Bruce keyed the mike and said, “Hulk to Morgan. Pick up, Morgan.”
Nothing. The Hulk tapped his desk a few times. “Ahem. Open Channel D.”
Static.
Come on, don’t these guys have secretaries?
“Hulk calling Orson. Come in, Orson,’ Bruce smiled, but this was beginning not to be funny. “Hey, SAFE crackers, anyone there?”
There was a crackle and hiss, then a sound sliding through, wet and guttural. “Hello, Hulk.”
Bruce spun around, sitting bolt upright. He was silent for a long moment, then he whispered, “Emil?”
“Hello, Doctor,” the voice slithered. The study was dark, and the Hulk felt himself floating in space, just him and the voice in his ear, somewhere out there, disembodied, making a connection.
“Where are you, Emil?”
“I’ve been thinking. Dr. Banner,’’ the voice rasped. The voice sounded like it oozed green, gamma-irradiated and boiling. “When this is over, I just might keep the ’carrier. If there’s anything left.”
Bruce spoke slowly, rising. “Emil, where’s Morgan?” Morgan? Where the hell is all of SAFE?
“Better yet,” whispered the voice on the other end. “I don’t expect to come through. So I think you can have it. What better home for a man all alone than in the sky?”
On the bridge of the Helicarrier, the Abomination pushed a technician aside and sat down at his console, keying into the late Tom Hampton’s GammaTrac station, bringing it up on screen. He watched the green arm sweep around, and sighed almost lovingly as a blip in Westchester jumped, moving fast south and, suddenly, gaming altitude.
Emil Blonsky looked over his shoulder at the bridge crew, all of whom had been felled by the same sleeping gas Sarah had set up to knock out the entire populace of the Helicarrier. Having no one to speak to in particular, the massive, garish monster shrugged. “Hulk approaching.”
Anyone seen leaving,’ came the voice on the loudspeaker, “will only cause more destruction and loss of life.”
Betty whipped off her heels and stuffed them in the garbage. What would Daddy do?
General “Thunderbolt” Ross would storm and threaten and bluster and boil. He would insult and insinuate. And he would probably get himself shot. What would Daddy do? Screw that, what will I do?
A teacher, yes, and a fine one. Nearly a nun, once. Also a pilot with survivalist training, although no one brought it up very much. Betty scanned the ceiling of the ladies room as footsteps echoed in the hall, the woman on the PA system continuing her tirade.
‘‘All of you are being filmed for the better of the recipients of our message.”
There was a panel above the third stall, a maintenance shaft entry.
“I urge you all to be brave and face your fate with the stoicism of those who are now in control. Just as they are expected to sacrifice, so are you. This consulate is but a growth of our mother country.”
Betty entered'! stall, climbed up on top of the toilet, reaching up to the panel. She pushed once, heaving. It did not budge. Calm down. Footsteps. Calm down. She ran her hands around the edge of the panel.
“And sometimes growths must be severed, boils must be lanced, for the betterment of the whole.-’
. On one edge was a sort of handle, a flat circular impression like a screw. Underneath would be a bar that would slide out of the way and allow the panel to push upward.
“All will soon become clear. Please be patient.”
The ladies’ room door slammed open and three URSA agents entered, fanning out. They did not see the panel slide softly back into place in the ceiling.
‘This message has been prerecorded.”
God, she does go on, doesn't she? Betty began to crawl, gingerly placing her weight on the metal frames on either side of the shaft, trying to keep from sending a ceiling lamp crashing down to the floor—or worse, from crashing through herself.
She heard an agent below her say, as the three ran out of the ladies’ room, “Find the runaway.”
Bruce leapt from the ground outside his condo and landed just north of Central Park. He scanned the air, spotting the Helicarrier hovering above the World Trade Center, brushing past the twin towers at a stunningly close proximity. He leapt, wind sailing past him, and fell towards the earth again, landing on a crowded street in midtown.
When you’re seven feet tall and weigh twelve hundred pounds and you land next to a newsstand, people get out of the way. Bruce barely noted the pulverized concrete beneath his feet as he crouched and leapt again, landing this time on a street closer to the World Trade Center. He leapt again, now aiming for the mammoth ’carrier that crossed the avenue, casting its shadow the length of a city block.
As he soared, he noted electrical sparks spraying out from the underbelly of the helicarrier. It looked like someone had punched through the underside. Someone heavy, with claws. The jagged metal rim of Emil’s entryway came flying towards the Hulk so fast he barely had time to reach out his hands and catch it. Giant green fingers wrapped around toothy metal and sparking, jumping wires, as the Hulk whipped his body around to plant his feet on the other edge of the hole, toes and fingers digging into the steel. The SAFE Helicarrier rocked in the air as, for the second time within half an hour, a twelve-hundred-pound gamma giant collided with its underbelly.
There were jets in the air, small ones zipping around, circling wide. The Hulk hung and stared at them, far off. Fighter planes. What was going on?
Bruce could hear alarms ringing on the inside, blaring away, and there was a pulsating red light emanating from the hole in the ’carrier’s hull. The Hulk let go his feet, swung down, hanging from the rim, feet pointing towards the earth, swung again, and let go his hands as he flipped up and through the hole and onto the slick floor of what appeared to be a full-sized basketball court. The entry hole had ripped right through the center, neatly between the two goals, each back-board proudly bearing the emblem of SAFE. The backboards glared beautifully in the red emergency lights cast by the wall alarms, the reflective, sparkly fiberglass covers flashing. The Hulk surveyed the SAFE basketball court with an approving nod.
Nice place to work.
Bruce began to jog, exiting the gym and passing into the locker room. As he entered, he was accosted by a wave of steam rising from showers that still ran and spattered water. The steam swirled in the pulsating red light, and Bruce had difficulty making sense of the different images. The regular lights didn’t seem to be working so well. He was about to start jogging again when he noticed a shape on the floor and bent down, brushing his hand. There was a naked man on the floor, a towel clutched in his hand, next to Bruce’s right foot. The Hulk crouched for a moment, feeling for a pulse. He sniffed. Gas? If so, it had dissipated, especially with all this steam moving around.
Mr. Morgan, we have some security problems.
Bruce moved steadily through the locker room, avoid' ug stepping on any of the fallen SAFE agents who lay scattered about like rag dolls. It was difficult, weighing what he did, being as large as he was. There was a re curring dream Bruce used to have, in the days when he had no control over his Hulk persona. The dream was not that he would kill a sizeable number of soldiers, or even that he would bring entire planes full of innocents out of the sky.
The dream had been one in which he lived out again and again a very basic fear that he would step on someone. Just take a step and crush a body. He would wake up in the middle of the night drenched in sweat. He did not need violence to do harm. The Hulk was a danger merely by virtue of his size and strength.
Bruce stepped gingerly over a woman who leaned, towel-wrapped, against a locker. She wore small eyeglasses that glinted red in the swirling steam. Bruce: stopped for a moment, disoriented. Every drop in the air was lit up red, and he had no idea how many people were under his feet. He had reached the end of a line of lockers. He looked around, red-bursting steam flowing like fog. Where in hell is the exit? He walked along another line of lockers and turned, to f
ind another line of green metal doors and benches.
The Hulk put his hand on the wall and slid his feet along a slick, tiled floor he could barely see, and felt sleeping flesh push aside as his foot moved through. Surely he could get more fight in here. This is great. Attack the Helicanier and get lost in a locker room roughly the size of Kansas.
The Hulk looked to his left and saw the communal shower, a large circular room with a spewing post of showerheads in the center. There was another door on the other side. Which probably led to more lockers. Or might lead to a lift
Bruce winced. The alarm siren was beginning to echo in his head, blood washing through his ears with every burst of sound. He decided to cut through the shower and stepped through the white door, steam whipping around him.
Something moved out of the comer, a garish shape in pulsing red and green, barely registering out of the comer of Bruce’s left eye. Something butted a scaly head against the Hulk’s lower back. Bruce saw the fog splitting, pulsing brilJiant red light, as the force sent him colliding with the far wall.
The Hulk slid to the ground, kicking a SAFE agent as gingerly as one can kick a naked man out 01 the way. “There you are.”
“If I waited for you to find your wky up the bridge,” said the Abomination, “it could take years.”
—‘Unhand me, ’ Greg Vranjesevic said.
Selznick leaned against the security desk and nodded at the two agents who held the ambassador. “Fine,” Selznick said, as he leaned against the desk. “Mr. Vranjesevic, I don’t mean to make you suffer. Really. And if you promise to behave I’m happy to let you stand there like a dignified man. All right?’’
Vranjesevic nodded as the agents on either side let go of his arms. He stepped over to Nadia, who sat on a chair, staring at Selznick and Timm. “What are you people? Selznick and Timm? You sound American, what’s your connection with an outfit like URSA?”
Selznick threw a glance at Timm, who up until a few minutes ago had been safely ensconced in his role as an agent Of SAFE. Selznick smiled, then laughed a bit, reaching in his breast pocket for something. He frowned, patted his pockets, then looked at Timm and said, in perfect Russian, “I can’t find my cigarettes, you have any?”
Timm fished out a pack of Morleys and tossed a cigarette to Selznick, looking at Greg. He, too, spoke now in perfect Russian. “Just because you can’t get rid of your accent doesn’t mean we can’t. That’s child’s play, Gregor. At least,” he looked at Selznick, who was lighting his cigarette, “it was for us.”
Greg folded his arms. After a moment he nodded. ^ Ah. Cousins. Yes, I’ve heard of yon brats. Get to spend your mornings watching Captain Kangaroo and your afternoons blowing up libraries, or something like that?”
“It was a very different time,” Timm said wistfully.
Selznick looked at his watch and said, “You know what? I think we should watch some television.” He tipped his head in the direction of a large television 'n the lobby—which was actually more of a den, decorated as it was in serene yellow and brown—and Timm strode to the television ana flipped on the switch.
Greg heard Selznick engage in a quick conversation by radio with the two agents who were looking for Betty Gaynor. Or was it Banner? Whoever she was. So with Selznick and Timm, and those two—what were their names? His mind zipped back to quickly-seen chest badges. Spacey and Kimball. So there were four of these URSA people here. Four of them waiting for some kind of sacrifice.
“Should be about now,” Selznick said idly, flipping to a news broadcast. There was a man reading a report, and now Greg heard sirens again. For an instant he thought the alarms in the consulate had been turned back on, but no—this was outside the window. He looked at the front window, a large, reinforced, bay-style affair, then looked at Selznick.
“Go ahead, Ambassador, have a look.”
Greg was already there, and he lifted back the heavy red curtain. There were fire trucks, two of them, pulling up in front of the iron gate in front of the embassy. He countcd at least three police cars. “We are not alone,” Greg said.
Ej‘Just watch the television, Mr. Vranjesevic,” Timm said.
On the screen, a man with wind-blown hair held a microphone to his face and stood in front of a line of police cars. Greg realized that those were the same cars he was seeing out the window.
.. New York police received a frightened phone
call just under an hour ago from a woman who identified herself only as Jo. We have procured a copy of that call for you.”
The screen went blue and a small rectangle with a ridiculously dramatic question mark and the name “Jo” covered the screen, white words transcribing the voice Greg and the rest of the city now heard:
“Please!” the woman whispered. “Please, you’ve got to hurry. This is Jo, security verify Tanqueray nine-oh-seven. You’ve got to stop them; I can’t do anything else. SAFE is going to bomb the consulate, the Russian consulate, they—they’re acting under orders from the President himself, I swear... The Helicarrier is going to bomb it. It’s too late for a rescue mission, all the loyals inside are under guard, they said if someone tries to rescue them they’ll blow it up... No! Wait!” There were shots, then, two of them, and the tape went blank.
Greg looked at Selznick, twisting his lips. ‘ That’s the woman we just heard, that Sarah Josef.”
Selznick nodded, a gleam in his eye.
“Are you telling me,” Greg said, regarding the trucks outside; .“seriously telling me, that you are on a suicide mission?” n
Selznick looked at Timm, sliding onto the couch. “And not even drooling, is that your point? That we don’t seem crazy, we’re not robots, even though we expect to die? It does happen that something can be important enough to die for with a clear head.’
Greg banged several times on the window when he saw a man in a fireman’s outfit look over the iron fence, the light outside dimming. “Hey!”
“Greg,” said Timm, “forget it. They don’t know what to do. So they’re not going to do anything. They’re here to make sure whatever happens keeps itself contained.”
The reporter on the television continued: 'Ladies and geudemen, this has been a lot of information to try to organize in such a short time. But inside sources in the government say that, indeed, there is a covert organization called SAFE, which apparently is a loose arm of the executive branch. Neither the President nor his press secretary could be reached for comment at this time.”
“Dick, is SAFE another S.H.I.E.L.D.?” the anchorman came on, calling out to the man on the ground.
“Uh, no, Jerry, S.H.l.E.L.D. we’ve known about, of course, they’re a UN arm. But SAFE apparently has a Helicarrier, just like S.H.I.E.L.D., and in fact we’ve seen the ’carrier wandering around. Most of us assumed that was S.H.I.E.L.D.’s.”
“So where is the helicarrier now?5- the anchorman asked.
Dick, on the ground, who looked as though he would rather be covering a hurricane, looked up. “Ah—Jerry, it looks like it’s here.”
Greg looked away from the television and out the window, into the sky. There was a massive shape moving over the embassy, like a steel blimp, only about five times larger. .
“This is crazy,” Greg said. “This is insane. Why would the United States government blow up a consulate? That doesn’t make sense.”
Selznick stood up, taking a drag on his cigarette. “Greg, Greg.” He walked over to the window and stood at the window, peering out the curtain. He pulled in close, breathing on Greg’s shoulder, the gun still in his hand. “It doesn’t have to make sense. Perception is reality. That’s a cliche, but the funny thing about cliches is that they often turn out to be true.” Selznick looked back at the people sitting in the den. Nadia, and two servants, both of whom appeared to be wishing they had gotten off early today.
“Let’s say something horrible happens, anywhere. One thing you notice is that everybody begins to make up theories. The one thing we can’t handle is the idea that somethi
ng could happen for a reason that doesn’t make sense. We’ll make it make sense. So what do you know? A woman calls the police and says the government is going to do a horrible thing. She gives a security code that the FBI can run and verify that she is, in fact, connected. So everyone runs to the consulate to watch. And maybe it doesn’t blow up, and everyone goes home, and wonders, what the hell was that about?’ ’ He crushed out his cigarette in a standing ashtray and continued. “But there’s the Helicarrier. And let’s say the consulate does blow up. Whose version of events will win? I’ll tell you: the one they were already looking for.”
Greg looked at him, a mass of bile sliding down his throat. ‘And all you really need is an explosion.”
Nadia spoke up, staring at Timm. “Why? Why would you do such a thing?”
Timm said, “My partner talks too much. All will be come clear, ma’am. ’
There was a chime in the lobby, behind the security desk.
“That’s the elevator,” Greg said.
“Yes,’ said Timm.
Nadia asked, “Where does it come from?”
“Below,” said Greg. “The deliver}' tunnels.”
Th^ elevator doors chimed, and began to open. Greg approached it. There sat a device the size of a vacuum cleaner, a shimmering green globe on top. And it was humming.
The Hulk and the Abomination spilled through the doorway on the other side of the shower and fell back against the tiles, sliding across the red-pulsing, steaming floor. The ’carrier pitched, and it felt like a whole building tipping over, and Bruce grabbed at the wall as he began to slide across this new room. “What in hell?”
Emil tumbled across the Hulk, tearing at Bruce’s throat. “Hclicarrier is driving itself. It’s not very smart.
It wants to avoid hitting buildings,” be said, as Bruce kicked at him viciously. Emil’s claw hooked the Hulk’s foot and drew blood as Bruce flipped over, his chin slamming into the tiles, cracking them. “But it doesn’t care how sloppy it is at driving.”
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