Project Northwoods

by Jonathan Charles Bruce

  Agent Mast took a step back. With a snap, she straightened it and read off a headline: “Enforcer shot in former villain territory. Conspiracy theory gains more credence.”

  Arthur remained unmoved by the information. “Not my problem.”

  The laugh that left the woman’s lips was hollow and humorless. “Really?” She tossed the paper on the counter behind her. “You don’t care that people are dying?”

  “Do you see anyone else in this apartment?” He took a step toward her. “Tim is dead. Talia and James have been captured.” Mast cocked an eyebrow. “Ari’s gone.” He threw his hands up. “What do I care if some rent-a-hero gets shot?”

  “Because of the last part.” Her statement was immediate and impatient. “The conspiracy.”

  He huffed in annoyance. “Look, if that psychopath wants to blame villains for fighting back, let him. We did fight back, remember?”

  She shook her head. “You’re unbelievably thick.” She took a step toward him. “This has nothing to do with here and now. This goes back to the night your father was killed.” Mast let the words sink in for a moment. “Every single event since then has transpired to make it look like villains were planning a war all along.”

  Stair looked up at her from the floor. “But we weren’t.” Her eyes flicked to Arthur. “At least my pa wasn’t.”

  Agent Mast nodded. “Any kind of conspiracy of that nature would be suicide. The villain community had been responding to increasingly hostile heroic actions reasonably until…” She trailed off.

  “The Fortress,” Arthur filled in the blank.

  “The Fortress,” Mast agreed. “Have you ever heard of Project Northwoods?”

  Stair laughed at the words. “Everyone has.”

  “It’s a fringe, generic conspiracy theory. Usually trotted out by crazy people whenever something or someone needs scapegoating. Everything from taxes to fluoride in the water to lizard people controlling the universe is attached to it.” He couldn’t help but grin widely at the thought of it. “Are you saying that lizard people are trying to control us?”

  “Yes.” Agent Mast’s face was dead serious and infectious, wiping the smile from Arthur’s face.

  “What?”

  She laughed, holding her hands up. “It was a joke.” Mast took her mug from off the counter. “But Project Northwoods is very real.” Slowly, she took a sip of coffee and swallowed, trying to center her thoughts. “In the midst of the Silver Age, almost thirty years ago, a group of super heroes formed a coalition. Hardly unusual for the time. They called themselves Pandora’s Legion.”

  “Like the woman who opened the box of evils, right?” Stair asked as she pulled herself up. She crossed to the counter and proceeded to get one of the mugs Mast had set out.

  The agent gave the girl an approving nod. “That would be right.” She turned to Arthur, her smile fading quickly. “Does the name ring a bell?”

  Arthur nodded. “My father belonged to the Legion.” Redeemers

  Agent Mast counted off her fingers. “Dark Saint, Arbiter, Dr. Maelstrom, Zealot, and Cryoman.” She brought her hands down. “The five who would purge the world of villainy. Or so they claimed.”

  “So my dad’s poker buddies are, what, genocidal?”

  She nodded. “Early on, Iron Curtain had managed to kill Cryoman and his entire family. Your father was helpless to stop him, and was almost killed trying.” She paused, gathering her thoughts. “Afterwards… the group became radically more violent, more extreme in their rhetoric. I believe, this is when Project Northwoods was first developed.”

  It was Arthur’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “You believe?”

  She nodded. “There’s no hard evidence one way or the other. Everything is hearsay. Pandora’s Legion would never admit to something so horrific.” She took another pull of coffee. “It would involve destroying the system set in place after Desecrator’s defeat in 1965. A return to the old ways.”

  “But why?” Stair asked, taking a gulp of her own coffee. She made a face. “Cream. It needs cream.”

  Agent Mast nodded and nudged the carton of cream toward Stair. The girl strained to reach it without aggravating her ankle. Mast’s attention turned back to Arthur. “The Northwoods Protocol, as its original draft was called, was a way to whip the heroic populace into a murderous frenzy when just enough of a villainous trigger caused it.”

  “The bombings in 1988,” Arthur said. He shook his head. “The reign of terror… everything… it was planned?”

  She nodded. “It hit the major cities the hardest, allowing like-minded heroes to rally others and begin a systematic extermination of villain-kind.” Agent Mast set her coffee cup down and folded her arms. “But there was an unexpected problem. You see, the Silver Age started because heroes and villains are both capable of causing neutrals irreparable harm.” She moved back to the counter and leaned against it. “The dry-run of Northwoods just made everyone all too aware of this again. Villains tended to hide in plain sight, so a lot of neutrals died in the chaos. That’s why the Bronze Age was ushered in with the institutionalization of villainy and the formation of the BVH.” She smiled and gestured to herself. “We make sure that each side balances the other out.”

  “So you just let this happen?” Stair asked, the question coming out harsh. “You let my father die?”

  Agent Mast shook her head. “No.” She took off her sunglasses, revealing her golden eyes to Arthur. “Dante, despite his public facade, was committed to bringing about the destruction of the system and, with it, villainy.” Her eyes flitted to Stair. “He used his considerable political acumen to funnel money into side projects like Fort Justice, all the while keeping them a secret. His position in the Guild also allowed him to draft policy which gradually degraded villains’ rights and their ability to defend themselves legally.” She exhaled loudly and threw her hands in the air. “He had a squeaky clean exterior and found ways to stymie any investigation. And what makes this truly terrifying is that everything that has been done up to now is completely legal.”

  “Using the system to destroy the system,” Arthur said quietly. He began to breathe in harsh, rapid gasps. His eyes flitted back and forth, appearing to scan the room rapidly.

  The agent nodded solemnly. “Exactly. We can’t legally touch any of them.”

  “But he got blown up, didn’t he?” Stair asked, seemingly confused. “That couldn’t have been part of the plan.” She coughed out a laugh. “Otherwise it’s a really bad plan.”

  “You’re right,” Mast said with a nod. “But if you think about it, Project Northwoods’s flaw is that it can’t be initiated through normal means. It takes a violent, villain aggressor to do it.” She paused before moving onto her next point. “Dante Lovelass was crazy enough to die for his cause.” She cast a semi-pained glance at Arthur. “Sorry.”

  Arthur didn’t seem to notice. “The Fortress of Darkness… oh, no.”

  “What?” Stair asked.

  “The death ray.” He started to shake. “Get all the villains in one place, away from neutrals, and wipe it clean.”

  Agent Mast didn’t say a word, but Stair’s mouth worked silently for a few moments before she stammered. “D-death ray? What are you talking about?”

  “The day everything went wrong… I designed a death ray. It worked on the concept of oxygen ignition, basically making it a life-form incinerator but keeping most metals intact.” He swallowed and met Mast’s gaze. “Everyone in the Fortress is doomed.”

  Agent Mast took out her smart phone and clicked on something. “This was a minor newsworthy item from the morning after your assault on the Fortress.” She showed him the screen, displaying a photo of a newspaper article titled “NYC Heroes’ Guild Launches New Spy Satellite.” Arthur covered his mouth, looking for all the world like he was trying to stifle a scream. “I can guarantee you that’s not a spy satellite.”

  “Why can’t the BVH stop it?” Stair asked.

  Mast put her phone back into her
pocket. “They haven’t broken any laws. And, if backed into a corner, Arbiter will use the death ray.” She shook her head. “The Bureau will be unable to take official action. Which is where you come in, Arthur.”

  “I can’t do anything.” Arthur grunted and moved to the couch. “If I try to help, everyone will die.”

  Stair was watching him as he leaned on the couch, trying to figure out what to do. “Everyone will already die, Art,” the girl said quietly. “All you’d be doing is trying to stop it from happening.”

  “She has a point,” Mast agreed.

  “Which is why I can’t do it.” He turned to face them. “Stair, you lost your father. I lost my best friend. All we have is each other.” His eyes focused on Mast. “You can’t expect me to risk her life.”

  “Excuse me, that’s my decision,” Stair snapped.

  “What about Ari?” Mast cocked her head to the side. “Her father? How about the other villains on the streets? Don’t their lives mean anything to you?”

  “No.”

  Mast immediately shot back. “Your sister?”

  The words were like a blow. Arthur staggered a bit. “What’s going on with Julia?”

  She swallowed, contemplating her next statement. “The Enforcer who died last night was witness to the event which declared it open season on villainy. His was the third death connected to that particular point in time.”

  Stair looked at her in shock. “What?”

  Mast nodded. “A single bullet, by report. It wasn’t just some villain like they claim, it was an assassination.” She took a step toward Arthur. “One by one, they’ll drop. Stopping with Claymore, the man credited with killing Dervish.”

  “Which he didn’t do,” Stair said. “The Enforcers shot him.”

  Mast looked at her. “You were there?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Stair walked around the counter toward her. “I saw it. Claymore… he didn’t do it. He killed one of the Enforcers and then… they shot pa.”

  “Interesting.” Mast looked at Arthur. “I first thought they were cleaning up loose ends. Now it looks like they’re trying to make sure no one remembers anything they shouldn’t.”

  “What do you mean, ‘remembers’?” Stair asked.

  “I doubt that those Enforcers were all paid to watch their friend die.” Mast folded her arms. “If they were, they may have a crisis of conscience. If not… it’s only a matter of time before what actually happened begins to conflict with what they believed happen.”

  Arthur had grown impatient. “I still don’t see–”

  Mast waved away his interjection. “All roads lead to your sister, Art. Claymore is her partner.” Her tone hadn’t grown any more emotional. If anything, it was more calculated and direct. “If whoever is doing this hasn’t done so already, it’s only a matter of time before she’s made into a target.”

  Arthur nodded, taking it all in. “The death ray is supposed to be programmed with similar crack-proof software as the Fortress of Darkness. And even then, we’re talking about something that was designed with a death sentence trigger. Once the order is given and confirmed, there’s no turning it off.”

  “Then we have to stop them before they can get a shot off,” Stair said.

  “There is no ‘we’ in this situation, Stair.”

  “I don’t know, Art,” Mast said. “She saved your ass the night the heroes abducted everyone.”

  “How did you…” The revelation hit him halfway through his sentence: she had been the one on the earpiece he had found under the sofa. She smiled. “I thought you couldn’t get involved.”

  “Officially, no,” she said. “But I can stick to the shadows and help.”

  “Some help.” He took a step toward Mast and jammed his finger into her shoulder. “We could have used you at the Fortress.”

  “I never would have put you there in the first place.” Mast jabbed a finger at him. “You’re the one who thought appealing to the Capones was a good idea.” It wasn’t an insult or accusation, merely a statement.

  Arthur couldn’t argue with that, but still felt irritated. “At least they did something.”

  “Yes, well, the Italian Mob has always been the paragon of virtue, hasn’t it?” Mast smiled curtly, clearly growing tired of this conversation.

  “Alright, stop it!” Stair shouted. Arthur and Mast looked at her. “A lot of people are going to end up dead if you two start arguing.” The following pause made Stair visibly uncomfortable as it stretched on. “There aren’t a lot of places we can turn to.”

  “She’s right,” Mast said, golden eyes flashing. She produced her shades again and placed them on the bridge of her nose. “There are barely thirty remaining registered villains still at large. If we’re going to do anything, we have to do it together.”

  “Ari…” Arthur said to himself. “Has Ariana been captured?”

  Agent Mast shook her head. “Not as of this morning. Neither has her father.” She unconsciously brushed a strand of hair out of her face. “But it’s not like we really know where anyone is. Heroes have been searching for them for days. And Arbiter has all but shut the BVH out of whatever intel they’ve gathered.”

  “Ariana grew up nearby, I think,” Arthur offered.

  Stair nodded, turning to look at Mast. “We came back here. Maybe she went home, too.”

  “It’s a good place to start. I’ll look it up,” Agent Mast said with a nod. Arthur turned and ducked back into his bedroom. She cocked an eyebrow as he disappeared around the corner. “Where are you going?”

  “If we’re going to do this right, we need our secret weapon.” He brought out the laptop and opened it toward the Agent. The screen flickered and turned on, revealing a blue iris which kind of swiveled in place. “In the interest of full disclosure… Agent Mast, this is Mollie.”

  “Hello,” the computer greeted. “Please do not kill me.”

  She smiled politely and waved, the iris dimming slightly in acknowledgment. “You kept it.”

  “By the time I was ordered to destroy her, she knew what it meant to die.” Arthur stared unblinkingly. “I couldn’t bring myself to do it.”

  “Do not be mad, ma’am,” Mollie piped. “He almost never lets me out.”

  “Almost,” Mast said with a smirk. “I figured as much.”

  Stair cleared her throat. “I don’t think we’d be able to do anything without her. If they’re using Arthur’s technology, she’s our only hope at cracking it.”

  Agent Mast looked at Stair, then back at Arthur. She wetted her lips and pointed to the counter. “Set it down, then. We need to figure out what we’re going to do before we try to do it.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  THE WORLD

  JULIA SAT AT HER FATHER’S DESK IN HIS STUDY, her set of lock picks rolled up and resting on the corner surface. The curtains, pulled wide to let as much sunlight into the dark room as possible, were a deep red with golden accents. As far as aesthetics went, they smartly complemented the rest of the room. Countless books, from history to philosophy to the art of warfare, lined the dusty shelves. A locked trunk, covered with a velvet blanket and a few pillows, sat under the large window as kind of a combination storage unit and sofa. Behind her, in a glass case, her mother’s jewelry sat undisturbed and pristine. The only piece missing was the necklace that Julia now wore. The weight of it was conspicuous, falling low on her chest and hovering over her heart.

  The jewel itself was hidden under her ‘NYC Adjudicators’ t-shirt, back from her days on the University basketball team. Jeans completed the ‘average’ look that she adopted whenever she had a long enough time between work to enjoy not being in uniform. Her hair was pulled back into a bun, lacking any of the excess she put into it normally. It was an effort to feel as little like a hero as possible, to buck the responsibility she knew she had.

  Her father had kept this room locked most of the time, declaring that its contents were either of no use to anyone or too great a danger to risk any of h
is family stumbling into it. Only now, well after his death, did Julia see fit to pick the lock and search through it, discovering nothing that could even be considered mildly dangerous to anyone. Apparently, he had kept her mother’s jewelry close to him when he was home so that he could retain some small part of her in his life. His desk was stuffed more with bills and ledgers of financial data than anything else. She suspected that it had all been an act, a ruse to keep his daughter from knowing how human he could be.

  It would have worked, had he not also kept a stack of letters he had written his wife decades ago. Tucked into his desk drawer, buried beneath leather-bound fiscal documents of past years, she had found the bundles, bound together with a single piece of twine. There were love letters, rhetorical tirades on philosophy and the nature of justice, and poetry. Oh, the poetry. It lacked much of the smoothness and beauty of a professional, but in its ham-fisted way, it was sweet and encouraging, a note of humanity in an untouchable hero.

  Interspersed within the letters were matching ones from her mother. Although not dripping with saccharinity like some of the ones her father wrote, they still expressed the longing her mother had felt while he had been hunting a villain or when she had been on a business trip elsewhere. It was encouraging to know that, even in some of the darkest days, love could feasibly win out.

  Julia set down the fourteenth letter she had read that morning. Her eyes trailed to the window, to the bright and clear day just beyond those walls. She had always resented growing up without a mother, like she had lost nature’s lottery. It was like a fundamental part of her had been erased, or that her personal instruction booklet on life had large chunks of its pages removed. The photographs and oral histories her father had given her were not enough to generate anything solid for her. The few times Arthur spoke about her were usually generalities, himself having been too young to really know the woman.

  The letters were the closest she had gotten to knowing her, and even then it was just one side. She argued fiercely for understanding while her father grew increasingly adamant about villains’ inability to be human. But this alone provided a fraction of her personality, a shard of what she once was. Even the countless doting letters devoid of arguments were only a fraction of her, a tiny piece of the puzzle.