Enemies & Allies (16 page)

F
ORTUNATELY FOR CLARK, JIMMY OLSEN WAS A SOUND
sleeper. After the young photographer began to snore softly in his bed, Clark left a note on Atomic Age Motel stationery stating that he had gone for a walk, just in case Jimmy woke to find him gone.

In a blur, he donned his blue and red suit, slipped outside, ducked behind the motel unseen, and took off. No flashy public show, no oohs or aahs. The cape hem fluttered about him in an uneven ripple, and gravity fell away. This was
his
time to fly.

As he rose above the glittering expanse of the Las Vegas Strip, Kal-El looked at the kaleidoscope of casinos and hotels. Despite the late hour, countless people were gambling, attending shows, losing fortunes, or making a small profit, which only enticed them to gamble more. From high above the tallest buildings, he could hear the faint jingling of slot machines paying off, roulette wheels spinning and clicking, chips clattering together, nightclub bands playing, people talking and laughing, cars honking their horns.

And police sirens. Then fire engines.

Though his curiosity about the flying saucer tugged him toward Nellis Air Force Base, his sense of duty made him concentrate on the emergency instead. He could not follow his own interests if somebody was in trouble. He circled around and raced toward the source of the sirens, sure that the Las Vegas police and firefighters wouldn’t mind a little extra help.

In addition to the usual searchlights skating across the sky to commemorate some new Las Vegas extravaganza, dazzling beams painted the Champagne Tower of the Fabulous Flamingo, billed as the world’s most luxurious hotel. Kal-El wondered if a fire had occurred inside, but he saw no smoke. The flurry of activity centered on one penthouse room, one open balcony—and one man standing on the edge, threatening to jump.

Suddenly the emergency took on a different character. Kal-El focused his super-vision until he could see the man, still dressed in a gray business suit with a long, thin black tie that had been loosened, his collar unbuttoned. His face was florid; tears streamed down his cheeks. His expression flickered between grief and terror. He had taken off his shoes to leave his feet bare, perhaps for a better grip on the ledge.

This wasn’t a fire, a robbery, or an attempted assault. This man wanted to take his own life.

“I’ve lost everything!” the man shouted in a rough voice. “I can’t pay my markers. They’ll kill me anyway!”

Hotel patrons thrust their heads out of nearby windows, beseeching the man not to jump. From inside the penthouse room, Kal-El picked up the earnest voice of a manager. “We can sort this out, sir. Come back inside. The casino will work out a payment plan for now.”

Far down in the streets below, fire trucks pulled up, sirens wailing, lights flashing. More police cars joined them. Firemen left their trucks and pulled out a circular frame with a broad stretcher, which would never be able to catch a man after he fell thirty stories.

From inside the penthouse, a burly security man whose body did not seem designed for the tuxedo he wore stepped out onto the balcony. “You don’t want to jump—you know you don’t. Come off that ledge.” He abruptly extended a hand to grab the jumper by force, but his move only startled the man. He sprang from the ledge and dove out into the air, closing his eyes as if in prayer.

Absorbing everything in a second, Kal-El streaked toward the Flamingo.

A chorus of gasps rang out, breaths drawn in unison. Crowds on the streets below stared upward.

The falling man seemed to be imagining he was flying. He had his arms outstretched, his jacket fluttering—in total silence, apparently convinced he wanted to die.

But Kal-El actually
could
fly. He swooped down, matched the speed of the falling man, and caught him. “I’ve got you, sir,” he said in a comforting voice. “You’re safe.” Smiling, he descended toward the waiting crowds of wide-eyed onlookers, police, and firemen in front of the Fabulous Flamingo.

Kal-El couldn’t guess what psychological complexities had driven the jumper to take such drastic measures. Gambling debts, no matter how bad, did not seem to be reason enough to end one’s life. Why would this person want to throw everything away?

The suicidal man began pounding on his shoulder, struggling to break free, but Kal-El tightened his grip, careful not to let the man slip out of his grasp before they landed on solid ground. “Please don’t struggle.” His red boots touched down on the sidewalk as applauding people backed out into a circle to give them room. Kal-El spoke in a deep and reassuring voice, but he didn’t know if the man could even hear him. “You’ll be all right now, sir. These people will take care of you.” Two firemen rushed forward to take the sobbing jumper.

Kal-El felt a strange wrenching sensation in his chest. Even superhuman strength and speed could not touch the panic and despair over finances that had gripped this man. Now that he was safely in the hands of the authorities, he would not be allowed to hurt himself.

But was that enough?

Kal-El stood, hands on hips, his cape rippling behind him in a night breeze. Ever since he had willingly donned the hero’s mantle, he had been learning just how much he could do for the people of Earth. He hadn’t revealed his real Kryptonian name to anyone, but he was happy with what they chose to call him—the name Lois Lane had coined.
Superman.
It had a nice ring to it.

Still, he couldn’t stay. Soon reporters would crowd around and bombard him with questions. Kal-El had questions of his own elsewhere, and he could not miss this opportunity. It was his chance to learn if the U.S. military had found an alien spacecraft…whether another ship from Krypton or from some other world entirely. What if the crashed object contained another young refugee from his destroyed planet? His father, Jor-El, could not have been the only one to see the disaster coming.

Kal-El had to know.

Waving to the gathered awestruck spectators, he raised his fist again, looked up to the open slice of starry sky between the Flamingo towers, and soared into the night.

F
OR A MAN WITH BRUCE WAYNE’S CONNECTIONS AND
Batman’s technology, finding a secret facility inside the Groom Lake restricted area proved to be no great challenge.

He had his own private Wayne Enterprises jet and a pilot’s license to fly it, and his plane had been modified to land on even the most minimal airstrips. After dark, most of the rural landing areas in the Nevada desert were shut down and unattended. A small ranch strip west of Crystal Springs looked to be ideal for his purposes.

Leaving his plane unattended on the empty airstrip, he donned his mask and armor to better blend into the darkness. Bats like swift, jagged shadows flitted about in the clear, moonless night.

He crossed the many miles of painfully open terrain on a newly designed high-powered motorcycle, which had been developed as a military all-terrain prototype by Wayne Enterprises. The cycle’s wide tires and rugged suspension were housed in black aerodynamic armor, and—most important out here—its engine was virtually silent, thanks to a superior muffled stealth mode. Like a loping coyote, the cycle glided along the sand, scrub, and rocks.

He’d overcome the problems of distance and inaccessibility; now he had to deal with security. Judging by Luthor’s insistent memos, even the bald industrialist knew very little about the place. Fortunately, the base’s primary line of defense was its secrecy and miles of exposed, empty buffer zone. He needed to avoid all roads, and he could use no lights.

The first barrier was a simple barbed-wire fence strung with warning signs:
RESTRICTED AREA. ACCESS BEYOND THIS POINT PROHIBITED.
The wires were easily cut, and after idling the cycle through, he gripped the throttle with his dark glove and raced toward his destination.

A mile farther, he encountered more daunting fences—barbed wire and increasingly strenuous warnings:
LETHAL FORCE IS AUTHORIZED BEYOND THIS POINT
. The fence was electrified with enough voltage to give any intruder a severe jolt, but his insulated gloves protected him. He cut the wire and made his way through.

The barrier line immediately beyond this fence carried a much more powerful charge, deadly voltage. He unclipped leads from his utility belt, attached them to the wires with alligator clips, and grounded them, making the fence safe for him to get through.

As the cycle carried him onward with barely audible purring, he used front-mounted metal detectors to scope out buried land mines and other pitfalls. He activated the cycle’s “trail of bread crumbs” system, which spat regularly spaced dots of pigment visible only in infrared. He placed filtered goggles over his mask and rode across the now greenish-hued desert landscape.

Finally, he spied the diaphanous glow of a complex ahead, nestled at the base of barren mountains. The Jeep roads met at a cluster of standard military buildings, Quonset huts, long rectangular barracks, hangars, warehouses, igloo-shaped storage domes, a tank farm. Guard towers sported brilliant searchlights. Military police patrolled the inner perimeter, rifles shouldered, while growling Jeeps circled the outer roads.

He ditched the cycle behind a pile of boulders, then activated a sounder on his utility belt that would emit a locator ping so he could find the vehicle again. He made his way closer on foot.

Hidden by his dark cape, he moved forward in a low crouch to take advantage of the minimal cover. He extended his palm and, listening for feedback from the sensitive metal detector in the gauntlet, avoided several buried booby traps. Following established military procedure, the soldiers had placed land mines on a precisely spaced grid that made them easy to get around.

He sat in perfect stillness for several long minutes, watching carefully.

The base soldiers were alert, but not alert enough. They had been drilled repeatedly—so frequently, in fact, that he could use that to his advantage. Even a genuine breach of security would seem to be just another exercise at first. He was certain no intruder had ever penetrated this deeply into the restricted area.

The main research hangar was unmistakable, and that was where he had to go. He would need to use his grappling hook to get over the barricade, and from there he’d resort to metal-eating acid, diamond-edged cutters, even smoke bombs or tranquilizer darts if the smoke alone didn’t create a sufficient diversion. In his utility belt he had everything he needed.

Piece of cake.

IT TOOK HIM FORTY-FIVE MINUTES TO GET INSIDE THE
secure hangar, fifteen minutes longer than he had anticipated. Now he had to move quickly. Judging by all the military security in this forsaken place, the U.S. government considered the mysterious object to be as important as Luthor seemed to think it was.

All of the base research activities had shut down for the night, and now the exotic object sat in the middle of the hangar under security lights, surrounded by complex instruments; adjacent tables were piled with notes and black and white photographs.

He stepped forward, feeling a clear sense of awe. Without a doubt, the sleek, silvery vessel looked like an alien spacecraft, a flying saucer with aerodynamic lines and propulsion curves unlike anything he had seen in his own research and development for the aircraft industry.

As a rational man, he had never believed in stories of alien visitors or Martians spying on Earth. As he studied the object more carefully and began to guess exactly what it was, he found himself even more surprised by the truth.

He hadn’t expected this at all.

K
AL-EL FLEW OFF, LEAVING LAS VEGAS BEHIND. HE WAS
glad to have saved a life, but he still felt unsettled and uncertain about what lay in store for the poor man. The complexities of the human psyche, the twisted burdens that forced everyday people to make extremely bad decisions—those were not problems Kal-El could solve with a burst of super-speed or strength. He was reminded of all those difficult and disturbing letters written to “Lorna for the Lovelorn.”

He flew silently away from the neon glow and out across the empty landscape. Radiant heat still wafted up from the desert sands, and thermal currents swirled around him like invisible smoke. Accelerating, he flew northeast, keeping himself just under Mach 1 so as not to create a prominent sonic boom. In minutes, he had passed the hurdles that military security had thrown up against him and Jimmy the previous day, when they’d approached via more conventional means.

He found the large dry lake bed, its smooth alkaline surface sparkling in the starlight; a military landing strip marred the otherwise pristine-looking flat. Long, straight roads cut across the desert, running from the Tikaboo Valley to the east and over the mountains and mesas from Yucca Flat and the atomic testing grounds. All of the roads converged like a targeting cross on the secret installation.

With his sharp vision, Kal-El spotted the central research hangar amid the barracks, warehouses, storage tanks, and blocky buildings. Decreasing speed, he landed gently atop the corrugated roof, dodging searchlights from the guard tower.

Kal-El was not accustomed to lurking in shadows like some prowler, but this mission was a personal one. He didn’t want to be seen. Though it made him uneasy, he would have to bend the rules. The demanding pull to learn who he was, to see if he was truly alone on Earth, trumped his other concerns.

As quietly as he could, causing as little damage as possible, Kal-El popped the rivets on a sheet of the research hangar’s roof. He pried the zinc-coated steel upward, opening a way for him to get inside. He scanned the skeleton crew of base security, and when he was satisfied that he had tripped no alarms, he dropped down inside the hangar. With barely a whisper of noise, he settled onto the swept concrete floor and looked around.

The cavernous bay was dim and quiet, lit only by a few emergency lights around the edges and a set of bright utility spotlights in the center. His blue eyes immediately locked onto the object he sought: a silver spaceship.

Kal-El wished he knew more about Kryptonian science, more about the small craft that Jor-El had built to send him away moments before their planet exploded. Up in his Fortress of Solitude, Kal-El still had the crystalline data-storage units along with recorded messages that his parents had placed in his ship, but even those were not enough to answer all his burning questions.

The flying saucer on display was of a completely different design, a technology that had not originated on Krypton. Had another alien race created it? The vessel was much too small to carry a human-sized adult. Could it have been designed to hold a baby, like the ship that had saved him from his doomed planet? Or was this craft simply used by a more diminutive species?

If the alien occupant had survived the crash in Arizona, the soldiers and scientists in Area 51 would have taken him or her captive. Maybe the precious passenger was even now in a military holding area on the base.

Taking a step forward, Kal-El scanned the craft with his X-ray vision to penetrate its inner workings—and to his surprise he found no passenger compartment. No room, in fact, for any living creature. This strange vessel was nothing more than a case to hold exotic propulsion systems and automated controls. The whole machine was a drone of some kind. A scout ship from another world?

“It’s a LuthorCorp prototype.” The deep voice came out of the shadows behind him. “As you well know.”

Kal-El spun, saw the dark-suited figure, the black cape, mask, and cowl.
Batman.

Batman stepped into the glow of the utility lights. “Luthor sent you to get the craft back for him, didn’t he? His other efforts failed.”

At first Kal-El didn’t understand what the other man was implying. He scanned with his X-ray vision to determine if Batman carried a piece of the devastatingly powerful green mineral. He saw numerous tools, cables, vials, darts, and other devices he could not identify but no sign of the debilitating emerald rock.

Kal-El countered, “It’s more likely that
you
came to steal the ship—just like you stole from Luthor before.” He realized that several pieces of the analytical gear connected to the strange object had come from Batman’s belt rather than the Area 51 scientific teams.

Batman clearly took offense. “I’m not a common thief.”

They faced off, tense, ready for battle. At any other time, Kal-El would have assumed that his powers could subdue any opponent, but the green rock Batman had carried…what else did he have up his sleeve?

“Then what were you doing to the craft?” Kal-El persisted. “Trying to sabotage it?”

Batman pressed with his own questions. “What does Luthor have over you, Superman? Why do you do his dirty work?”

Kal-El drew an exasperated breath. “I
don’t
work for Luthor!”

“The evidence suggests otherwise.” Batman’s voice was brittle. “You were there to protect Luthor’s mansion. Now you’ve breached military security to get his precious test craft back.”

“I don’t work for Luthor!”
Kal-El raised his voice, not accustomed to having his word doubted by anyone—especially by a shadowy cat burglar in a dark mask. “Haven’t you read the newspapers? Luthor claims that I helped
you
escape, that we’re partners in crime.” The very idea offended him.

“It wouldn’t be the first time someone’s given a false story to the press,” Batman answered coolly. “Luthor would do anything to retrieve this prototype. And here you are.”

“I came seeking answers. I intend no harm.” Kal-El squared his shoulders, keeping himself between Batman and the silvery craft. It was time to turn the tables, keep his opponent off balance. “And I’m not the
only
one who broke into a high-security government installation.”

After a long, tense pause, Batman added, “I’m here for answers, too.” He took a step closer, not intimidated by Superman or his reputation. “Maybe you should ask yourself what Lex Luthor is doing with a prototype spaceship. Look for yourself; study the design.” He held up a scanner in one dark-gloved hand. “The propulsion system, the metal-fabrication technique—they’re identical to notes and blueprints contained in secret LuthorCorp documents.”

Batman walked past him and applied a sort of electronic stethoscope to the skin of the “alien spaceship,” then attached another set of leads to create a sonic-echo map of the sealed interior, verifying what Kal-El could see with his X-ray vision. Now that he knew what to look for, he did detect the hints of machining and subtle design commonalities that could have come from a cutting-edge arms manufacturer.

And that would explain why unmarked LuthorCorp planes had tried to stop the Air Force jets from intercepting the UFO, why they had been willing to use some kind of energy scrambler to make the F-100Ds malfunction when the pursuit got too close.

Even though it wasn’t the answer Kal-El wanted to hear, Batman’s assessment was correct. This was not an extraterrestrial vessel. This craft had been constructed on Earth, in secret.
A LuthorCorp prototype.

He slowly came to an uncomfortable conclusion. Perhaps Batman hadn’t just been burglarizing Lex Luthor’s mansion. Maybe he’d been uncovering information for his own reasons, just as Kal-El had come here to do.

Suddenly sirens shattered the peaceful night, cutting through the tension. Rotating magenta lights flashed on inside the hangar, and a klaxon blared. A strained voice bellowed from loudspeakers in the ceiling, calling for a full-fledged response to an internal security breach.

“We can’t be seen here,” Batman said. “Neither of us.”

Kal-El glanced upward. Someone might have noticed the open sheet on the hangar roof, or some sign of Batman’s break-in…a hole in a fence or a cut lock.

Kal-El turned to launch himself toward the ceiling. Though he had meant no harm, he knew his presence would raise too many questions. He could haul Batman out of here just as he had carried him away from Luthor’s mansion—and they could continue this conversation elsewhere.

But Batman had vanished without a sound. The shadowy figure was simply
gone,
along with his equipment.

Kal-El shot a final glance at the fake spacecraft, thinking of all his lost hopes, then flew through the hole in the corrugated roof. He paused just long enough to bend the metal sheet back into place and weld it securely with a quick burst of his heat vision before soaring off into the night, just as the Area 51 military police surrounded the hangar.

They would find nothing inside.