Marvel Novel Series 06 - Iron Man - And Call My Killer ... Modok!

by William Rotsler

  Tony sighed. Happy’s suggestion had merit. Dangerous, but it had certain advantages, too. The slumping of his broad shoulders indicated concession and Happy slapped him on the back.

  “Great!”

  “You know what to do?”

  “Know the plan backward and forward, Boss.”

  “All right, but play it safe, huh?”

  “Sure, Boss.”

  “Good evening. Welcome to Stark International.” The beautiful young woman was one of many, all in the crimson-and-gold costumes selected for the occasion.

  “San Benedicto?” the mustachioed man in the trim, white uniform said, eyeing the woman’s cleavage.

  The woman consulted a list. “Ah, yes, General Aguilar. Corinne, will you escort the general to his table?”

  A smiling blonde approached and took the general’s arm. “Well, howdy there, general. Why don’cha just let me take you right over here to yore table? My, you shore have mucho medals!” She laughed gaily and the Latin smiled brightly. That Tony Stark, he thought, he really was a playboy! Who else would have what looked like the summer months of the last six years’ Playmates as escorts?

  “Good evening. Welcome to Stark International.”

  A man with somber skin and dark eyes looked around suspiciously. “This does not look like an auction.”

  The beautiful woman with the list said, “I can assure you, sir, this is the place. Here is a schedule of events. You’ll see that we have some preliminary auctions, prior to the main event, shall we say. The Stark Oil-slick Sucker . . . or SOS as we call it . . . that quite efficiently removes the spilled oil. Something we must think about in these days of self-destructing freighters, mustn’t we? May I see your invitation?”

  “I have this cable,” the man said, pulling the paper impatiently from his pocket. He looked around as the welcoming-committee woman checked her list. A tent had been set up between the Research and Development section and the main factory, effectively masking the ruin of the wing of the Administration Building. Four-person tables were set up facing a dais and screen. Waiters and waitresses moved among the guests taking drink orders. The Arabs ordered grape juice and, depending upon the way they ordered, they got grape juice or something that looked the same but was somewhat stronger. After all, Muhammad’s edict against booze was made a long time before men had to do business in foreign lands, bartering petrodollars for unusual armament.

  “Yes, sir, Turkey,” the woman said, checking him off. “Ellen, would you take Mister, excuse me, the caliph, to his table.”

  “I do not understand why I could not be allowed my usual entourage?” the Turk said moodily.

  “Oh, sir, you can understand how big a thing this can get, even with just the principles involved, can’t you? Ellen?”

  The Turk eyed a tableful of Greeks. Oil transporters, olive oil merchants. He sniffed and sat down. He forgot his momentary anger when the bosomy waitress bent over his table.

  They were there from all over, jet-planing in from everywhere. The French, talkative and charming. The haughty Germans, looking for a bargain. The British, because they thought they should be. The Canadians, mostly out of curiosity. South Americans, suspicious and arrogant. Elegant Africans, sturdy Bulgarians, slight Orientals, even a dark-skinned Indian with a maharaja’s treasure behind him—an impotent royalty hoping to change things back. Americans, hard, practical men, looking for an edge. Lanky Australians with nuclear-fuel money. A South African backed by gold, an Italian with an export business, a Slav with a dream.

  Not one of them was the head of a country, but every one of them represented one, or a huge corporation. Some were brothers of presidents-for-life, others were cousins, old friends, defense ministers, secretaries, generals, first sons, and potential revolutionaries with ideas.

  But every one knew the potential behind being the one with Iron Man’s potential—or even one of a select few.

  The ground rules were simple: the most money got the franchise, a simple suit, plans for Mode II—the weaponless Iron Man suit—and supervision of the factory construction and pilot manufacturing.

  The bidding was to start at one hundred million dollars.

  But first there were other, smaller auctions. The men in the tent were really not interested in ecological gimmicks. They brightened a bit at the auction of a flyer, for they could see the military potential.

  Then Tony Stark took over. He had been sitting quietly by, letting the professional auctioneer work—but now was the big moment. He stepped up on the dais and simultaneously, from behind the screen, out stepped Iron Man.

  “What you see here,” Tony Stark said, “is Mode II, the stripped down basic suit.” The suit looked very much like the standard Iron Man armor, gold and crimson, but certain small details of weaponry were lacking, as Stark quickly pointed out.

  “This is the suit upon which you will bid. But I can anticipate, your next question. How do you know this is a reasonable facsimile of the famous Iron Man suit? There is only one way to convince you.” He turned to the crimson-and-gold suit and bowed slightly.

  Iron Man shot straight up, through the tent, into the sky. Through the rent fabric they could see the armored figure do aerial acrobatics, as Stark continued his pitch.

  “This suit can be used for policing areas and, in industry, for lifting heavy objects. In the nuclear area, with certain modifications, which are available, it can be used to dispose of nuclear wastes.”

  The armored figure plunged headfirst toward the ground, bringing a gasp from the welcoming committee, but it leveled off, reared back and settled down gently, coming down through the torn tent, to land softly upon the dais.

  “Now a test of strength,” Tony said. Four men brought in a steel I beam eight feet long and set it down with a clang before the armored man. The figure within the suit picked up the ten-inch beam easily and bent it into a pretzel shape.

  There was a flicker of interest in Tony’s eyes when he saw a man enter the back of the tent. He was dressed in a full Arabian costume, flowing robes and headdress, and that modern addition, dark glasses. He sat alone at the back. While Iron Man was unbending the I beam to tortured shrieks of metal, Stark asked the beautiful welcoming-committee woman who the late entry was.

  She checked and said, “Sheikh Muhammad Ibn Muhammad, of Profit Oil Company.” Stark surreptitiously eyed the sheikh, checking him out. Everything seemed all right.

  It was time to start the bidding. He sensed it. The “vibes” told him. Vibes. He had to smile at himself. He thought of himself as an engineer—a practical, inventive, down-to-earth person—not a metaphysician.

  Yet.

  Yet there were times when he felt things, things he could not explain. The way you instantly like, or dislike someone, or some place, and for no reason you can discern. You just feel it.

  As a scientist Stark knew there was little evidence to support a hypothesis of any extrasensory perception.

  Yet.

  Yet the brain is a marvelous tool. It collects information below the level of sensory awareness. Everything it collects is noted, recorded, remembered: the wind flapping the remnants of tent roof, the smoke from cigarettes, the color and shape of the women’s clothing, the dais creaking under Iron Man’s weight, the distant thump-thump-beep-thump from a machine in the factory area, a jet liner’s chalk mark across the sky, perfume, sweat, everything. Things you never noticed about a person, until you concentrated on them. Twitches, shiftings, rumblings, habits, eye motion, gum chewing, skin texture, hair condition, an unbuttoned shirt, a tendency to slump, to talk with the hands, to repeat gestures, everything.

  It was all put down by the brain. Sometimes the brain got to the conclusion before you did and tried to tell the mind, “Hey, take notice of this!”

  Stark stepped to the center of the dais and raised his hand. Iron Man grew motionless.

  “The bidding will start at one hundred million dollars, American, payable at least fifty percent in gold, the rest in Swiss franc
s or German marks. The bidding increments, to simplify things, will be in one-million-dollar units. You may ask any questions you think necessary to clarify any points that are unclear. Who will bid one hundred million to start?”

  The Russian raised his hand. An Oriental raised him two million. Others began to bid.

  One hundred fifty-four million.

  One hundred seventy-six million.

  Two hundred million.

  Two five.

  Two fifteen.

  The bidding slowed as the bidders thought out their assignments.

  Two twenty.

  Two hundred thirty-six million dollars.

  Two fifty.

  Bidders dropped out, disappointed, and a little fearful, eyeing the narrowing ring of final bidders.

  An American bid two fifty-three.

  An Australian bid two fifty-four.

  Two fifty-six from the Frenchman.

  Two sixty, from the German.

  Two seventy, from a suave Arab—but not the Arab at the rear of the tent.

  “Two seventy-one,” murmured a smiling African whose country had recently discovered a vast gold deposit.

  “Two seventy-two,” stated the South American general gruffly.

  “Three hundred million,” said the suave Arab, not looking around. It stopped everyone. People looked at each other.

  “A bid of three hundred million dollars has been made,” Tony Stark said, looking over the audience. “Three hundred, once . . . twice . . .”

  “Three hundred twenty million dollars,” said the Arab in the rear. Everyone turned back to look.

  “Three twenty from the gentleman from Profit Oil,” Stark said. There was, within him, a growing cold center. This was the moment.

  “Three twenty once.”

  “Three twenty twice.” A Greek shipping magnate shrugged and sipped his wine. The suave Arab remained aloof. The general stopped thinking about ruling the world and started thinking about other things. What had been that lovely blonde’s name? Corinne? He wondered if he should go home or take a vacation in Switzerland. The two hundred million in his country’s gold he had brought with him, sitting in customs, would go a long, long way in Europe. Just a vacation, he thought. Thirty or forty years, perhaps. Running a country got to be a drag after the first twenty years.

  “Three twenty, sold, to the man from Profit Oil.” There was polite applause and the waiters hurried out. Tony Stark stepped down from the dais and walked quickly to Sheikh Muhammad’s table.

  “Congratulations, sir. If you’ll follow me to the Administration Building so we might sign the contracts.”

  “Of course.” He was a big man for an Arab, dark skinned, with a thick beard trimmed close.

  Sheikh Muhammad was very cordial, though inexpressive, and signed all the necessary papers. He exchanged gold receipts with Stark: one receipt for two hundred million, four for twenty-five million, another four for five million dollars. There were still more receipts in the thick wallet. The exchange was witnessed and countersigned by a notary. The gold was Stark’s. The suit was the Sheikh’s.

  “We have numerous oil-field fires in my country,” the Arab said in a sudden burst of conversation. “Your amazing suit will, I trust, be able to fight such a menace.”

  “I’m certain of it,” Stark said. The Arab had his jet plane at Stark Field, adjacent to Stark International. The Arab accompanied Stark to a warehouse to supervise the crating of the Iron Man suit. They were followed by several curious ex-bidders.

  “Where is Iron Man?” the Bulgarian asked.

  “I’m afraid my friend is a bit shy. He decanted himself from the suit in private and you will find it in here,” Stark said, opening the door.

  The crimson-and-gold suit lay in pieces and they watched as expert packers crated the suit and sealed it. Stark handed over the complete plans, reduced to microfilm for easier transportation, and shook hands with the Sheikh.

  “You must excuse me now,” Stark said to the Arab. “I must see to my other guests.”

  “Of course,” the Arab said, bowing slightly and touching his fingers to heart, mouth, and forehead.

  Stark strode away into the warehouse and the Arab watched workers loading the box onto an electric cart.

  Stark passed quickly through the tent of chatting VIPs. “Ladies, see that these gentlemen get all they want to eat or drink,” he told the chief hostess.

  “That’s all they’ll get, Boss,” she whispered.

  “I know, that’s why I hired you.”

  “Where you off to?” she asked. “Stick around and make it a real party.”

  Stark smiled. “Sorry. Business before pleasure.”

  “How much before?” she asked, but he was gone. Well, you can’t blame a girl for trying. He was very good looking—and very rich.

  Some time after Stark slipped away those in the tent heard the roar of a jet taking off. Those that had bid on the armor and lost put out their glasses for more wine. Stark did have superb taste in champagne. Well, with three hundred and twenty million dollars in gold, he could afford to indulge them.

  The Arab sheikh was sitting in the spacious customized lounge of the executive jet when the pilot came out of the cockpit, wearing a trim blue uniform with gold insignia.

  “Hey,” the Arab said in a growling voice, “ya ain’t my pilot!”

  The pilot made certain with his thumb that his nose plugs were securely in place, even as he drew his gas gun and fired it. “That’s right, fella,” the pilot said.

  The Arab came up out of the chair right into the cloud of colorless gas. His eyes bulged and he gasped. He fell heavily, reaching for the man in the uniform. When he struck the deck he was out. His headdress fell off. A disguised Happy Hogan lay unconscious at the feet of the hijacker.

  Twelve

  His head hurt, as if an elephant had gone disco dancing on his cranium. Happy groaned and pried open one eye with a great force of will. His other eye popped at once. His headdress and false beard were gone.

  He was, in fact, lying on the cold, concrete floor of some huge, dark room in his rumpled clothes, feeling stiff and sore. Happy looked around cautiously, not moving anything but his eyes, the immediate survival instinct going into operation.

  He saw the dimly lit control panels around the lower part of the room, and shadowy figures hunched over hooded screens like the gnomes of some evil Santa Claus. A movement caught his eye and he looked up to see, atop a pillar, a semicircle of screens and assorted, six lighted control buttons—and within that arc something huge and monstrous, something not quite human. It sent an involuntary quiver through the ex-boxer’s muscles, a tightening, a ready-to-run signal.

  The dimly lit figure atop the pillar turned slightly, shocking Happy. He was not certain what he was seeing, because of the darkness, but it was grotesquely deformed, almost a parody of humanity.

  “Welcome to the land of the living,” a deep voice said from the pillar top. Happy Hogan could see movement in the shadows, the suggestion of a monstrous mouth, the glint of bulging eyes. It was all wrong, too big, too deformed. Primitive fear made his body tense, and he fought back the feeling. He’d had that feeling before, going up against Man Mountain McQuire, that statue with hair, and against Smasher Pelz, the bearded knockout king.

  To cover his fear, Happy grunted and got to his feet. He was still dizzy and his stomach didn’t feel good, but he glared defiantly back at the thing atop the pillar. This didn’t seem to faze the creature, who chuckled shortly. “Play your cards right, Hogan, and you might . . . just might . . . remain among the living.”

  Covering his nervousness Happy adopted the psych-’em-out tactics he sometimes employed in the ring. He glared at the man-thing and growled out a question. “Who are ya, mister?”

  The chuckle came again and a light flicked on, bathing Modok in light for the first time. Happy Hogan uttered an involuntary gasp. “God in heaven!” he said, taking a step backward. It was Modok! There was no mistaking that miss
hapen head, that oversized cranium, that wide mouth. Happy’s usually iron gut churned in disgust. If Modok had been totally alien, a creature from another world, Happy knew he would not have been so affected. It was the distortions of the human form that most affected us, he thought. The Neanderthal-like form of Man Mountain McQuire had stirred his own fear of anything that was different, but nothing like this!

  However, years of prizefighting had taught him the value of not giving anything away, of not showing any weakness to the opponent, and Hogan fought back. The bulging eyes watched him like a bug on a pin, the appallingly wide mouth twisted in contempt, the protruding forehead gleamed under the light, but Happy Hogan swallowed his disgust and snapped out an insult. “We thought ya wuz dead, Modok . . . and I can see ya are. I thought the garbage collectors would have bagged ya up by now, ya freak.”

  It wasn’t much of an insult, but it was the tone that mattered most. Happy saw the immense features contort in anger and gave a quick look around the room. With the added light from above Modok, Hogan saw the standard AIM uniforms on the flunkies hunched over the myriad controls, the muscular guards here and there, their arms and positions. He decided to strike, to counterpunch before the head of AIM could recover.

  “So this is AIM, huh? What’s the matter, didn’t ya pay your Con Ed bill?” He gestured around at the shadows. “No, I get it, sure.” He sneered up at the blazing eyes. “I’d do it, too, if I looked like a rotten cantaloupe.” His laugh was shaky, but insultingly defiant. He might go down, but no one ever accused Happy Hogan of taking a dive.

  But his tirade also gave Modok time to recover from his anger. He hated himself when he smashed insects with the power of his mind; it was too easy, usually. Better they should suffer, and suffer for a long, long time. Without even seeing them, Modok enjoyed the thought of the suffering certain malcontents and defectors were enduring in the lower depths of the AIM headquarters. He had perfected such delicately effective tortures. A man—or woman—could go on and on, never quite dying, never even quite escaping into unconsciousness, but staying at the threshold level for hours, days, weeks, in intense pain, the life-force fluttering like some impaled butterfly, the mind and body screaming for release.