dochermes

"Code Name PENTAGRAM: Kite and Skater"

5/29-5/30/1985

I.

"Time for a break," Weaver said out loud to himself. He stepped back and surveyed the CORBY critically. The sleek all-black stealthcopter was fully cleaned, inspected and reassembled. It would take ten minutes to do a mandatory rundown and warm up all the systems before lifting off, but the CORBY was ready to go. He had been working on it since seven that morning with only iced tea and a buttered hard roll and he was ready to rebel. The Black Angel walked over to the stainless steel sink in one corner and used liquid soap and steaming hot water to scrub his hands and face. Finally. Almost four-thirty in the afternoon. Damn, back in the Air Force at least they got ten minute breaks at intervals.

At thirty-two, Stephen Weaver was a tall lanky American black man with long arms and legs. He kept his hair short, with a thick mustache because he was self-conscious about his nose being too big. Weaver had medium dark skin and a relaxed, friendly face that right now showed signs of being tired. He struggled out of the oil-stained grimy coveralls and crumpled them up into the hamper beside the sink. He was wearing sneakers, jeans and a plain white T-shirt under them. Weaver yawned and stretched, pleased with all the work he had gotten done that day.

The hangar took up the top floor of the KDF headquarters building and the CORBY took up most of the floor space. Weaver opened the metal door that opened to the stairwell leading down; the elevator only ran up to the ninth floor. He started descending, then paused and turned around. He wanted some air. Metal rungs in the wall led up to a trapdoor. He climbed up and flung the trap open, grasped a handhold bar set at waist level and yanked himself up to stand on top of the roof. It was a gorgeous June day and he had missed it, he thought. Sunny and dry, with a stiff breeze. The Black Angel took a deep breath, swung his arms back and forth to loosen up and walked around the perimeter. He should have been outside today, but too late now.

Thinking about dinner, Weaver wondered who was in the building. Would anyone feel like grabbing some Italian? He craved sharp flavors and bulk for his empty stomach and some ziti sounded good. Wandering over to the front side of the building, he leaned on the chest-high concrete barrier that encircled the roof and gazed down at East 38th Street. Mama Leone's was within walking distance, he thought, and their food was always good. Mmm, garlic bread. Red Wine. Then he saw a blue-topped taxi pull up in front of the building and he snapped back to full awareness. The Midnight War never went away for long.

( the rest of the story )

"Code Name PENTAGRAM- The Killing Machine"

6/4-6/5/1985

I.

At a few minutes to ten on a warm June evening, Jeremy Bane parked his Mustang behind a Holiday Inn just outside the city limits. He was not in the best of moods. For the past week, he had gotten nowhere with his investigation into just what John Grim Enterprises was really up to. A week earlier, he and Stephen Weaver had intercepted an assassination attempt on a Japanese researcher who was blowing the whistle on Grim, and the clash had ended with one of Grim's agents dead and the other seriously wounded. Bane had been ready for retaliation from Grim, in fact he had been actually looking forward to it since that would close the case. But nothing had happened. Weaver had been called back to his duties for the Trom in New Mexico, promising he would hurry back if needed.

Still a year or two under thirty, the Dire Wolf was so serious and intense that he seemed older. As always, he was wearing the all-black outfit of slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket that was his widely recognized uniform. Thin and wiry at six feet even, Bane had a narrow face under short black hair but his most distinctive feature was a pair of pale grey eyes that alarmed even friends. Walking briskly with the excessive nervous energy that came from his enhanced metabolism, the Dire Wolf strode toward the sidewalk that ran around the hotel. He was still turning over ideas in his head how he could get a handle on the Grim organization. There had to be an angle he could use.

As he approached, an exit door opened from within. Bane froze, arms still down by his sides but suddenly even more alert and ready for an attack than usual. He had been in a secret war all his life. In the door, a stout red-haired man in his early fifties smiled confidently at him. The man wore a dark business suit, but with no tie and his shirt collar open. "Mr Bane! Glad to meet you."

"And you would be...?" the Dire Wolf responded warily.

"Oh. Fred. Fred Hogarty. I'm one of Andrew's staff, kind of a personal assistant. Come on in, he's on the phone but he should be free in a second." The redhead held the door open as far as it would go. Bane's Kumundu training analyzed the man's posture, the way his weight was distributed, the tension in facial muscles, all in an instant. He concluded that this Hogarty was not armed and not a threat, but genuinely pleased to see him. Good enough for the moment.

Stepping through the door into a cool hallway with subdued lighting, standing next to a nook with an ice machine, Bane said, "Andrew Steel is here? I was expecting to meet Shiro."

Hogarty gestured toward the door behind him. "Sorry, Shiro got sent to San Diego. Something about testifying before the State Senate. But Andrew himself is here." He unlocked the door and stepped aside to allow Bane to pass in. Against all his long-held instincts to never enter an unknown room with a strange person behind him, Bane cooperated. He walked into a neat, clean and undistinctive suite. Two large trunks were on the floor by the double beds, and an impressive video monitor had been set up on the dresser.

Standing in one corner, hanging up the phone and glancing up, was Andrew Steel.

They had met a few times and worked together in the battle between John Grim and Wu Lung a year earlier, but Bane was still not used to the strange grey man. Steel was that rarity in the Midnight War, someone known to the general public. He was in fact famous as a criminologist and philanthropist, but with his real crusade still kept secret. Just over six feet tall, slim and fit-looking in a high-collared grey jacket with a buttoned front flap, Andrew Steel had short fine-textured white hair and pale eyes almost exactly the same shade as Bane's. His face was regular, not exactly handsome but presentable with a calm, somber expression that seldom changed.

"Jeremy. I had to send Shiro to the West Coast but I am free to help you. I understand you are looking into John Grim's surviving organization." That voice was low and even, but vibrant with restrained power. It was like Steel himself. Even standing there motionless, he gave the impression of tremendous energy under tight control.

"Hello, Steel. Yeah, we should compare what we know about Grim's empire. He may be a vegetable in that hospital in Maryland, but his organization is still functioning." The Dire Wolf relaxed almost imperceptibly as he satisfied himself that he was with allies.

"Fred. I want you to go get the car ready. Fuel it up and check everything. We may be on the go shortly."

As Hogarty left the room with a compliant nod, Bane stepped closer to the grey man. "Does he know about you?"

"He has suspicions, I am sure, but the truth is beyond what he can accept," Steel said. "Should I ask what you think you know about me?"

"It's my Kumundu training. Like your partner Shiro, I can read a man's balance and co-ordination, how he breathes, how he reacts to sudden noises or motion. You imitate Human movements closely, but you are still a little too smooth, too decisive. There is no hesitation in your reactions, Steel. And you weigh more than a man your size and build should. You're denser than flesh and blood. Maybe a normal person couldn't tell but I see it."

The grey man smiled faintly. "There aren't many Kumundu masters in the world, luckily for those who keep secrets. Very well. How do you feel about my, shall we say, unique nature?"

"I'm fine with it. Look at my team. Khang. A Trom. A telepath, a Blue Guide, the Silver Skull. I'm used to working with unusual people." Bane shrugged as if to end the conversation. "Besides, your record speaks for itself."

"Good. I have been researching the John Grim organization myself for a month now. Leonard Slade retrieved the Trom technology which Grim had stolen but that's not the end of it. Grim had learned enough to produce some prototype devices which are near Trom level. I believe there is a team of Grim agents using these devices as assassins and thieves. And they are aware I know!"

Bane was studying the strange grey man at close range under good light for the first time. "You have Leonard Slade's face," he said abruptly. "Never mind, forget I said that. I have been waiting the last week for Grim's agents and it's getting on my nerves. Now I find they should be after you as well. Maybe we need to give them a more obvious opening-"

Both men swung around at the same time to face the door. "In the parking lot..." began Steel.

"I hear it, too," Bane snapped. "Come on." He was through the door and out in the hall in a blur, opening the exit door and leaping out into the parking lot before an average person would have been able to react. Yet Andrew Steel was right beside him.

Parked sideways facing them was a black Chevy van with tinted windows. As they emerged, the side door slammed open and a tall gleaming figure came out, planting heavy feet down ponderously on the parking lot surface. It rose to a height closer to seven feet than six, seemingly a big man in golden plate armor. The head was a ovoid helmet with a metal faceplate and two red-glowing lenses where eyes would be set. Weapons of an obvious nature were built into its arms and shoulders, and the bizarre figure snapped out its right fist that had a multiple-barrel submachine pistol as part of its construction.

The Dire Wolf made a running leap, seized that weapon in both hands, planted his feet and swung the barrels around toward the black van just as they burst into a barrage of gunfire. The tinted windows splintered and flew apart, and a single scream was heard from inside the van. The armored figure flung Bane away from it with irresistible strength. Thrown tumbling across the lot, the Dire Wolf rolled back up on his feet and was on the attack again instantly. Everything happened within a few seconds. Even as Bane was being tossed aside, Andrew Steel closed in on the armored figure but went unexpectedly behind it and dug his fingers into the nape of the metal-clad neck.

The armored figure convulsed, tried to reach back to dislodge the grey man but Bane was upon him by then. Knowing better than to break his knuckles striking a metal helmet, the Dire Wolf had drawn his long-barreled Smith & Wesson and jammed its muzzle right between the red-lensed eyes. Before he could fire, if that was his next move, the armored figure ground to a halt and stood as still as a cast iron statue.

Stepping away from behind the still form, Andrew Steel examined his own hands as if he had hurt them. "Someone will have called the police," he told Bane. "We have to move fast."

"How did you paralyze him like that?" Bane asked, holstering his revolver again. "The way he moved.. he's not a living thing, is he?"

"I shut him down. Quick, I want you to shove the driver's body over and take the wheel. I will load this construct into the van." Steel's voice was not demanding but confident as if he fully expected to be obeyed. As Bane watched, the grey man picked the armored figure up off the ground entirely and carried him over to the van as if carrying a cardboard cut-out. How much would something like that weigh in that heavy plate armor, with all the weapons? More than three hundred pounds?

Shaking himself back to the moment, the Dire Wolf yanked open the driver's door of the van. The bloodied corpse of a dark-skinned man with curly hair, wearing a shredded tan jumpsuit with the PENTAGRAM emblem on the left sleeve, was slumped over the wheel. His open eyes still had a look of surprise in them. Bane unbuckled the man's seat belt and pushed the body hard over into the passenger side. The driver's seat was covered with fresh blood and tiny bits of broken glass, but Bane dropped down into it, anyway. From the rear compartment, Steel's commanding voice said, "Ready to go."

Driving out of the parking lot, Bane swung left and then right, heading for the parkway. "I'm guessing your plan is to head for the John Grim facility in Westchester?"

"Yes. Very good. I think we should return this assassin to its creators." There were clinking and snapping noises from the back. "Luckily, its design is familiar to me. That makes things easier."

( the rest of the story )

"The Experience Which Comes Last"

(2/26/1975, as "The Captive of Golgora")

2/14/1985


I.


Jeremy Bane felt ill at ease. It was a decent neighborhood out on Long Island, with a low crime index, and at seven o'clock at night should have been safe enough. But a lifetime of violence had left Bane permanently suspicious, with wary instincts that never entirely relaxed. His grey eyes were restless, checking rooftops and doorways even as he spoke. Cars went by, but he could tell by the way they moved that the drivers were concerned with their own lives. "Dr Palen, maybe one of my team should wait in your house with you for a day or two. Or maybe we should keep you at our headquarters building in Manhattan."

Dr Samuel Palen was watching this thin young man who dressed all in black, and who carried an air of brooding tension with him. He was nervous near Bane. Palen was sixty, well-fed and soft. A respected scholar with several published books on the occult, he was not used to be next to someone with so much nervous energy. "Thank you, Mr Bane," he said as he started up the short walkway to his house. "But I'm sure that won't necessary. I'll lock the doors and windows."

"Your work carries a certain amount of risk," the Dire Wolf insisted. "You are almost done translating that Nekrosan text of their holy books. This could give us valuable information. They are a secretive and murderous Race, and I think they may want to stop you from finishing," Bane was trying hard to be persuasive without being intimidating, but this was something he wasn't good at. Even in the dusk, his grey eyes flashed like cold steel.

Palen dismissed this with a wave of a hand. "No. Seriously, no. The Nekrosim are a mythical species. Even if something like them did exist ONCE, that was thousands of years ago. I am in no danger. Believe me, I wouldn't take any chances." He chuckled unconvincingly. "I'm no two-fisted hero like the famous Dire Wolf."

"I suppose. I still am not happy about this. You have my number, doctor."

Dr Palen nodded and turned to step up to his front door, keys in hand. "I should be done with the translation in a few weeks," he said. "I'll see you then. Goodnight, Mr Bane."

The Dire Wolf watched the scholar enter his house and heard the click of the door locking. All his instincts were tugging at him to go in the house and stand guard, but Palen had refused protection. Bane scowled in the gloom. Almost invisible in his long black topcoat, he began to circle the block, eyes moving quickly , looking for anything out of place.

In his study, Palen had set a huge mug of coffee on his desk, shoving aside some of the litter of notes to make room. The study was cluttered with books and papers on every available surface. Adjusting the reading light, Palen dug around in the center drawer of his desk for his glasses. Then he brought a key from his pocket and unlocked a side drawer, tugging out a thick manila folder.

Somewhere in that room, a burning pair of deep-set eyes watched him hungrily.

Palen carefully spread out a series of 8x11 photostats, clicked his pen and set to work. The museum had not wanted him to keep the original Nekrosan manuscipt, so he worked from these stats. Lost in concentration, he was entirely unprepared for a rasping whisper which came from directly behind him, a hoarse hollow voice that sounded like it belonged in a grave.

"Good evening, Dr Palen. Your work going well?"

With an undignified squack of fright, Palen jumped up and knocked his chair over backwards. He whirled around and his heart almost stopped.

The intruder was a thin, bony man just under six feet tall. He wore a dark brown jumpsuit that fitted loosely, its legs tucked into high polished boots. A narrow sash over one shoulder ended in a small spiked lead ball, and there was a 1911 broomhhandle Mauser in a flap holster on his belt. But Palen noticed none of that. He was staring in shock at the man's face. The intruder looked like a living skull. There was no hair on the head, only two small holes for ears. Heavy overhanging brow ledges, a tiny snub of a nose, a wide toothy mouth that grinned maliciously... all combined to make him an unnerving sight.

"Who ARE you?" Palen managed to squeak.

"My name is Golgora! A Nekrosan of Perjena," the skull-faced man said. "You have studied my Race, doctor. Are you... happy to see one of us in the flesh?"

Palen backed away but was caught up by the bookcase behind him. There was nowhere to go. "What do you want?"

"Don't be coy, my little Human. You know of my kind. You know what we are like. Surely you must be... ah, thrilled to know that a Nekrosan has come back to the world." He was moving closer slowly, hideous face grinning. "Ah, that must be the text you were working on."

As Palen's eyes darted to the notes on his desk, Golgora lunged forward and drove a hard tight fist to the side of the man's face. Pain exploded in the old man's head, lights flashing in his eyes as he dropped to the floor. In the back of his mind, Palen realized that maybe he should have listened to Bane after all.

"I will take that text," grated the Nekrosan, "as I will take you. You will join me in the quest to solve the Great Mystery. Death itself!"

Palen had managed to get up on one knee, reaching for a bookshelf to steady himself. He had never been punched full force by a skilled fighter before; it hurt worse than he could have imagined. "You're crazy! Absolutely crazy!"

Bony fingers clamped down over Palen's mouth and the muzzle of that Mauser jabbed hard at his cheek. "Ignorant words! For one of my Race, I am quite sane. You will come with me. You will face the greatest experience of your empty life... for it is the experience which always comes last!" Golgora drew back the pistol and brought its butt down with brutal force. The last thing the terrified Palen saw was that leering skull face.

In the darkness outside, Jeremy Bane had returned to stand in front of the house. Although he had not found anything in the neighborhood to justify his anxiety, he had long ago learned to trust his instincts. Now he stared at the modest, one story white frame house with shingle roof. There was no garage, nothing in the yard other than patches of stubborn snow. The neighboring house had a single flickering blue light in an upstairs window, where TV held someone entranced. Bane frowned and was about to walk back to his car at the end of the block when he heard a door slam softly at the rear of Palen's house.

At that sound, the Dire Wolf blurred into motion, sprinting through the yard and around the house quicker than any athlete. In the street behind Palen's home stood a dark Lincoln, motor idling and headlights off. There were three men in sight. One wore a dark commando outfit and some sort of stupid skull mask, certainly the ringleader by the way he was standing. A bigger, beefy thug was shoving a limp unconscious form into the back seat of the Lincoln and the third man was standing on guard, a revolver in his hand. It was this man who swung around at the light sound of Bane's racing footsteps. He was alert and ready, with gun already drawn, but even so he was taken by surprise at just how fast the Dire Wolf moved.

Plunging across the yard faster than a real wolf, Bane seized the man's gunhand and yanked it down toward the ground. In the same motion, he smacked the edge of his other fist down at the base of the thug's neck with a crack as sharp as a branch snapping. Even as that goon dropped, Bane spun on one foot, whirling to whip out his leg in a spinning reverse roundhouse. It caught the bigger man perfectly, right on the side of the jaw, and he fell to his hands and knees. Still in the same series of moves he had planned in the second he saw these three, Bane swung to face the guy in the skull mask.

For a bare instant, he hesitated as he recognized his opponent. "Gol-" he got out before the spiked lead ball caught him high up on the side of his head. That dazed him. Golgora whirled his strange weapon overhead, lashing out again and again. Even partly stunned, Bane blocked one strike but the spiked ball bounced around and smacked hard at the back of his head. The leather strap with the ball at the end was a unique Nekrosan weapon, combining elements of a whip and a mace. Bane fell, not quite unconscious but unable to resist as Golgora lashed out savagely at him, until his men coaxed him into leaving with their prisoner.

( the rest of the story )