X-Men: The Last Stand (28 page)

“You found her,” Ororo said, assuming things hadn’t gone well. Hank joined them as Logan shook his head, indicating that was an understatement.

“I sure did.”

“Still with Magneto?”

“Locked at the hip, but I’m not sure they’re walkin’ the same road. ’Ro, she led me right to her. She knew I was coming, she wanted me there—but when Magneto caught me, she walked away.”

“I told you!”

He shook his head violently. “It’s not that simple.”

’Ro shelved the argument for another time and her thought echoed Logan’s:
If we make it that far.
“Where are they, Logan?”

“On the move. Sonofabitch has raised himself an army!”

“You’re saying you saw Magneto?” asked Hank, who got ignored for his trouble.

“I know where they’re going, ’Ro,” Logan told her. “We’ve gotta get there. We’re the only ones with a chance to stop him.”

Storm nodded, understanding the double meaning to what Logan said, that the struggle with Magneto wouldn’t be the one that truly mattered.

As they left the foyer, Hank McCoy pulled out his cellphone and tapped 1 on his speed dial. Originally, that slot had held Xavier’s number, but as Hank came to realize when he accepted his cabinet post, there are certain phone numbers, and certain people in this country, who take second place to no one.

It rang once, and was answered by the best switchboard in the world.

“This is Hank McCoy,” he said, even though they knew that already with caller ID. “Patch me through to the president.”

David Cockrum was in the Situation Room with his senior security and battle staff, monitoring in real time an ongoing military special op.

“Seven minutes to contact,” Bolivar Trask told him.

The president nodded as Trask gestured towards a satellite image of Magneto’s encampment. “Magneto’s base of operations.”

A straight line ran northwest through the trees from the vicinity of the camp to a distance of over twenty miles. Cockrum asked about it.

“We’re not altogether sure, sir,” Trask replied. “The original best guess was some kind of projectile, consistent with something being kicked out of a rail gun. It’s a stunt that’s certainly within Magneto’s power and capabilities. But when we checked out the terminal point with a recce team, they reported finding a fair amount of blood, and what they tell me was a trail of physical evidence. Near as they’re willing to hazard, somebody landed there, got up and walked a couple of miles down to the highway, where it seems a bike was stashed. Next we hear, there’s been a helluva bar fight nearby, one guy versus the local outlaws. Seems he wanted some clothes. Seems he also found a drug lab the DEA’s been after for quite a while.”

Cockrum quirked his eyebrows. He was tired of waiting for Trask’s punch line.

“It was the Wolverine, sir. Start to finish. We lost track of him at the bar, but I just got a flash from the NSA that our Keyhole surveillance satellite tasked to monitor Xavier’s mansion got a photo of him rolling in about ten minutes ago.”

“Jesus” was all Cockrum could say, considering the ramifications of what Trask just told him, thinking first
What the hell is that guy
made
of?
And then, with relief,
Thank God he’s on
our
side
. And then last, anxiously,
Dear God, I
hope
he’s on our side.
Finally, as a way of covering those worries, he asked, “Bolivar, how did we find Magneto’s base?”

Trask indicated another subordinate display, presenting a quite lovely, well-dressed woman, Caucasian, blond. She sat in the conference room of a United States attorney, her lawyer at her side, and signed an affidavit.

“She gave us everything we wanted, and more.”

Almost as if she’d heard Trask speak, the woman looked directly up at the monitor. Mystique may have lost her ability to change shapes, but Cockrum still couldn’t shake the certainty that she could see him through the video feed.

“‘Hell hath no fury,’” he mused to himself, “‘like a woman scorned.’”

An aide whispered in Trask’s ear and the secretary picked up the phone.

“Not a great time, Hank,” he said brusquely.

“I have reason to believe Magneto is en route to attack Worthington Labs,” Hank told him. “He intends to destroy the source of the cure.”

Nice of you to call, old buddy,
Trask thought.
You’re just a day late and a dollar short.
Aloud: “We’re well aware of his plans, Hank, we’re taking all appropriate measures.”

“Bolivar,” Hank demanded, “what does that mean?”

You’re out of the loop, Henry,
Trask thought,
you quit the team. What gives you the right to an answer?
But aloud: “We’re moving on him as we speak. It’ll all be over soon.”

He hung up. The president looked, obviously catching enough of the conversation to guess who’d called. Cockrum gave a shallow nod that told Trask he trusted his judgment in dealing with it.

Trask pointed to the main screen. “It’s starting, sir.”

Technology gave them a multitude of perspectives. From a network of satellites overhead came real-time streaming video. Direct imaging was useless after dark, and the natural cover of the forest canopy made it even worse. However, enhanced infrared presented the scene in eerie shadings and surprising detail. Targets were coded red, incoming troops in blue, with the overall scene neatly and comprehensively labeled by the attending computer.

At the same time, there were a whole host of secondary displays projecting a multitude of feeds from minicams attached to the soldiers’ helmets, each labeled with the identity and rank of the wearer and his or her position, which in turn was repeated on the master display.

The army had fielded an entire brigade of special ops, totaling over three thousand troops in a multilevel cordon around the encampment, to ensure that—regardless of powers—none would escape. Because intel, courtesy of Mystique, told them women and children were present on-site, the rules of engagement called for nonlethal force. However, as with all military plans, there were built-in escalators. The president knew when he signed the orders, even though it made him heartsick, that if things went south, people were going to die.

“No contact,” came a scratchy voice out of the room’s main speakers, the computer identifying the officer as Colonel Simon Kinberg, leading the attack. “All units in position.” One of the secondary screens relayed the data from his on-scene scanner. “I mark one hundred plus unfriendlies.”

“That’s the number Mystique gave us,” Trask crowed. “Everybody’s home.”

“Tell them,” said the president, “it’s a go.”

“This is Team Leader to Bravo One,” said Kinberg. “We are green. Repeat, we are greenlight to go. ‘Mr. and Mrs. Smith’ on the flip.”

“What’s that mean?” Cockrum asked.

“Hit ’em hard and elegant and with a smile, like there’s no tomorrow.”

The first wave charged from every side, each approach angled so as to avoid clashing with the others’ fields of fire. Laser sights traced myriad lines of scarlet and green through the air, questing for their targets, finding none.

In the Situation Room, they heard a hoarse profanity from Kinberg and saw on their display the same thing he did: one after another, the target heat signatures were disappearing from the screen.

The speaker filled with a chorus of startled voices, radiating confusion and alarm. No one was sure what was happening, and everyone suspected a trap.

One contact remained, utterly solid, holding up his hands and grinning ear to ear to find himself dotted with scores of laser points.

A soldier shoved a lens in his face, popped the flash, and within seconds the prisoner’s identity card dominated the main display: James Madrox, code-named the Multiple Man.

True to form, he remained nonviolent to the last.

“It’s a goddamn decoy!” Kinberg bellowed in complete frustration.

Cockrum could see that Trask was in an altogether opposite mood to their lone prisoner, looking like he wished to indulge in a lengthy session of ultraviolence.

The president spoke to him in concern: “Bolivar, if Magneto’s not there, then where the hell
is
he?”

Trask looked at the phone. The president looked at him. Trask grabbed the handset, but all he got was Hank’s voice mail. And when he called Xavier’s school, it was the same.

A crowd waited at the entrance to the hanger: Bobby, Kitty, Colossus, Angel, even McCoy. Storm was a bit behind, waiting by the
Blackbird.

Logan rolled his shoulders, trying to settle his uniform more comfortably. He preferred not to wear it, so it had never been broken in. Not like Ororo’s, which felt like kid gloves. The others were all suited up as well.

Kitty was grinning—she’d obviously saved a quip for this special occasion. “Remember how you told Bobby our uniforms were on order?”
Little girl,
he thought,
you weren’t even flamin’
there
!
“Well, guess what just came in the mail!”

“We’re coming with,” Bobby announced.

Logan snorted, his way of telling them in no uncertain terms,
The
hell
you are!

“We trained for this,” Peter Rasputin said, backing up his friend. “We’re ready.”

“Best offense is a good defense, right?” Ororo smiled from the plane, clearly enjoying every moment of Logan’s comeuppance.

Warren III stepped forward, visibly shy but refusing to give in to his fear. “They say Magneto’s going after my father,” he said, his voice shaking as much with outrage as nerve. “My
father
! He may be wrong, sir, but he’s not evil. I’m not going to leave him out there alone.”

Serious now, Ororo added to what Angel said, “This is our fight, Logan. Not just yours.”

He sighed. He didn’t want them to learn the realities of his life this way. Or ever.

“This isn’t gonna be like class,” he told them, looking one after the other in the eye, hoping they could see on his face, in his own eyes, what he was talking about, “or the Danger Room. It’s gonna be real battle. With blood and tears…and death.”

They were kids. Even if they thought they understood what he was talking about, they had no proper frame of reference. Hell, deep down inside, they
knew
they’d live forever; that’s why armies preferred their recruits young. Things like this could only be learned the hard way. It was a part of life that mirrored Worthington’s cure, in that once you crossed this Rubicon, you could never go back. What you saw, what you did, would stay with you forever.

“As much as we’ve lost in the last few days, that’s nothing compared to what’s on the line.”

Nobody moved. Nobody even blinked.

“We get on that plane, we’re not students and teachers anymore. We’re not kids and grown-ups. We’re soldiers.”

“We’re X-Men,” Bobby corrected. “All of us.”

He nodded, gestured to the
Blackbird.

“Get in, then. Let’s go.”

He had to look twice at McCoy’s uniform. He’d seen pictures in the archives and was thankful the school had moved on to something better. The design was form-fitting, akin to spandex, a dark brown leather pants- and-jacket combo, although the top was short-sleeved, with yellow bands on the shoulders. The X symbol was stitched in yellow and brown on the left front breast of the jacket.