Project Northwoods

by Jonathan Charles Bruce

  She regarded him, unmoving. “What if it fails?”

  He didn’t quite know how to respond at first. After a false start, he offered, “Then at least we die on our feet.”

  The silence between them was aching to break. Arthur couldn’t tell from her steely expression if this was going to be the end of it.

  “Do you even know where this place is?” she asked.

  He was quiet for a moment. “No, ma’am. But Allison said you have people–”

  She held up her hand to cut him off. “I have to think about this. You’re asking a lot here, Arthur.” Catalina sighed deeply. “If we can find the place, if we can assault the Fortress, and if we don’t get killed between then and now, it still means that we miss our chance to escape.” She pushed off the desk and went to the door. Her hand on the latch, she pulled the door open and gestured for Arthur to go through it. “You’ll have your answer in an hour.”

  June 27th, 2011

  Morning

  “The Fortress of Darkness was designed to be unbreachable,” Arthur began, clicking a slide of the wireframe image he had designed into place. “It was to be a secure location in which to plot, invent, and horde ill-gotten goods. No hero would be able to enter once in lockdown, and no one would be able to leave unless I wanted them to.” He clicked the pointer, and another slide went into place. It was similar, save for digital remnants of corrupted data. “That’s why this is such a formidable prison. The heroes have built this in an effort to house what we believe to be a large portion of New York’s villain population in an almost self-sufficient micro-city.” He clicked several times, showing areas of the Fortress converted to cells and sleep chambers. “We have numerous standard cells, reinforced to prevent a breakout. Further, they are using sleep cells and sedatives to prevent Bestowed villains from using their abilities if released.” He cleared his throat. “Outside of those developed by late-bloomers, light sleep disrupts most Bestowed abilities. These cells are designed to place a captive in an early-stage sleep cycle perpetually. Suddenly waking them up will render them unable to focus, and thus, relatively defenseless.”

  Someone in the dark cafeteria coughed. He was grateful that he could see no one looking at him, staring and evaluating his speech. He took a deep breath and, with trembling fingers, reached for a glass of water. “Come on, Art!” one of the quadruplets shouted. A hush of nervous laughter made him cough on the liquid.

  Setting the water down, he clicked another slide, this one the standard wireframe next to the doctored heroic version. “From what we’ve gathered, the heroes have opted to use this as an automated prison. There are no indications that there is a heavy guard presence.”

  “So what’s stopping us from storming in?” came an unidentified question.

  Arthur cocked an eyebrow, and clicked on a new slide of electrical schematics. “This. It was designed to keep people out. You don’t have the codes, you don’t get inside.” He blinked and swallowed dryly. “Also, you’ll get blasted into the night sky.” He paced in front of the slide, briefly illuminated by the digital projector’s light. “I wrote this system to be impossible to crack. Unless I’m in control, I’m out of luck.” He paused for effect. “Forever.”

  Someone in the front row, barely lit by the slide, raised her hand. Arthur pointed at her. “What’s the point of telling us this if your badass system is so impossible to breach?” The tone was annoyed, with a hint of impatience.

  Arthur smiled. “We have some secret weapons. Talia Illyanovich, for one, can reverse age non-living material. We can force the system to its initial startup, where…” he trailed off. He was too protective of Mollie to let too many know of her existence. “Where I can make myself the rightful head of the system,” he said, omitting the particulars. He took a breath for the next part.

  “And then what?” someone shouted. Arthur made a mental note that maybe his future henchmen should be mute. “How do you suggest we get 150,000 people back here?”

  Another smile, wide and insidious, crossed his lips. “We don’t.” He clicked on another slide, revealing New York City’s 2009 villain statistics: 143,752 registered villains; 57,501 super villains. “Basically we’re dealing with a small, densely populated city at best and the world’s biggest sardine can at worst.” He clicked a button, and the number 57,501 took prominence on the screen. “We can be sure that all Bestowed villains, no matter how unimportant they may appear, are housed in this facility, if for no other reason than to make sure they do not mingle with the criminal element found at other correctional institutions.”

  When no one made a smart aleck response, he continued: “This number is far too great to move any substantial distance without severe loss due to a forced march, any wounded in their initial capture, and the inevitable…” He clicked the slide, showing a picture of a Mark V Search Drone. Numerous lines pointed to the sleek surface, revealing troubling components: cameras, armor, gun pods, missile racks. “The new Mark V’s are more than just trackers. They combine the riot stopping power of the Mark I’s with the surveillance advancements of the Mark IV.

  “But they won’t find us if we stay right here.” He clicked for the next slide, a wireframe image of the Panopticon. Two of the five floors were highlighted with labels. “We dig in, entrenching into the Fortress. And, from there, we broadcast to the world what’s going on.” He clicked a button, and the new slide revealed a communication array at the top of the tower before it swept down the building to show four other beacons. “PR alone won’t save the day, but it may be enough to put pressure on the heroes to do the right thing and let everyone out.”

  There was murmuring in the crowd, but Arthur couldn’t be sure if it was in his favor or not. “We’re with you,” someone shouted.

  “It’s better than running away!” another yelled.

  “Let’s kick some ass!” one of the quadruplets exclaimed.

  Someone gave a whoop of pre-emptive triumph, the sound of which thrilled Arthur despite the odds being against him. He resisted the urge to let it continue and motioned for quiet to return.

  “As far as we can tell, the Fortress is here.” He clicked, and a picture of a satellite map he had pirated from a coffee shop’s Wi-Fi appeared on screen. “According to Catalina’s sources, there’s a spike in the power grid in this supposed quarry located, as you can see, quite a bit away from anything useful.” He clicked the slide, and it went to a screen showing a top down view of the building. Arrows flowed in through the entrance, split off in the middle, and went to the four main wings. “Once inside, we’ll separate into each area, providing assistance to those in need and organizing duties until we’re able to leave. Catalina, Talia, and I will head up to the nerve center to broadcast a distress call.” A label allocated leaders to each of the four limbs, Tim for A-Wing, Allison for D-Wing, and two other higher-ups in the mob for the two in between. He clicked the button again, and the slide came back black. The lights rose slowly.

  Arthur stepped forward, now face-to-face with a crowd of over a hundred faces. Some were excited, some were skeptical, but the rest were an enigma. “I am not going to lie to you. If something goes wrong, we’re all screwed. As in, you may not be coming back.” He swallowed. “A lot can go wrong. There’s no way to make sure that we can even make it past the front gate.” His eyes floated just over the heads of the assembled, until they came to rest on Tim. His friend’s face was no longer the furious scowl that he had grown accustomed to. Instead, he nodded to Arthur’s words, believing them, knowing they were the truth. “But if we can, we can make history. We can make sure the horror of the Silver Age never happens again. And even if we fail it’s better to die fighting than cowering until they find us.”

  He wasn’t sure who started applauding, but it sounded far away. In a matter of moments, it grew, louder and louder. People were shouting, standing in their seats. Arthur’s knees shook, and the sudden urge to vomit fought for control. Catalina, formerly seated on the stage and just out of the per
iphery of his vision, stood and patted him on the back before exiting the room. Talia looked grim, but determined.

  Tim approached the stage, forcing his way through the gathered mobsters. He clambered up to Arthur’s level and crossed to him. “Thank you,” he said simply. He grabbed his friend’s hand and, turning to the crowd, thrust it into the air. The air erupted in an excited roar which echoed off the walls before rolling back over the assembled.

  Arthur smiled. This was his moment to take what he always wanted.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  INFILTRATION

  June 28th, 2011

  Night

  THE AMBULANCE JOSTLED ITS WAY up the winding dirt road, branches scratching at the window Arthur leaned against. Night was falling on Tuesday after a morning of scrambling between safe houses to crisscross their way toward the quarry. He scratched at his ear, the wireless headset resting so snugly that it was borderline uncomfortable. Discomfort was a small price to pay for having just one earpiece and being able to communicate with Mollie and everyone else. Looking at the side mirror, he could barely make out the vehicles behind them, their headlights off in favor of moving in the dark.

  It was an odd collection of buses, ambulances, and other vehicles large enough to carry multiple bodies and weapons, all from one of three disparate launching pads for the attack. Most of the ambulances came from a rundown, Italian Mob-run clinic in a particularly trusting community. The buses were from a junkyard front which had long since served as a ‘depository’, as Catalina described it. The remaining vehicles were from a used car dealership which never quite seemed to be open. They were far enough apart that, in the off chance they were intercepted, there was a good chance that some portion of the force would be able to make it to where they needed to go.

  “We’re almost there,” Mat said. He grabbed the radio and clicked the transmit button. “Breaker one-niner, what’s your twenty, over?”

  There was a hiss of static, then one of his brothers shouted over the radio, “Shut up, Mat. Do you know how hard it is to drive a bus one-handed?”

  Mat giggled and clicked the button again. “I’m sorry, breaker, I didn’t catch that.”

  Catalina was hunched over in the back, her grunt of irritation drowned out by the rattle of weapons hanging from racks. “Stop messing around with the radio, Bandit.” Arthur had opted out of strapping into the body armor before they left, preferring to don the restrictive gear when they stopped. Catalina, however, had gleefully put the rigid vest on already, as well as a variety of other tactical equipment: holsters, grenades, and night-vision goggles, among others. She was a committed – that much was sure. “If you’re going to talk, use the earpiece. It’s harder for people to pick up.”

  He placed the radio on its cradle almost immediately at the sound of her voice. “Sorry, ma’am.”

  Allison, crammed next to Arthur in the front, leaned forward and squinted at the horizon. “Where is it? We should see it by now, right?”

  “Optical camouflage,” Arthur said, distracted.

  Mat laughed a little at the explanation. “That’s some Solid Snake stuff, right there.”

  Arthur scanned the distance for something, then pressed his earpiece. “Okay. Everyone stop.” He looked at Mat. The goon nodded at the order, and they slowed to a stop. Arthur’s finger didn’t drop from his earpiece. “Do not move forward until our signal.” He looked at Catalina, who smiled eagerly. She stood as tall as she could and grabbed her high-tech, scoped rifle from the rack. Gently pushing open the back door, she silently disappeared into the night, leaving the others to anxiously await the next phase.

  Krashaunta Carpenter sat in her chair in the guardhouse, feet on the table, leafing through a copy of the New York Times. Pushed far in the back, an editorial asked the question ‘Where Are All the Villains?’ She scanned the blurb, brushing back a strand of straight red hair as she did so. She didn’t even know why she was here. The older guard, Geoff, certainly could handle the responsibility of making sure the gate remained closed on his own. Besides, the guy gave her the creeps.

  Her compatriot shifted his weight as he watched a small, albeit noisy, television. Krashaunta glanced out of the corner of her eye at him. Terminally unhappy, Geoff seldom spoke. When he did, it was usually about those ‘filthy degens’ in the Fort or about how he knew Arbiter personally and how he was the real first line of defense. Whenever he would spiral on about such things, her mind would invariably wander to the rumor that he had been a hero in the 80’s who, like Arbiter, had been forced to give up active duty. Now that things were changing and starting to look similar to the Silver Age, he had been called back into service. With his greying hair and doughy form shoved roughly into an Enforcer’s uniform, he looked less like an officer and more like a rent-a-cop.

  All he’d need was a ridiculous electric scooter and a campaign hat.

  She straightened the paper as quietly as possible, trying her best to not do anything to elicit conversation. Was this really a good expenditure of her education? She had a master’s degree in Super Villain Justice on top of her Enforcer training. And yet, here she was, stuck on the third night in a row of babysitting-slash-gate keeping duty. Luck of the draw, she guessed scornfully.

  Geoff slurped noisily at his coffee, then set his mug down. Brushing the droplets from his mustache, he grunted. “I won’t be here much longer,” he said, feeling the need for human contact.

  “Oh?” Krashaunta muttered, aggressively indifferent.

  The explanation was going to happen regardless of her comment. “Arbiter’s going to need more heroes once the rest of New England gets on board with this plan.”

  She fought the urge to knock him out and lock him in the closet. Instead, she offered, “There’s plenty of Enforcers in other states.”

  “Uniformed heroes,” he said pointedly. “None of this pseudo-military shit. Actual heroes. With names and everything.” She fought the urge to roll her eyes. Before the 1970's, most un-Bestowed who wanted to be heroes created a persona to exemplify whatever innate talent they might have. One Shot changed all that by founding the Enforcers and training those like her to be heroes. Under her leadership, the heroes swelled their ranks with what many mistakenly believed to be heroic henchmen. It was only during the 1980’s, with extra defense funding and the eventual installation of the Bronze Age, that the Enforcers became an integral nine-to-five.

  And as such, many old-timers felt that Enforcers were superfluous, a fact which did not escape Krashaunta whenever Geoff brought it up. “You’re right,” she said. “We Enforcers are pretty much worthless.” She turned a page, hoping the rustling provided an adequate punctuation.

  He shook his head and waved his hand dismissively. Rising from his chair, he grabbed a pack of cigarettes off the counter. “I’m taking fifteen.”

  She lowered the paper and watched as he walked across the room behind her. “What have you been doing up to now?”

  “Ha, ha,” he grunted. Geoff was at the door in a moment, taking a lighter out from one of his many pockets. He stood just outside, pinning the door open with his body and letting an aggressive chill enter the room.

  “Were you born in a barn?” Krashaunta asked, hoping her annoyance was clear. “You can smoke outside.”

  “It’s cold.” Before she could go back to her paper, a loud snap made her sit bolt upright, her head whipping in the direction of the noise. Geoff was looking above the door, a trickle of sparks spattering down like an electric drizzle. “What the…”

  It happened so fast, Krashaunta had no time to process it. One moment, Geoff was looking at the remains of the security camera. The next, he was on the ground, clutching his throat. Initially, she thought he was having a stroke or a heart attack, but it quickly became clear that someone had shot out the security camera and taken him out as well.

  “Shit!” She leapt off her chair, sprinted across the room, and grabbed onto Geoff’s ankles. He was heavy, much heavier than she expected, but adr
enaline helped her drag the gasping form back into the room. Once he was clear of the door, she turned and dashed to the alarm trigger.

  “I would not do such things if I were you,” a cool, feminine voice warned.

  Krashaunta stopped, hands rising. “I’m taking a step backward, and turning to face you,” she explained calmly. She heard the rustling of clothing as the interloper no doubt disarmed Geoff.

  “Alright.”

  She did, coming face-to-face with Catalina Capone, the much taller woman staring down the sight of a high-caliber pistol pointed right at her head. Strapped on her back was a high-tech sniper rifle. A set of night-vision goggles rested in her hair, catching the fluorescent light at just the wrong angle. Covering her pinstriped clothes were thigh holsters and a bulletproof vest. Smiling like a shark, dangerous and predatory, she began a slow movement toward Krashaunta. “Miss Capone, I don’t think…”

  “I know what I’m dealing with?” she finished for her. “I do.” She gestured with the gun. “Corner. Now.” Krashaunta obeyed, her eyes moving between Catalina and the writhing Geoff. Capone glided over to her, pressed the gun to her temple, and began to yank her weapons off of her. The baton was the first to go, then her pistol. Once the mobster finished relieving her of weaponry, the woman kicked Krashaunta in the shin, hard enough to crack the bone. She collapsed, teeth gritted in agony.

  From the floor, she watched as Catalina holstered her own weapon, then ejected the magazine of Krashaunta’s gun. With the snap of parts gliding against each other, she pulled the gun apart and threw the components around the room. “What are you trying to do?” she managed to grunt.