Enemies & Allies: A Novel

by Kevin J. Anderson

  Jimmy took several uninspired photographs of the sparsely populated rows of seated men. Clark leaned over and whispered in his ear. “This is slower than the town hall meetings in Smallville.”

  Presently the General Assembly came to life when the bombastic Soviet premier took the podium and began his speech by shouting. The blustery head of the Communist Party attempted to change the opinions of his rival diplomats through sheer vehemence rather than refined oratorical skills and convincing rhetoric. To emphasize a point, the premier actually removed a shoe and began hammering the podium before him, vowing to bury any other nation that did not agree with his ideology.

  Frowning, Clark took notes. “He’s not winning any friends, that’s for sure.”

  Back in Kansas, he and his father had often listened to radio news broadcasts together. Though Jonathan Kent hadn’t taken a lot of interest in world politics, he certainly hadn’t trusted the Communists. “Son, I hope I’ve raised you to admire our core values. America’s not perfect, far from it, but even with our faults, this is the best darned country in the world. Don’t ever stop believing in truth, justice, and the American way.”

  “I won’t, Pa,” Clark had promised.

  And he never had.

  The Soviet premier had just reached the crescendo of his speech when blaring air-raid sirens drowned out his sound and fury. Uniformed UN security guards rushed in, calling for an immediate evacuation of the building.

  INSIDE PERRY WHITE’S OFFICE, LOIS LANE LOCKED HER ARMS across her chest. “I can catch the next flight to Havana, hire a boat, and go find that island of Luthor’s. Clark and Jimmy’s trip was a bust. Now give me a chance.”

  He shook his head, holding the cigar in his right hand. “Don’t remind me how much money I just spent on a wild goose chase after flying saucers.”

  “You have to go where the story takes you,” Lois insisted. “You taught me that yourself.”

  “Go find a big story right here in Metropolis, preferably one that doesn’t require an expense account. Something might just fall in your lap.”

  Scowling, she was about to make a flippant comment when Perry’s radio blasted the piercing emergency broadcast signal. Out in the bullpen, the other reporters flocked toward the shortwave.

  “—emergency bulletin. The Soviets have just launched three nuclear missiles toward the United States of America. Soviet officials at first insisted this was an accidental launch, but now they are silent. The missiles are on their way. Likely targets are Metropolis and Washington, D.C. Proceed immediately to your nearest civil defense shelter. This is not a drill.”

  “There’s a fallout shelter in the basement—” someone began, and in shock, people began to run for the door, leaving their personal items behind.

  “Great Caesar’s ghost!” Perry said. “Lois, there’s your story—if anybody survives to read it.”

  JIMMY WAS SO ASTONISHED THAT HE NEARLY DROPPED HIS camera. “What do we do now, Mr. Kent?”

  The UN security guards urgently ushered the diplomats out of the General Assembly hall down to the civil defense shelter. The corridors of the UN were sheer pandemonium, overlain with a tapestry of languages.

  “Get to the shelter, Jimmy—quick.” Already Clark’s mind was racing ahead to how he could slip away. Ambassadors of free countries and dictatorships alike elbowed each other aside, crowding into stairwells, rushing downward alongside custodians, secretaries, and cafeteria workers. Clark urged Jimmy into the throng, then managed to lose his friend in the jostling, frantic crowd.

  He ducked into an empty office, glad for the confusion. If Soviet missiles were inbound, he didn’t have much time. But if anyone could stop them, he could.

  CHAPTER 36

  LUTHOR’S ISLAND

  AS HE WATCHED THE MISSILE TRACES ON THE RADAR SCREEN come over the North Pole, Luthor’s smile broadened. Closer…closer…

  It wouldn’t do to take care of them too quickly, too easily. He had to let the rockets cross into American airspace, at least. Unless the world’s leaders were absolutely convinced they were about to die, they wouldn’t show enough gratitude. First, they had to bite their nails, fall to their knees sobbing, make promises to God or confessions to loved ones (which they would regret later). Luthor was glad to be far away on his little island, where he didn’t have to hear all that sniveling.

  On the large polar-projection map mounted to the control center wall, a cluster of blinking dots marked the three missiles as they crossed the DEW line, headed down over northern Canada and the mid-Canada warning line, then crossed the Pinetree Line at the fiftieth parallel. The graceful arcs looked so beautiful as the R-7 rockets pushed relentlessly toward the United States, toward Metropolis.

  For years, U.S. rocketry scientists led by Wernher von Braun had been developing and perfecting such weapons, but they had never managed to test a long-range warhead-carrying missile. The American Atlas-A rocket was not yet ready for launch, but Luthor was both surprised and unsettled to see how well Soviet technology functioned.

  First Sputnik, now this. The United States had certainly fallen behind in the space race.

  But here was Luthor’s perfect window of opportunity. His death-ray transmitters were aligned and powered up. The wall screens displayed shaded zones of “guaranteed kill” for the beams, and the first missile had almost come into range. His targeting computers whirred and clicked, lights blinked, and magnetic tape wheels spun.

  Not trusting such an important step to mere minions, he personally aligned the targeting vectors, then counted down the seconds to when he would avert a nuclear holocaust.

  His energy-beam dishes, pointed to the sky, would project lightning bolts superior to any Zeus had ever thrown. Luthor activated the systems, and the control bank’s indicator lights glowed green. Now to save the world, just in the nick of time.

  He turned the operation key and, with a thin smile, hit the large firing button.

  Nothing happened.

  His smile faltered. He reset the system and punched the firing button again. The beam generators failed to shoot out powerful blasts of energy. The newly installed components simply froze. The Wayne Enterprises technology refused to work!

  The missiles kept coming.

  Once the detonations occurred in Metropolis, the United States would mount a nuclear launch of its own, using squadrons of long-range bombers on desperate missions carrying hydrogen bombs. By then, it would all be much too late, completely out of control. The whole planet would be swallowed up in a nuclear holocaust.

  At his side, the normally silent Bertram said simply, “Do you have a backup plan, sir?”

  Luthor hammered his fist impotently on the firing button. “No, I don’t have a backup plan! When the first plan is perfect, who needs a backup?”

  Bertram did not state the obvious flaw in that reasoning.

  Suddenly the radar screen showed another blip, a small object racing at supersonic speed on a direct intercept path with the missiles.

  FASTER THAN A BULLET, HIGHER THAN A JET, KAL-EL FLEW for his life—for everyone’s lives. Even the rarefied air created enough drag to slow him, and the heat of his passage surrounded him with a faint, warm glow.

  With hyperacute hearing, he could detect the constant rumble of rocket engines. The missiles with their deadly payloads reached apogee and now plunged like high-tech javelins toward their programmed target.

  But Kal-El was America’s own super-weapon.

  He slowed enough so that he could intercept the first missile without annihilating its nose on impact, which would have scattered the radioactive payload across the sky. Exerting himself against the R-7 rocket’s momentum, he pushed the nose cone, tilting the missile upward, altering its trajectory. Kal-El pushed against gravity, against the very air, and finally the missile flew toward space. The Soviet R-7 had neither the power nor the fuel to reach escape velocity, so Kal-El gave it an extra shove.

  The missile climbed higher and higher, beyond even Sputnik’s orbi
t. Eventually it would explode in empty space, where it would cause no damage.

  With no time to rest or celebrate this triumph, Kal-El streaked back down toward the remaining two missiles.

  Now that he knew how to divert them, he easily damaged the rocket engines with his heat vision, sent the missiles sputtering, and then intercepted their long cylindrical bodies one at a time.

  As he bore the second R-7 out of Earth’s atmosphere on his shoulders like Atlas and heaved it into space, Kal-El was reminded of how he had carried the sinking Star City Queen to safety in Metropolis Bay. This time, though, he was saving all of Metropolis, perhaps the whole world.

  After he hurled the third and last nuclear missile away to where it could cause no damage, he let himself drift in the sky, looking down at the beautiful world below—the coastlines, the clouds, the geometric patterns of the cities, roads, and croplands.

  His world…safe.

  CHAPTER 37

  THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, D.C.

  AT ANY OTHER TIME, LOIS WOULD HAVE ROLLED HER EYES if asked to report on an awards ceremony, even a presidential presentation, but since Superman was involved, she definitely wanted to cover the story. He had, after all, prevented an all-out atomic war.

  All of the aspersions Lex Luthor had cast on Superman were instantly forgotten (not that the reporters had dug up any dirt on him anyway). Lois wished she could have seen Luthor’s face, but the bald industrialist hadn’t appeared in public for weeks. Probably sulking, she thought.

  With the missiles miraculously diverted and destroyed, the people of Metropolis had celebrated in the streets, throwing confetti and cheering. Taxi drivers honked their horns. Restaurant owners gave out free food. Flower sellers threw blossoms up in the air. Old women and curmudgeonly men hugged each other. Even the Soviet premier was said to have collapsed into a chair, weeping with relief.

  Judging by the number of reporters packed into the press corral on the White House lawn, Lois wasn’t the only one who recognized the significance of the story. For the official occasion, she wore a formal lavender dress and new gloves, and she was determined to portray Superman exactly the way he deserved: as a hero.

  Superman stood there, handsome and muscular but clearly out of his element before the excited crowd. She thought it was charming. His bright blue and red outfit did not show a smudge, despite the fact he had recently wrestled with three Soviet nuclear missiles. Even the black curl on his brow was perfectly in place. But though he could bend steel in his bare hands and stop a bullet with his chest, he seemed endearingly…shy.

  Lois thought about how he had so easily swept her up in his strong arms as her car plunged off the Twelfth Street Bridge, saving her—if she could have, she would have found a way to save him now. However, accepting the adulation of an appreciative nation was an ordeal Superman would just have to endure….

  Though he was the president of the United States, Dwight Eisenhower looked very small in his gray suit next to Superman. Eisenhower was himself a hero, having led armies in World War II, and had been reelected by a landslide along with his running mate Richard M. Nixon. Now, though, even the president looked intimidated in the presence of Superman.

  To resounding applause, Eisenhower extended his hand, and Superman vigorously pumped it. The president tried to cover his flinch, obviously concerned that the other man might crush his hand, but the hero was perfectly restrained. A hundred flashbulbs went off to capture the moment.

  Eisenhower stepped up to the podium, from which sprouted a bouquet of large microphones. “Today, Superman, America gives you our sincerest gratitude. As president, I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart, and also from the heart of every U.S. citizen, and every citizen of the world. You saved us all.”

  Lois was a bit starry-eyed herself, but that had more to do with Superman than the presidential honor he was about to receive. She found herself moved by his humility and sincerity; Lois realized she was even blushing, and she quickly lifted a white-gloved hand to cover her cheek.

  Eisenhower continued. “Because of clashing political ideologies, the human race has been pushed to the brink of extinction. Such a thing must never happen again.”

  Lois had heard the Communist leader speak virtually the same words after he had emerged from the UN fallout shelter, pale and shaking. Once the crisis had passed, his rhetoric was less vitriolic. He protested that the launch of the nuclear missiles had been neither intentional nor authorized. Why would he do such a thing, he demanded, when he himself was at ground zero at the time?

  Two traitorous rogue generals had been identified and branded as criminals—Endovik and Dubrov. Both men, having disobeyed direct orders, had been removed from their positions and summarily executed. The premier insisted that there was no need for continued international tensions. He seemed to think the world should just forget about the whole affair. Lois didn’t believe it for an instant, nor did she entirely swallow his explanation.

  Continuing the ceremony, President Eisenhower opened a velvet-lined wooden box and withdrew a finely worked medal suspended from a red, white, and blue ribbon. “For all you have done, Superman, this is the highest accolade our country can bestow—the Presidential Medal of Freedom.”

  Superman’s chest swelled with pride. He raised his square chin and met the president’s gaze with his clear blue eyes. “I accept it gladly, Mr. President.”

  Eisenhower reached forward with the medal, fumbled with the pin, and attempted to attach it to Superman’s chest. He frowned. In an awkward moment, he tried again, to no avail. The pin could not penetrate the tough blue fabric.

  Many more camera bulbs flashed. The onlookers waited anxiously.

  Finally, Eisenhower took a step back, nonplussed. The pin was bent.

  With self-effacing humor, Superman extended a hand. “Why don’t I just hold that, Mr. President?”

  Eisenhower quickly handed it to him and returned to the microphone, eager to move on. “Superman, we are proud to have you as one of our foremost citizens. You are the defender of truth, justice, and the American way.”

  Though her applause was muffled by the formal white gloves, Lois clapped more vigorously than her fellow reporters. She felt inspired, possibly more from her own heart than from the actual speech. She even had tears in her eyes. If only her father could see her now—tough little Lois turning into a girly, emotional mess!

  From the podium, Superman caught her stare and returned Lois’s smile, blushing a bit himself. For a long moment, he didn’t seem to be seeing any other face than hers.

  CHAPTER 38

  WAYNE ENTERPRISES

  IN THE MONTHS AFTER THE DISASTROUS SOVIET MISSILE launch, the U.S. military-industrial complex went into high gear, devoting resources, manpower, manufacturing capabilities, and vast sums of money to the nation’s defense. Though President Eisenhower and the Soviet premier publicly reaffirmed their mutual commitment to peace, no one believed that the Cold War had thawed.

  Since the unofficial shakeup of its board of directors, Wayne Enterprises had quietly become a new company, entering a veritable renaissance. Accompanied by a very pleased-looking Richard Drayling, who had been reinstated as a board member, Bruce Wayne toured the expanded production line at a Wayne Enterprises aircraft assembly plant.

  With Alfred acting as go-between again, Bruce had invited Drayling to the manor for a private luncheon and a heart-to-heart conversation, during which he showed the older man the incriminating files he was holding over the heads of the other nine directors. He also explained how he had hamstrung the guilty men, how he was using them to get back at Luthor, and how he had effectively removed them from any real power in Wayne Enterprises. Drayling was quite gratified at how Bruce had handled the situation, and the old man now appeared to be much younger than his years. “You have more of your father in you than I thought, Mr. Wayne,” he said. “Perhaps I misjudged you.”

  By now, several former directors had been reassigned to probationary position
s, where Bruce knew they could cause no further harm; the others held jobs that carried no responsibilities at all. LuthorCorp would get nothing more from them. The new board members—drawn from the most successful project managers in each research division—were entirely loyal to Bruce’s vision for the company, now that he had begun acting like a real administrator.

  Many eyebrows had been raised at Bruce’s seemingly abrupt transition from lightweight playboy to responsible businessman, and some people had expressed open skepticism about his abilities in the corporate world. Analysts, however, made the assumption (which Bruce did not correct) that he simply surrounded himself with “good people.”

  Now the fabrication lines had begun producing a new series of state-of-the-art fighter jets for the USAF. These exotic designs had been in development at Wayne Enterprises for more than a year, but Bruce had accelerated the production timeline. The first deliveries were well ahead of schedule.

  Surrounded by the clamor of the assembly line, the rolling belts, clanging tools, and hammering rivets, the two men strolled along on their inspection tour. Bruce’s expensive business suit seemed incongruous with the bright yellow hard hat he wore. Smiling, he greeted supervisors and line foremen, then shook the hands of several workers who had been busily welding fuselage skins together.

  Bruce raised his voice to the jumpsuited work crews. “Things have changed around here. I’ve been taking a more direct role in this company.”