“Out! Everybody scram!” he ordered.
The AIM soldiers who were still on their feet needed no urging. One who was bent over from a blow to his solar plexus, delivered by Happy Hogan’s best left hook, lurched toward the exit, grateful to be able to run and not fear retribution from his squad leader or . . . anyone above. But he was not to get away so easily. Hogan grabbed him by the back of the neck, ripped him erect, and gave him a solid right cross to the chin. The warrior fell among those he had brought to sudden sleep.
The sergeant had swung the coed around and Iron Man almost launched the seat, but recovered in time. AIM troopers were charging up the steps, those that could. The sergeant released the girl long enough to pull a gray egg from his pocket. Iron Man recognized it at once—an AIM concussion grenade. If it went off in the small auditorium it would pulverize the flesh of all those lying asleep. There would be no time to get them out. They would be dead, shredded and bloody.
Iron Man charged at the sergeant, his boot-jets flaming. The invader’s weapon was no longer pointed at the coed’s head—there was a slight chance!
The sergeant’s gloved fingers twisted the calibrated end of the big, gray egg, activating the powerful explosive. With his smile hidden beneath his helmet the sergeant tossed the egg into the seats. It fell into the lap of a young woman, slumped sideways, her mouth gaping, her eyes closed.
Iron Man did not try to pursue the sergeant, or any of those fleeing the auditorium. He plunged toward the immensely powerful grenade. He had seen what the AIM minibombs could do—crush the walls of a sturdily built house, bring down its roof, send bits of plaster, television sets, and linoleum tile to rain down over the neighborhood, smash windows for blocks. .
. . . time slowed . . .
. . . it did not stop, but to Iron Man it seemed to slow . . .
. . . he saw everything clearly, with an awful, final exactness . . .
. . . the grenade had gone into that row, near that student . . .
. . . if it had fallen to the floor, he might never find it in time . . .
. . . his armored body seemed to float, to glide with agonizing slowness toward the area . . .
. . . in there somewhere . . .
. . . what would he do?
. . . grab it, tear through the roof and catapult it into space?
. . . but what if there was not enough time? What if the AIM killer had set its fuse short? What if, as he was reaching back to send it up, it exploded? It would bring down the roof, crushing those beneath, sending the sleeping students into a final sleep . . .
. . . there!
. . . incredulously, Iron Man saw the gray ovoid lying in the lap of the coed, caught in the scoop of her skirt.
. . . Iron Man’s metal-gloved hand caught it up and in one unthinking motion he cradled it to his chest, wrapped both his arms around it, smothered it—and his boot-jets flared.
Iron Man hit the roof with his back, smashing through it, ripping through the cast concrete and the strong metal reinforcing rods, sending sharp-edged bits flying out. He broke through and in that instant the grenade exploded against his chest.
The impact sent Iron Man flying even higher, blasting him upward with the power of a minor rocket. But he was not aware of it for Tony Stark was unconscious.
His chest hurt with an unbearable pain he must bear, or die. He’d felt it before. His heart was failing.
He’d felt it before . . . in Viet Nam.
Two
Wong-chu was a big man, for an Oriental or any other kind. His face was set in a perpetual sneer. He was the guerrilla chieftain for an entire area. He had often refused offers to be moved to higher posts, to more important positions, because he was exactly where he wanted to be—in the front lines, where his word was not only law, it was life and death.
He stood in the center of the small village of Glong-lu, his fists upon his hips, his lips twisted in an arrogant sneer. Another village had been subdued, brought under the command of the Vietcong. Wong-chu was once again a conqueror.
The conquering had actually been done by his black pajama-clad troops, in the main, though guided by Wong-chu’s genius. But the burly man with the high forehead liked his conquests to be ultimately personal.
“Now for the wrestling match!” he said loudly. “If any prisoner can defeat Wong-chu, I will free the whole village!”
Wong-chu! They were captured by Wong-chu himself! The people of the village cringed. They were not warriors. War had been going on as long as any could remember, and they had suffered from it. Their young men seldom became warriors. They were pawns, and knew it. But still, it was worth a chance.
Their eyes went to Chom Klao. He had been to Bangkok; he had taken lessons in the martial arts for almost a year. He had defeated all the country youths, as well as the older men. He would fight for them. He had to fight, even though it was at very long odds.
No one said anything. Chom Klao felt their eyes. He knew that if there was anyone in their village who stood a chance it was his humble self. Chom Klao looked at his young wife. If he failed, the conquerors would take her, almost certainly. She was young and beautiful, with long, black hair as fine as silk.
She, too, was looking at him.
Chom Klao stepped forward and bowed to the larger figure of Wong-chu. The guerrilla leader barely returned the traditional bow of respect. Chom Klao went into his best defense posture, his face stern and impassive.
Wong-chu looked at him with contempt. “Come here, boy. Attack me. Let us get this over with. I have things to do.”
Chom Klao wet his lips with a furtive tongue. He must not let the big invader rattle him. What had his teacher said on that first day? “The only practical reason to take up the study of unarmed combat is so that you won’t have to use it.”
Chom Klao began to circle. Wong-chu followed him with his eyes, too contemptuous to turn, and only turned when the younger, smaller man was almost behind him.
Chom Klao knew he would be hurt. Wong-chu was too big, too powerful. But he was also too arrogant; that could hurt him. The villager thought: when you are a fighter, the first thing you have to learn to do is accept pain. I will get hit and if that stops me or destroys my concentration or distracts me, then I shall be defeated. I am fighting for my life, and the life of my village—and my wife.
The only way I can survive is to remember . . . no, more than remember, I have to have the instinct, even if I am hit and hit badly . . . even fatally . . . I am still going to go through with it and nothing will stop me.
Nothing.
He will not hesitate to kill me. We have heard of him before. He is vicious and he enjoys his viciousness. He plays with us, with this offer, but we must accept.
Chom Klao made his move.
It wasn’t good enough. With ease—with contemptuous, humiliating ease—Wong-chu sent Chom Klao into the dust. The villager rolled over, hurt but game, and came to his feet. He came in again, but more cautiously, and with a swift move Wong-chu once more sent the young man crashing to the earth.
While he waited for Chom Klao to rise, the warlord swept his eyes over the newly conquered villagers. They looked slightly better off than most. That one wore American Army clothes, that one had shoes . . . and that one was extraordinarily attractive. She would be his part of the spoils.
Suddenly impatient, Wong-chu waited no longer. He grasped the rising youth and prepared to destroy him. But Chom Klao twisted away, striking Wong-chu in the thigh with a solidly delivered blow. The guerrilla commander took a swift step forward, and with a double-handed blow sent Chom Klao into the dirt, where he did not move.
“Ah, you are good,” the guerrilla said, “but Wong-chu is better!” He looked at the others. “Are there more?”
There was desperation on the faces of the men. Chom Klao had been their best hope. But then they noticed that Wong-chu had a slight limp. He seemed to be breathing hard. Perhaps there was a chance.
An older man stepped forward. He did n
ot survive the first throw. A second, younger man, Ananda Mong-kut, who had lifted a water buffalo when it had fallen into a cleft of rock, stepped forward. He survived the first fall, but did not rise from the second. His jaw was broken.
“I am the strongest of all!” Wong-chu snarled. “Next to Wong-chu other men are but fleas!” He turned to his next-in-command. “It is over! Now let us plunder the town. For none can stop the victorious Wong-chu!” The guerrilla leader pointed at the young woman who was crying over the unconscious body of Chom Klao. “That one. Bring her to me . . . there.”
The grinning lieutenant seized the young woman’s arm. She was the best in the village, of that there was no doubt. Wong-chu would break her spirit and later, if he followed his usual pattern, he would give her to his next-in-command. All nicely broken in. Or broken.
Tony Stark had been wearing civilian clothes as he inspected his top secret field-testing laboratory. He listened seriously to a young captain as they stood on the edge of a helicopter landing pad near the green jungle’s beginning.
“The Red guerrillas outnumber us. Our heavy artillery could beat them, but we can’t transport such big weapons through the dense jungle,” the officer said.
Both men knew air support could be effective—providing you knew where the enemy was. Not even the defoliants were 100% effective, stripping the jungle of its green cover so that they could see the movements.
“So that’s where my midget transistors come in, eh?” Stark said. He had developed experimental mortars and sighting devices with reduced size and weight, but with increased accuracy.
“Right,” the officer said. “Thanks to you we—”
“Take cover!” a sergeant shouted.
“Get on that chopper and get out of here,” the officer said to Stark, grabbing at his elbow. “Those Charlies will be in here in moments!”
“Nope, that’s why I was sent here,” Stark protested, pulling toward the jungle. “To make sure my weapons work as planned. If not, I’ll fix ’em on the spot!” They could hear the rattle of machine guns, then the crump of mortars—Vietcong mortars.
The captain said some nasty words that were lost in the noise, then steered Stark into a slit trench. They listened as the Americans fought back. Over the radio they heard of the Vietcong’s retreat and some time later the young captain let Stark out of the slit trench.
“It’s all right now, I think,” he said.
“I want to see how the weapons did and talk to the men who used them,” Stark said. “It’s one thing to test them on nice safe testing grounds, with no one shooting at you and plenty of time, but it’s entirely different under actual combat conditions.”
The captain understood and with a small party of armed men they set out into the surrounding jungle. The men were careful to keep Stark in the middle because the jungle holds a thousand natural perils. But when man has set out to make the jungle even more dangerous, the risks grow even greater.
Stark felt something against his shoe—a root or vine, perhaps. As the explosion threw him into the greenery, Stark’s last thought was: booby trap.
Moments later four black-clad Vietcong came out of the jungle. There were still bits and pieces of this and that falling or sliding from broad green leaves to dark earth. Dripping, oozing, dropping. The soldiers went from one body to another, but the leader went at once to one who was not dressed like the others.
“Yankee civilian still alive,” he said, as Stark moaned. Perhaps he was an important government official. Wong-chu might reward him. He gave orders. They had to hurry; the other Americans were coming.
Stark gasped with pain as they lifted him and gratefully slipped into unconsciousness as they melted into the jungle, carrying his limp body between them.
They did what they could. His chest was bandaged, his bruises and lacerations treated. Their medicine was crude, but basically effective. Stark lay half conscious on a cot, feigning an even greater weakness than he felt. He could hear someone talking to the young doctor who had been treating him. Stark knew just enough of the language to piece out what they were saying.
They knew he was a “Yankee weapons inventor” and the officer was asking how he was.
“Bad!” the doctor said sadly. “Much shrapnel near his heart! Impossible to operate. Cannot live longer than one week!”
One week.
Stark opened his eyes and looked at the bamboo ceiling.
One week to live.
“In a few days the shrapnel will reach his heart,” the doctor said. “Then he will die. There is nothing we can do. Nothing will save him.”
The officer snorted contemptuously. “We can use his genius. Wong-chu will trick him into spending his last days on earth working for us! Is he strong enough now?”
The doctor hesitated. “Yes, he can work . . . until the shrapnel reaches his heart.”
Tony Stark heard the officer enter the room. The doctor lifted him up and peered into his shirt. They had replaced his own American garments with black Vietcong clothes, which were loose and sloppy, like pajamas. Stark looked up and saw the officer for the first time.
“I am Wong-chu,” the guerrilla said in English. Stark looked him over. Heavyset, thin mustache and small, pointed beard on a wide, self-indulgent face. High forehead, thick hair cut short, crossed bandoliers of ammunition pouches, small handgun in a black holster, regulation Chinese Army uniform without Chinese insignia, heavy boots.
“Anthony Stark.” He knew they had his name. He had been carrying a wallet full of identification, as well as a letter from the Secretary of Defense, requesting all military commanders to render full cooperation.
Wong-chu began without the usual Oriental preamble. “We know you are American weapons inventor. If you design powerful new weapon for me, I have surgeon save your life!”
Stark did not need to be reminded that as a civilian he was not covered under the Articles of War, even if the Vietcong had been inclined to comply with them. He also knew, from his eavesdropping, that the guerrilla commander was lying. If they could do it, they’d do it now, he thought, to be sure I live long enough to design weapons for them.
The pain in his chest was dull, but persistent. Stark knew he only had days to live, but there was something about the big, posturing guerrilla that rankled the industrialist. Stark knew then that if it was his last act, he would defeat Wong-chu.
Stark grinned lopsidedly and shrugged his shoulders as he rubbed at a bruise. “All right, Wong-chu, I’ll do it.”
“I knew you not hesitate to betray your country to save yourself,” the Chinese soldier smirked.
A dark look passed over Stark’s face. “Where there’s life, there’s hope,” he shrugged. “Maybe I can persuade you to let me live, and maybe go on to greater glory.”
“Do not think to betray me, Anthony Stark,” Wong-chu snapped. “You will be watched. And there is no place to go—nothing but jungle outside, for miles.”
Stark nodded, grim faced, and Wong-chu took him to a cluttered shed. The place was a mess, filled with trash, discarded tools, and some brand-new equipment.
“Here is room where you will work,” Wong-chu said, gesturing around. “Plenty of scrap iron! Plenty tools.”
“This I promise you,” Stark said. “I shall build the most fantastic weapon of all time!”
Wong-chu looked at him shrewdly. “What is it you will build for Wong-chu?”
Stark stalled. “I’m . . . I’m not certain. Your supplies and equipment are limited. I’ll have to tailor my . . . my invention to what you have here, or what I know you have around here.”
Wong-chu grunted and started to leave. “I’ll need complete privacy,” Stark said quickly. The guerrilla leader looked at him suspiciously, his mean mouth turning down. “The thought processes . . . it’s the way I work . . . You know how it is,” Stark added. “You almost have an idea and someone interrupts and it goes—poof!”
Wong-chu nodded reluctantly and left. Stark went to the door and listen
ed. Wong-chu was saying something to the guards outside, but the inventor couldn’t quite catch it.
“I’ll build one, all right,” Stark muttered as he locked the thin door. “But it will be mine . . . made for only one purpose—to keep me alive!”
Stark made a quick survey of the materials available in the littered shed. Then he thought for most of the rest of the day, making cryptic notes on scraps of rice paper.
“Every tick of the clock brings that piece of shrapnel closer to my heart,” he thought grimly. “I’ve got to work faster than I’ve ever worked before! I can’t afford a single mistake!”
An idea he had once thought of had come to his mind. He quickly examined it for flaws, then for adjustment to the materials at hand. It had been far down on his priority list, as it was obviously an expensive creation, one not suited to the mass-production methods of modern warfare.
Stark drew plans far into the night, then fell into an exhausted sleep. In the morning a silent medic entered, changed Stark’s bandage, and then allowed him to have a bowl of rice and a cup of water. As soon as the medic left, Stark was back at the drawing table.
About noon he was interrupted by Wong-chu. The muscular guerrilla threw a body through the door. Stark saw that it was an elderly oriental, his face braised but intelligent.
“This old one is Professor Yinsen!” Wong-chu growled, aiming a casual kick at the huddled body. The old man scurried out of reach, terror filling his face. “Once great scientist,” Wong-chu said with all the contempt that men of action have for men of the mental arenas. “Now lowly manservant of Wong-chu.” The guerrilla pointed a stained finger at the cowering old man. “That will help you build weapon!”
The old man looked at Stark and his face changed. Determination came into it, replacing the undignified fear. “No!” the old man said. “I will never help the Red tyrants! Never!” He shouted the last word as he attempted to get to his feet.
Wong-chu merely snorted his contempt and back-handed the old man, sending him into a painful sprawl. The guerrilla looked hard at Stark, then tapped his breast. Stark got the message.
Marvel Novel Series 06 - Iron Man - And Call My Killer ... Modok! Page 2