Vanguard: Seasons 1-3: A Superhero Adventure

by Percival Constantine

  “It’s okay,” said Jim. “Look, I think that’s enough for today. Why don’t we head back to Atlas?”

  Erin nodded, setting a return-course and heading back to the team’s base of operations nestled deep within the Adirondacks.

  ***

  Above a small clearing within the Adirondacks, the Icarus shifted to hover-mode, slowly lowering towards the ground, where an abandoned airstrip and two small buildings were the only indication that anything outside of nature existed here. That was before a portion of the ground opened in quarters, revealing the entrance to what was once an Atlas-F ICBM silo. The Icarus’ VTOL jets slowly lowered the craft through those open doors, before setting down on the metal floor of the underground hangar.

  The segmented ceiling sealed itself shut while Erin and Jim disembarked from the Icarus, walking down the ramp from the rear cabin and into the hangar. Standing nearby in military uniform was Colonel Leonard Thorne, the team’s liaison with the White House, although very few people knew of that fact.

  “How’d it go?” he asked.

  “Just fine,” said Erin, walking past Thorne and towards the elevator.

  The Colonel faced his field commander with a questioning brow. “She okay?”

  “She’s got it under control,” said Jim. “In fact, she’s not a bad pilot. Seems Zenith spent a lot of time training her.”

  “Zenith kept me appraised of Erin’s training, so that’s not what bothers me. I’m more worried about her.”

  Jim gave a sigh. “What do you want me to say? She misses him, obviously. Even turned into him while we were in the sky.”

  “What’s your opinion?”

  “I don’t think she’s ready,” said Jim. “And not only as far as piloting the Icarus goes, but being in the field in general. Zenith’s death hit her harder than anyone else. I really don’t know if we can count on her.”

  “Unfortunately we may not have a choice,” said Thorne. “She’s the only one with anywhere near the kind of training needed to pilot the Icarus. If we can’t count on Shift, we might have to find some other way to get to where we need to be.”

  Thorne strolled around the perimeter of the Icarus, admiring the plane’s sophisticated design.

  “Anita and Vaughn were able to get it back from Vegas,” said Jim, referring to the members of the team who had to command the Icarus following Zenith’s death in the field.

  “That was short-range, and the course had been pre-programmed,” said Thorne. “But long-term, Erin’s the best-qualified pilot we’ve got. I suppose we should at least be thankful that things have been fairly quiet, so we can probably afford some more time to begin training the rest of the team.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Deep within the mountains of Tora Bora sat the sprawling headquarters of the Red Fist. It was long-believed that the sophisticated hideouts hidden within the Afghan caves were simply speculation that was disproved. In reality, the Khagan was able to use his own connections in the United States government to help perpetuate that cover.

  The Red Fist had long been content to exist in the shadows. But the emergence of the specials had opened the Khagan’s mind to new possibilities and opportunities for the revolution he’d always believed would come. As the tall, muscled man walked through the corridors of the fortress he’d built, he admired his own handiwork. By the Khagan’s side stood his right-hand man, the telepath known only as the Analyst. The men and women who saluted or bowed to show their respect were members of the Red Fist’s army, and they had only one unifying feature—the featureless crimson masks that covered their faces.

  The Khagan and the Analyst moved deeper into the complex, until they came to a locked door where two Red Fist guards stood on watch. They both bowed to one knee, lowering their heads in supplication.

  “Open it,” said the Khagan and the two men rose and unlocked the heavy, metal door, pulling it open for their master. He entered the room, the Analyst a step behind him.

  The large, spacious room was furnished with a comfortable bed. A desk against one wall had several computer towers beneath it, the wires running up to an array of a half-dozen monitors mounted on the stone wall. The third and final wall housed a workbench with tools and electronic parts scattered over its surface. It was here where Lee Parker sat, cobbling together the components the Khagan required.

  “Mr. Parker,” said the Khagan in a deep baritone voice. “How go the preparations?”

  “Fine.” Lee’s voice was curt.

  “And the plans for Olympus?”

  Lee set down the screwdriver and the device he was affixing a motherboard to. “It’s coming along, okay?”

  “Olympus has been launched and is in place. Our window to commandeer it for our own uses is quickly coming to a close.”

  Lee gave an exasperated sigh and spun his wheeled work stool around. “I got you what you wanted, okay? Helped your people get into that facility so they could grab what they need. Correction—what you need.”

  The Khagan stepped closer and a warm smile appeared on his face. “What we need, my friend.”

  Lee’s eyes were filled with defiance. “No, what you need. I don’t want any part of this, never did. But here I am, working my fingers to the bone for your cause.”

  The Khagan was a little surprised by the dissension. He cast a questioning glance to his most-trusted aide. The Analyst moved to his master’s side, fixing his cold, gray eyes on the young Lee Parker.

  “You know your place, Lee. The Khagan simply requires what you promised you could deliver.”

  Lee tried to avoid locking eyes with the Analyst, attempting to return his attention to the task at hand. The Khagan groaned in disapproval and raised his arm up across his chest. He swung it, striking a fierce backhand against the side of Lee’s head, a blow that knocked him to the ground and sent the stool rolling across the concrete floor.

  The young man rubbed his cheek, the pain causing a continuous sting. The Khagan grabbed Lee’s wrist and pulled him to his feet, then wrapped his fingers around Lee’s neck in a steel-like grip. Lee was forced to stare into the cold, blue eyes of his captor.

  “We had an agreement, Parker. Do not think you can simply back out of it now.”

  The Khagan positioned himself behind Lee’s body, wrapping an arm around his throat. He held him firmly in position and Lee could do nothing to pull away. Lee instead tried in vain to keep his eyes clamped shut, but the Khagan placed his free hand on Lee’s head, pulling open his eyelids.

  The Analyst’s gray eyes remained the same to the outside world, but to Lee Parker, they took on an unearthly, almost psychedelic appearance. They swirled about, and Lee felt like he was being sucked into them. The Analyst may not have been very impressive from a physical standpoint—he was very slender and didn’t seem to have an ounce of muscle on his body beyond the bare minimum. But in the realm of the mind, he was a veritable juggernaut, capable of dominating even the strongest of wills.

  Lee’s struggle against the Khagan’s iron hold grew weaker, and his body began to slacken, his arms falling passively to his sides and his eyes glazing over. When he was satisfied any further defiance was highly unlikely, the Khagan released Lee from his grasp.

  “Now that you’re more cooperative, perhaps you can tell us what we need to know,” said the Analyst.

  “Of course,” said Lee. He walked over to the monitor array and laid his hands on the single keyboard. He had no need to type, could simply communicate through the computers by touch. The monitors displayed images of a space station orbiting the Earth and also of a shuttle launch site.

  “The launch is set for a few days. It’s the only one happening within the next two months or so. If you want to get to Olympus, then that’s when you need to do it.”

  “Very good,” said the Khagan. “And what of the crews of the shuttle and the Olympus?”

  “Olympus currently houses a skeleton crew, not counting the six members of the shuttle’s crew,” said Lee.

  “I
s a few days enough time to complete the preparations?” asked the Khagan.

  “No, but I can finish the rest of it on Olympus,” said Lee.

  “Very well. Complete as much as you can between now and then,” said the Khagan.

  “Yessir.”

  The Khagan turned and stepped out of Lee’s room and into the hall. Once the Analyst followed, the guards shut and locked the metal door. Despite the room’s comforts, Lee was still being held in a cell.

  “I don’t like it, my lord,” said the Analyst as he and the Khagan walked down the corridor. “If Parker needs to accompany us, that means we’ll only have room for a strike team of three.”

  “Four,” said the Khagan. “I want you to remain here.”

  “But…the conditioning…” said the Analyst. “What if he breaks free of it once again?”

  “By that time, there will be very little he can do to stop us,” said the Khagan. “You have more important functions here. In the rare event this operation fails, I need someone I trust to remain in control of the Red Fist here on the surface.”

  “I still don’t like the idea of you going up there with so little in the way of attack power, especially given the potential for…interference.”

  “With the Gunsmith armors provided by our silent partner, our men will easily be able to overpower the crew of the Olympus. And we also have measures in place to deal with Vanguard,” said the Khagan. “But do not worry, my friend. There is one final element that will provide me with all the power I need.”

  “Azarov,” said the Analyst. “Are you sure he can be trusted?”

  “Absolutely not, but our goals align for the moment,” said the Khagan. “Check on Pyre and Fuerte, see that their conditioning is still in place. We will need them here to provide a distraction.”

  ***

  “Dr. Azarov,” said the Khagan as he entered the laboratory of the man who had earned the moniker of the Cold War Frankenstein.

  “I must admit, my friend, you have me at something of a loss,” said Erik Azarov, turning away from his desk and the notes he was scribbling in his native Russian in a notebook. “You know my name, my history, my work—everything. And yet, I know next to nothing about you.”

  The Khagan gave a huff. “Because it’s unnecessary. The man I was before is unimportant. He is long dead.” He approached Azarov, catching sight of his vague reflection in the glass orb that sat in Azarov’s left eye socket. “Only the Khagan remains.”

  “I certainly appreciate the desire for reinvention. That is why you have tasked me with this particular endeavor.”

  “Any progress?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes.” Azarov rose from his chair and strolled to a refrigeration unit. When he opened the door, waves of chilled air emerged. Azarov reached a yellowed, bony hand inside and procured a metal case. He carried it to another table where a microscope and various vials filled with blood and other liquids rested. Azarov handled the box as carefully as one might a newborn child, gently setting it down on the surface. He opened it and inside sat a single vial filled with a red substance.

  “This is it?” asked the Khagan.

  “For now,” said Azarov. “Given time, I can produce more, provided I still have access to the subject.”

  The Khagan’s blue eyes fixed on the vial as if he were bewitched by it. “And you’re certain it will work?”

  “Not a hundred per cent,” said Azarov. “I would need to test it first. Based on my calculations, however, I believe it will accomplish what you wish.”

  “Excellent.”

  Azarov closed the lid on the box. “But I must caution you—there is no telling what sort of side-effects it may cause. And at best, it will only prove temporary.”

  “What do you need to perfect it?”

  “Test subjects, and time.”

  “The former we have plenty of, but the latter I’m afraid we can’t spare,” said the Khagan. “We have only a small window to begin the final phase of the plan.”

  “Then a field test will have to suffice,” said Azarov. “But again, there is no telling what it will do to you.”

  “It’s a risk I’m willing to take in order to see our cause succeed.”

  “As you wish.” Azarov took the box in both hands and returned it to the refrigeration unit. After he closed the door, he cast a glance at the Khagan. “There is something else. Something I need to ask in order to satisfy my own curiosity.”

  The Khagan gestured with his hand for Azarov to continue.

  “Your friend, the Analyst.” Azarov stepped closer to the Khagan, clasping his hands behind his back. “You could have had him use his gifts of persuasion on me, force me into your cause as you have others. So why am I here of my own free will?”

  The Khagan gave half a smile. “Would you believe it’s because I trust you?”

  Azarov scoffed. “You are many things, my friend, but stupid is not one of them.”

  The Khagan cocked an eyebrow. “Flattery, Doctor?”

  “No, simply a fact based on my observations.”

  “You are correct, of course.” The Khagan slowly moved about the lab, examining Azarov’s equipment. “Nothing would have pleased me more than a guarantee of your cooperation, and only the Analyst’s control could provide that.”

  “So why?”

  “The Analyst is very powerful, but the stronger a person’s will, the more difficult it is to subdue them for an extended period. Not many people possess the ability to resist him, but you are one of them. That, combined with your…unique physiology seems to have made you immune to his abilities.”

  “Your candor is appreciated, Khagan,” said Azarov. “And I do thank you for giving me the opportunity to experiment on these specials. It’s been extremely enlightening.”

  “Stick with me, Doctor, and there’s no limit to the lengths your experiments could travel.”

  ***

  Anita woke, the sheets of her bed damp with her sweat. She threw the covers off and swung her legs over the edge of the mattress, rubbing her head. Yet another dream of the Khagan and her experiences at Tora Bora. They were coming with greater frequency.

  She stood from the bed and walked out of her room, into the quiet corridor of Atlas’ living quarters. Anita took the elevator up to the kitchen area and when the doors opened, she heard the sound of the television and saw the dark room bathed in the dim glow of the monitor.

  A bald man with a thin, white beard sat on one of the couches, wire-frame glasses over his half-closed eyes and wearing a robe over his silk pajamas. As Anita approached, Howard McCabe gave a start, shaking himself from his groggy state.

  “Sorry, didn’t mean to spook you,” she said.

  “No, it’s fine,” said McCabe, taking off his glasses and rubbing them on his pajama top. “Couldn’t sleep?”

  Anita shook her head as she took the love-seat perpendicular to McCabe’s couch. “Bad dreams. About my time in captivity.”

  “Tora Bora?” asked McCabe.

  “That’s what my mind seems to think, but who knows if what I’m seeing is even real,” said Anita. “It all feels a bit surreal.”

  “Would you like to talk about it?”

  Anita curled her legs under her slender body. “I guess I’m just wondering why now? Ever since Proximo, I’ve had these dreams almost every night. Like something was shaken loose in my mind.”

  “You told the Colonel that Zenith said he’d help you find out what the Red Fist is. Maybe with his death, your subconscious is pushing those memories to the surface.”

  “Maybe…” she muttered. “You once said that the strain my powers put on my mind could be responsible for what I went through, that I might have imagined the whole thing. Do you still think that’s true?”

  McCabe gave a sigh. “I can’t say with any certainty. Is there anything else you remember from the dream?”

  Anita could feel the answer on the tip of her tongue. She saw flashes in her mind of a tall, thin man with a silve
r mustache, smiling at her. But just as soon as she saw them, they were gone from her memory, leaving her with a vague sense that something was there, just out of reach.

  “I don’t…no…”

  “Now is not the time.”

  That is what he said to her, but when did he say it? She was having a lot of trouble trying to piece it all together. The only thing she could see with any clarity was the banner with a red fist rising from the ashes of a fallen civilization.

  She shook her head and looked up at McCabe. “It’s gone, just like that.”

  “I’m sorry, I know how difficult this must be for you.”

  “It’s just so hard to figure out what’s a real memory and what’s a dream. Or if there even is any difference.”

  “If you like, I can give you something to help you sleep.”

  Anita gave a smile in response. “Thanks, but I think I can manage.”

  “If you say so,” said McCabe. “I’d like to run some brain scans tomorrow, if you don’t mind.”

  “Sure, maybe it’ll help,” said Anita. “By the way, what are you doing up?”

  McCabe shrugged. “Guess sleep is in short supply these days. The first time I met Zenith, I nearly had a heart attack when I saw him. He was unlike anything I’d ever been exposed to. At that moment, I knew my life would be forever changed. So much so that now, I find it difficult to picture a life without him in it.” McCabe turned his gaze to the elevator. “Sometimes, if I had trouble sleeping, I’d go to the monitor room and find him keeping watch.”

  “Yeah, me too,” said Anita, remembering a similar encounter she’d had with Zenith, the night when he revealed he was the only one who also knew about the headaches caused by her powers. “I have to admit, once I got off the elevator and saw the light from the TV, part of me expected to see Zen sitting here, scanning through channels.”

  McCabe smiled and picked up the remote, hitting the OFF button. “Well, perhaps we should both try and get some sleep. Zenith may have had the luxury of avoiding it, but neither of us can claim the same.”