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August 19, 1942. "Aw, Dino! Are ya tryin' to get us all killed!?" Sgt. Nick Fury stood only inches in front of Pvt. Dino Minelli, shouting with the considerable volume of his voice directly at the young private.
"Those charges were set to go off at 14:32, not 14:31! You do that on Adolph's doorstep and you'll manage ta kill more Howlers than the whole blamed German Army! You got me, soldier?"
"Yes, sir!"
"Now the rest of you," Fury turned away as Dino's shoulders slumped. "We're gonna double-time it back to barracks and then we're gonna inspect locker boxes, and then we're gonna do another combat practice, and that's cause I'm so blasted good-natured!"
The seven Howling Commandos turned, grumbling, and started running the five miles back to their base in the south of England. Fury, cold and hard, brought up the rear, keeping an eye on his men. In front of him, the deflated Dino Minelli jogged determinedly, his film-star features set grimly on the road ahead. Reb Ralston, the southerner whose plantation manners were lost in combat, ran ahead of him along with the Brit, Percy Pinkerton. Gabriel Jones, with his ever-present trumpet, and Izzy Cohen - both New Yorkers - ran side-by-side, talking. Dum Dum Dugan, the mountainous Corporal who had made his living as a circus strong man before the war, ran ahead at point.
When they passed the check-point guard at the base, they stopped. Captain "Happy Sam" Sawyer, the man who had recruited them each individually from various Ranger and Airborne battalions, stood up in his jeep. The vehicle blocked the road, half sunk in the British mud, and the `deuce and a half' truck behind it started its engine.
"Fury, when you're done taking your kiddies on a nature walk, why don't you get your sorry behind over here?"
The sergeant jogged over to Sawyer and saluted. "What's up, Sam?"
"Dad-blast it Fury, it's `Captain Sawyer' to you! Get your bunch of gold-bricks into the truck! I'll explain when we get where we're going!"
Fury turned to his men: "Alright you bunch of panty-waists! They ain't payin' us by the hour! Move it!"
The Howlers piled into the truck. The driver found a gear and lurched forward following Sawyer's jeep. They traveled over an hour on the bumpy English back road, the rain starting to come down in an afternoon drizzle. Their equipment was waiting for them in the truck, and they were in full combat gear by the time it stopped.
They filed wearily into the briefing room and took seats around the covered map table. Sawyer was last in, and locked the door behind him.
"You bunch of star-gazing glamour boys have got the best assignment in the war." The seven men sat back and sighed at the same time. They all knew Sawyer's idea of a `good' mission. It usually involved a lot of bullets headed their way.
He took the covering off the table. It was a map of France, with a line traced from the Mediterranean to the Atlantic coast around Calais. There were spots marked at intervals along the line.
"Okay, here it is. Churchill's been giving De Gaulle a bunch of grief about the French resistance, as in the complete lack of one. De Gaulle's office says they don't have enough men or supplies to resist effectively. They're waiting for us to go in and do the resisting for them. Since you jokers are Winnie's favorite Commandos, you get the vacation in the south of France."
Sawyer pointed to the Mediterranean coast. "Your mission is to make your way from here to Calais; you'll liaise with the resistance at these spots," Sawyer pointed to the dots on the map, "and do maximum damage to the German occupation forces. The idea is that we tell the Free French: look what our seven guys can do - what can your seven thousand do?"
"What's our exit point, Sam?"
"You make your way to Calais and steal a boat. The Royal Navy will pick you up in the channel - if the U-Boats and the E-Boats don't get you first."
Sawyer looked around the room. He knew there was fear, as there was fear in all men, but he couldn't detect it on any of the Howler's faces. These men were special.
"You'll meet up with Major Beaudry of Free France once you get to Gibraltar. You leave in ten minutes." The Captain covered the map and left the room for Fury's men to have the solitude of their thoughts. It would be their last quiet moment for the next few months.
Fury fished a fresh cigar out of his pack and lit it. The Howlers looked at him, and then started writing letters home. They knew what the cigar meant.
"Boys," Fury said quietly while examining his cigar, "We got another meat grinder."
They were out the door in nine minutes, and another hour in the creaky, wet truck brought them to a small airfield. They hopped out as a C-47 transport plane warmed up on the runway. Fury snapped a salute at Sawyer, who returned it. The Howlers boarded the plane. The engines roared to full power, and the aircraft started down the runway.
Sam Sawyer held his hat on his head as the prop-wash blew past him. He felt a sinking, nauseous sensation in his gut. A lump rose in his throat as he realized he probably wouldn't see the Howlers again in this life. The mission they had accepted with such nonchalance was nothing short of suicide. British MI-10 said there would be German super-powered soldiers in the landing area. Even without them this would be a one-way trip.
Sawyer rubbed his tired eyes as he watched the C-47 take off. When it was gone, he got back in his jeep and drove back toward the Ranger base. He had to plan the next mission for Bull McGivney's Marauders.
August 19, 1998. The clouds at high altitude were a burnt azure, forming shelves on shelves that only stopped when the atmosphere grew too thin to support them. For humans, it was a lonely place to be, inhabited only by the air itself and the occasional trans-Pacific aircraft, or sometimes a tern peeking its head through to see what was above.
The symmetry and solitude were broken as a gigantic vehicle pierced the smoothness of the cloud ceiling. The SHIELD helicarrier, a 300,000-ton droning city block of an aircraft, peaked above the clouds and came level in the morning glare of the sun. Its four main rotors lifted it gently but powerfully into the upper atmosphere. The top was a curved landing surface for aircraft, completely automated. No man could survive the sledgehammer winds of the extreme altitude. An entourage of advanced F-24 fighters buzzed around like busy gnats.
In the boardroom, in the aft compartment away from the four primary engine mounts and eight nuclear reactors, Nick Fury silently read the report in front of him. G.W. Bridge sipped his coffee at the other end of the table, lost in his own thoughts.
Finally, Fury looked up from the paper and closed the thick folder. "I'm assuming this ain't a joke."
"It's serious enough, Fury. It's what I inherited from you."
"I never approved this," Fury tossed the file across the table disdainfully. "Maybe it was done under my nose, but I didn't approve it."
"I'm glad to hear that, because I have a few ideas on how to remedy the situation. Are you game?"
"I'm in. If it was done on my watch I'm responsible. What've you got in mind?"
Bridge touched the button on his wrist communicator. "Bring it in."
The door slid open and three SHIELD administrators marched in carrying charts, displays, and more thick sheaves of paper. They set it all carefully down and left without saying a word.
"Don't tell me. Yer gonna keep giving me reports until I surrender. They tried that once in Berlin in nineteen-fifty..."
"Very humourous, Fury. You should do more stand up. Are you ready to work?"
"Okay. Waddaya got?"
Bridge took the largest folder and slid it across the shiny, brown maple table. Fury caught it and opened it.
"Those are the agents who won't be working for us tomorrow. Most are freelancers who've been doing some dirty work for SHIELD over the past decade. You'll notice several costume-wearing individuals. Some were blackmailed or otherwise coerced into working for us."
"I don't get it. None of these costumes has half the firepower or a quarter the brains of a SHIELD armored attack team. Look at this one: they hired the Toad, for crying out loud. I wouldn't let that bum wash my hover-car, and they got him doin' covert ops."
"I think they were used mostly for deniability, Fury. Of course we'll never know. Decisions like these were made at the regional level; there's no way to pinpoint the source."
"Okay, let's get this done. I agreed to come back and work with you, Bridge, but I ain't gonna be a paper-pusher. SHIELD needs a professional administrator, not an old spook who'd rather be busting AIM than filling out a supply requisition."
"Agreed. I can handle that end. Can you keep us sharp operationally? Ready for anything from AIM to Godzilla?"
"You always gotta rub it in that I caught Godzilla, don't you? Okay Bridge, you keep us on the straight and narrow, I'll keep us sharp."
"Fine. I'll inform the Directors."
The next day was a busy one for SHIELD. A quarter of their manpower received early retirement and other severance packages. Another quarter was fired. Fifty were arrested.
In Hong Kong, three members of the Peoples Security Council disappeared. The organization had worked to supply information on pro-democracy groups to the communist Chinese government. It also had become a world power in the opium trade, and was feared by enemies and friends alike. At 12:15 a.m., within three hours of the disappearances, all PSC members were arrested in their homes. Their warehouses, filled with opium and heroin, were taken over by the Chinese military. One independent newspaper on the island reported that SHIELD had run the PSC, and SHIELD had shut it down with the help of the government. The newspaper folded the next day, its editors deported.
In Brazzaville, a meeting of former Congolese security agents was interrupted. The house they used as a barracks was emptied and the tons of explosives in the basement dissolved by some kind of acid. It formed a liquid pool that smelled of chestnuts and chocolate. The substance drained into the Congo river and sizzled before disappearing completely. The hundred or so Belgian white supremacists were never seen or heard from again.
All over the globe, the invisible hand of SHIELD was at work. Agents were removed from longstanding assignments, their behavior scrutinized. Some were reassigned, some were let go, some were turned over to the world court at the Hague for trial.
In Lewiston, Maine, at the campus of a highly prestigious small college, Ben Percival opened the door to his dorm room, exhausted. It had been a grueling week, mentally and physically. He'd just finished his physics paper - the one he would present to the international conference next month - and football practice hadn't made his life any easier. There was a lot of pressure on him to break the school rushing record in the game tomorrow, but to Ben it was just fun.
He turned on the light, and saw a man sitting on the chair by his bed. In his middle thirties, the man was thin but solidly built, wore a bow tie, and his hair was cut in the old style - a blond flat top with brushed sides. For all that, he had an endearingly boyish smile and no shortage of freckles. He rose quickly and extended his hand.
"I'm Jasper Sitwell. I'd like to talk to you about your future, Ben."
At a sidewalk cafe next to a busy shopping plaza in Szeged, Hungary, a man sipped a small, coal-black cup of coffee. He checked his watch for the tenth time. His wide frame could not sit comfortably on the small chair meant for Europeans. There was a chill in the night air and he closed his coat around himself.
Finally, a man walked out of the brightly lit shopping area and sat down in front of him. At the same instant, two others took chairs behind him.
"Fury," the man said nervously, "I was expecting you." He finished his coffee and nearly broke the cup putting it down.
Fury set the cup straight on the table and waved to the waiter. "I saved you for last, Raymond. You were my best man against Hydra. What happened to you?"
Raymond waited a moment as the thin, bald waiter brought small, rich coffees for the men. He glanced over his shoulder as the waiter walked away. "I don't know, Colonel. I guess when you disappeared, all bets were off. No; even before that. I've been undercover for five years and I've never heard from you. I send my reports in, and never hear back. It's like I'm not fighting for anything anymore. I'm just existing here, like the rest of the mercenaries."
"I know you ran guns to the Muslims in Tuzla. You did some mercenary work, and some other things. I'm here to tell ya that yer done. Out of respect for your dad, and the service you done against Hydra, I'm willing to let you walk, no questions asked." Fury slid a large, thick envelope across the small table. "This is $50,000 American dollars and a new I.D. Take it and start over. You won't get a better offer."
Raymond took the envelope and stuffed it in his coat. "So this is what I'm worth to you? Goddamn 50 grand? A passport? I pulled you out of it in Central America, Fury. You owe me your life. Is this all your life is worth?"
Fury smelled the gun oil before he heard the weapons cock. Ten men with AK-47 assault rifles came out of the cafe. They wore fatigues and had the look of combat veterans. Fury and his two men never changed expressions, and continued to sip their coffee. Raymond got up from the table, smiling.
"I'm in charge here, Fury. You left me to rot in Yugoslavia. Well, I'm out of it now, and half the gun trade in Szeged is in my pocket. You want to fire me? I'm going to fire you." He took a 9mm pistol out of his coat and pointed it at Fury's temple.
Fury put his coffee cup down. "One last time Raymond. Are you going to walk away, or do I gotta take you in?"
"I wonder how much SHIELD would pay to get you back, Fury?" Raymond turned to his men: "Take this one to the safe house. Kill the other..."
Fury and his two men dropped small pellets on the ground from under their tables. The pellets exploded in a blinding but quiet flash as the three jumped away from the cafe in different directions. The two SHIELD Agents used thin, sharp blades to sever the hamstrings of two of the Hungarians. Fury's kick disarmed Raymond and broke several bones in his hand.
Smoke rose from the pellets and an eerie silence descended on the cafe. In the smoke, four more of the Hungarians fell, and when it cleared the two SHIELD Agents were standing among the corpses of ten mercenaries. Fury and Raymond were gone. The AK-47 rifles had not been fired. The Agents spiked them so they would be useless, and walked casually into the night.
Fury raced down the wet cobblestones after Raymond. He knew his Agents were in no danger, having personally trained them in close assault tactics. He thought about Raymond Parker, a man who had pulled him out of the stink at Hydra Island all those years ago, now on the run. How many good men had he let down?
Raymond jumped on a fire escape and started to climb, but was slowed by the pain of his shattered hand. Fury jumped on the fire escape and tumbled upward, flinging himself up to the roof of the building just ahead of Raymond with his pistol in hand.
"That's it, Ray. It's over."
Raymond, sweating and cradling his swollen right hand, looked at Fury with a terrifying gaze. "Hail Hydra! Cut off one limb and two more shall serve us!"
"What! Ray, you ain't...." Raymond bit down on something in his mouth and crumpled. Fury ran to him, frantically trying to open his mouth and clear the poison out. Too late. Raymond stared up at the night sky with his dead eyes. Fury sat down next to him.
"Great. Hydra's back."
August 19, 1955. Colonel Edward Landers poured another J&B and dropped ice in his glass with tongs. The pool area was loud with screaming children and idle chat among the families of Americans stationed in Saigon. Just the kind of place to talk business. He uncorked the Wild Turkey and poured three fingers, no ice, and handed it to Lt. Fury.
"Fury, you've been in intelligence only two years but I'll hand it to you; you have a nose for covert operations. You never leave a residual presence, and there are always lots of bodies. Lots of bodies. Not always the right ones, though. Tell me again: why did you feel you had to kill the Frenchman?"
Fury looked around uncomfortably. They sat less than ten feet from a group of five-year-olds and their mothers. Landers was right, though - there was no way they could be overheard in this cacophony of splashing and laughing. Still, it made him uncomfortable.
"He was gonna `off' Captain Tranh. The only way to stop him was to kill him. What the heck was he, anyway?"
"Oh, the Chevaliers date back to the war. The Germans created them for Vichy the same way they made the Italian `Legionnaires' and some other super-soldiers. Tough, mostly bulletproof, but if you hit them right they can be had." Landers smiled and sipped his drink. "I guess you know that."
"We got a leak, Colonel," Fury leaned forward. "I didn't tell anybody but you about the meet. Tranh is an old hand at this - he wouldn't tell anybody cause if he did he'd have to split the money with them. So how'd the French know about it?"
"Because I told them." Fury looked at him with less surprise than he would have thought. "I wanted Tranh dead. If the French were seen killing him - and who could miss seeing a Chevalier - the Binh Xuyen might join with the Prime Minister." Lansdowne shrugged, "Hey - I took a shot."
"Yeah, and you almost got me killed."
"Relax, Fury. The Chevalier wouldn't kill an American. We're paying the band now; we get to call the tunes. We can use this, though. You saved Tranh from the French. That's got to look good to his men. I think they'll take our deal."
"I dunno, Ed. It looks more like we tipped off the French and sent me in as a decoy. That's what happened, right?"
"No, it isn't." Lansdowne leaned forward, "The French followed you to the meet. The Chevalier was going to kill Tranh. You saved him, and now you're going to call in the marker. Got it?"
"Yes sir." Fury stuffed his hat under his belt, saluted quickly, and walked away from the pool.
The American Embassy was as cool as anyplace in the country, with the refrigeration units running 24 hours a day. Outside, it was a deadly 55 degrees Celsius. The heat and humidity hit Fury as he stepped out the door and he felt like he'd been stuffed into a pressure-cooker. Resisting the urge to turn around and go back inside was difficult, but he moved forward.
"Where to, Lieutenant?" Captain Nguyen of the Army of the Republic of Vietnam (ARVN) Rangers waited in a jeep at the gate. Very few Vietnamese nationals were allowed inside the Embassy compound; certainly no soldiers below the rank of Major General.
"I gotta set another meet with Tranh." Fury jumped in the jeep, which started down the road before he had time to land.
The afternoon sun baked the streets, and most of the merchants were inside or under cover. It was easier to drive around when it was hot out and the streets were empty. There were soldiers of the Bien Xuyen - Saigon's official police force - at every corner.
"My people can arrange that. Why don't we do this right? No more cowboy meetings. We'll meet at my base. No Françaises there."
"I gotta do this the hard way, Nguyen. The Bien Xuyen won't come to your base. And whatever Landers might think, they won't trust me again."
"So what to do?" The jeep pulled a tight corner and nearly clipped a water buffalo, causing the owners to shout and curse as they pulled away.
Fury thought for a moment and said, finally: "We raise the stakes."
August 19, 1998. A billion dollars is a lot of money for anybody - even a major government. When the job was tendered for bids and the paperwork looked okay at first glance, nobody at General Dynamix Foundry and Shipyard in Bath, Maine, was anything but excited at winning the contract. The submarine troop carrier would be the first of its class, and the largest submersible ever built.
Top secret projects had been done at the shipyard before, and everybody knew not to say anything. When the half-million-ton sub, named the Narwhal, was ready for sea trials, a team of officers from the Naval Intelligence Service arrived and took her out themselves, with no one else aboard. The engineers of GDF&S watched her submerge, sliding deep under the surface of Casco Bay.
She never came back.
Frantic calls for a deep water rescue were returned by puzzled naval officers, who had never heard of the Narwhal. More calls only resulted in more puzzlement, from the Pentagon to Capital Hill to the White House. All the printed material on the project had disappeared, and $10 million worth of computers crashed mysteriously and would not restart.
By the end of the day only one thing was clear: the U.S. Navy had never ordered or paid for the submarine.
At the base of the mid-Atlantic ridge, under the shadow of the submerged mountain range taller than any mountains above the sea, the Narwhal slid quietly through the depths. In the control room, Norge Hammerstrom took the Captain's chair amid a cheer of "Hail Hydra!"
His smile was cold but sincerely happy.
Next: Hydra
