Enemies & Allies: A Novel

by Kevin J. Anderson

  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.

  CHAPTER 46

  SIBERIA

  THE 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 ushankas, 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.
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  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.

  CHAPTER 47

  ARIGUSKA GULAG

  THOUGH FREED FROM THE CHAINS AND SHACKLES, KAL-EL still felt a crushing weight dragging him down. He could barely stand, let alone fly. And now the Soviet guards were shooting at them.

  As he staggered along, his cape dragging behind him like a wet rag, Kal-El had to lean on Batman just to keep himself upright and moving. His vision, which should have been able to project heat beams or penetrating X-rays, now left him with only a blur.

  Guards rushed out of the barracks, hastily grabbing their Kalashnikovs. Deafening sirens pounded his skull. Batman ducked from a renewed spray of gunfire and pulled Kal-El into the meager shelter of some large rocks that had slid down the quarry bank. Bullets stitched the ground around them, pockmarking the wide gravel path. Several ricocheted loudly from the boulders.

  “I hope…you’ve got a better plan than this,” Kal-El managed to croak.

  “I’ll improvise.” Batman grabbed at his utility belt and hurled a handful of small spheres that exploded on impact, releasing clouds of noxious purple smoke. The Soviet soldiers opened fire, and bullets punched through the curling wisps of gas.

  “Get away from…green rock,” Kal-El said. “If my strength returns, I can help.”

  “I wasn’t counting on your powers. I’ve got it under control.”

  From the quarry’s edge, another group of riflemen shot down at them. Kal-El tried to shelter his unexpected rescuer with his own body, but now that he was without his powers, he didn’t know if he was bulletproof. Nevertheless, his uniform was made of fabric from Krypton; perhaps that would be good enough. He felt—yes, felt!—three shots hit him in the back. It was as though he’d been punched hard, but the bullets didn’t penetrate the suit or his skin.

  Bullets also struck Batman, and though he staggered from the impacts, his suit seemed nearly as impervious as Kal-El’s. “We need to get out of this camp,” Batman said.

  The guards assigned to the work crew in the crater turned to help their fellow soldiers above. The hollow-eyed prisoners, already poisoned from exposure to meteorite radiation, knew they had no chance of survival. Condemned to work themselves to death, with nothing to lose, and seeing Superman and Batman as their only chance, they attacked the surprised guards with pickaxes and shovels. One guard went down as a shovel blade split his head open, his ushanka tumbling onto the cold, muddy ground. His rifle discharged, and the bullet spanged off a boulder.

  A pickax struck a uniformed man in the chest, and the maddened workers managed to murder a third guard before a hail of bullets cut them down.

  It was all over in a few seconds, before Batman could make a move to save them. Kal-El’s heart ached as he said, “They were dead…when they got here.”

  Batman pulled him along toward the top of the quarry. “And it’s my job to make sure you’re not. I have a way out.”

  When they encountered more guards at the edge of the pit, Batman detonated his flash mines, and bursts of blinding light sent the Soviets reeling. Extending one gauntlet, Batman activated a nozzle, and a thin, high-pressure stream of instant-set epoxy squirted out, splattering the guards and their guns, tangling them in a sticky, rubbery mass, like a silkworm’s cocoon.

  During this brief reprieve, he dragged Kal-El past the struggling guards tangled in the epoxy web. “Now all we have to do is get past the rest of the camp’s defenses, and we’re home free.”

  THE ALARMS BROUGHT GENERAL CERIDOV OUT FROM HIS warm quarters. As he ran outside, still pulling on his fur coat and shielding his eyes against the glare of spotlights, he saw not only the red and blue figure of Superman but another man in a more sinister outfit helping to rescue him. The dark-cowled man looked like a devil—no, a bat. He kept pulling strange things from his belt, throwing-darts, incapacitating gas bombs, small explosives.

  Two super heroes? Where do the Americans get them? he wondered.

  He heard gunfire, saw the searchlights, but somehow the two ridiculously costumed men evaded capture, always one step ahead of the gulag guards. Superman was still barely able to stand, but since his weakness was brought on by the green meteorite, Ceridov supposed the effects would likely diminish as the two got farther away from the quarry. He figured he had only a limited time to stop them from getting away.

  The Soviet Union had its own supermen…less refined, perhaps, but almost certainly more powerful. As the two escaping figures raced toward the stunted forest, the general smashed open the locks of the thick-walled blockhouse. Inside, the restless monsters continued to rumble and pound. As soon as the locks fell away, the heavy doors exploded outward, and Ceridov sprang back, calling his own guards to stand close, rifles aimed and ready.

  Endovik and Dubrov—or rather, what they had become—were the first to emerge. Their bodies were swollen, muscles not so much bulging as bloated, visible beneath their torn garments. Cords of sinew twisted at their necks. Tufts of spiky hair as sharp as porcupine quills protruded from random spots on their bodies. Their lips were curled back in a rictus of constant agony, and their eyes glowed an emerald green.

  Only five of the mutated creatures remained alive. Three more had been torn to bloody pulp within the bunker, but nobody had dared to go in and clean up the cells. The maddened mutants had fed upon the flesh of their dead comrades, and the stench was appalling. The five creatures lunged out into the open, coiled with pent-up energy as though their blood had become boiling nitroglycerin. The five glared at Ceridov, but he saw a dim remnant of intelligence and awareness on their faces.

  He raised his voice. “I know your minds are still there—I know you can understand me!” He could not let them doubt the bald-faced lie he was about to tell them. “I have the cure you need. I have the antidote to the meteorite radiation—but first you must earn it!”

  The furious creatures flexe
d their arms, simmering, staring. Ceridov could not give them time to think. He pointed toward the two costumed figures disappearing into the forest. “Them—capture them! Bring them back here, and then you shall be free!”

  With uncontrollable bloodlust, the mutated creatures raced into the night.

  CHAPTER 48

  LUTHOR’S ISLAND

  WERNHER VON BRAUN WOULD HAVE PROVIDED AN INTERESTING interview, and under other circumstances, Lois might have been eager to press the former Nazi scientist about the American rocketry program and the mysterious destruction of Sputnik. But she had to do something to save Superman, whether or not Perry White approved. That was her top priority.

  She would not stand by and let her beloved hero hang in chains, crippled and paralyzed, while diplomats and ambassadors squabbled. She knew what a great man he was, with such a large heart and all the devotion any woman could ask for. She could not just leave him to rot in a Communist prison camp.

  Over the past several months, she’d built up quite a case against Lex Luthor, but she’d been unable to grab the brass ring of “proof” that Perry White demanded. She knew Luthor hated Superman because the hero had upstaged him at every turn, and Luthor was enough of a genius that he could have set this up. It reeked of him, all of it.

  Lois was a good enough reporter that she intended to catch Luthor in the act.

  Rather than going to Huntsville to talk with the rocket scientists, she took a connecting flight to Miami, then another to Havana. Cuba was filled with enough unrest to inspire a dozen newspaper stories—Batista battling Castro’s rebels in the jungles, and all those pasty-white Russian visitors who clearly weren’t there to soak up the Caribbean sun—but Lois was fixated on a tiny island that appeared on no map. She was going to catch Luthor and get him to tell her where Superman was being held. Then she would help rescue Superman, even if it killed her, though she hoped it wouldn’t come to that.