Doom 2099UG #12

Tanzania-Kenya-Uganda Environmental and Conservation Cooperative (TKU)
Ground Assault Camp HQ

"This is War, gentlemen," Doom glared at TKU's military officers through crimson lenses. "There are no rules but one: only the strong will survive!" The officers looked to the General for confirmation, but Nyirenda was still shaking his head, in shock it seemed from the death of so many of his countrymen imprisoned by the SACC troops that had invaded their underground haven. Civilians and soldiers alike had been chained like animals to the sides of a half dozen devastating plasma cannons that the SACC forces had subsequently been using to prevent TKU ground troops from advancing on their position. The SACC had no doubt intended to use their prisoners like a human shield, but their evil intentions did not grant them immunity from Doom! The TKU's newest ally had surreptitiously fired their underground lasers upon the mobile cannon emplacements, indiscriminately incinerating the enemy's cannons along with their helpless prisoners [See Last issue!]. Now, they were truly at war with the SACC, and the General, who's title and position had been purely honorary up until this time, was being forced into making the life and death decisions that would ultimately affect his entire country.

The General looked back to the vid screen where the still smoking ruins of those now silent cannons were a grim reminder of his ultimate responsibility. He leaned heavily against the control board. "We cannot endure a lengthy campaign against the SACC," he admitted sullenly.

"You have forced our hand before we had time to prepare. We have neither the troops nor the resources to engage the SACC in full scale battle!"

"Neither does the SACC, General," Doom stepped up to the control board. "Even now, increases in economic sanctions will compel the SACC to re-evaluate their efforts in continuing this conflict. The time for preparation is past, you must steel your commitment in the depths of your courage or risk being swept under with the rising tide. Our next step is to push the advantage. Captain Skinner, pull back your troops from the border. The Messengers are not our chief concern, let them advance into the countryside if need be, they will be easily expelled later."

The Captain looked to the General, who was still silent.

Doom continued. "Commander, the SACC troops have set up some kind of supply route, your job will be to find it and cut them off."

Commander Girard turned to the strategic map on the central table. "That's a lot of ground to cover," he pointed out. "They could be coming from the east and the sea, or north over the border. But we haven't had any intelligence reports confirming any kind of organized military forces in northern Mozambique, other than the Reserve Guard at the border."

Doom looked over the map with a practiced eye. "Show me again the surveillance video from this area here," he said, pointing to one of the border towns south of TKU. The tech sitting at the control station obliged, and a holographic image of a busy factory town floated in the air before them. There were tall factory buildings towering above low squat houses and wide dirt streets. Trucks moved in and out of the factories, and smoke drifted lazily from rusty smokestacks. "Stop," Doom ordered. The image froze at his order. He pointed to a large building, similar in many ways to all of the others. "What is this building?" he asked no one in particular.

Colonel Moore answered, "That is factory 207, plastics and glass ware I believe," he answered.

"Hmm, I doubt that," Doom replied, eyeing the projection again. The hood of his green cloak cast his silver mask in shadow.

The Commander shook his head. "There is no reason to believe it is not," he commented.

"It is right there before you," Doom stated coldly. "As it has been all this time, if you'd only the eyes to see."

"I don't get it," Billy Sinclair stared up at the display, still cradling his wounded left arm. He had seen this scene a thousand times before. It seemed no different now than ever. "What do you see, Doom?"

"Unless the SACC has taken it upon themselves to control their environmental emissions voluntarily, after one hundred earth summits failed to force them to, yes, I would say that factory 207 is not what it appears to be on the city charters," Doom stated dryly.

Colonel Moore looked again, and was met with a sudden realization. "There's no smoke coming from the smokestacks!" he exclaimed.

Billy Sinclair looked closer, and sure enough, the Colonel was right.

"Focus your efforts on that building, Colonel," Doom ordered brusquely. "My guess is that the factory is serving as both housing and supply depots for the SACC organized forces. Reestablish video links along the border to search for additional anomalies. There may be more than one. Isolate and destroy the buildings, and the infidels who have invaded your warrens will be trapped like vermin to be exterminated at our leisure!"

"Lord Doom," one of the communications technicians hurried up to the brightly armored man. "An urgent communique from Myridia for you."

Doom eyed the boy with suspicion, then said harshly, "Find me a private terminal, boy."

The young soldier blushed with fear, "Uh, there aren't any," he said, "except in the General's tent."

"Well, that will have to do," Doom responded, as if no one could possibly object. He turned sharply on his heel and exited the command center without further fanfare.

The soldier turned to look at General Nyirenda. The elder statesman met the boy's glance, then nodded. "It's all right, Private," he said, "show Doom to my tent and give him whatever he needs."

"Yes, sir!" The Private responded with a smart salute, and hurried out of the tent to catch up to Doom.

"Pardon my asking, but what the hell are you doing, General?" Sinclair sidled slowly up to the gray-haired black man and tried to catch his eyes. "You're letting Doom walk all over us!" he complained quietly, "He's supposed to be our ally, not our King! I for one have not sworn fealty to that arrogant s.o.b!"

"His experience and knowledge have already turned the tide in our favor," the General responded grudgingly. "None of us here have the kind of battle expertise he brings. Christ, he single-handedly overthrew the controlling corporations in Latveria, Myridia and the US. I'm a botanist, Bill, and a weekend soldier at best. Would you have me step on his toes, and drive him away, when the TKU is so desperate for his help?"

"But what of the cost? How many of our friends will be lost to his rash actions and his callous disregard for the lives of our people?" Sinclair protested.

Nyirenda shook his head, but still would not meet the other man's gaze. "How many more lives would have been lost, had the SACC been allowed to advance?" He turned away from Sinclair, and faced his command team. "Contact the council members," he ordered. "Now that we know who the true enemy is, we must plan our next move, before the SACC counterstrikes."

Sinclair watched as the General's orders were carried out, and secretly wondered if he had unknowingly brought a wolf into the lamb's fold.

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Mr. Ryan from the Myridian foreign relations team was giving his report from the media center in Chenaya. His face appeared in a close-up on the vid monitor, and his eyes showed genuine concern behind thick round glasses. "The ads hit c-space no more than an hour ago, and already our receptionists have been swamped with calls. New orders have fallen almost 15 percent, and some of our more established clients are worried as well. The main stream media isn't treating it as anything more than slick propaganda, but they are downplaying the SACC's apartheid stance so that hasn't helped the public's perception any. Even one of our field offices in New York is being picketed by left-wing FTW * [*Feed the World] rock groupies. I don't think anyone is taking them seriously, but these things often start small."

Doom stood in the dark tent, arms crossed over his chest as he listened to the report. "Play the clip," he stated solemnly.

"Yes, Lord," Mr. Ryan answered obligingly.

Ryan's face was replaced on the screen by a panoramic view of a nameless, primitive village. There were some dismal huts on a dirt plain, and several tall black women holding emaciated babies, in conditions that could only be called horrific. A cluster of wretched children, their tummies bulging from famine and their eyes bright with fear stared up into the camera, flies buzzing unheeded around their faces. Over this picture of hopelessness and despair a narrator was railing viciously against the Myridian government for denying the poor South Africans with much needed food and medical supplies. The picture switched to an aerial view of the Myridian governmental palace, a beautiful modern building and a stark contrast to the huts shown in the arid African desert. Then back to the dead and dying alongside a filthy stream somewhere in Africa, and an inset picture of Doom. Doom's eyes narrowed angrily behind his mask, as he saw the grainy reproduction that showed him in one of his less than regal televised moments, holding up the corpse of Avataar as he cursed at the American public for their insolence. The unflattering moment was taken from his short-lived reign as President of the United States [see Doom 2099 #31], and he had been barely cognizant of the words he had spoken then as he struggled to control the hallucinogenic effect of the drugs that Avataar had infected him with.

The narrator continued, linking Doom with Myridia and placing the blame for Africa's plight squarely on his shoulders. "Myridian Data Storage and Management Companies profit from South Africa's misfortune! You can make a difference! Boycott Myridian products, and tell that evil despot Doom to go to Hel!"

"I've seen enough," Doom stated dispassionately. He leaned on the console and stared up at Ryan's face as the aide reappeared on the vid screen. "Where did this announcement originate?" he asked.

"As far as we can tell," Mr. Ryan answered, searching through his files, "it didn't come from the SACC directly. It first appeared in the States. Initial reports may link it to a Chicago- based company."

"Herod." Doom spoke the name with palpable vehemence.

"Sir?" Mr. Ryan asked quizzically.

Doom ignored his query. Herod, his old adversary was at it again, attempting to undermine his position on the world board. His blood began to boil, but the smear campaign was a tiny effort, and one that would likely not have any lasting impact on Myridian economic recovery. Still, it was a bad time. Of course, Herod knew that. Doom would have to devise some equal annoyance for Herod's future displeasure. He wasn't about to let even a minor slight go without repentance.

"Prepare a counter campaign." Doom ordered. "Have the PR staff get it on the net within the hour, Mr. Ryan. Divert the necessary funds, but don't Spielberg it. Nip it in the bud, and I will deal with Herod later." Doom terminated the transmission and the tent was cast once more in darkness. Only his red eyepieces glowed hauntingly in the shadows.

"You have picked the wrong time to push my buttons, John Herod," he said bitterly to himself. "You may not live long enough to regret that." The threat spoken, but not forgotten, Doom marched purposefully out of the General's tent.

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Billy Sinclair had managed to commandeer a hover truck, and was ferrying Doom toward the kopje where the mysterious bone that had started this misadventure was originally found. He was secretly hoping that he could keep Doom away from the command center long enough for the officers to rethink their decision to let the armored despot have control over their war efforts. They had met while Doom took the call from Myridia, and over Sinclair's unheeded objections had unanimously appointed Doom as their chief military advisor. Doom had unceremoniously accepted the position, but Sinclair was convinced that Doom really wanted more from TKU than a seat on the cabinet. Perhaps more like the entire cabinet itself! Sinclair looked over at his passenger, who stood in the truck like Germany's General Rommel of World War II, surveying the plain ahead as if he owned it. "What have I gotten us into?" he thought bleakly.

"You look as though you are enjoying the thought of war," Sinclair spoke plainly.

"War?" Doom said musingly. "War is not something to be enjoyed, but to be avoided. Your limited experience of this dismal century cannot begin to grasp the true meaning of the word. The vast campaigns, the horrific death toll, and the brutal skirmishes that comprised the great wars of the twentieth century have been lost to this generation, buried in the amusements of simulation games, to be philandered with like chess pieces, awash in artificial blood and fleeting glimpses of maimed bodies. True war is an ordeal of the spirit and the land unlike any other, one that tears at the soul as it rends the flesh and breeds destruction of everything in its path. There is no 'do over' in war. It is an atrocity which mankind must be made to remember, from time to time, so as to be appreciative of the serenity that peace brings."

"You speak of war like someone who's familiar with it," Sinclair commented.

"I have lived with the specter of war since my birth," Doom admitted candidly. "As a king, it has been my foremost goal to keep the threat of war forever at bay. That is not always possible, in the face of an implacable aggressor."

Sinclair recalled the necrotoxification of Doom's native Latveria, and was respectfully silent.

"This, however," Doom continued without pause, "this is not an honorable contest where men of valor test their mettle on the field of battle. I would rather let loose the dogs of war and challenge our opponent in a decisive confrontation, than suffer the insidious lurking of vermin that strike and retreat! Instead we are tormented by vile jackals, nipping at the heels of progress as if a single bite would curb their ravenous appetite to destroy all that is unsullied and virtuous left in the world. They are the breeders of chaos! They eat away at your borders, worrying the beast in the darkness until it either falls, or strikes back with righteous fury! Striking with horn and cloven hoof to push the jackals once more back into their earthen dens, bloodied by their defeat but beaten only until the disreputable mongrels forget their terrible wounds, and driven by their hunger venture forth to torment the noble beast once more."

Sinclair half listened to Doom's speech as he drove across the wide plain, but something in the grass ahead made him slow the vehicle cautiously. A half dozen vultures were circling the sky above them, and he was beginning to see the object of their interest. Objects, he thought grimly, as his heart leapt into his throat with choking grief, and anger. "You might want to modify your metaphor, Doom," he said sullenly. "Even jackals aren't this bloodthirsty."

Sinclair halted the vehicle and grabbed his gun. He jumped down onto the ground, and noted with disdain that even the grasses were soaked with blood. Doom followed him silently, until they stood together on the dark plain, in the middle of a massive and senseless slaughter.

Surrounding the two men on all sides were the bodies of thousands of dead animals, their corpses still warm, blood flowing freely from horrible wounds. This was the great herd, the migratory beasts that had crossed this country since time immortal. Sinclair recognized wildebeest, zebra, gazelle and buffalo among the dead. These animals had not been hunted by men with guns in more than fifty years, and here they had been slaughtered merely for sport. Sinclair walked through the fallen animals, piecing together what had happened with an expert's eye. The herd had been grazing, marching slowly up the wide valley as they did each and every year at this time. The bucks were on the lookout, standing separate from the does as their sharp eyes and ears and noses scanned the open grasslands for familiar predators. Perhaps they smelled the presence of man. Too far away to cause them alarm, they would have ignored that foreign scent. The first animal to fall only spooked those standing near it, frightened by the sudden smell of blood, but unaccustomed to death that strikes from afar. There were no rushing lions, no hyaenas worrying their calves. The animals were loathe to flee, the grass was good here, and water was nearby. More of their brethren fell, some moaning from terrible wounds that spurted blood, others killed instantly and falling onto the grass with a lifeless thud. Ears and noses now were twitching, the first hint of panic spreading among the herd. Small explosions in the ground at their feet caused them to jump and clump closer together in a reflexive herding instinct. They milled together nervously, too frightened now to graze, on the verge of a stampede, but uncertain as to the direction their flight should take. Some of them dropped dead in the middle of the herd, others suddenly struggled to stand, writhing on the ground, crying and bellowing as shattered legs buckled beneath them. Now the herd gathered a singular momentum and charged blindly across the grass. Still the silent death followed them, killing them in mid- stride until confused, the herd turned and changed direction, fleeing from what they knew not.

Three times the herd set off in one direction, only to stop and stand in confusion before setting off in a new direction, as more of their members fell dead in a cascade of blood and churning dirt. Finally the surviving animals had escaped, fleeing headlong into the forest where the bullets would not find them, leaving the dead and dying to litter the grassy plain.

Sinclair clenched his jaw as he bent down to examine a large Sable antelope. Round black eyes stared lifelessly into the clear blue sky. It's long graceful antlers rose out of its skull in a spiral of sharp black bone. Nothing in this animal's life could have prepared it for this ignoble death. "God in heaven," Sinclair muttered, "what a bloody shocking waste." He could think of nothing more acrimonious to say, appalled by the scene before him.

"This species," Doom said slowly, a sad curiosity in his metallic voice, "the Sable Antelope, was nearly extinct in my time. A hundred years ago, all that was left was a single pair of animals in a zoo in Johannesburg."

Billy remained crouched by the fallen antelope. "A lot can happen in a hundred years," he answered evasively. "The TKU's mission was to breed the endangered and dying animals of Africa, and to provide them a safe refuge. The Sable Antelope is one of many species that were recovered in this way."

"I am fully cognizant of your mission," Doom stated churlishly. "I also recall basic genetic biology. Two individuals of a species cannot make a viable population, contrary to the belief in the Old Testament's tale of Noah and the Ark. Additionally, my recollection of the last pair of Sable Antelope is that they were both male, hardly the building blocks for a successful breeding program."

Billy stood up and faced the taller man confidently. "Let's just say that our scientists were very clever in how they manipulated those building blocks," he answered.

Doom's response, if any, was drowned by the sudden sharp singing shriek of superheated plasma fire. Billy instinctively hit the deck, intuitively focusing in on the direction of the attack, as he tried to forget the pain in his wounded left side. Doom, amazingly enough, simply stepped out of the way of the red golden beam as if he knew exactly where it was aimed. Yet despite his timely avoidance, the destructive energy did not miss all of its intended targets. Instead of flesh, it slammed forcefully into the hover truck parked a few meters away. The old truck exploded dramatically in a huge arc of blue flame, sending chunks of burning metal skyward like a hyperactive fireworks display. Billy covered his head as tiny flaming bits rained down from above. When the initial blast had cleared, he raised his head, trying to get a fix on the location of the enemy while prudently keeping his head down.

He needn't have worried. Despite their exposed position out on the open plain, Doom stood fearlessly exposed, resplendent in his silver and blue armor. His green cloak fanned majestically in the breeze behind him, billowing out around him as if to say, "Here's your target, take your best shot!" Yet Doom made no move to seek cover, and his bold ploy seemed to be working. Sinclair knew that it would take the SACC a few minutes to recharge that plasma gun (assuming of course that they only had the one), and in the meantime the soldiers were too tempted by that six and a half foot target to wait. They began taking pot shots at Doom, and in so doing, quickly revealed their hidden position.

"Scurrilous dogs!" Doom shouted, as his computerized targeting systems quickly zeroed in on their location. Their simple lasers and armor piercing rounds bounced harmlessly off of his adamantium lanxide alloy armor, but they would not fare so well under his own assault.

From his silver gauntlets, he began a barrage of blue energy beams that saturated the enemy's position. The plasma gun fired again, and he barely stepped out of it's way, the edges of his cloak singed by the liquid heat. Yet his violent retaliation barely slowed, and the firepower from both sides increased as Doom marched confidently toward the enemy's hiding place.

"Shocking bloody suicidal maniac!" Sinclair muttered as he crouched behind a dead buffalo and took careful aim on the enemy in the distance. He adjusted slightly for his wounded left arm, juggling the old rifle awkwardly at first. The soldiers were hiding behind a small hill some 300 meters distant, and so intent were they now in firing upon Doom that Sinclair easily targeted them up in his telescopic sight. He lined up the crosshairs and fired without hesitation, his anger at the slaughter of the animals still fresh in his heart. Only when Doom marched into his line of sight did he think of abandoning his bloated bunker and chase after the determined Latverian.

Whatever weapons the SACC troops were throwing at the armored monarch were in vain. Close enough now to target individuals, Doom picked off the soldiers with unerring accuracy, blowing holes in their chests the size of watermelons, and severing limbs and heads with equal brutality. He was surrounded in a halo of laser fire that only served to heighten his already formidable appearance. The plasma gun fired once more, and this time, having sufficiently analyzed its light frequency, Doom adjusted his personal shields and simply deflected that deadly fire. His next salvo melted the huge gun, and incinerated the two men who were operating it.

Sinclair hurried to catch up to Doom, crouching low and stopping every few steps to pick off a few more of the enemy troops with his old but effectively deadly rifle. The seemingly impervious Doom continued to stride purposefully up the hill ahead of him, firing mercilessly upon any SACC soldier who dared raise his head above the grasses. The return fire grew increasingly more sporadic, until by the time Sinclair crested the hill several meters behind Doom, the plain had once again grown as silent as the death which it now bathed in anew. Sinclair crouched at the top of the hill and surveyed the carnage with his gun at the ready. Before him were the dead and dying remains of a platoon of SACC troops. There were at least forty dead by his estimation, and two plasma gun installations lay smoking on the burnt grass. Doom stood dispassionately at the center of it all.

"Fools," Doom stated coldly. Then he turned to his TKU guide. "Tell me, what do you see, Mr. Sinclair?" Doom asked calmly, as if quizzing him on the world capitals.

"A bloody awful mess and I'm shocking crazy if I truck with you any longer!" Sinclair yelled at him angrily. "Some of us aren't armor plated you know! I could have been killed back there!"

"Appropriate reparations would have been made, had you suffered injury," Doom answered unemotionally. He asked again, "What do you see?"

Sinclair shouldered his weapon and looked at the bodies around him. "Well," he started with a sigh, "these are definitely SACC troops by the uniform. And they're the regular troops, not the reserves," he added, scratching his chin. "They're all white, so that means that the Messengers aren't part of this group, just as you suspected."

"Obviously. What else?"

"Shock, I don't know . . . wait," Sinclair scanned the horizon. "What in the shock were they doing here?" There was nothing out here on this open plain, not a building or an outcropping of rock nor a stream of water to define the plain with the exception of the small hill they had used for cover. It was as insignificant a location as anyplace he could think of. If they hadn't stopped the hover truck, he would have flown right past them without ever knowing they were there. But it wasn't a regularly traveled route, so it was hardly an ideal spot for any kind of ambush.

"Exactly," Doom answered. "There has to be an access to the underground from here."

"Out here?" Sinclair scoffed. "I don't think so!"

"You know the warrens well?"

"Passably well," Sinclair offered immediately. "This is far too southwest for any of the outlying tunnels of Cavalier Warren. Maybe, two miles to the east of here we'd find the closest warrens, beginning with Dr. Norbitt's lab and the rest of the genetics triangle."

"Perhaps, but these soldiers were not defending this position for the grass," Doom countered. "There must be a tunnel opening here! Find it!" he ordered. Sinclair didn't like being ordered, but Doom had a point. He examined the markings on the earth between and around the fallen bodies. An expert tracker, he put together their patterns, new and old, until he defined a kind of path in the soft earth. He stooped down, lifting one corpse half off of the ground, then repositioned himself to move the body further out of the way. There was something there! He pushed away some of the dirt with his hand, and came across a metal latch!

"Hey! Over here!" he yelled out to Doom. A shadow fell over him, and he knew that the Latverian was behind him. Without looking back he felt around in the dirt until he was certain of the hatch's dimensions, and finding a looped metal handle, he pulled with all his strength until the round hatch began to lift up from the ground. "Careful," he said, "there might be more of them down there . . . Whoa!" Billy fell backwards from the opening as bright yellow bursts of laser fire came shooting out of the hole. "Bloody hell!" he shouted, scurrying away from the round tunnel that plummeted far into the depths below the earth. The lasers stopped for a moment, but as soon as he edged his head over the opening, they started up again. "Now what?" he asked.

Doom stood beside the opening, silently judging. "How deep are the tunnels?" he asked.

"Thirty-three meters," Sinclair replied. "Usually. Don't know about out here, though. Like I said, there aren't supposed to be any tunnels out this far. What are you planning to do?"

"I'm going to find a back door," Doom replied coolly.

"A . . . backdoor?" Sinclair looked at him quizzically. "And what am I supposed to do?"

"Pray that it really is thirty-three meters," Doom answered, and Billy looked on in astonishment as Doom slowly slipped beneath the grass, and floated into the earth like some ungodly specter. Suddenly he was gone. There was silence. A shadow passed again over Sinclair, this time from a lone cloud scuttling across the blue sky. He watched as the shadow traced the frayed landscape and then disappeared, much like Doom had done. The sound of laser fire and men screaming wafted up from the portal beside him, drawing his attention back to the deep hole.

Sinclair looked cautiously over the edge. More laser fire, then silence. He could see nothing in the pitch darkness below him, until Doom ignited some lighting mechanism, and that unmistakable mask appeared. He gestured, and Sinclair shouldered his gun and slipped carefully into the manhole, to make the rather mundane trip down the ladder.

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TKU Genetics Lab
Cavalier Warren West

"Did you hear something?" Musleh started up from his cot in the corner of the lab. He grabbed a weapon, and stood, looking toward the rear tunnels.

"There's nothing back there but rats," Lupe muttered, not looking up from her computer console. She looked worn and haggard, like she hadn't slept in a day. She was working on a tiny electronic mechanism that she attached to the forehead of the big lion. The lion's newest best friend, Bodo, the wounded boy from Mozambique, looked up from where he lay sleepily against the lion's side.

"What is that?" Bodo asked the Doctor curiously. He lazily scratched the bandage that covered the scar over his heart.

"It's nothing," Lupe stated distractedly. "Part of Len's treatment," she added hastily, "so that when he returns to the wild he won't eat people anymore."

"Oh," Bodo answered. He patted the lion's thick mane, but the sleepy cat just snorted a little at the intrusion, and his big head rested easily on his giant paws.

"Where's my pen?" Lupe asked with annoyance.

Musleh walked toward the tunnel entrance to the lab. "I am certain that I heard something," he stated. He readied his weapon, opening the door to the lab as he cautiously scanned the vacant tunnels beyond, all senses alert. At the sound of a distant hatch being opened he instinctively brought the gun to his shoulder, his finger tensing on the trigger. The tousled brown hair that appeared in the open hatchway was instantly familiar, and Musleh dropped his aim with visible relief as the face of his friend Billy Sinclair came into view.

"Don't shoot! It's me!" Sinclair shouted as he pushed his way through. But the warning was not necessary, for Musleh had already lowered his gun. The old hatch in the tunnel wall was stiff, not having been used in years, and it would not open all the way, but Sinclair managed to squeeze through. He hurried forward to greet his friend.

"Is everyone ok?" Sinclair asked. "Any more word from the rest of Cavalier East?"

"We are doing fine," Musleh answered, "the shield doors appear to be holding back the invaders. The warrens to the east have been compromised, my friend, there has been no word from there in hours. Welcome home, such that it is."

"Thanks Musleh."

"How did you get through? We had thought the tunnels to the west were unpassable?"

"Not so," Sinclair answered. "The SACC troops apparently found a way in. There are tunnels back there that I had no idea even existed, but the SACC has apparently been using some sort of high powered satellite infrared imaging to map out the tunnels. Look at this," he showed Musleh a palm-sized computer with a flip up display as they entered the lab. On it was a maze of lines and colors that showed tunnels and aboveground openings for miles beneath the African plains. "I took this off of one of the dead soldiers. I wouldn't have been able to find my way back here without it! They've used these displays to coordinate their attack, and it looks like they've got us boxed in!"

"It is amazing that you were able to get through, Billy," Musleh said in genuine wonder.

"I had help," Sinclair admitted, gesturing with a thumb back at the hatch through which he'd entered. "Doom is still back there, setting up a cave-in to keep the enemy at bay from that direction. We were lucky," he added, "another hour and they would have invaded the labs through that hatch!"

"Doom . . . Is he here?" Lupe asked, her eyes scanning the space behind Sinclair.

"In a minute," Sinclair answered, then, sensing something was wrong with the woman, he asked, "Is everything all right, Dr. Norbitt?" His brow was creased in puzzlement. She seemed disheveled, perhaps distraught, and uncharacteristically disorganized.

"Fine," she answered unconvincingly, turning away to grab a remote control device from her desk as she continued to eye the door suspiciously.

There was a muffled boom behind them that made them all jump. Sinclair and Musleh instinctively leveled guns at the door. But when Sinclair reached to cautiously open the lab door, the Latverian monarch strode purposefully through. Behind him, the recalcitrant hatchway to the distant tunnels had been blown off of its hinges.

Doom assessed the lab in one quick glance, then motioned back to the tunnels with a nonchalant wave of his armored hand. "There will be no need to be concerned with attack from that direction," he announced arrogantly.

Just as Sinclair and Musleh lowered their guns however, something unexpected happened. The next few moments seemed to move in slow motion, catching the three men standing at the doorway completely unaware. From where it had been peacefully resting, the big lion suddenly rose up, and with practiced precision and steely strength it gathered its limbs beneath it and leaped directly at Doom! There was a curious fire in those brown eyes, and deadly intent in long white fangs and extended claws. Sinclair had seen this scene once before, and was well aware of the lion's objective. But this time there wasn't enough time to bring his gun to bear. Both he and Musleh instinctively fell back from that tawny, toothy missile. Doom stepped back only slightly, and raised his arms to brace against the impact. The big lion slammed into the armored man like a freight train, but somehow Doom remained standing. When Sinclair looked up from where he had fallen, it was to see the lion trying to bite through Doom's head, just as Doom was pushing it away. The Latverian had one hand on the beast's throat, and another on its paw, while the animal bore down with all its strength and weight, bringing clawed feet up to rake the body of its intended prey. For a moment the two combatants were suspended like that, like a frieze from a medieval escutcheon, neither willing to back down. Then Doom pushed off with an audible grunt, and the big cat went flying backward to the other side of the lab where it crashed into some tables and scientific equipment. Sinclair was instantly scrambling to his feet, bringing his gun to his shoulder and positioning himself between Doom and the lion. "What the bloody hell is going on here?!" he screamed as he sighted on the lion. There were no stun charges in his gun this time. If he fired, it would mean death for the magnificent animal.

"What manner of insult is this!" Doom bellowed angrily. "Stand back, Sinclair, while I deal with this beast myself!"

Sinclair saw the charge on Doom's gauntlets out of the corner of his eye, but he neither moved out of the way nor lowered his weapon.

"Nooo!" Bodo cried from the back of the room as he leaped toward the lion and directly in the line of fire. The lion was shaking itself free of the jumble of equipment it had smashed into and its growl filled the lab with a low angry rumble. Its eyes fixed once more on Doom.

"Lupe! What's happening?!" Sinclair yelled over at Dr. Norbitt. "Control the animal before it or someone else gets hurt!"

Dr. Norbitt appeared behind her workbench, a look of hurt and confusion on her face. The lion roared, and Bodo screamed again as the big cat effortlessly pushed the black boy that stood in his way to the ground with one paw. Both Doom and Sinclair readied their weapons. Then, as suddenly as the attack had begun, it was over. The lion shook its big shaggy head and it's body and features suddenly relaxed. Then it turned around, and walked obediently into its cage, immediately lying down and closing its eyes as if nothing had happened. Musleh leaped forward to close and lock the cage door.

"That was a most unusual behavior," Musleh said with characteristic understatement.

"Lupe? What's going on?!" Sinclair asked.

The black woman set down the controller she had used to make the lion attack. Her eyes filled with unbidden tears that she struggled to contain. Her face screwed up in internal agony as she faced her friends. "Him!" she struggled with the words. She looked at Doom from across her lab bench, hatred in her eyes. "He's the one . . . he's the one who murdered my father! Right here, in this lab! I was there! I saw it all!" She threw the controller at Doom. The mechanism shattered against the wall beside him. Doom did not even flinch. His silver mask was cold and silently expressionless.

"I assure you Dr. Norbitt that it was not I who killed your father," Doom replied with calm disdain. "I have never before been in this lab."

"Oh, it was you all right!" Lupe protested. "Your armor was different, the cloak was red, not green, but I remember you well enough! You didn't know I was here, but I was hiding. Fourteen years ago, you walked in here just like that and broke my father's back! He didn't die right away, that took three more years. But you just might as well have killed him out right! I swore if I ever saw you again, I would make you pay! But . . . I . . . I failed . . ." The tears came now as deep sobs of sorrow and frustration forced her to turn away. Musleh stepped up to comfort the doctor.

"Is it true?" Sinclair asked. "Is what she said true? Were you here before?"

"Perhaps there is the morsel of truth in her tale," Doom replied. "It could be that the mysterious bone you uncovered has its part in that truth."

"Have you or have you not been here before?" Sinclair demanded. "I want the truth!"

"Watch your tone, Mr. Sinclair," Doom answered angrily. "I have endured great indignity upon my person this day, and my patience is wearing thin! No, I have never met the late Dr. Norbitt nor have I before this day had the somewhat dubious pleasure of his daughter's acquaintance. My memories of the past are not entirely clear, but of this I am certain. As for the other, it would be a lie if I said I had never been here before."

"But you just said you'd never been in the lab!"

"That is true. The warrens have changed considerably in the last seventy years."

"Seventy . . . ? What do you mean?"

"Tell me, Mr. Sinclair, do the history records identify who the "Founders" of the TKU were?"

"Well, no, not really. Just a consortium of scientists is all that I know about."

"And the funding?"

Sinclair looked at Doom with a perplexed expression on his face. "An anonymous benefactor, interested in the well being of the wildlife and the genetics research."

"Ah, how quickly they forget," Doom mused quietly. He walked over to a computer station on the wall, and began accessing some of the files.

"What the shock are you doing now?" Sinclair answered.

"Patience, Mr. Sinclair," Doom stated with calm indifference. "All of your questions will be answered in a moment. I myself wasn't completely sure until I saw the tunnel diagrams so conveniently supplied by your enemies. Then, it was clear to me that there was only one genius who could create such a perfect underground milieu. I had always expected that this facility would be of use in the future." The computer monitor booted up to the program he was searching for, and he brought it carefully online. "Good evening, PAD," he spoke to the computer.

The computer processed the voice instantaneously, and answered, "Good evening, Doctor Doom. How may I assist you?"

"Defensive capabilities are currently at 68.4%. Initiate self-diagnostic program ZYGOTE-1 and began repair protocols."

"Yes, Master. Working. There are a number of intruders in the warrens and outer tunnels. How do you wish to proceed?" The computer's voice was hushed and pleasant. On a monitor, it displayed areas that had been compromised.

"How long before repair protocols bring the station back to full capacity?"

"Estimate full capacity in 153 minutes."

"153 minutes? That's all?!" Sinclair was stunned. "Some of those systems have been down for seven years!"

"PAD is fully capable of all essential repairs, given the appropriate input," Doom answered, then addressed the computer again. "Proceed with repairs, we will address the intruders when systems are fully operational." He reached over and turned off the intercom.

"How do you know all this?" Sinclair asked incredulously.

"That should be obvious by now," Doom answered as he slowly walked away. He turned around to address Sinclair over his shoulder. "I built it."

To Be Continued . . .

        ". . . steel my soldiers' hearts;
                Possess them not with fear; take from them now
                        The sense of reckoning, if the opposed numbers
                                Pluck their hearts from them."
                                        --- Henry V by Wm. Shakespeare

Next: Is Doom telling the truth? And what would the Doctor Doom of our time want with a really big zoo anyway? Who was the guy in the red cape that killed Dr. Norbitt's father? And if Doom owns the TKU, will he ask for past due rent payments? Will we ever find those bones?? The stage is set, true believers, for revelations galore! Don't miss "SINS OF THE FATHER, Part Three"!



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