Enemies & Allies (14 page)

T
HE SMALL ISLAND WAS SURROUNDED BY A CALM, DEEP BLUE
ocean. The humid air sparkled in the warm Caribbean sun, filled with the scents of lush tropical vegetation. This was a far cry from Siberia.

When Luthor met General Ceridov at the concrete jetty on the island’s south side, the Soviet officer reveled in all the sunshine and heat. He had eschewed his wool uniform and donned a ridiculous-looking floral-print shirt that already displayed semicircular sweat stains under his armpits. “Lovely installation. Thank you for inviting me, comrade Luthor.”

For his own part, Luthor wore a khaki tropical-weight suit. “You were kind enough to show me your gulag and quarry. I’m returning the favor.” Since the incident at his mansion, in which Superman had helped the other costumed burglar steal his meteorite sample, he’d felt violated. After delivering his damning press conference, he’d departed immediately for the Caribbean.

“And what is the name of this island?” the KGB general asked. “I could find it on no map.”

“Luthor’s Island, of course.”

“Vanity?”

“Clarity. And efficiency.”

“Ah, if you say so.”

Ceridov regarded the warm sea and sugar-sand beaches, the overgrown jungle marred by new gravel roads, and the angular buildings that housed Luthor’s facility and operational headquarters, using some of the structural remnants of a large old Spanish fort. “Ah, the tropical climate. I can see why my government supports Fidel Castro and his Communist revolution in Cuba. Soon all of these islands will be within the Soviet sphere of influence.”

Ceridov followed Luthor along the jetty to the beach, where an unmarked Jeep waited. The KGB general seemed too confident, perhaps even teasing. “We will take over the world soon enough. When all is said and done, perhaps we can turn your little island into a vacation resort for party officials!” He laughed at his own joke. Luthor did not.

“Don’t believe your own propaganda, General. I like my island exactly the way it is.” Though undeniably charismatic, Castro seemed an unruly and unwashed fanatic, dedicated to the Communist cause with a fervor that had not been equaled since Lenin himself. Instead, Luthor had paid substantial bribes to the current Cuban dictator, Batista, finding it simpler to manipulate a man who could be bought, a man who showed a healthy and normal tendency to basic greed rather than a passion for an esoteric cause.

“My position here is secure, and I am left undisturbed to do my work. Everyone from Cuba to Jamaica to the Bahamas knows to avoid this area. I’ve been forced to sink a fishing boat and couple of pleasure craft to emphasize that point. The nighttime fires from my smokestacks and flames from the firing of test rockets are enough to feed local superstitions that some giant dragon lives here.” He rolled his eyes at their gullibility, even if it served his own purposes.

First off, Luthor drove his guest up to the launch complex, pleased to show the black-star general what he had accomplished with his own fortune, his own ingenuity and investment. The missile launchpads bore dramatic patterns of soot and char from test blasts. When the general seemed overly fascinated with the red-painted gantries and cooled tanks filled with propellant, Luthor said, “If you think that’s impressive, let me show you something much more unusual.” The skin around Luthor’s eyes crinkled, the closest he ever came to a genuine and unrehearsed smile.

He led Ceridov to ranks of dish-shaped projectors, and both men gazed at all the beam transmitters pointing to the skies. “These focused energy rays can shoot directly through the atmosphere and strike any incoming target. It is a perfect defense against Soviet aggression.” He turned to the KGB general. “I hope you are as eager to test it as I am.”

Ceridov was intrigued. “Certainly, comrade Luthor. For a long time now, I have wanted the opportunity to demonstrate our missiles in a real combat situation. Normally that would lead to the end of human civilization—”

“But with these beams, I could intercept your missiles before they cause any damage. This way, we both win.”

“You would take that risk?” Ceridov’s bushy eyebrows lifted. “The danger to America…”

“I prefer not to think of myself as just an American. I am a citizen of the world.
My
world.”

During the tour of the island, Luthor intentionally kept the Soviet officer from the secluded north end, where the largest and most ambitious construction work took place. Ceridov didn’t need to see any of
that.
It was a different part of Luthor’s plan.

He brought his guest to the main command center, a modern structure built around the old fortress walls and a tower of ancient stone. His headquarters, control room, and offices were inside new cinder-block structures whose interior walls were painted white or seafoam green. Rather than simple hardwood planking, the floors were the most modern waxed linoleum in alternating squares of black and white. His central control room had large computer banks that displayed amazing constellations of indicator lights. These electronic superbrains had been modified from von Neumann’s original designs for the sophisticated computer called ENIAC, with an added dash of Luthor genius.

“And what supplies your power?” Ceridov mused as he walked past the tall computers, regarding the flashing lights as though they imparted some sort of secret message. “Your own reactor? A new-model design, I presume?”

“The very best design.” Luthor nodded smugly. “Far superior to your antique at the Ariguska camp.”

“Antique! That is the most sophisticated new Soviet model.”

Luthor made a bland gesture. “As I said…” He merely showed Ceridov the control rods and indicated the maximum power levels he could achieve using high-quality radioactive material diverted from the processing plants in Oak Ridge, Tennessee.

“And how did you build this reactor? In my gulag, we lost many prisoners to hazardous radiation exposures. Safety measures are very expensive.”

“I may not have a prison camp, General, but I do have a pool of expendable workers.”

“You continue to surprise me.”

“As it should be.” Luthor turned back to the much more interesting weapons systems. “My focused-energy-ray defense system will be complete as soon as I receive a few important components from my insiders at Wayne Enterprises. When I am ready for the test firing, will you be prepared for my signal? We have to give them a real target.”

“Two of our most hawkish generals are easily provoked. General Gregor Petreivich Endovik and General Ivan Ivanovich Dubrov have long advocated a preemptive strike against America. They are my puppets. They will play right into my hands.”

Nodding calmly to himself, Luthor regarded the large screens on the control-room walls, which showed live images of oblivious people going about their daily business in Washington, D.C.; Metropolis; London; Leningrad—reading newspapers, hurrying to catch a bus, walking inside skyscrapers, shopping in open-air markets, playing in parks with their children or pets.

This little “incident” would ratchet international tensions even higher, thereby benefiting both Ceridov and himself. Once Luthor successfully demonstrated his unexpected defensive system, he would seem to be a savior, after which he would sell his extravagantly expensive “death ray” to the U.S. Department of Defense. And after Luthor’s energy beams had destroyed the Soviet missiles, General Ceridov would be able to demand—and get—more spending for his military, thereby ensuring a continued and profitable arms buildup on both sides.

Ceridov frowned. “Once our nuclear missiles are launched, I will not be able to recall them. You are positive that your system will be effective?”

“I am entirely confident.” How dare the man suggest otherwise? “Complete and total nuclear annihilation would be bad for business.”

Ceridov took him at his word. “Do you have vodka? We must toast.”

“This is the Caribbean,” Luthor reminded him irritably. “We have rum.”

“It will have to do.” Ceridov waited as Luthor extracted a bottle and two glasses from a metal desk drawer and poured them each a drink. They raised a silent toast, each man mulling over his own grand dreams.

T
HOUGH THEY INTENDED TO PURSUE THE STORY TO NELLIS
Air Force Base the following day, Clark and Jimmy had to stay overnight in Las Vegas. Self-conscious about the expense to the
Daily Planet,
Clark drove around comparing room rates. Finally, they found a budget motor hotel with two beds, air-conditioning (which, unfortunately, didn’t work), and a private bathroom: the Atomic Age Motel.

After they checked in, Clark and Jimmy were free for a night on the Vegas Strip (though both of them were somewhat intimidated by the prospect). Clark flipped through a copy of the
Las Vegas Sun
and was surprised to find a wire-service article on page seven about Lex Luthor’s press conference, in which he accused Superman of collusion in the robbery of his mansion. The reporter seemed to make much of the fact that Superman had not been seen in Metropolis for a day or two and had made no public response to Luthor’s accusations.

Clark pressed his lips together, upset by the implications. He had not been helping Batman escape—he’d been taking him off to the authorities. The two had never been partners in any way! How could anyone, especially Lex Luthor, accuse
Superman
of dishonesty?

Jonathan Kent had always insisted, “A man’s actions say everything about him that anyone needs to know.” Superman did not need to defend himself against accusations from a man like Luthor. Clark tossed the newspaper into the wastebasket and tried not to think about it anymore.

On their way out, Jimmy stopped to stare at a metal slot machine in the shabby lobby of the motel. It was adorned with a whirling model of a nucleus and a bright loop of neon light. Jimmy’s small supply of money was obviously burning a hole in his pocket, and he pulled out a shiny nickel. “Okay, just once. I don’t usually gamble, but…well, we are in Las Vegas.” He held up the coin and looked with some trepidation at the seductive machine. “I should give it a whirl, right?”

“Those things are called one-armed bandits for a good reason, Jimmy.”

Undeterred, Jimmy plunked the nickel into the slot, pulled the handle, and set the machine in motion. With a quick glimpse of his X-ray vision, Clark viewed the mechanism behind the small transparent windows and saw what lay in store for his friend.

The reels spun, and Jimmy stepped back as though afraid the machine might turn white hot. The blur of whirling cartoon fruit halted sequentially, and Jimmy gasped with delight as the first, then second, then third bunch of cherries thunked to a halt. A light on top of the machine blinked and a bell clanged. With a clatter, a wealth of coins showered into the spill tray: twenty nickels.

Jimmy yelped with excitement, scooped up the coins, and counted them. “A dollar, Mr. Kent—I won a whole dollar!”

“Actually, ninety-five cents. You spent—”

“I never won anything before! I can’t believe it. Maybe we should go to one of the casinos. I’m hot tonight!”

“Jimmy, right now you’re ahead ninety-five cents. Do you want to risk losing it?”

“Maybe I should just keep my winnings.” Jimmy settled down, though he still seemed unable to believe his good fortune.

Clark allowed himself to share his friend’s innocent joy, but his thoughts drifted back to the crash site of the supposed spacecraft. As Superman, he
had
seen and chased a mysterious UFO across the United States. He’d watched the Air Force jets doggedly pursue it. Now the military had taken away this crashed vessel from Mercy Draw, presumably the same one. Had there been any alien survivors aboard?

He tried to imagine what might have happened if his own Kryptonian spaceship had been intercepted by the U.S. Army instead of the humble Kents. How different his life would have been if he’d grown up on a secret military base rather than in Smallville, Kansas.

In their rental car, Clark and Jimmy drove along the Strip, passing one gaudy casino after another: the Sands, the New Frontier, and the famous Desert Inn. Clark could see that his friend was about fit to bust, as Jonathan Kent might have said.

“Look at all the colors, the lights! Have you ever imagined so much neon in the whole world?” Jimmy kept staring at the marquees. The Dunes advertised what was purportedly “The Greatest Show in Vegas”—Minsky’s Follies. “What do you suppose that is, Mr. Kent? Singing and dancing?”

Clark looked at the fine print beneath. “‘A daring new topless show.’” When Jimmy blushed bright red, Clark suggested instead something more their speed. “How about another movie?”

Jimmy agreed immediately. “
Invasion of the Body Snatchers
is playing. I’ve been dying to see that one!”

THE THEATER WAS MOSTLY EMPTY, AS THE LOCALS APPARENTLY
preferred gambling to motion pictures. Jimmy sat wide-eyed, munching his popcorn, while Clark pondered the implications of this latest installment in the current “evil alien” film genre. As they left, both were unsettled (though for different reasons) by the frightening invasion of “pod-people,” capped by Kevin McCarthy’s paranoid tour-de-force performance at the end.
They’re coming! They’re coming!

As they returned to the Atomic Age Motel, knowing they had to get up early for the long drive out into the desert, Jimmy finally asked the question on his mind. “Do you suppose there could be aliens walking among us—ones that look just like people, so we can never tell? More aliens…not just Superman?”

Clark automatically brushed aside the idea. “It’s just a movie, Jimmy. It’s supposed to scare you—for fun. It’s not real.”

Jimmy nodded, abashed. “You’re probably right, Mr. Kent.” Clark gave the young man’s shoulder a comforting pat, and they walked toward their room in silence, thinking their own thoughts.