Enemies & Allies (22 page)

L
OIS HAD A PERSONAL STAKE IN PROTECTING SUPERMAN.
After all, he had saved
her,
and she owed him. No, there was more to it than that, she realized, more than simply canceling debts and evening the score. As much as she had been fighting the idea, Lois realized she loved Superman. Though they had met only a few times in person, it was enough for her to know how she felt.
Really
felt.

And now…if only she could figure out how to help him.

While the world listened to the provocative accusations made by the Soviet premier, Lois concentrated on the idea that Lex Luthor had always carried a personal grudge against Superman, and she had uncovered hints of the man’s secret trips to the USSR. To her, there were many nagging, unexplained questions about the launch of the Soviet missiles, not to mention Luthor’s covert Caribbean island base.

No doubt in her mind. She was convinced that Luthor had something to do with the crisis.

Since she couldn’t go to Siberia, she decided to approach the problem in a roundabout way that no other reporter was investigating: the LuthorCorp angle again. Maybe she could pull a few surprises out of her hat. Maybe she could help Superman after all.

She was willing to bet her career on it. She couldn’t think of anything more important. And there was no time to waste.

Nevertheless, Perry didn’t want to hear her theory. “Everyone’s chasing that story, Lois—which is exactly why I’m giving you a different assignment.”

“Chief, Superman
is
my story! I did the first interview. I should be—”

“While the whole world was in a panic about Superman,
something
blasted Sputnik out of orbit. No earthbound technology could have accomplished that: The Soviets wouldn’t know how to do it, and the U.S. doesn’t have a weapon with that range. Normally the Russians would have blamed Superman…but thanks to them, he’s got a perfect alibi. I want you to find out what did it.”

“Why not send Clark? When will he be back from visiting his mother?”

“Kent hasn’t checked in for days, which is yet another worry. I need someone on this story
now,
Lois.” He cut her off before she could suggest another reporter. “Since the attack on the satellite, Senator McCarthy is raving about the alien menace more than ever. Now, I’m no fan of McCarthy.” Perry looked as though he wanted to spit. “However, if we’re being watched by aliens—Martians or Venusians or whatever creatures come out of those pulps Olsen reads—what would be a better target than our first orbiting satellite? We can’t bury this story, Lois.”

Lois automatically assumed Luthor was involved with the destruction of Sputnik, too. There was little he
wouldn’t
do to achieve his aims, but even he couldn’t blast a satellite out of orbit…could he? She feigned interest in the hopes that she could use this assignment to get to Superman in some way. “So that’s my angle, Chief?”

“The
Daily Planet
is sending you down to Redstone Arsenal in Huntsville, Alabama. I’ve arranged for you to have direct access to our rocket boys. I want an interview and a feature on von Braun himself. Get them to show you around. Wear a short skirt if you have to, show a little leg.”

Scowling, Lois leaned across Perry’s desk and thrust a finger in his face. “I don’t need pointers from you on how to get a story.
Any
pointers.”

Perry toyed with the chewed end of his cigar, twirling it in his fingertips. “No, you don’t, but I do need to keep you on track about
which
story you’re covering. Have von Braun speculate on what could possibly have blown up Sputnik. Cover America’s efforts to build a Redstone version of those R-7 missiles the Commies launched against us. We’re Americans, and we have American know-how. We built the atomic bomb—we can do anything. When are we going to have the capability to launch a comparable strike against the USSR? Get down to Metropolis airport and board the next flight to Huntsville, or wherever the closest airport is. I’m sure you can talk somebody into putting you on a plane.”

Lois was about to rebel against Perry’s unexpected fervor, but another plan was already forming in her mind. “Fine. I’m on it, Chief.”

Interviewing Wernher von Braun sounded like an interesting assignment; however, there were so many other important things to deal with. Superman captured and held prisoner by the Communists, the loss of Sputnik, Senator McCarthy’s railing about an alien threat…. And Lex Luthor had a secret island base. How could he
not
be at the bottom of it all?

At last she had the opportunity to sneak off to the Caribbean, make a little side trip from Huntsville to Havana. Like the good reporter she was, Lois Lane would find her story—and rescue the man she loved.

T
HE BATPLANE SCYTHED THROUGH THE NIGHT SKY,
theoretically undetectable by Soviet radar. The glowing red lights of multiple gauges illuminated the cockpit, his dark suit, and his reinforced cowl.

Heading north at top speed but mindful of the fuel reserves, he crossed over Canada and Greenland, and took a short polar arc before dropping down into Siberia. He was confident of his destination.

The only time he had glimpsed weakness in Superman was on the shore across the lake from Luthor’s mansion, when the Man of Steel had been exposed to the glowing green mineral. Luthor had obviously been running tests on the sample, intrigued by its properties and potential. The meteorite display had been labeled “Ariguska.”

In the USSR.

In Siberia.

That had to be where the Soviets were holding Superman.

He threw the plane into a steep dive, streaking barely above the tops of the dense Siberian forest. It was vastly different from his little Wayne Enterprises private jet. He was sure he hadn’t been detected, and he doubted anyone in the Ariguska gulag would be watching for a solo raider to free their captive. Due to the complicated politics, even the U.S. Special Forces would never have received such swift orders to mount a rescue mission.

He, on the other hand, was just one person with one goal. And a great arsenal of weapons and technology. He could make his own decisions and do what large governments couldn’t, in much the same way as he tackled criminals the Gotham City Police Department couldn’t catch by conventional means.

When the Batplane’s navigation systems informed him that he was within a few miles of his destination, he began to search for a place to land. He found a clear ridgetop and circled to survey the area with the craft’s nose-cone spotlights.

With takeoff-and-landing technology that was similar—but generations superior—to what was used on an aircraft carrier, without the capture tether, the sleek plane needed very little cleared area on which to set down. As he approached Ariguska, the forested lands gave way to desolation. Whole swaths of primeval forest had been flattened by the impact decades ago, and the regrowth was comprised of stunted and unnatural foliage. Interesting.

He returned to the ridgetop for his final approach, deployed the engine scoops, and blasted with reverse jets and undercarriage thrusters. The Batplane slewed on the loose rocks, tore up fallen and bent tree trunks, and finally skidded to a stop. A perfect landing, except for a few scratches and scrapes on the fuselage. Flipping toggles on the control panel, he raised the canopy and extended a ramp from the undercarriage to deploy his motorcycle, which was all fueled up and ready to go.

He climbed onto the cycle, started the engine, and put it into silent stealth mode. Forgoing headlights, he powered up the night scope and raced off down the ridge, dodging downed trees and rough terrain. His dark cape flapped behind him in the wind.

As Batman, he used his cape for protection, disguise, and operatic intimidation. Superman, on the other hand, wore his bright red cape for…what? Just to show off? Color coordination?

The cycle’s thick tires grabbed the barren ground, making maneuvering easy and acceleration smooth as he dodged dirty patches of snow. He saw only shadows as he raced along, keeping his head down and protected by the windscreen. He didn’t have far to go.

The forest encircling the camp and the crater was more than just stunted; it was mutated, horrific. The trees were appallingly twisted and distorted, their monstrous branches knotted and gnarled like some alien plant creature from a sci-fi pulp magazine cover. The pines themselves seemed to be screaming in agony, branches extended like clawing fingers, roots anchored in soil filled with poisonous residue that had seeped into the ground.

But he wasn’t afraid of trees. The Soviet guards would give him enough trouble. Olive-uniformed men walked brisk patrols around the camp perimeter in the cold night. Their heads were covered with fur
ushanka
s, and they rested Kalashnikovs on the shoulders of their thick jackets.

As he approached, slinking forward in the darkness, he pulled out two of the small drug-tipped Bat-shuriken. His aim had to be perfect, since he saw only a small area of exposed skin that could be nicked by the sharp points. The tiny finger-sized throwing bat sliced through the air and struck the first guard at the base of his jaw. He cursed, slapping at his neck, no doubt complaining about Siberian blackflies that could attack even in the cold of night. The other guard chuckled—as a second shuriken whizzed past his face. The first guard crumpled from the paralytic-anesthetic, and his comrade ran toward him, shouting. Two more throwing bats scythed the air, and one struck home. Shortly, the second guard sprawled unconscious on the cold ground as well.

He dragged the two limp forms away from the searchlight beams and relieved the unconscious men of their rifles and holstered pistols, tossing the guns far into the twisted forest. He trussed and gagged the men, then moved on.

The large work camp had ranks of barracks, a headquarters building, and a concrete containment dome over a nuclear power reactor, from which white coolant steam rose. Harsh lights shone down, giving him few shadows for cover.

He took a mental inventory of his useful devices, which would have made even James Bond proud. Moving cautiously, he slipped around the site, peering into buildings to search for Superman. He saw brutishly secure, thick-walled blockhouses with no windows and heavily armored doors. Angry growls and pounding sounds came from inside, and he noticed that even the armed guards avoided those buildings. In the prisoners’ quarters he found only stacked bunks that harbored gaunt workers asleep from exhaustion. The soldiers’ barracks were marginally more humane.

He didn’t see Superman anywhere.

The quarry itself was well lit with bright floodlights. Down in the pit he spotted a small work crew toiling around the perimeter of a half-dismantled dome, barely able to lift their heavy picks and shovels. Only a few guards watched over them. At first, it was hard to understand why the Soviets would man a round-the-clock excavation effort, but then it became clear that these particular prisoners were being punished, forced to give up sleep, probably forced to work until they dropped dead.

Scattered at the bottom of the crater lay chunks of the glowing green rock—the same substance that had weakened Superman. The dome must have been put in place to block the green radiation, but now it was smashed.

Then he spotted the telltale blue and red costume, Superman chained to the quarry wall like Prometheus, exposed to the emerald glow. The conclusion was obvious: If the glowing mineral deprived Superman of his powers, then holding him down in the quarry was a perfect way to keep him incapacitated…maybe even kill him.

Fortunately, Batman did not have the same vulnerabilities.

Staying low, he raced along the shadowed paths, descending into the steep-walled pit. He switchbacked his way down the quarry ledges, but there was altogether too much light for his comfort.

He slid down a steep gravel chute, making more noise than he intended, and emerged with his suit covered with dust. He abruptly ducked his cowled head as a bright spotlight glided over him, but the darkness and dirt gave him enough cover. He had to stun two more guards before he reached the bottom, where Superman was chained.

Along the way, he primed and dropped a handful of tiny flash mines, small concussive devices that he could activate to confuse pursuit. Though he hoped for the best, he didn’t expect to just stroll out of here.

Finally, he reached Superman, who looked weary unto death. “Wake up. Time to get out of here.”

Superman lifted his head heavily. The blue eyes soon focused, and instant realization sprang into them. “What are you doing here?” he said in a small, weak voice.

“What’s the matter—not used to having someone rescue
you
?” He unsnapped one of the containers in his utility belt. “I’ve decided to take a chance that you really are playing for the right team.”

He didn’t have time to break the chains or pick the locks, so he used a tiny insulated bottle, applied a line of potent fluid more devastating than hydrofluoric acid. Smoking and sizzling, the metal acid burned through the manacles—and Superman was free. He collapsed, slumping against the dark figure.

Draping one of Superman’s limp, blue-clad arms over his shoulder, he propped up the other man and propelled them both along as best he could. They had to keep out of sight of the guards.

The downtrodden night crew of gulag slaves noticed them first. They let out wild cries, pointing, shouting incoherently. “They want us to rescue them as well,” Superman said, still groggy.

Alerted by the shouting prisoners, the guards sounded the alarm. Seeing the two costumed figures, they opened fire. The commotion drew the attention of the sentries in the towers, and bright searchlights immediately swung down, freezing the two men in a blinding glare.