Scott stared back, awaiting the bullets to be fired, ready for his own death, braced for the impact and pain. He had been preparing for this since landing in Casablanca. In Tunisia he had expected it as well.
But before the three men could fire, one fell back, one staggered, and the other crumpled. The German officer lowered his binoculars to look at his men and before he could react his head exploded in a mist of red blood, white bone and gray brain tissue.
Scott took this in, confused. Then he turned to see the American soldiers at the tree line of the olive grove, grimly surveying the death they had just brought on the Germans, giving Scott a wave. Scott, delighted at their deadly accomplishment, returned the gesture.
Limping towards them, he recognized them as a scout team from Baker Company.
“What the hell are you boys doing out this far?” Scott called out.
“We were sent to bring your team back, sir. The Major needs your report.”
Scott saw that the scout team had casualties from the mortar barrage. More lives spent at his expense.
He turned to the young sergeant. “Thanks.”
“We saw you make it to the grass, but then you turned back. What happened?” the sergeant asked.
“I had to get this.” Scott held up the dusty pack. As he did so a weathered, cracked photograph fell out. The soldier picked it up, wiped the Sicilian dust from it and handed it back to Scott. He grinned as he did so.
“Seems like it was worth getting, sir.”
Scott smiled, embarrassed, and tucked the portrait of Irene (her correspondent’s publicity photo) back in his back, next to the carefully wrapped green lantern.
The scouts led Scott back to their lines and safely past the checkpoint. Back in the bivouac, the scout team fell out to their tents, leaving Scott alone with the team leader. The young, battle-hardened sergeant snapped Scott a farewell salute. Scott instead reached out and shook the young man’s hand.
“I’m sorry you took casualties coming out to get me, Sergeant,” Scott said.
“You showed a lot of guts out there, sir. I’m sorry about the rest of your squad.”
Scott didn’t know what to say. All he could come up with was, “Well, it’s what we do, isn’t it?” That pretty much ended the conversation. He turned to walk to the commanding officer’s tent to submit his report.
He blushed at the real reason for his squirrelly behavior—retrieving the lantern. The once-powerful object was now an albatross around his neck. He forced himself to carry it wherever he went. Even though it was completely dormant, carrying an object that powerful into battle bordered on insanity, but the power of the lantern was such that he could not part from it.
But Scott also suspected that he was testing himself: even if he could have used its power, he told himself that would always choose not to, no matter the cost. This made his actions as Alan Scott more worthwhile. At least, this is what he told himself.
As for his actions, Scott was not so much courageous as much as unafraid of dying. He feared pain, disfigurement, paralysis-all of those horrors, but the thought of his ceasing to exist did not matter to him, and in some ways brought him comfort. He would do his duty and try to do his best.
What was unusual was that most of those who thought like him were young men, not having gathered enough in experience, love and property to make life valuable to them. They wanted to live, but right now the war consumed them, but Scott’s reason for his behavior was different. He was paying the price for his life choices and he considered the opportunity both a bargain and blessing. He could lose himself in the war and find some redemption or peace in what he did. Or he would find it in death. Either way was fine by him.
That made him very valuable to the Army. He always drew the toughest engineering missions, the problems without immediate solutions, and the senior staff knew that he’d come up with something and they did not have to worry about a lack of intelligence or effort.
His role as a combat engineer was critical to winning battles. The Army had a habit of taking the best and removing them from doing what they did in order to train or lead. But the best knew that what Scott did could not be passed to others, so they kept him doing what he did and gave him tremendous latitude, allowing him to pick his own men and equipment.
So the war went for him. And above all, in his heart he was determined that everything he did were the accomplishments of Alan Scott and not those of Green Lantern.
hen he stepped through the Stargate, Malvolio could feel the weight of centuries dropping from him. His shackles off, he could sense the power scattered across this planet. He emerged through the portal of energy into a beautiful room filled with fine heavy furniture of polished oak and mahogany, with shiny brass fittings. It was clearly a rich man’s house.
With his muscular physique, long flowing hair so black that it shone blue, and his leather belt and boots, Malvolio was not only too large to comfortably fit in this room, he was also an anachronism: even he could tell that as he stood before the delicately framed mirror. Everything about his appearance was out of place with the genteel surroundings.
W
Malvolio turned at the sound of a knock on the door, then a man stepped into the room. “Bella?”
The man jumped, startled and blanching at the sight of this hulking person in his bedroom, the blinding light of the Stargate’s
energy behind him like a huge halo. The crystal glass of brandy he was holding slipped from his hand and shattered on the floor.
The man brought up a hand to shield his eyes. “What the—who the devil are you? What are you doing in my house?”
Malvolio strode towards the man. He wore a silk robe and his hands were long and delicate, the nails manicured. Malvolio stood before him.
“This is your home?”
“Yes it is. What do you want?”
“How could someone as... weak as you command such a magnificent home?”
“Who are you?”
Malvolio stood before the man, sizing him up. The owner of the house was in fact quite strong, from countless tennis and squash matches and many, many laps in an Olympic pool; but the strength was artificial: manufactured on courts and in gymnasiums. Malvolio’s was borne of dominance, survival and battles fought without mercy. His was the strength of a killer: fed and hardened by each foe that fell from a stroke or thrust of his blade.
Malvolio grabbed the man’s hands and held them in his huge, rock-hard paws, examining them. The man, afraid, tried futilely to pull away, but Malvolio didn’t even notice.
“For you to own such precious things, your strength must lie elsewhere.”
The man spotted the glowing green ring on Malvolio’s finger. “You’re the Green Lantern!”
“The Green Lantern?” Malvolio looked up at the man.
“Is there something going on? Burglars?” “Burglars?”
“Where are the bad guys?”
“Bad guys?” Malvolio’s expression twisted into a dark grin. “Is the Green Lantern... good?”
The man looked at him, confused. “Of course—every one knows that the Green Lantern uses his power for good.”
“That’s reassuring that I have such power. I’m delighted to hear it"
The man was even more confused. “You are the Green Lantern, right?”
“I’m a Green Lantern. But as far as this world’s concerned, I’ll soon be the Green Lantern.”
Malvolio gripped the man more tightly. The man saw into the darkness of Malvolio’s eyes and his confusion became terror.
he plan is simple: there’s going to be an amphibious operation to land men here and here.”
Major Jenkins pointed to spots on the large acetate map spread across the farmhouse table.
T
The story of the campaign was told on this huge, detailed map that showed the geographic terrain, swirls of elevation lines looking like fingerprints, cross-hatchings representing swamps, the entire acetate-covered map drawn on with grease
penciled lines of enemy positions and troop movements, the arrows more eloquent and telling to Scott than any correspondent’s or war historian’s accounts.
Scott saw that it showed two beaches on the north coast of Sicily. Scott could see the positions of his unit and every other allied force trying to take the island: they were on the north coast of the island, moving to the east as rapidly as possible, squeezing the retreating enemy forces as they made their way to the port of Messina on the northeast tip of the island.
The green lines showed Montgomery’s corps was driving from the southern coast up the east side of the island to cut off the retreating Germans and Italian, but the lines stopped in the crosshatching of Sicilian swamp, telling Scott that the Tommies were meeting stubborn enemy resistance and complicated terrain.
Jenkins continued as Scott scanned the map, drawing his attention to the road running along the north coast of the island. “We’re going to need the bridges on that north road to be open to meet up with the invasion force coming ashore. If we can’t get to them they’ll be stranded, and either cut to pieces or pushed back into the sea. That’s why we had you scouting out that area.”
Scott could see what Jenkins was leading to: a small town on the northern coast between the current front lines and the beach where the allies would be landing. This was the town he and his team had reconnoitered.
He remembered that the entrance to that town was over a small stone bridge covering a deep ravine, and it would have to be held if the armor on the coast road was going to meet up with the men on that beach.
The Germans would have it wired for explosives, of course. But they would need to wait until the last possible moment before they blew the bridge; until their delaying force was across. The Germans were fighting tenaciously to buy their comrades time to get off the island. For them, blowing the bridge too soon would trap people on the other side, and too late would risk the allies taking the bridge and powering that much faster to Messina.
Scott also knew the German delaying forces were excellent. Too often he’d get to a bridge minutes after it had been destroyed, and he could see the Germans hot-footing it east on whatever vehicles
they had. It was infuriating. Worse yet, they’d leave a mortar or 88 team behind to drop harassing artillery on the Allied forces trying to get forward of the bridge.
Jenkins drove the point home. “We’ll need this bridge to get the armor across to relieve those boys on the beaches.”
Scott, deep in thought, exhaled heavily. “We haven’t had a lot of luck with that so far. They seem to know when we’re coming.” “Don’t I know it.” Jenkins thought he was making a joke but it came out too real to be funny.
Scott thought a bit more. “And now that we tipped them off, it’ll be that much worse. And we still don’t know the locations of the demo charges on that bridge.”
“Okay, you got any good news?”
“No sir, I don’t.”
The major sat down heavily and ran his hands through his hair, then reached for a long-cold cup of coffee and drank it, grimacing at the bitter taste. He looked up at Scott.
“They’re moving the landing up to 0600,” the major said.
“That could be good,” Scott offered. “It won’t give them time to reinforce the town.”
Jenkins stared at the map. “Hell, maybe they’ll pull back and give us the goddam town.”
Scott shook his head. “I wouldn’t count on it. And they’d still blow the bridge.”
The two men sat staring at the map before them, searching it for some possible solution.
The major had his eyes closed for so long that Scott thought he may have fallen asleep. But then Jenkins reached up and rubbed
his temples. Jenkins was working the problem in his head, just like Scott. They needed that bridge and everything they’d come up with was either impossible or required resources they didn’t have.
Capturing the bridge intact was another in a long series of tactical problems that Scott and Jenkins had been dealing with since Tunisia. It was only weeks, but it felt like years.
Jenkins was West Point all the way, but he was the kind of officer that remembered the names and home towns of his men, and struggled with the guilt of sending them to their deaths. To counter this guilt he often tried to share the danger, going on recon missions with Scott that a wiser or more discretionary commander would have avoided. Jenkins was that rare breed of officer that was gifted enough to lead with a combination of savvy, compassion and personal courage.
Jenkins finally looked up from his cold cup of coffee. “Pick your best men and leave tonight. Be ready at the bridge and we’ll get to you as soon as we can.”
It was what Scott expected him to say.
Back in his tent, Scott went through his haversack and dug out the item he risked his life to get. It was wrapped in a shirt, the second most precious item in the bag.
Unwrapping it, Scott held up the lantern. It was inanimate, without the glow he had experienced before. The day of Pearl Harbor, he’d put it away when he heard the news about Paul and hadn’t used it since. He knew he could not bring himself to use it in battle, to have this protection when other men risked everything. He was determined to face the same danger as his men.
But this mission was different: it was close to suicidal, and his failing the objective would spell doom for hundreds and perhaps thousands of Allied soldiers. Scott rolled the ring between his fingers. Using the power of the green lantern, he could go alone and spare the lives of his men.
He decided he would try.
As he walked through the candlelit townhouse, brooding, Malvolio could feel anger building within. He’d been feeling this for days now: the search for the Sleeper Rings was proving fruitless and his energy was waning from wasted effort; time was running out. The Guardians must have hidden the rings more effectively than he’d thought and he swore to himself that it would be the last time he’d underestimate them. Even though it was bright and sunny outside, the interior of the townhouse was as dark as a cave: the windows had been sealed and painted shut. Malvolio could not stand the glare of modem electric lights, so he replaced them with the familiar soothing softness of candles. The house was now his sanctuary, and within its center was the Stargate.
He sat in the library-his “host” was indeed wealthy to have so many folios-and contemplated his next move. Up to now he’d been staying clear of the other Green Lantern as he searched for the rings, but with his power running out, he realized he would be forced to a confrontation. Winning over the other Green Lantern with dip-
lomacy or force would give Malvolio the additional power needed to complete his quest.
There was one problem: since he’d arrived back on Earth, he could feel his kinsman’s powers, but surprisingly to Malvolio, the power was timidly used, and never at levels that he’d expected. It was perplexing—like witnessing a man using a battleaxe to whittle a twig.
And in the past few weeks the power ceased to be used at all. Malvolio suspected that it had to do with the news that had consumed Gotham. As Malvolio walked the streets of this fantastic city of his future, cloaked in his host’s fine coats, he could hear the population abuzz over a “world war.” But Malvolio had paid it little mind: compared to the scale of his quest and its outcome, any human endeavors would be rendered meaningless.
In his mind it was decided: he would immediately track down and find this other Green Lantern and, one way or another, convince him to join his quest for the Sleeper rings. Since the other Green Lantern’s power wasn’t currently being invoked, Malvolio would have to follow the energy traces of his presence. Once found, Malvolio would harness his brother’s power, either with his cooperation or by destroying him. Given the indications so far of his capabilities, Malvolio did not view this as anything but a minor task.
Green Lantern’s energy signature shone like a beacon to Malvolio. He found it easy to follow the energy trail back to its point of origin. Malvolio opened the door to
Alan Scott’s apartment. Finally he had found Scott’s living quarters, and not a moment too soon. With much of his energy depleted, Malvolio was getting increasingly desperate to tap into the other Green Lantern’s supply of power.
As he walked through the empty apartment he was struck by the modesty of it, the tidy possessions of a man alone in life. Malvolio identified deeply with this, and felt kinship with Alan Scott as he touched his books, his pictures, the maps hanging crookedly from the brick wall.
Malvolio spoke to Scott through Scott’s possessions. “Who are you? And more importantly-where are you?”
Malvolio kneeled down next to a sturdy antique trunk. He sensed great power coming from it. His fingers trembling in anticipation, he slowly opened it. An outfit lay carefully folded inside-the green costume of the Green Lantern. Malvolio held it up, admiring, it, nodding in approval.
“Very nice.”
There was nothing else in the trunk. Frustrated, Malvolio threw the costume over the trunk lid, then walked to the bookshelf.
He spied an especially worn book, pulled it off the shelf and opened it. It was Scott’s large scrapbook—Malvolio studied the various clippings of news articles documenting the Green Lantern’s feats: nabbing bank robbers, thieves, muggers and low-level crime syndicate types.
Malvolio smirked at the news accounts. “What you lack in quality you make up in quantity, my friend. But assaulting highwaymen and rogues is no work for a Green Lantern.”
Malvolio placed the scrapbook back and went to Scott’s desk. Everything on it (and everything in the apartment) had been put away as if Scott were on a long journey. However, there was one letter in an opened envelope still on the desk. Malvolio picked it up and read it.
It was from the United States Government, the U.S. Army, confirming Captain Alan Wellington Scott’s new unit assignment.
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