "Doesn't look good. No, they're both dead. Look at the way Witkowski's neck is bent."
Weaver holstered his gun. "And now what?"
"Well, the FBI Department 21 Black is waiting to be there when that shipment arrives," Bane said. "I was told they'll have experts ready to declare it substandard and to press charges against the Hatch Corporation. Not that Hatch himself will go to jail or anything, but at least people won't be paying for prescriptions that don't work."
"Huh. And Bravo Nine sure won't be hiring out for any more jobs like this. Too bad about the way they went bad, people used to idolize them. So it goes. What's our next move, captain?"
Bane glanced over at the CORBY. "I think you should get our bird back to Manhattan and out of sight. I didn't spot anyone in the area when we crashed that RV. Let the crash remain a mystery. I'll see you when I get back to headquarters."
"How about a lift back to your car?" Weaver asked.
"I don't think so. It's only a couple of miles back that way. I'll walk, then drive up and report from here. It'll give me time to work on my official statement of what happened." He tugged off his helmet and smiled almost imperceptibly. "Good working with Black Angel again, Steve."
Weaver clapped the Dire Wolf on the shoulder before heading toward where the CORBY stood off the road. "To tell you truth, I didn't realize how much I missed being Black Angel. And I'm glad I found out."
3/7/2014
_____________
(12/7-12/8/1995)
I.
Bane watched Steven Weaver slide out from under the stealth copter CORBY and get to his feet. A canvas strip holding assorted tools was stretched out next to him on the hangar floor, and Weaver replaced two into their slots, then rolled the strip up. He was a tall, lanky black man in his late thirties, with short hair and a thick mustache. For once, he looked tired. Weaver went to the sink in the corner and started scrubbing his arms and hands with hot water and liquid soap.
"She's in good shape, Jeremy. But honestly, you need to make friends with a Trom. Most of those systems are beyond Human knowledge, and I sure can't get new parts if anything wears out." He rubbed his face with a towel and sighed. "Len's been dead for five years now, and the CORBY misses his tune-ups."
The Dire Wolf was standing with folded arms, watching Weaver thoughtfully. Nearing forty, he was as lean and restless as ever. Still dressed all in black, still regarding the world warily through pale grey eyes. "I've been thinking of starting a new KDF team," he said.
"Really? Well, that came out of nowhere." Weaver grinned. "I'm glad. I know that night in Necropolis took a toll. Emotionally. But to be honest, you NEED to be busy, my man. You were born to be the Dire Wolf... and operating a one-man detective agency isn't enough for you. Are you picking out potential members yet?"
"Just one so far," Bane said. "One of the Blind Archers of Chujir, a European named Josef. When the KDF was operating, I would have nominated him for membership in a blink. But I have feeling a few more candidates will be popping up. Steve, I was thinking maybe you could help train them? Stay here and start a new team?"
Weaver hesitated. "Man, don't put me under pressure to make a decision like that. You know I lost my levitating. If I can't fly under my own power, I'm not really Black Angel any more, am I? Just an ex-USAF chopper pilot and mechanic." He unzipped his grease-stained coverall and tossed it in a bin in the corner. Underneath, he was wearing jeans and a plain white T-shirt. From a hook, he took down a red flannel shirt and yanked it on. "Not sayin' I'm not tempted..."
"You'll always be Black Angel. One of the few men I can trust in a tight spot, someone who has my back. I never had too many people I could count on, Steve."
Weaver came closer and softened his voice. "Dude. Listen to me. It's okay to have feelings. Tell you what, I still have a full-time job out in New Mexico at the HCE Project, and although we're not supposed to talk about it, we both know I'm working for some Trom. Let me drop a few hints that you need a replacement for Leonard Slade. A new Trom member in the KDF. I bet they're already considering it."
"I imagine so." Bane exhaled and gestured at the CORBY. "So, she's good to go?"
"Yep. A Mach-plus jetcopter with stealth capabilities and sensory array decades ahead of anything anyone else has. It's coated with refracting armor veneer that is better than heavy ceramic plate armors, but it's not heavily armed. All you have are the two chain guns."
"It's been enough so far," Bane said. "Listen, if you're wrapped up, let's go get Italian food at Three Brothers over on Ninth Avenue. I want to get your opinion on a new KDF."
Weaver shook his head. "Sorry, my friend. I already have plans with Julie. We're not getting back together but we do want to stay in touch, so we're catching a movie. But I don't have to be back to the Project until Monday, and I'll come back here tomorrow morning and you can tell me about the new KDF. Come on, I have to get going," Black Angel said as he headed for the door. They walked down one flight to the elevator; it only went to the ninth floor because the hangar had originally been the roof of the KDF building. As they rode down, Weaver said, "I'm sorry I missed Cindy. And Ted. Bad timing they're both out of town tonight."
"Cindy's been at Tel Shai a lot since the Final Halloween," Bane said. "And Ted puts in long hours at the ER at Mount Sinai these days. But you come visit more often and we can all get together."
"It's a deal." Weaver paused at the front door and turned to shake hands, gripping his friend's shoulder with his free hand. "You're not the only one who misses the KDF, Jeremy!" He turned and headed down the steps to where his rental car was parked, then glanced back. "Hey, make sure you have a member who's black! You don't want trouble with Affirmative Action. See ya!" He climbed in and drove off.
The Dire Wolf stood outside for a few minutes, watching traffic and people going by. It was just getting dark. He turned and went back inside, closing and arming the door behind him. Walking back to his office just inside the front hall, he dropped down behind his desk and thought over what Weaver had said. A new KDF... Of the original team, so few remained and they were retired from the Midnight War, sick of heart and weary. Maybe it was time to start actively looking for new members, to start planning a new KDF. The Kenneth Dred Foundation had technically been a non-profit research organization investigating the paranormal but in actuality, that was the cover for a team of Tel Shai knights he had led. They had gotten so much done in those years...
The front doorbell rang. Bane glanced up at the wall clock behind him, it was ten after six. He was out of his chair and at the front door in a second. On the wall to the right of the door was a hinged wooden panel that swung open to reveal a ten-inch monitor screen and array of controls. On the steps aside, he saw the image of a man and a woman waiting. Bane smiled almost imperceptibly, said through the intercom, "Please come in, I'll be right with you," and unlocked the front door. As they stepped into the tiny foyer, he activated the Trom scanning systems, more detailed than any MRI. ID was positive instantly. These were agents Marlene Bonita and Edgar Chappell, veterans of Department 21 Black. They were both armed.
Bane opened the inner door and said, "Hello, come in but leave your sidearms in that cabinet to your right. Yes. Thank you."
"Were we X-Rayed or something?" asked Chappell. He was a meek-looking little man with round-rimmed glasses and not much hair, but he took out a 9mm semi-automatic and placed it on a shelf in the cabinet. His partner did the same with her little Beretta Brigadier. Bonita was a busty Spanish woman with gorgeous hair and severe expression. As Bane closed the cabinet door, she repeated Chappell's question.
"Oh, I just assume FBI field agents are carrying heat when they come here," Bane answered. "The way you agents dress and walk and check each other's reactions... very FBI. Follow me to the office and we can talk." He led them across the hall, showed them to leatherbound chairs and took his own seat behind the desk. "So. What brings you to the Dire Wolf Agency tonight?"
Chappell sternly said, "A rogue group of military veterans going mercenary within the United States!"
"Bravo Nine," Bane replied. "The Soldiers of Misfortune..."
II.
"Well, that gets things rolling," Chappell said. "What do you know about Bravo Nine?"
"Just rumors, I hear things. Out in Los Angeles, for the past two years, these guys calling themselves Bravo Nine have been hiring their services out. Some of them are Gulf War veterans, I understand one is a Navy SEAL. They are all wanted for desertion and live on the run. As I hear it, they started off as Robin Hood types, taking on drug cartels and extortion rings and recovering kidnap victims. But lately, they seem to have lost any pretensions of right and wrong. They've shot up families and robbed eighteen-wheelers carrying valuables." He leaned forward. "But this is just gossip. I haven't looked into Bravo Nine myself."
"You hear rightly," said Agent Bonita. She seemed to have a permanent frown. "Our department has dealt with you before, Mr Bane. You can be a valuable asset but you aren't always cooperative."
The Dire Wolf met her cool gaze straight on. "I don't work for your Department 21 Black. If I agree with what they want me to do, I'll go ahead but I decide for myself. That's always been clear."
"And yet you have been trusted with classified information that frankly I don't think you should know."
"That's up to you." Bane stood up and leaned forward on stiff arms. "If I choose to, I will look into Bravo Nine myself. If you want to provide me with information to make success more likely, fine. But I am not one of your agents."
"Settle down, everyone." Chappell raised his hands in a placating gesture. "Our superiors accept the arrangement. To be honest, it gives them deniability if you are acting on your own.
"Back to business then," Bane said. "What brings you two here tonight? Specifically?"
"All right. Bravo 9 is operating away from LA for the first time. They had a firefight with the Los Lobitos gang in Chicago. Now they have been reported in upstate New York." Bonita smiled for the first time. "More in your turf, so to speak?"
"Anything more specfic you can give me?"
"Not much. We have a taped phone call from someone in Ronald Hatch's empire. Something about a load of pharmaceuticals that must not be delivered. A voice on the tape has been identified as belonging to the Major-- that is, Major James Karkowski, the leader of Bravo 9 but he says only that the team is ready to act."
Bane shook his head dubiously. "I think you guys have more than that to go on. If you can't play straight with me, you might as well leave now."
Agent Chappell said, "In my opinion, Hatch has built his billion-dollar organization through shoddy practices. Years ago, he financed a casino that was built with inferior materials and six people died when the roof collapsed. He has been accused of providing organic meat that he knew was contaminated with salmonella but he's wealthy and has an army of lawyers."
"So. The idea would be that there is a shipload of medical supplies that is worthless or downright dangerous. Hatch wants to stop delivery without taking a loss. That's where Bravo 9 comes in." Bane looked from one to the other. "Give me a location. A time. Something to get started on."
"Cobleskill. Tomorrow afternoon. That's as close as we can figure. One of our teams is in the area but frankly, we don't have the staff we need. We've asked the State Police for help and only gotten vague reassurances."
The Dire Wolf asked, "Anything else? No? Well, I guess it's enough for a start. I'll let you know what I find."
Unexpectedly, seemingly out of character, Agent Bonita grinned. "From your file, I imagine we'll know when you find them because of the scenes of mayhem and destruction."
After the 21 Black agents left, Bane stood there for a long time watching the street, then closed the door and went back to his office. He didn't fully trust them, any more than he could trust what agents of the Mandate said. Both organizations had tried to use him as a weapon and had tried to set him up as a fall guy. He only cooperated with them because they so often pointed him toward some threat he wanted to attack anyway. The Dire Wolf went back to his office and mulled the situation over. He had been vaguely thinking of heading out to California to investigate Bravo Nine and here they were, coming into his territory.
Under his clothes, he was already wearing the silk-thin Trom armor that protected him except for head and hands. He always had the matched silver daggers strapped to his forearms, and an anesthetic dart gun was holstered behind his left hip. Remembering everything he had heard about these Soldiers of Misfortune, the Dire Wolf went down the hall to the kitchen and brewed a big mug of tagra tea. This was the source of the healing factor Tel Shai knights possessed, that let them quickly recover from trauma that would mean a stay in the ICU for anyone else. The tagra plant was only available at Tel Shai. Bane rinsed out the mug and wondered if someday the healing factor would reach its limit and all the shootings, beatings, poisonings and other damages he had survived would hit him all at once. Maybe he would just fall apart where he stood.
He had decided to get started immediately. Bane sprinted up the stairs to his rooms on the third floor and got his field suit from where it hung just inside the door. He packed it all, including the helmet, in a travel case to take with him. He also checked his long-barrelled Smith & Wesson 38 Masterpiece and included it. The dart guns were useful but he had a feeling he might need more substantial firepower. Turning off the lights, he went downstairs again. Suddenly, he was eager to get going. He left the subdued light on in the front hall in case Cindy or Ted came back. Bane went through the back panel of a walk-in closet, down steep concrete steps and along a narrow corridor to reach the underground garage. It was just big enough for two cars. He chose the dark blue Mustang, loaded the case with his field suit into the back seat and started the car up. In the trunk he always kept a knapsack with a change of clothes and personal items. Bane headed up the ramp with its sharp curve near the top and eased out onto Lexington Avenue. He had hours of driving ahead.
III.
It was past ten when he approached Cobleskill. He was farther upstate than he usually operated, and he had only been in this area once before. It was an agricultural area of apple orchards and corn fields and grazing cows, with towns scattered farther apart the farther he went. Cobleskill itself was a college town. He pulled into a gas station to fill the tank, check the tires and oil, and grab a twelve-inch roast beef sub and bottle of seltzer. A few miles earlier, he had passed a roadside motel and he went back to check in for a few days. The PEACEFUL REST was a strip of a rooms in a row, with the manager's office at one end and a diner across the highway. It would serve while he figured out his next move. First, he called the head of the local State Police unit, a man named
Harmon Daley. They had worked together three years earlier, when Bane had captured Richard Moore Wilkins, "the Slaughterman" in a nearby village and turned him over. Daley had been objective enough not to resent an outsider putting an end to Slaughterman's killing spree and had treated Bane well. It was ten-thirty and Bane got him at home, but Daley was interested in the situation and agreed to tell his officers to keep alert. He had heard of Bravo Nine but never expected to find them in upstate New York. Bane said he would report as soon as anything developed.
The next half hour was spent on three more calls to his network of people who owed him favors. A man named Oliveras who worked for the Highway Department owed the Dire Wolf the life of his brother, who had been tied up in a shack and was about to be gutted when Bane had broken in and tackled Slaughterman. Oliveras gave him information about the Sunrise Pharmaceutical schedule and said he was sorry he couldn't help more than that.
The Dire Wolf kicked off his boots, hung his jacket over a chair and stretched out on the bed. He slept for ninety minutes and snapped awake, fully alert. It was now two in the morning, and he had decided to get what little rest he needed before heading out. Getting dressed again, he used the bathroom, scrubbed his hands and face and went out into the night. The next three hours were spent driving at random through town, looking for anything that seemed out of place. There had been a lot of snow that winter and the wind chill was low enough that the streets were deserted of the usual students wandering around socializing and getting high. He saw nothing of interest. At dawn, he pulled into a convenient mart to top off the gas tank, grabbed a buttered hard roll and bottle of ice tea and went back to patrolling the town. Maybe I'm wasting my time, he thought, but you never know. He rolled past a Holiday Inn on the outskirts of town, near a Thruway exit, and spotted an RV that caught his eye. Two men were standing next to it, one of them with a cigarette.
Bane rolled past, came into the parking lot from the other end and started walking toward the RV from their blind side. The two men matched the vague descriptions he had been given of two members of Bravo Nine. Anthony Ferraro, the driver, and George Bassett, the fighter. He got almost within reach when Bassett suddenly swung around and spotted him. He was a big black man in a red checked coat and leather gloves. Bassett was very dark, with a shaven head, gold hoop earring and a thick mustache that drooped down the side of his mouth to his chin. For someone on the run from both the police and the armed forces, he kept himself conspicuous, Bane thought.
"I smell the Man," Bassett growled, shoving Ferraro toward the RV. "Crank her up, little buddy, this won't take long." He held up his open hands and edged sideways toward the oncoming stranger. Bane threw a roundhouse punch, holding back to about as fast as a good boxer could mange and Bassett slapped it aside. The ex-SEAL whipped a jab and right cross combination that were excellent but he exposed himself in doing so, and suddenly the Dire Wolf struck with his full speed and power. A blurring backfist crunched into the Bravo Nine fighter's face, skewing his jaw to one side and dropping him to the freezing parking lot. Even as he hit, Bassett was abandoned by his teammate. The RV gunned its motor and peeled out just as Bane reached for the door.
As the big motor home sped out onto the street without stopping or looking around, the Dire Wolf was already racing for his Mustang. He jumped in and took off in pursuit. It was daylight by now. He roared out into the street and caught sight of the RV heading south. Bane pursued, but held back a little. He wanted to keep the enemy in sight but not engage them while still in town. Bravo Nine was famous for throwing bullets in all directions and Bane wanted to keep civilian casualties to a minimum. The motor home speed out of town into the country with the Mustang following at a distance. Soon they were out in the country.
IV.
At seventy-five, Bane pulled up alongside the RV. It was a 26-foot GMC motor home, white with black trim. Behind the wheel was the little Italian guy, wearing a black jumpsuit. As he spotted Bane, he could be seen shouting something. The road ahead was clear. To Bane's right, the bank dropped steeply down for fifty yards to a depression. The Dire Wolf sped up a little more and started winding down his window. With his right hand, he got the Smith & Wesson from the glove box and thumbed off the safety. As he shifted the gun to his left hand, he saw the roof panel of the RV slide open and a woman stood up with long black hair whipping wildly, her upper torso in the open air. She raised a 45 Caliber Thompson Submachine Gun with a round drum and let off a short burst. Bane ducked down as the bullets ripped through the space where his head had been a second ago. Her second round of fire tore the two tires apart on that side of the car and he lost control.
The Mustang went over the embankment, flipping left over right with a horrendous crunching noise and landed on its roof. Even the shatter-resistant windshield had broken into tiny fragments with the impact. Up on the road, the RV slowed and backed up. Standing in the open roof slot, the black-haired woman played the entire drum over the crashed car until it was a shapeless wreck. In the cabin, Ferraro inspected the scene with binoculars, spotted an arm hanging out of the driver's window and seemed satisfied. He barked a harsh laugh and the RV started to roll forward again.
Down in the depression, silence held for twenty minutes. Then, painfully, the arm dangling out of the open window moved. The hand fumbled and gripped the edge of the window, another hand appeared next to it and a bloodied head raised itself. With slow, dogged determination, Jeremy Bane pulled himself through the window to sprawl in the dirt. He lay there motionless for awhile, then managed to sit up. The Trom armor had kept him from having the bullets pentrate his body, but some of the impact got through and he was battered. Bits of broken glass had sliced up his face and scalp, and he was covered with blood. The Dire Wolf tried to get to his feet, fell back and waited. Another ten minutes passed and he had healed enough to get to his hands and knees. Everything hurt. Bane waited until he got some strength back, reached into the wrecked Mustang and yanked out his knapsack. There was a bottle of water in it and he sipped some.
Up on the road, a red Nissan rushed past but evidently the driver was not looking in his direction. With every minute, Bane recovered some strength. The tagra diet and his Kumundu training allowed him to survive and heal, but he was not indestructible and he had taken a lot of damage this time. Finishing the water, he fished out a Granola bar and munched it grimly. His head had cleared. Bane checked out his injuries, finding a cracked rib and general bruising from the bullet storm. His face had stopped bleeding, and he yanked out two tiny pieces of glass but couldn't grip the third one. It would work itself out in an hour or so, he knew from experience.
Finally, he managed to get to his feet and walked around a little. A Tommy gun...! The Bravo 9 woman had blown him off the road with a 1920s style Tommy gun. Bane struggled to get the travel bag with his field suit out of the back of the battered car. He ripped off what remained of his jacket and turtleneck and painfully tugged the black shirt and field jacket on. Everything seemed to take forever. From the first aid kit in the knapsack, he cleaned his face with some alcohol swabs that stung as bad as the broken glass did. He poured the rest of the water over his hair and wiped most of the blood off with the shreds of his jacket. Now he was feeling more like normal. Bane got his belongings out of the ruined Mustang, including the Smith & Wesson which he stowed in the knapsack. He managed to get the knapsack strapped across his back and picked up the travel kit. His ribs still ached and he was sore, but he had survived worse. Getting up to the road was not easy, but he was moving better. As he stood by the side of the road, looking down sadly at what was left of his Mustang, a State Police car slowed and pulled over and two young troopers got out in a hurry.
"We heard there was an accident," one said as he rushed up. "Are you hurt?"
"Me? I'm okay. Listen, I need to talk to your supervisor at the nearest barracks." He tugged out his leather billfold, which now had a long gash across it, and showed them his PI license. "Harmon Daley knows me. Let's use your radio and I can explain to everyone at the same time." They went over to the cruiser and Bane got on the radio with Daley. The next hour was spent answering questions and making suggestions. Both Troopers listened intently, surprised at what they were hearing. Finally, Bane agreed that a tow truck could be sent to take his car to the dump and that he would have to come to the barracks to fill out a report within 48 hours. But, because Daley had worked with the Dire Wolf twice before, he would allow Bane to continue on the case for the moment.
One of the Troopers helped Bane get in the back and they made a U-Turn back the way they had come. "I heard stories about you, Mr Bane," the one driving said. "Always thought they were exaggerated but now I'm not so sure."
"I was lucky not to get killed," Bane said. "I'm just a Private Investigator like a thousand other detectives but I seem to get mixed up in unusual situations."
"Right. Like bringing in Samhain or Seth Petrov. Or all the weird supernatural events down in Manhattan." He slowed as they approached town. "Where are we taking you anyway? I think it should be the hospital, to be honest."
"I'm fine," Bane insisted. "Drop me at a car dealership. There. That Johnston Toyota place, that'll do. I need to get back on the case." As the cruiser came to a stop, Bane got out with his travel bag and slung the knapsack over one shoulder. "Thanks for everything, boys. I know Daley will brief you more fully." He headed inside the showroom, and the Troopers reluctantly pulled away.
Bane got a salesman to show him around and settled on a used Subaru with 20,000 miles on it. He did not need financing, a call to his bank certified that Bane could have bought the dealership if he wanted to, and it was just setting up the insurance and paperwork that kept him tied up for an hour and a half. By the time he got behind the wheel, it was almost noon. Bane drove into town, stopped at a diner and devoured enough food for two men. Part of the price for his enhanced reflexes and healing was that he was always starving. As he was finishing the turkey dinner, he touched his face gingerly and tugged the last piece of glass out with relief. With some food tucked away, he felt ready to tackle Bravo Nine barehanded.
Back in his new Subaru, he took out his Link. The screen had a star-shaped crack across it, but it still worked. He patched into the Verizon network and called Steven Weaver. Luckily enough, he got through. Weaver had returned to the KDF building after a friendly date with his ex-girlfriend and had slept in a guest room. He was eating lunch and watching the news when Bane called.
"I'm glad you're there," the Dire Wolf said, "because I have to ask you to step up. I know you're retired and everything, but you're the only one who can help. Have you heard of Bravo Nine, the so-called Soldiers of Misfortune? You have. I'm tangling with them now and they filled my Mustang full of bullets. I'm up by Cobleskill. Here's what I need you to do...."
VI.
The sign on the roof still read KINGS OF THE ROAD -HARLEY DAVIDSONS REPAIRED AND DETAILED, but there hadn't been a motorcycle on the property in six years. The garage doors stood open, and anything of value had been stolen long ago. Discarded broken engine parts, empty oil cans, old manuals stained with oil were all that were left. By the side of the road was a yellow marker on a pole PROPERTY FOR LEASE, DUNCAN REALTY, and the white RV rolled past it into the garage. Two men and a woman jumped out, swinging the sagging doors shut and got to work. They changed the license plates, replacing them from a stack of plates in a metal box. The black plastic trim snapped off and was replaced with bright red detailing that also snapped into holes drilled for just that purpose. A press-on decal along one side said RETIRED AND LOVING IT. More changes followed until the RV did not match its description.
Major Witkowski had been waiting for the return of his Soldiers of Misfortune and he took their reports while checked every detail as thoroughly as he did everything else. In his early sixties, he still held himself tall and erect. The white hair and mustache on the lined face contradicted his quick movements. Witkowski was wearing tan slacks and white long-sleeved shirt with two breast pockets under a long cloth coat. A gunbelt held a Army Colt 45 at his side. Satisfied the RV was camoflauged, he turned to his two teammates. Ruth Choi was as tall as he was, slim and long-legged and flat-chested in a down-filled ski jacket, red T-shirt with an open vest, jeans and sneakers. She had tied her long hair back with a clip and was watching the Major with worry in her eyes.
Off to one side, Anthony Ferraro took a can of beer from a cooler and popped it open. He was the smallest, not more than five feet eight and wide, with thick hairy arms and a somber face. Ferraro wore black slacks, a dress white shirt and a suit jacket but no tie. After he chugged a little beer, he broke the silence. "I still can't believe that guy beat our SEAL like that. I would have sworn George could hold his own against any man alive. But that guy took him down in three moves and jumped over him to come for me. Who IS he? Major?"
"I think I know, Private. I believe he's from back East, a man called Dire Wolf. His name is Jeremy Bane. He has quite a reputation. Maybe he deserves it. Lieutenant Bassett was a dangerous man, and I also would have bet on him against any opponent."
Ruth Choi spoke. She had no accent, being second-generation Korean-American and growing up in Seattle. "You're speaking of him in the present tense, sir. You saw how I took care of him."
"I know, I know. You still should have stopped and verified the kill. It seems unlikely any one could have survive that." The Major shrugged and peered out through the sagging door at the road. "We have three hours before we will leave to intercept the target. Everyone at ease, nap or eat to suit yourself. I'm going to call our counsel back in California and see what can be done to free Sgt Bassett. We know George won't talk but we also take care of our own."
As Ferraro went behind the garage and stretched out under a tree with a hat over his face, Choi opened a hamper and took out some sandwiches wrapped in wax paper. She munched on a ham and cheese and watched the Major trying to reach the lawyer who represented them indirectly, working through third parties. Choi's face was troubled as she saw how worried Witkowski was.
VII.
By two o'clock, Bane was parked by the side of the road miles from the nearest town. It was a bitter sunny day with a good stiff breeze to add to the cold as he sat behind the wheel of his new Subaru. After the shootout had shredded his clothing, he had changed into the jersey and field jacket, which had its own inner layer of Trom armor, and he had switched into the heavier boots. Now he lowered the war helmet over his head and slid its visor shut to check its systems. The light enhancers, directional sound amplifiers, air filters, phone links... everything was working. As he raised the visor, there was a sudden crackle in his earpods and he heard a familiar voice say, "Captain?"
"Steve! Hi. What's the situation?"
"I picked up your tracking blip when you activated the helmet," said the voice. "Looks like rendezvous in twenty-three minutes. I'm at one thousand feet. What's your situation?"
"I'm sitting in a dark blue 1992 Subaru, by the side of the road," Bane answered. "I expect to see an 18-wheeler go by shortly and the bad boys are likely to be in pursuit inside an RV."
"Copy that," came Weaver's voice. "I'm coming in from the south-southeast. If I spot either vehicle, I'll sing out."
"Okay, Steve. And thanks." Bane got out of the car and leaned up against it, cradling the helmet in the crook of one arm. Over the twenty years of his career, he had saved many lives and rescued many hostages, and he never took rewards directly. Instead, he had asked that the people help out by keeping an eye for the inexplicable or supernatural and letting him know. Or, if he called them for information in their area of expertise, they could repay him by digging up answers. This was how he had learned from someone in the Highway Department that a Sunrise Pharmaceuticals shipment would be leaving the plant at one-thirty that afternoon, heading south to Manhattan and the Hatch Industries distributor. He had planted himself on the route and waited.
At two-twelve, sure enough a big 18-wheeler rolled by at seventy miles an hour. On the side was painted SUNRISE PHARMACEUTICAL - NEW YORK NEW JERSEY CONNECTICUT with a picture of a blissful yellow sun smiling down. Bane watched it rush by. Ten minutes later, an RV whipped past at only sixty or so. It looked different from the one he had seen that morning, but he got a glimpse of a man with a white mustache glaring out at him from the passenger seat. These guys are clever, Bane thought, they must have detachable decals or panels to disguise their vehicle. He smiled at the look of shock on the old man's face seeing him standing by the road.
Let them stop and try that Tommy gun again, he thought. Bane now had a double layer of the Trom armor over his torso and a bulletproof helmet. The heavy Smith & Wesson in his holster was ready. A second encounter would turn out differently. But the RV sped past without slowing. A few minutes later, a red Dodge pick-up went by the other way but there sure wasn't much traffic out here, he thought. Then he spotted a big dark shape dropping silently out of the sky. Even right below it, the CORBY made no more noise than a stiff breeze might. The three landing wheels lowered and the passenger hatch on the left side slide aside with a hiss as the pressurized cabin opened. Bane seized a handle and vaulted inside, dropping down in the seat.
Next to him at the controls was Steven Weaver, now wearing the Black Angel flightsuit with its red trim along the arms and legs, and its own version of the helmet with a crest extending back from the crown. The artificial wings were nowhere to be seen. The opaque goggles turned to look at him. "Afternoon, captain."
"Hi, Steve," said Bane, fixing the restraint straps across his chest and shins. "Great to see you in the Black Angel rig again."
"Yeah, well, it seemed like a good idea. More official." Weaver lifted off the ground and swung the CORBY around. "I saw the vehicles you described just now. Pursue?"
"You bet. This is the payoff." Bane leaned back. He knew Weaver was a much better pilot than he would ever be. The copter rose up two hundred feet and swept forward over the highway. In less than a minute, they had overtaken the RV and the pharmaceutical truck. As the Dire Wolf gazed down, he saw the roof panel slide open in the RV. "Swoop low over them," he told Weaver.
The CORBY swept past the RV so closely that the vehicle rocked a little and slowed. The driver of the pharmaceutical truck accelerated sharply, having no idea what an unmarked black helicopter was doing right behind him. Black Angel brought the CORBY in a tight circle to face the RV, flying backwards to keep it facing him. The Bravo Nine vehicle slowed and Ruth Choi emerged to be exposed from the waist up in the roof slot. She lifted a heavy rifle and drew back the bolt.
"That's a Weatherby Mark V," observed Weaver placidly. "Shoots .460 Magnum. Nice gun but a little old."
"She used a Tommy gun on me this morning," Bane said. "Like a 1920s mobster would have."
Choi opened fire, blasting away five shots that pinged off the windscreen of the CORBY without leaving a scratch. The Korean woman had her hair tied back and was wearing mirrored sunglasses but the still on visible her face was comical. She ducked down out of sight. By this time, the RV had slowed to fifty and they could see the bewildered faces of Ferraro and Witkowski in the cabin. Choi popped up again, this time with a weapon with a huge shotgun-like barrel.
"Okay, that's a M79 Grenade Launcher," Weaver said. "That's going to damage us, Jeremy."
"Pull up out of range," Bane said. The CORBY rose straight up with missile speed, leaving the RV a mere dot below them. Choi knew better than to launch a grenade vertically. The Dire Wolf glanced over at his teammate. "I suppose we should disable them with the chain guns, Steve, and get this over with."
"No, wait, there's something I always wanted to try." Weaver turned the copter around, went a half mile down the road at treetop level, then swung back to face where the RV could be seen slowing almost to a stop. He moved the CORBY forward, disengaged the rotors and cut in the Trom impulse engines which were the craft's real source of lift and thrust. The black copter hurtled forward at just under the speed of sound and thundered low over the RV, which rolled entirely off the road and violently crashed upside down. Weaver slowed the copter, cut the rotors back on and went back to land near the wreck.
"After what they did to you, that seems only fair," Weaver said.
"I have to agree," Bane answered. "Let's get out and see what kind of shape they're in." The landing gear lowered and they both disembarked as the rotors slowed. The RV was in bad shape, with twisted jagged pieces of metal hanging off and broken glass everywhere.
Weaver drew his short-nosed Colt 32 Detective Special from its holster across the small of his back. "I looked up these guys while I was waiting to hear from you," he said. "They started off as genuine heroes, protecting people from gangs and drug lords. Wonder why they went bad?"
"Who knows?" answered Bane. "Maybe better money to be had as plain mercenaries. Maybe more jobs working for the bad guys." As he spoke, Ruth Choi scrambled out of a bent side door and got up on one knee, pointing the grenade launcher at them. A sharp cracking noise sounded and she dropped straight down as a bullet smacked into her forehead. Bane had drawn and fired faster than any gunfighter of the Old West. "I wanted to take them in for questioning," he said. "But honestly, I don't feel like trying to survive a grenade." He went over and peered into the interior, still holding his gun. "Doesn't look good. No, they're both dead. Look at the way Witkowski's neck is bent."
Weaver holstered his gun. "And now what?"
"Well, the FBI Department 21 Black is waiting to be there when that shipment arrives," Bane said. "I was told they'll have experts ready to declare it substandard and to press charges against the Hatch Corporation. Not that Hatch himself will go to jail or anything, but at least people won't be paying for prescriptions that don't work."
"Huh. And Bravo Nine sure won't be hiring out for any more jobs like this. Too bad about the way they went bad, people used to idolize them. So it goes. What's our next move, captain?"
Bane glanced over at the CORBY. "I think you should get our bird back to Manhattan and out of sight. I didn't spot anyone in the area when we crashed that RV. Let the crash remain a mystery. I'll see you when I get back to headquarters."
"How about a lift back to your car?" Weaver asked.
"I don't think so. It's only a couple of miles back that way. I'll walk, then drive up and report from here. It'll give me time to work on my official statement of what happened." He tugged off his helmet and smiled almost imperceptibly. "Good working with Black Angel again, Steve."
Weaver clapped the Dire Wolf on the shoulder before heading toward where the CORBY stood off the road. "To tell you truth, I didn't realize how much I missed being Black Angel. And I'm glad I found out."
3/7/2014
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