X-Men 2

by Chris Claremont

  Months before, Lehnsherr had used Rogue and a metal called adamantium to power a generator that was designed to reconfigure the human genetic structure in such a way that everyone exposed to its energy field would be transformed into a mutant. His intent was to unleash this weapon on the world leaders gathered on nearby Ellis Island for the ceremonial opening of a United Nations conference. He believed that, by transforming all of them into mutants, he would force them to become more sympathetic to the fate of what was now their own kind.

  Unfortunately, he’d underestimated the power of his device, and the awful consequences. The metamorphosis had proved unstable, resulting in the death of the subject within forty-eight hours. Worse, the effective radius of the energy wave would have encompassed almost the entire city, involving a population of millions.

  Scott was leader of the team that had stopped him.

  Xavier’s School had been founded with a dual purpose, both clandestine. On the one hand, he used a device he called Cerebro to identify those children on the cusp of adolescence whose mutant abilities had the greatest potential of going active with puberty. He sought them out and recruited them to his school. Here, they received a first-rate academic education; they also learned how to use their powers and the ethics of doing so responsibly.

  At the same time, Xavier knew there were mutants—some, like Lehnsherr, already well established—who had no regard for the constraints of society. To oppose such mutants, Xavier had established a strike force, which he code-named X-Men. The founding members were Scott, Jean Grey, and Storm. One other mutant had been involved in the confrontation with Magneto on Liberty Island, but Scott wasn’t sure if he qualified as a recruit. He didn’t seem interested in joining the team; it was more a marriage of necessity. His name was Logan; code name, Wolverine.

  He’d left right afterward, and Scott hadn’t shed any tears, metaphorical or otherwise, to see him go, because it was becoming more and more apparent that the man had taken a bit of Jean’s heart with him.

  Scott blinked, belatedly realizing that Xavier had spoken to him. He blinked again while he shifted mental gears to let the part of his consciousness that was paying attention move to the forefront. He had his own talents when it came to multitasking.

  “My opinion,” Scott said, taking another moment to shrug his shoulders even though he’d actually made up his mind the moment he first heard the news reports. “Magneto’s behind this.”

  Surprisingly, instead of the professor himself, it was Jean who disagreed.

  “No, Scott,” she said. “I don’t think so.” Mentally she provided an update on Jamie: He’s fine and back together.

  Xavier spoke now, thoughtfully: “While Eric is certainly capable of organizing something like this from prison—for him, such an act, such a gesture, is too . . . irrational. It does nothing to further his goal of mutant prosperity.”

  “You mean superiority.”

  “You’re right.” Xavier nodded. “If Eric had his way.”

  “Think of the repercussions, Professor,” Scott said. “It pushes us into a corner, it forces everyone to choose sides. Mutants, good or evil, no more middle ground, no more equivocating.”

  “You know how the government will respond,” Storm said. “They’ll reintroduce the Mutant Registration Act.”

  “Or worse,” Xavier agreed.

  “He’s a survivor of Auschwitz, Professor,” Scott said, returning the topic to Magneto. “Maybe this is his own little version of the Reichstag Fire. Maybe he figures, by provoking an extreme response against mutants, we’ll have no choice but to embrace his cause. Mutant superiority, mutant hegemony, guarantees mutant survival.”

  “Do you really believe that, Scott?”

  “He does, Professor. That’s what matters. I know he’s your friend. I know this school is as much his creation as yours, but he’s seen—he’s survived—the worst we can do to one another. I think that’s made him willing to do anything, anything, to prevent it from happening again. If that means destroying the village in order to save it, he’s there, locked and loaded.”

  “The White House assassin’s the key,” Jean said.

  Scott nodded agreement. “If the Feds had him, they’d have announced it. That means he’s on the run.”

  “Could he have been working alone?”

  “The only way to determine that,” Xavier decided, “is to find him before the authorities do. Using Cerebro, I’ve identified his signature and have been able to track it to the vicinity of Boston. Jean, Storm, I’d like you to take the Blackbird and make contact. Hopefully, through him, we can defuse this nightmare before it gets any further out of hand.”

  Normally, the President’s “body man”—his personal aide—ushered visitors into the Oval Office. Today, it was a Secret Service agent, hard-bodied and hard-faced, chosen for his intimidating size and strength to match.

  “Mr. President,” he said, stepping aside to allow the guest to enter as the President crossed the carpet with hands outstretched.

  “William,” he said. “A helluva day!”

  “I came as soon as I heard, sir,” the older man replied.

  William Stryker stood a little shorter than the chief executive, but broader in the shoulders and the body. Looking at the pair of them, eyes instinctively went to Stryker as the more commanding presence. He had a full head of close-cropped hair that was still more pepper than salt, marking a distinct widow’s peak on a broad forehead above deep-set eyes that missed nothing and gave away even less. This was not a man to face at poker, nor at chess. His cheeks were clean-shaven, but he favored a neatly trimmed mustache and beard around his mouth. He was a rugged man and utterly direct, so much so that people’s first impressions cataloged him as having no subtlety or grace whatsoever, akin to plastering the shell of a Rolls-Royce over the body and soul of a Mack truck. It was a facade Stryker cultivated deliberately, and well. He made his career on the backs of adversaries who’d underestimated him. It was a mistake they rarely made twice, because he just as rarely allowed them to survive.

  Without preamble, he leaned over the President’s desk and idly rubbed a finger across the gash made by the mutant’s knife.

  “It was close, wasn’t it?” he said, in a voice as accustomed to being heard on a battlefield as in the halls of Congress. “Far closer than anyone’s admitted.”

  George McKenna didn’t reply at once. He waited for the door to close, for the two men to be alone—that is, if he didn’t count the two Secret Service agents flanking the fireplace and a young woman standing over in the corner. Obviously a secretary, so unassuming and inconspicuous it was easy to forget she was even there. Which made Stryker smile to himself as he turned toward the President. From where she sat, she had a better view of the room than the two men, which meant in any combat situation she’d be the key player. The report he’d read mentioned that a female agent had shot the mutant and probably saved the President’s life. No doubt this was her.

  McKenna finished pouring brandy and handed one of the cut crystal snifters to Stryker, indicating a seat on the couch. McKenna, being President, took the chair beside it.

  “What do you need, William?” the President asked, meaning “What do you want?”

  Stryker flicked his glance to the watching agents, which provoked a humorless chuckle from the President.

  “They’re here for the duration, I’m afraid,” McKenna said, making a fair attempt to keep the comment light and casual. He was handling this better than Stryker had expected. “In fact, I had the devil’s own time keeping them from posting agents in my own damn bedroom.”

  “I can imagine the first lady’s reaction, sir.”

  “So could they. I think that’s why they caved.” The President took a small sip of brandy, letting the prompting expression on his face repeat the question he’d asked.

  “Your authority, sir,” Stryker replied, “for a special operation.”

  McKenna took another swallow of brandy and leaned back in
his chair.

  “And somehow I thought you’d come to talk about school reform.”

  Stryker uttered a short, barklike laugh. “That was top of your schedule for today, as I recall. Funny you should mention it, though.”

  He looked up, irritated, at the sound of a discreet knock. This time it was the President’s aide who stuck his head in. McKenna himself, Stryker noted, wasn’t surprised. The meeting wasn’t to be as private as he’d first assumed.

  The new arrival was a face as well known on the nation’s airwaves as the President’s himself, as befit someone who’d made his own run for the White House in years past. Robert Kelly, senator from Massachusetts, was ambitious enough to try again, young enough to wait, smart enough to bide his time. In the meanwhile, he continued to build a strong activist record in Congress, reaching out to conservative and liberal constituencies alike with a success that hadn’t been seen since the campaign of RFK.

  Stryker, who was good with details, noticed that the senator was in much better shape than he recalled. The man had a tendency to indulge himself in just about everything and used to have a knack for making a custom-tailored wardrobe look rumpled and off the rack. Not anymore. There was a crispness to his appearance and manner that echoed Stryker’s own.

  “I’m not sure if the two of you have ever officially met,” the President said. “Senator Robert Kelly of Massachusetts, William Stryker—”

  “Of No-Name, Nevada,” Stryker finished.

  “Mr. Stryker,” Kelly said, smiling at the small joke as the two men shook hands.

  “Call me William . . . Bobby,” Stryker replied, intentionally using the diminutive. Kelly didn’t appear to notice. His grip had improved, too. Used to be he’d close his hand around the other person’s fingers in what Stryker thought of as a sissy shake. This one was palm to palm, man to man, strong and secure.

  “Mr. President,” Kelly said as he sat on the couch opposite, in a way that allowed him to relate to both McKenna and Stryker without moving. The President, in his chair, was able to do the same. Stryker, though, oriented as he was toward the President, was forced to turn right around to face Kelly, partially turning his back to McKenna. It was a superb tactical move, immediately putting Stryker in an awkward position. Stryker, who was far more used to doing this to others, wasn’t happy, but he’d be damned if he’d allow either man to see.

  “I appreciate your allowing me to sit in on this meeting,” Kelly said.

  “I value your input, Robert, as I do William’s. He’s with the . . . intelligence community . . .”

  “Which element?” Kelly asked.

  “It’s not important,” the President said.

  “It’s just that I’m ranking member of the Joint Intelligence Committee—”

  “Robert,” the President said, allowing the faintest edge to his voice, “it’s not important.”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

  “As I was saying, his task force has been studying the mutant phenomenon for us since . . . well, before my time in office.”

  “So I’ve heard, albeit only as rumors. For a man as influential as you, William, you leave damn small footprints.”

  “I must be slipping,” Stryker said with a smile. “The idea is to leave no footprints at all.”

  “You definitely have some interesting ideas . . . and methods.”

  “I get the job done, that’s true. I’ve followed your career with interest for years, Bobby. As I recall, you were a staunch supporter of the registration act. I must confess though, your ideas on the mutant problem appear to have . . . changed recently.”

  “For the best, I trust.”

  “Myself, I trust in God.”

  “Since Senator Kelly has been at the forefront of both sides of this issue,” the President interjected, “I thought his perspective would be worthwhile.”

  “You’re the commander in chief, sir,” Stryker said.

  “So, what are you proposing, Mr. Stryker?” Kelly asked directly.

  Stryker didn’t answer at first. His pause, and the look he gave the President, made plain that he considered this a need-to-know matter and that Robert Kelly wasn’t on his personal list. The President frankly didn’t care.

  “You spoke about a special operation, William,” prompted McKenna.

  With a curt nod, acknowledging and accepting the President’s authority even when he bitterly disagreed with it, Stryker opened his case and spread a set of glossy surveillance photos on the table, right at the end where the President could see them but Kelly could not.

  “Working with the National Reconnaissance Office, my people have gathered these surveillance photos of a mutant training facility near the town of Salem Center, in Westchester County, right by the Connecticut border.”

  “How did you develop the information?”

  “Discover the installation’s existence, you mean? Primarily through interrogation of one of the terrorist prisoners captured after the Liberty Island incident.”

  “Eric?” Kelly asked sharply. “Eric Lehnsherr?”

  “Code-named Magneto, yes,” Stryker replied.

  “You have access to him?”

  Intrigued by Kelly’s surge of interest, Stryker nodded. “My group developed the technology that built his plastic prison when, I might add, Mr. President, your defense department couldn’t find room for the allocation in their own budget.”

  “At the time,” the President said slowly, “the need didn’t seem pressing.”

  “Priorities, sir, I do understand. Threats are easily identifiable in hindsight. The challenge for a prudent and responsible leader is identifying clear and present dangers to the nation and dealing with them before there’s a disaster.”

  He indicated another set of photographs.

  “It appears,” he said, “I’m not the only one with access to the prisoner. This man”—he pointed to a bald-headed figure in a wheelchair—“we’ve identified as Charles Xavier. The leader of this training facility and a longtime associate of Mr. Lehnsherr. Apparently Xavier has . . . friends in the Justice Department. Since Lehnsherr’s incarceration, he’s paid several visits.”

  Kelly leaned forward for a closer look at the pictures. His tone and manner were discreetly skeptical.

  “What is this place?” he asked.

  “Ostensibly, a school,” responded Stryker with a humorless chuckle. “For ‘gifted’ youngsters.”

  He tossed a fresh set of photos on the table, for both men to see.

  “We retasked a keyhole spy satellite to get these,” he said. “I believe you’ll agree the results are worth the expense.”

  For pictures taken from two hundred fifty miles above Manhattan, with camera lenses powerful enough to read the lettering on a pack of cigarettes and enhancement technology that allowed them to work as effectively at night as during the day, the results were extraordinary, and devastating.

  “What’s that?” asked McKenna.

  “A jet.”

  McKenna gave him a sour look. “What kind of jet?”

  “We don’t know—but as you can see, it comes up out of the basketball court.”

  In a sequence of images, as the President passed the eight by ten sheets across to Kelly, they saw a court behind the main house slide apart to allow an elevator platform to rise to the surface from what had to be an underground hangar. The plane that was revealed was unlike anything the President had ever seen, twin engined and twin tailed with forward-swept wings. It rose into the air on vertical thrusters, shifted to horizontal flight, and was quickly gone from sight, as its flight path and the satellite’s orbital track took the vehicles in opposite directions.

  “I’ve talked to the Air Force,” Stryker said. “I’ve talked to DARPA”—the Defense Advanced Research and Planning Agency. “They don’t even have aircraft with capabilities like this on their drawing boards. And it clearly represents the ultimate in stealth technology as well. We examined every radar record we could find, civil and military, for
the time and course indicated. Not a trace.”

  Stryker waved his arm to encompass the Oval Office, with a pointed look at one wall where the bullet holes from the attack hadn’t yet been patched.

  “You gentlemen ask yourselves: How could this have happened?” he snorted in disgust. “How could it not have?”

  Kelly held up another photo. “These are children.”

  “Being trained, being indoctrinated, for what purpose, Senator?” retorted Stryker. “How many miles of news footage are there from the Middle East, showing children dressed up as terrorists?”

  “These are American citizens, none of whom—that I’m aware of—have committed any crime.”

  Stryker turned to the President: “Sir, if we had been allowed to do our jobs before this attack—”

  “What would you need?” McKenna asked.

  “Just your authorization.”

  “To do what precisely?” Kelly demanded, because he knew the President would not.

  Again Stryker ignored him, concentrating solely on McKenna. “Don’t misunderstand my goals, Mr. President. I just want to go in there—to see precisely what they’re up to. If they have nothing to hide, they have nothing to fear.”

  “It’s illegal,” snapped Kelly.

  “Not if they’re terrorists,” replied Stryker calmly. “For over a year now, we’ve been tracking this mutant in particular. His origins are European, but we believe there is a possible affiliation with this institution.”

  He pulled a last photo from his case and held it out to the President.

  “This was taken three months ago,” Stryker finished, but there was no more need for him to make his case. The moment McKenna saw the picture, his decision was made.

  The figure in the picture was humanoid—that is, two arms, two legs, central trunk, bilateral symmetry. Two big digits on hands and feet, skin of indigo blue, hair a slight shade darker. Gleaming yellow eyes, fangs, pointed ears, and a long, pointed tail all combined to give him the look of a modish gargoyle come to life. He was snarling.

  He was the assassin who’d almost killed this President.