Brave and the Bold #203

"It was the dawn of the Second Age of Heroes, a few years after the Allies-Axis War. The Brave & the Bold was a dream given form. Their goal: to prevent more evil by creating places where humans would not be afraid of metahumans. It's a way of life, stopping evil and creating homes away from home for diplomats, hustlers, entrepreneurs, and wanderers: humans and metahumans, all alone in the night. It can be a dangerous place, this new, metahuman-ridden Earth, but it's our last, best hope for peace. This is the story of the those times and those peoples. The years are 1948-1966. The name of the book, and the people in them, is The Brave And The Bold."

Rated PG for language and violence.

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The night of July 30, 1952, was an excruciatingly unpleasant one in the environs of Washington, D.C. The steaming, fetid air of the capital was untouched by any breeze and was undimmed by the night. It had already been a long, hot summer, and August, the worst time to be in the District, had not arrived yet.

Few in the capital were at ease; the tension in the air was palpable, a living thing that diminished everyone's happiness. Those who lived in Anacostia and the other Colored sections of the District were restless and uneasy; the extreme heat and humidity of this summer had put the police in the District and in surrounding Alexandria and Arlington on edge, and they were taking it out on just about anybody who wasn't white. Worse, the House Un-American Activities Committee was putting an enormous amount of pressure on law enforcement to root out Communism wherever it might be found, and that had led to a large number of good Colored men and women being unfairly dismissed from their jobs. Unemployment was up by an incredible amount, and those who still had their jobs were ill at ease on the job, most being constantly subjected to suspicious looks by their white employers. Although word floated around that the Supreme Court was considering striking down school segregation, no one believed that it would happen; far more commonly believed were the rumors of more layoffs and jailings. Tempers were high in the relentless heat, and murders, rapes and beatings were up.

The whites of the capital were no more relaxed. Everyone knew that the Communists were everywhere; the lack of success in uncovering them only meant that they'd planned ahead, and were very well hidden. That, or they'd had word ahead of time that they were being hunted, and so they'd gone to ground. Which would mean that there were Pinkos and Fellow Travelers even among the C.I.A. and the F.B.I. and the police--something that most whites didn't want to think about, but which had to be considered.

The war in Korea dragged on, the negotiations in Panmunjon lingering interminably with little progress being reported. The Communists continued to build up their strength, shipping in enormous amounts of artillery and radar-controlled anti-aircraft guns as well as what the papers reported to be a million Chinese troops. Naturally, the U.S. and the U.N. had to match suit.

And so a continual stream of American troops left for overseas. A smaller stream of bodybags returned home, even to the wealthier families of Georgetown, and although everyone knew the war had to be fought, everyone hated the lack of progress. Worse, the ongoing lack of progress in the war--all that the Post would report were a dreary series of attacks and counterattacks, none seeming anywhere near to a breakout--and the capture of a Brigadier General by a group of Chinese P.O.W.s in an American P.O.W. camp led many to wonder at the incompetence of those who were running the war. The campaigning for the Presidency was growing increasingly contentious, with Adlai Stevenson vowing to win the war and Dwight Eisenhower promising to bring about an honorable conclusion, and although the candidates themselves were not engaging in much mudslinging--not more than most presidential campaigns (most in Washington remembered the venom that had accompanied Roosevelt's campaigns)--their supporters were becoming vicious in their denunciations of the other side's candidate. Worse, the presence of various "heroes" in Korea seemed to have no effect on the war; even though most who paid attention to the war knew that the Communists had superhumans of their own over there, there were still persistent rumors that, just maybe, the "heroes" weren't trying their hardest, and that the Commies had gotten to them, too. After all, why wasn't the Justice Society over there? What reason could they have for not fighting the Communists except that they were Reds themselves?

Although the White House had ended the two-month-long strike of steel workers only the week before, the economy was still feeling the effect of their prolonged walk-out, and belts were being tightened everywhere, with mad money becoming increasingly scarce. Even Mrs. Kefauver's legendary parties were growing rarer and rarer, something many had thought would never happen.

On the night of the 30th two very different men looked at the Capital Building, the light reflected off its white dome shining bright in the night air, and felt the general discontent in their stomachs.

From a corner office on the 5th floor of the F.B.I. section of the Department of Justice building on Pennsylvania Avenue a hulking, bearded man glowered at the Capitol Building, filled with contempt at it and what it stood for. He'd come so close a handful of years ago; but for the intervention of that bumbler with the magic ring, he'd have had the building, and the whole government along with it. The bearded man exhaled heavily and with much irritation; truly, nothing was going well for him. All his efforts over the past several years had somehow gone wrong. Even allying with those others who, like him, were more than mere humans had somehow not brought him the power he lusted after and for which he'd spent so many centuries working. Perhaps this latest scheme would work; perhaps not. The man knew that he had all the time in the world, and that his fellow Illuminated ones might well help him succeed where he alone had failed. Still, to have such an unrelieved record of failure and loss over even a few years was a constant irritation to him, like a bit of food wedged between the gums.

The bearded man picked up the phone in his office, waited for the F.B.I.'s operator to make the long-distance connection, and then said, into the phone, "You may proceed as planned."

He hung up and poured himself a measure of Augier brandy, which he slowly sipped as he observed the night travelers making their way, on foot or by car or taxi or bus, down Pennsylvania Avenue. Even if his hirelings did not succeed in their mission, their very presence should cause a significant amount of consternation among the powers of Washington. But the man thought that the mission would be a success; his hirelings were following his plan, after all, and it had no flaws, he'd made sure of it. His anonymous informant had been correct, and with the information he'd received from him and the plans he'd made using the information it would be a relatively simple thing to seize power.

On other side of the Capitol, from a third-floor apartment off of 3rd Street, another man, with white hair and an old face that belied his years, watched the building, smoking one in an endless series of cigarettes and sipping every now and then from a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels. He'd only been with the Agency for a short time, and while he'd been involved in a few actions of the kind he'd known while with the Army, much more of his time was involved in more tedious activities: monitoring wiretaps in Berlin, debriefing agents brought home from foreign operations, reading through the transcripts of hundreds of phone calls, and so on. And now this, which he hated more than anything else: waiting. He was prepared to wait weeks, if need be, because the phone call he was waiting for was more important than anything else. He'd already been here a week, and he was ready to be here for a month or more if he had to. But he still hated it.

1100 miles to the south, in an airy, large room facing the sea, a bulky, muscular man put down a phone and said, in Spanish, "That was him. We go. Now."

His words catapulted the others in the room into action. They leapt from their seats and ran from the house down onto the beach. The thirteen men and women ran across the sands and entered the cabin of a long, fully inflated, oddly-shaped dirigible. One of them, a stocky, muscular woman, went to the head of the cabin and began flipping switches, and with a bump and a lurch the balloon took to the air and began heading, slowly at first but then with increasing speed.

The woman turned two dials and a knob and then rejoined the others. "The course is set," she said as she sat down on one of the couches lining the walls of the cabin. She took a cold Coke from the table at the center of the cabin, twisted its cap off, and leaned back on the couch, enjoying its taste and feeling good that their plans were finally coming to fruition.

A small, handsome man wearing an American Army Colonel's uniform said to her, "Maria, is there any chance that the controls will not function correctly? It is imperative that we arrive--"

Maria sighed. "Yes, Jorge, I know. We've been over this a dozen times. The settings on the guidance control machines were checked and rechecked. You did it yourself, didn't you, Eitel?"

Eitel, a nondescript man of average height and weight, nodded and said, with a certain grimness, "Yes. I did."

Jorge said, "Maria, there can be no--"

Maria said, her irritation showing in her voice, "Talk to them," and gestured at the two costumed men standing apart from the others, near the rear of the cabin. "I entered the settings with their help."

The two, seeing Maria's gesture and hearing the stop in the conversation, turned and looked at the others. The first, a whippet-thin man in a skin-tight costume that completely covered his body and face and was unbroken blue except for black shorts, gloves, and boots, and the yellow lightning bolts across his chest and the small yellow swastika on the hood over his forehead, shrugged and said to the second man, in German-accented English, "I do not understand their babblings."

The second, a muscular man with a coarse face and a green costume with black shorts, books, and cape, set off by green tights and a green shirt with black lightning bolt down its front, said, in English, "I'll translate for ya again." In heavily American-accented Spanish he said, "Look, Jorge, we been over this before, okay? It's all set. You don't need to worry about nothin'."

Jorge nodded once, curtly. "Good." He turned to face the others. "Then I can tell you all about our mission. I am sorry that I had to mislead you and tease you as to our true goals, but until now I could never be sure that our plans would not be found out."

Maria crossed her arms beneath her breasts and said, "Why? Because you don't trust us?"

A slim, beautiful woman sitting next to Jorge, her hand resting high up his thigh, said, "Maria, don't be like that! You know he does."

Jorge smiled and squeezed her hand briefly, whispering, "Consuela, don't pay attention to her" in her ear. He then said, "Maria, I trust all of you. But we must face facts. Ever since our brothers tried for Truman and failed, all of our efforts have come to nothing. That maricon Hoover and his cabron Control have ruined so many of our plans that I had to take extra measures to make sure that we would have no problems and that they wouldn't find out about this until we had achieved our goals."

A tall, stunning woman slapped the automatic holstered at her side and said, "Maria, you know he's right. And haven't you been calling for tighter security all along?"

Maria grumbled, "Yes, but to take it this far is excessive, Carmen."

The muscular man grunted, "No, it's not. But be quiet. I want to hear what Jorge says."

Jorge nodded and smiled. "Thanks, Jose. All of you - listen to me. Each of you, at some time or another, asked me about our two friends." He gestured with his thumb at the two costumed men. "They are called `Deathbolt' and `Cyclone,' and they are gifts to us.

"You see, back after Oscar and Griselio attacked President Truman, when the police and the FBI and all the `heroes' swept across the island, looking for `terrorists,' a man got in touch with me and offered to help us. He sympathizes with our goals, and wanted to see us succeed. He--"

A pudgy young man, with a very youthful face and thick, smudged glasses, grinned and nodded his head and said, "So that's where you've been getting your money from!"

Jorge smiled patronizingly and said, "Very good, Ramon. I guess that college education of yours is good for something."

Ramon blushed and looked at his feet. Jorge said, "So I met with this man, and--"

A squat, thick, ugly woman, standing near one window and looking out at the sight of the moon reflecting off the ocean's waves below the dirigible, said, without looking at the others, "You did this without asking us?"

Jorge's smile disappeared and was replaced by a cold look. "Yes. I formed the Macheteros, Rosario. I recruited you all. I've financed everything we've done. I trained every one of you. It was my judgment, as your leader, that I should do this. Is that a problem for you?"

The others looked at each other; when Jorge got that no-nonsense look on his face he could become vicious. He'd gotten that look on his face just before he executed Juan.

Rosario, hands held behind her back, turned her head and looked over her shoulder at Jorge. Her expression matched his for frigidity. "You should have told us. What if he'd been working for Hoover?"

Jorge stepped forward and placed his hands on his hips. "I took precautions. Why are you questioning me on this? We're close to gaining what we want, what everyone else has failed to do. Why pick a fight now?"

The two costumed figures at the rear of the cabin, hearing the note of anger creeping into Jorge's voice, drifted over to stand near him, as did the brutish Jose. Rosario looked at them dismissively and said, "We're the Macheteros, Jorge. Not your personal army. We work together, for a common goal, for the common good. Not to make you look good. Remember that." She punctuated her last word by poking a finger into his chest, and then turned back to look out the window.

Jorge glowered and threw his hands up and walked back to the others. Consuela walked forward and put her hand on Rosario's shoulder and started murmuring to her as the others looked on. Finally Rosario turned and said, "I'm sorry, Jorge. I shouldn't have said that. I'm just...tense." She gave Consuela a rare smile, and Consuela hugged her, and Jorge nodded curtly. "Accepted. We'll say no more about it." The tension in the air dissipated and the two costumed men went back to the rear of the cabin.

Jorge said, "As I was saying...I met with this man, and spoke with him for many hours. He is no spy for the government; he is a true believer. He has been supplying us with money for all these months, and has given us information when he could. He gave us this vehicle. And it was him who gave me the plans to Ramey; would a spy have done that?"

The others shook their heads. Their New Year's Eve raid on the Ramey Air Force Base had been a complete success, with two dozen American soldiers killed and at least twice that many in the hospital. The attack had brought much attention to their cause, as they'd planned, and - better still - they'd gotten away with it. Completely. Despite the immediate response by the police and army - and, if rumors were true, Dr. Mid-Nite himself - none of the Macheteros had been so much as suspected, much less questioned.

Jorge said, "And it was him who--"

A handsome man in his early 40s said, "Excuse me for interrupting, Jorge, but...what's his name? Are we ever going to get to meet him? Or did he prefer to work only through you?"

Jorge, clearly irritated, said, "Pedro, he is our patron; he has given us quite a lot of money and information. If he chooses to deal only with me, well, I think we can forgive him that. As for his name...he prefers to be known as `Senor Barbaro.'"

Pedro shrugged and smiled winningly. "As you wish, Jorge. I was merely curious, is all."

Betraying just the slightest hint of impatience, Jorge said, "I know. But I will answer all of your questions if you will just please let me finish what I have to say.

"It was Senor Barbaro who gave me the money with which I've been paying you and feeding you. And it was he who gave me the plans to Ramey, and now the plans and the weapons for this mission. And it was he who loaned us Deathbolt and Cyclone, also for this mission. He--"

An ugly man of indeterminate age, standing apart from the rest, next to another window, said, "And what is the mission? You still haven't told us what you want from us."

The others glanced at him, and then at Jorge. Tony Irizarry, the ugly man, was a stranger to all of them, but he came highly recommended. In Mayaguez and San Juan the entire underworld knew about Tony Irizarry; he was said to be the deadliest man with two guns on the entire island, and supposedly had done work in Havana and even Miami. Some of the wilder rumors said he'd gone up against the Atom, back in ‘48, and made the pint-sized hero look foolish. All of the Macheteros had wanted someone like him on their team; none had much experience in firefights, the Ramey raid aside, and they all agreed that they'd feel better with a professional gunman alongside them for this mission. But none of them had dared dream that they could afford the Tony Irizarry. The group had talked about it, though, and both Maria and Consuela had urged Jorge to ask him; after all, the worst he could do would be to say "no." Jorge had gone up to Maraguey and found him, and Tony had joined them for this mission, even agreeing to cut his usual fee in half. He wasn't exactly a team player, Tony Irizarry, but he was undeniably skilled, and even with his cold attitude (he made Eitel seem warm) he still made the others feel better.

Jorge said, "Just this: we are going to assassinate Truman."

There was a general intake of breath around the cabin; Deathbolt and Cyclone looked smug, Tony Irizarry dubious, Eitel spooky, as always, Jose hopeful, and Rosario looked cold.

Jorge, clearly disappointed at the reaction, said, "Look, we've worked out to the smallest--"

Rosario and Tony Irizarry both said, at the same time, "Who's ‘we'?"

"Senor Barbaro. He--"

Rosario scowled, and Irizarry said, "Him again, eh? You're relying on him too much." Rosario said, "You're going to get us all killed, Jorge."

Jorge said, angrily, "No. I'm not. Now you will listen to me, Rosario. Senor Barbaro gave us the plans to Ramey, remember? No spy for Hoover or Control would do that. And he gave us these." He gestured at Deathbolt and Cyclone, who pulled two steamer trunks from the corner of the cabin and placed them on the table between the couches and then opened them.

The eleven men and women made appreciative sounds of pleasure as they removed the weapons from the trunks and examined them. There were fifteen sets of rifles and pistols, each strangely light and having long, thin barrels and thick tubes running along the tops and bottoms of the barrels. And there were fifteen machetes, the metal of the blades a dull black that seemed to absorb the light in the cabin.

Jorge said, "Go ahead. Take one each. They are for all of us."

Tony Irizarry examined the guns for clips, then gave up and began checking their sights. He said, "What do these do? They don't fire bullets. Have you tested them?"

Jorge said, "Yes, the day before yesterday. They fire something called lasers," the last word being in English. Seeing the uncomprehending faces of the rest of the group, he said, "They are basically rayguns." The faces of the others lit up, and they all nodded.

Pedro took a practice swing with the machete and found it surprisingly light. He said, "And these? This isn't steel, is it?"

Jorge said, "No, Pedro, it's not. Like the lasers, they're special. They're made from something called duranium. Senor Barbaro would not tell me why they came from, but I have my suspicion that they were originally created by the Thinker."

The group nodded as one; the Thinker's name carried much weight in the underworld of the Caribbean. Even Tony Irizarry looked impressed.

Jorge said, "Would Hoover have given us these weapons?" Rosario's silence and nonplussed expression were very gratifying to him.

He went on. "Oscar and Griselio had the right idea, attacking Blair House, but they failed because they didn't have the right weapons. We do. They also tried a frontal attack, and they failed because of the Secret Service men."

Consuela said, "Jorge...Truman isn't in Blair House any more, is he?"

Jorge patiently waited until his girlfriend stopped speaking, and then said, "No, they finished repairing the White House months back. But. For all of the care they've taken to protect Truman and the White House, they never thought that there'd be an attack from the air, only the ground."

Eitel said, in his usual hoarse monotone, "They have radar."

Jorge nodded and grinned. "Yes. They do. And Senor Barbaro made this balloon radar-proof."

The incredulity on the faces of the others was apparent. Jorge's grin widened. "Did you think they didn't have radar at Ramey?"

Understanding slowly dawned on the others, followed by smiles to match Jorge's. Even Rosario no longer looked so dyspeptic.

Jorge went on. "All of this, from Senor Barbaro. I trust there'll be no more doubts about him? Good.

"He suggested that we take a relatively simple approach; he says that the simpler a plan is, the less chance there is that something will go wrong. He has had a lot of experience, I think, and he knows what he's talking about.

"His plan is this: we steer the balloon directly above the White House. We climb down from the balloon onto the roof of the White House. Ramon, did you bring the explosives like I asked?"

Ramon nodded eagerly. "Every last bit, Jorge."

"Good. We use Ramon's explosives to get into the White House from the roof, and then, with the help of Deathbolt and Cyclone, we kill everyone inside. The lasers are silent, and Ramon's explosives are fairly quiet, and if everyone does as I trained you, we should be able to get away without being detected."

Maria, feeling a tension in the pit of her stomach, said, "Who are

those two, Jorge? How do we know they'll be up to this?"

Jorge said, "Trust me, Maria. Cyclone, with his speed, and Deathbolt, with his electrical powers, will be more than a match for any Secret Service man. And both have much more experience than any of us; Deathbolt was fighting the All-Star Squadron back in 1942."

The others looked at Deathbolt, who smirked and bowed.

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Several hundred miles to the north, in a third-floor apartment near the Capitol building, a phone rang. The smoking man dropped his cigarette and leapt for the phone. Coming across the line was a series of high-pitched beeps, some short, some long.

The phone call lasted a minute, and the man spent another ninety seconds decoding the transmission. Then, his face slightly paler, he began making a series of phone calls.

Five minutes later the back of the man's shirt and his forehead were wet with sweat, the hand holding his cigarette was ever-so-slightly fluttering, his face had developed tics, and he was muttered a steady stream of curses.

"#!&* Justice Society of #!&* America...not #!&* home when I #!&* need them. How the #!&* am I supposed to save the #!&* President when I can't even find the #!&* heroes?

"Oh, #!&*, what am I going to do now?

"Gotta think..there have to be All-Stars are left....Freedom Fighters are disbanded...Manhunter's dead...Seven Soldiers are dead...Air Wave retired...Sargon's gone...Boy Commandos retired...no Captain Triumph...both of the Bullets are gone...no Midnight...aw, #!&*, there's no one left!

"#!&* it, there has to be someone who'll help save Truman..."

Seconds ticked by as the man ran down a list of names and found that they were all gone or hadn't answered his phone calls. And even when the man went to what he thought of as the "minor leaguers," he still didn't find any help.

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Jorge said, "Tamara, you've been very quiet so far. What's wrong?"

Tamara, a short, cute woman who sat on one of the couches, knees up and arms wrapped around them, shook her head. Consuela moved over next to her and placed one hand on her shoulder and said, "Tamara, what's wrong? This isn't like you."

Tamara shook her head again. This time both Consuela and the others could see the tears in them. Most of the others hurried over next to her, only Eitel and Tiny Irizarry remaining where they were and coldly looking at her. Ramon said, "Tamara, why are you crying?"

Tamara hung her head. "I just...I had a dream about this, you guys. About this mission. I...."

Consuela silently hugged her. Jorge said, "Tamara, I know you've always relied on your dreams, but nothing can go wrong this time. Senor Barbaro and I thought everything out. They won't know we're coming, and they won't be able to detect us. And without any sort of warning, they won't be able to warn any of the `heroes.' The President only has humans guarding him, and we can easily take care of them - look at how easily we killed those Marines at Ramey! Plus we've got Deathbolt and the Cyclone, and they'll be more than a match for whatever Secret Service the President has, or even any ‘heroes' who show up. And we've got the lasers and the machetes. What could go wrong?"

Tamara sniffled and said, "I don't know...but my dreams don't lie, Jorge."

Jorge stood up and looked at the others, whose expressions had suddenly become troubled; they'd known Tamara for years, and always paid attention to her dreams, and had never suffered for it. Sometimes they'd been small things, about what the weather would be like, and sometimes they'd been big things, about where the police were going to strike next, but they'd always been right.

Jorge said, "Look, all of you. I don't know why you're suddenly all so scared, but we've got no reason to be afraid. We've got the power, we've got the weapons, and we've got Deathbolt and Cyclone. We can't lose!

"Besides, it's too late to turn back now. The controls are set, and they can't be changed. And..."

Eitel and Jose and Deathbolt and the Cyclone again walked over to stand near him. Encouraged by their presence, he said, "And I'm not going to let any of you be cowards. We're going through with this."

His face softened. "Besides - aren't you willing to make a sacrifice for the cause? What's changed since Ramey? Have the Americans left the island? Are we suddenly living better? Are they suddenly employing more of us and less of the whites? Do we suddenly have the right to vote on our own politics?

"Are your families suddenly off food stamps? When did the jobs appear - how did I miss that? When did the companies that work here start to pay taxes to us? Tell me, when did all this happen?

"As long as we're slaves to the Americans, none of this is going to change. They like having us as a colony, and unless we strike a blow for the cause that's not going to change. And this is the biggest blow we can strike. Now, are you with me or not?"

The others slowly nodded, even Tamara beginning to be carried away by his rhetoric and starting to tell herself that the dream wasn't one of her prophecies, only a bad dream.

Deathbolt, idly looking at the window, said, "The White House is in sight, Jorge."

The news sent the group scrambling for the weapons trunks, and each snatched up a pair of guns and a machete, and then positioning themselves at the door to the cabin, Eitel getting ready to toss the ropes down. Consuela ran around hugging people; she had always been very affectionate with all of them, especially before a mission, when everyone was all too aware that they might not be coming back.

Rosario slid the door to the cabin open, and the group crouched for a moment, enjoying the feel of the breeze on their faces as the zeppelin descended. Then...no one was sure just how it happened, but Consuela went to give Jorge one last kiss, and Tony Irizarry went to grab one of the ropes, and Maria bent over to get a better look at the White House, and somehow Consuela bumped into Tony, who fell over Maria's body and knocked Cyclone through the open hatch and out of the balloon, with Tony following him but managing to grab on to the rim of the hatchway at the last moment. Cyclone, who with Deathbolt had been standing right at the edge of the opening - it was understood that both, being the most powerful of the Macheteros, would be the first down and would lead the attack - was surprised, and pinwheeled through the air as he plummeted, never gaining his balance enough to use his speed to counteract his fall. He hit the roof of the White House with a thud and lay there, sprawled and unmoving.

Consuela immediately went into hysterics as Rosario reached out with her mind and hauled in Tony Irizarry. Consuela kept saying, "Oh god! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" and was so visibly upset with herself that Jorge finally mastered his anger and managed to say, through gritted teeth, "That's...alright...Consuela. We'll...we'll get by, somehow."

Then the zeppelin slid to a stop, 50' over the White House, and there was no more time for words. The group immediately slid down the ropes onto the roof, and Ramon unloaded the contents of his backpack on to the roof and slapped the explosives on to the roof. Everyone crouched and shielded their eyes, and Ramon flipped the switch on his controls, and with a dull crump the explosives blew a hole in the roof. Deathbolt jumped through the hole, followed by the others, landing in a long hall with doors on both sides and a staircase at the near end.

Jorge and Deathbolt took the lead, Jorge saying, "Follow me - I know the way!"

They ran down the hall towards a door at the far end. A group of men wearing matching serge suits appeared at the head of the stairs behind the Macheteros; they shouted, in English, "Freeze! Federal Men!" and immediately began shooting. Pedro and Carmen, bringing up the rear, spun and returned fire but were cut down.

Eitel knelt and provided covering fire for the other Macheteros as they burst through the door at the end of the hall. Inside were several figures. Four, wearing navy blue suits, were pushing a fifth man through an open window and out on to a balcony. There were four other figures were in the room. A blonde woman and a white-haired man were kneeling behind a hastily-overturned sofa, and a rugged-looking man wearing an Army Colonel's uniform was behind an overturned table, and they were all opening fire at the Macheteros. The other was charging right at the Macheteros; he wore only a tattered pair of pants, the rest of his body being well-muscled but misshapen, with odd bulges. His face was a bizarre grimace that looked only barely human. Stranger still were the things hovering and floating around his head; they were like disembodied faces, rotating around his own.

Jose ran right at the man with the hovering faces, not even bothering to use his machete, as several of the Macheteros opened fire on the Secret Service men and the blonde woman firing at them. Their fire cut down three of the President's bodyguards, while the blonde woman and the white-haired man managed to hit Ramon. Jose punched the strange man, throwing him backwards, but he bounced off the wall and rolled forward, and as Deathbolt shot electrical bolts at the remaining Secret Service man and what looked like President Truman the strange man grabbed one of the faces hovering around his head and threw it right on to Jose's face. It solidified on top of his own, and he fell to the ground, clawing at it and making pained, whimpering noises.

Then Consuela drew a small flat box from her belt and touched a button on it, and the backs of Jose, Jorge, Rosario, and Tamara burst into flame, as did Ramon and Eitel, in the hall behind them; all six went down clutching at their backs and screaming in pain. As Consuela did this Maria and Tony Irizarry swung their guns on Deathbolt and shot him in the back and thighs, and he was flung against the far wall and fell and did not move.

Consuela, Maria, and Tony Irizarry immediately dropped their guns and raised their hands and shouted, in English, "DON'T FIRE!"

As the blonde woman and the remaining Secret Service man trained their guns on the three, and the men in the serge suits charged into the room from the hallway, the white-haired man smiled and stood up and said, "Stand down, these three are with me."

"Maria" pulled off her facemask, revealing a handsome blond-haired man, and "Consuela" ran to hug "Tony Irizarry." The white-haired man said, "You played that one mighty close, King."

"Tony" held on tight to "Consuela" and said, "I had no choice, King; any sooner and my cover would have been blown."

The blonde woman, her face angry, said, "What the HELL is going on here, Faraday? Who are these three?"

King Faraday holstered his automatic and said to the men in the serge suits, "Get all of these out of here and into an Agency hospital; we'll be needing to interrogate them later." "Maria" said, "There's one on the roof, too. And there's a zeppelin above the White House; best grab that, too, before too many people notice." The men saluted and hurried a confused-looking President Truman out of the room and began calling for more Secret Service men as Faraday turned to the blonde woman and said, "Sorry, Sandra; I just didn't have the time to tell you. I--"

The bare-chested man shuffled over and said, "More?" His voice was hoarse and his breathing labored, as if he was inhaling and exhaling through a half-closed throat. King Faraday tried to keep his voice flat and his face expressionless as he said, "No, Yankee Doodle. You've done your duty; you are a true patriot. You should return to home base now."

Yankee Doodle threw a sloppy salute and jumped through the window, running across the lawn of the White House and then jumping into the street. King Faraday waited until he was well out of sight before saying, "Jesus...can't believe I used him."

The blonde woman said, "Christ, Faraday, you almost got the President killed!"

The Army Colonel said, "That was a hell of a play just now, Faraday."

The blond man who'd been "Maria" smiled and said, "I do apologize, Miss, but we did not wish to give away who we were unless it was absolutely necessary."

The woman said, "The President almost got killed! I'd say that's necessary, wouldn't you?"

King Faraday said, "Sandra Moore, I'd like to introduce you to" the King," and he gestured at `Tony;' "the Witch," and he gestured at `Consuela;' "and Cosmo, the `Phantom of Disguise,'" and he pointed to `Maria.' Faraday then pointed to the blonde woman and said, "This is Sandra Moore, the Secret Service liaison with the Agency." He pointed to rugged, handsome Army Colonel and said, "This is Colonel Richard Flag."

Cosmo said, "Ah, the famous `Sandra of the Secret Service.' I've heard good things about you, Miss Moore."

Sandra finally holstered her automatic and gruffly said, "Likewise. King, you have some explaining to do."

Colonel Flag put his gun in his breast holster and said, "Faraday, I got to tell my boss why I was here, too. Gunplay in the White House leads to a lot of paperwork."

King Faraday led the group down the hall into a conference room, and while Sandra Moore and Colonel Flag crossed their arms and leaned against a table in the center of the room the King, the Witch, and Cosmo began stripping off their disguises and makeup.

Faraday said, "A couple of months back I got word that there was a new group of Puerto Rican terrorists in San Juan. Not much different there - lots of those these days - but this group was something different. They had powerful backing, someone special. And word was that they'd bear watching, since they'd be capable of more than just back-shooting a cop now and then.

"So I asked the King and the Witch and Cosmo to go down to San Juan and infiltrate the group. As you can see, they were quite successful."

The King said, "Yes. I'm sorry to say we didn't get any info on who Jorge's patron is, though; you'd better give him the third degree on that one."

Colonel Flag said to the Witch, "What was it you did to them when you flipped that switch?"

The Witch paused while daubing her face with alcohol-soaked cotton balls and said, "Just before we left the zeppelin I made sure to hug as many of them as I could. While I hugged them I slipped phosphorous pellets into their costumes. Then, when the time was right, I set them off."

Sandra Moore frowned. "Why didn't you do that before? There's several of my men who are injured or dead now because of you."

The Witch closed her eyes and resumed cleaning the makeup off her face, and Cosmo said, "Miss Moore, Deathbolt and the Cyclone would have killed us. None of us were able to get near to them, and we're no match for them. I'm sorry that some of your men were killed, but we had no choice. We wanted to preserve these identities if at all possible, so that we could draw out more terrorists back on the island. We spent a very long time catching Tony Irizarry and replacing him, and all three of us have been in these identities for months. It seemed a bit of a waste to throw away all that effort if we couldn't help it."

The Witch said, "And...I was hoping that we might be able to somehow avoid killing or hurting them. If you've never gone undercover before, it'll be hard to understand, but if you spend enough time with someone, you can grow to like them, even if you hate what they stand for. Jorge...he's not a bad guy..."

Colonel Flag scowled and said, "Tell that to the widows and children of the men he killed, lady."

The Witch shook her head. "Don't misunderstand me; he deserves to go to jail or the chair for what he's done. But deep down he's not a bad person."

Cosmo said, "I for one am glad to be out of that identity. Posing as a woman day after day is hardly my idea of a good time."

Sandra Moore said, "King, why didn't you give us more warning? We could have gotten the President out of harm's way and substituted a body double."

Faraday nodded at the King, who said, "It's not his fault, Miss Moore. I didn't give him a lot of time. We were in the zeppelin before we were told what our target was, and the only way I had to get in touch with King was by a micro-transmitter - and that's got a very limited range on it."

Faraday said, "I waited for over a week, Sandra. As soon as he sent me the message, I decoded it and started calling people. But no one was home - not the JSA, not the Freedom Fighters - nobody. By the time I got ahold of you and Colonel Flag and the Federal Men, there wasn't much time left."

Colonel Flag said, "What about that...`Yankee Doodle' person?"

Faraday shrugged. "A complete nut. I didn't want to use him, but we needed more than just you two and the Federal Men."

Sandra Moore said, "But who is he? Does he have clearance to be here?"

Faraday shook his head. "Forget you saw him. All of you. He's beyond Top Secret; he's a Pentagon project that no one is supposed to know about." His tone made it clear that he did not want to discuss the matter.

______________________________________________________________________________________________

Dawn came and went on the 31st of July, and not long after the rising of the sun the tall, bearded man made his way into downtown Washington, to his office in the FBI building. Over the course of a very long life he'd learned the advantages of rising early and being first to work, and the man had laid plans, long before, for what he would do once an opening appeared at the top of the American government. The man fully expected to find, in the FBI building, a tension in the air, the kind of panic that comes in overly-organized groups when the leadership is suddenly eliminated. The man didn't anticipate running and screaming in the halls; Truman was not a king, and Americans were not medieval French or Pharaonic Egyptians or priest-ridden Mixtecs, who were all helpless without their leaders. But the man had had centuries of killing and replacing leaders and empires, and he knew the taste of organizational and bureaucratic breakdown, and he expected to sense that in the halls of the FBI building.

Instead things were quite ordinary. The guards greeted him pleasantly, the agents and supervisors in the halls and stairways nodded to him and uttered the usual blitherings, and only the Post and the Herald-Dispatch, as well as the usual security round-ups, were waiting for him on his desk. With increasing incredulity and anger the man discovered that there was nothing in either the papers or the Bureau summaries about Truman's death, or in fact about any attempt on the president's life at all.

It was only with a great effort that the man restrained his temper and kept himself from wrecking his office. But the man eventually calmed down. He'd already lived for a million years; another century or two of waiting would not kill him.

______________________________________________________________________________________________

Not far from the FBI building, along the narrow, cramped side-streets of Georgetown, in a small, comfortable nestled between the swankier mansions of the area, the shadowy men sat in a darkened room, the shades of the room pulled down tight and thoroughly blocking out the sun. Against candlelight he read the Post, cover to cover, and then sighed quite wearily and with great depression. In his most recent round of string-pulling, the Cro-Magnon had seemed like the most reliable puppet of all; his hands were, if anything, more soaked and stained with blood than the shadowy man's own, and if the Cro-Magnon had actually taken power, a truly global bloodletting would have followed. And that would have suited the shadowy man, and fulfilled his heart's desire.

But even with an anonymous note slipped under the Cro-Magnon's door, laying out lines of attack on the White House and the flaws in Truman's security, the brute still couldn't manage to seize power. The shadowy man sipped from a glass of orange juice and pulled his bathrobe tightly around him, feeling a chill despite the summer's heat. Ah, well, the dark man thought, it served him right for making use of someone who had once been a member of a group that would actually call itself "the Injustice Society of the World." The "Injustice Society"! The dark man would have laughed, if he hadn't lost that faculty long ago.

Eventually, over Jamaica Blue Mountain coffee and a toasted scone, the man cheered up. He had years, yet, and the more was stranger and more dangerous to itself every day, and sometime soon--perhaps only a few weeks--another opportunity for a nation- or world-wide massacre would present itself.

______________________________________________________________________________________________

Author's Notes:

The thing to remember about the Macheteros is that they aren't that far-fetched. There were Puerto Rican terrorists in real life during the 1950s; remember that in November, 1950, two Puerto Rican terrorists (Oscar Collazo and Griselio Torresola) attacked Blair House in an attempt to kill President Truman (which is what Jorge was referring to), and on March 1, 1954, four P.R. terrorists opened fire on the House of Representatives. And Puerto Rican nationalists have been "credited" with 49 bombings in New York between 1974 and 1977, including the 1975 bombing of LaGuardia Airport. While Puerto Ricans have never been as notorious or lethal as other terrorists, they have existed (and still do), and the Fifties were the decade when they were most active. (For more information on the 1950 attack, check out the article here )

The most commonly used term for African-Americans in 1952 was "colored," which is why I used it here. No offense was meant.

On May 7, 1952, Brigadier General Francis T. Dodd was captured in the American POW camp at Koje by a group of Chinese Communists who had been planted to become POWs for just such a move. Dodd's successor, Brigadier General Charles Colson, negotiated with the Chinese for Dodd's release by promising to investigate abuses of Chinese POWs (abuses that did not exist). Brigadier General Haydon Boatner, ordered by General Clark, had the Communist agitators separated and isolated and order at the POW camp at Koje was restored.

I may have mentioned this with Brave and the Bold #202, but...as far as I know, nobody's ever given a reason for the JSA not involving themselves in Korea. Oh, I know the real-life reasons--it's never been nearly so sexy a conflict as WW2 was, and it's just not as much fun to show the JSA in action in a war that ended rather ambiguously. But in the comics themselves nothing's ever been said, to the best of my knowledge. The JSA didn't disband until 1953, after all - more than enough time left for them to do something.

Our Cast:

Cosmo, Phantom of Disguise - one of my traditional obscure & unknown heroes. Cosmo first appeared in Detective Comics #1, and was one of the disguise-using heroes that were...not common, exactly, but not rare, either. Oddly enough, I can't figure out when Cosmo's last appearance was; I know he was active at least through Detective #36, but don't know how long after that he lingered. Anyhow - he existed and used disguises to fight crime. He had a decent run, back in the GA, and never appeared after it.

Deathbolt - first introduced in All-Star Squadron #21, he's an almost perfect Writer's Supervillain, in that he's got superpowers but is mostly a cypher, and so a writer can do pretty much what she or he wants to with him. Plus he was around in the Golden Age, but has also appeared recently (although I can't recall where I saw him - Starman, perhaps? - but I did, and was surprised that he's still around). Acting as a mercenary for Vandal Savage seems like something he'd do, I think.

Federal Men - like Sandra Moore (see below), the Federal Men are an obscurity that I couldn't resist using. The Federal Men were introduced in New Comics #2, in January 1936, and had a decent run in New Fun Comics before disappearing forever. So, naturally, I had to give them at least a cameo. (They will be making a more regular appearance in the next Brave and the Bold maxi-series I do, which will follow this one; I haven't settled on a title for it, and it will have an obscenely large cast, but my proposal was accepted by Clay - thanks, Clay! - and the Federal Men, among a few dozen others, will definitely be appearing there)

Colonel Richard Flag - the leader of the first Suicide Squad, who were active during WW2. Richard was, in case you've forgotten, the father of Rick Flag, who led the second Suicide Squad.

The King - I THOUGHT OF HIM FIRST, DO YOU HEAR ME - I DID, NOT ROBINSON! Ahem. See, the King was going to be one of my big surprises for this issue, a character that Golden Age fans would have heard of but who is an obscurity nonetheless. And then Robinson (actually, Geoff Johns) goes and blows my surprise by using the King in the Star-Spangled Comics #1, which appeared this past Wednesday. Hmph. At least I got to use the Marksman, in Brave and the Bold #202, before Waid dropped his name in National #1. Anyhow. The King first appeared in Flash Comics #3, and was a regular there until Flash #41, at which he point he disappeared forever.

King Faraday - The government agent and spy first debuted in Danger Trail #1, and has been a semi-regular in various DC comics ever since - most notably Batman and Suicide Squad. This story is set early in his career.

Macheteros - they are my own creation. I won't do much of this at all for "Twenty Years;" I much prefer to use obscure villains than to make up my own. But for obvious reasons DC has never made up a group of Puerto Rican terrorists, and so I had to make my own. Besides, I think it makes a certain amount of sense that there'd have been at least one team of P.R. super-terrorists.

Sandra Moore - you knew I was going to pull one ultra-obscure character, like Mike Gibbs in last issue, out of nowhere, didn't you? Sandra is this issue's obscurity. "Sandra of the Secret Service" was a back-up strip in New Fun Comics and More Fun Comics back in 1935 and 1936, before Superman ever appeared. And, of course, she hasn't appeared in any DC comic in over 60 years, which practically makes it my duty to bring her back.

Vandal Savage - everyone's favorite million-year-old-man and supervillain. One of the advantages of long-lived villains is that I can use them in a story like this without messing up continuity at all.

The Witch - the King's "loving enemy," she was his archfoe, but he never arrested her and she never killed him, and both were very attracted to each other. This story is set 7 years and more after their last appearance; my take on things is that they, like the Harlequin and the Green Lantern, finally stopped jousting with each other and became a couple, and that the Witch came in from the cold and was granted a pardon in exchange for using her talents for the government. Like the Federal Men and the King, the Witch will appear in my next Brave and the Bold series.

Yankee Doodle - introduced during Grant Morrison's run on Doom Patrol, in issue #47 or #48, Yankee Doodle (who really has to be seen to be believed - my poor description of him is nowhere near the equal of the weirdness that is this character) was, if my memory is correct, a character whose first story was created during the 1950s or 1960s, but the story itself never saw print, and so Morrison brought him back while debuting him, if you see what I mean. But it was clear that Yankee Doodle had been hiding down under the Pentagon for quite a while, and that the military was aware of him. And so I thought it made some sense for King Faraday, pressed hard against the wall, to finally resort to him when there was, literally, no one else available.

Zyklon - ("Cyclone," in German) The Nazi superspeedster, introduced in Roy Thomas' All-Star Squadron. Like a lot of Thomas' ancillary characters, nothing's ever been done with Zyklon, at least, not since the end of All-Star Squadron. We don't even know if he survived the war. So I took advantage of this to use him. It makes sense (to me, anyhow) that he'd join up with someone like Vandal Savage.

______________________________________________________________________________________________

Letter Column:

Justin Garrett Blum wrote:

>
> Since Jess broached the topic, I will say that I just read Brave and the
> Bold #2. Anyone who hasn't yet should jump on this one as soon as you can.
> Jess is doing something truly remarkable with the title and it would be a
> shame not to give it a look, if just for curiosity's sake.

Thanks, Justin! Glad you enjoy it.

> The narration reads like a straight war story, and a very well written war
> story at that, but the action and the characters are pure comic
> extravagance. And most people I know would not have the ability, technical,
> imaginative, or otherwise, to pull such a thing off. Jess, however, does.

Thanks again. I try; if I'm going to be writing something in the past,
I like to get my details correct, and at the same time realistically
incorporate the comic book elements.

> My only misgiving relates to the shifting between present and past tenses.
> Though I feel Jess has done it intentionally and intelligently, I'm not sure
> how I feel about it. But that's one of those things I hardly even noticed
> when reading.

It's the eternal question, or one of them: which tense to set
the story. I'm always torn by this. Setting it in the present
tense lends stories immediacy and makes them more vivid, and
with a story like that, where I wanted to make the unpleasantness
of the scene as real and palpable as possible, the present
tense certainly seemed like a good idea. But at the same time
using the present tense over the course of a story, especially
a long one (as this one was), always strikes me as feeling
somewhat forced.

So I went with the shift after the beginning. I'm not entirely
sure it was a good idea, but I wanted to use the present
tense for at least a little while, if only for introducing
the characters. But I certainly understand your misgiving,
and share it to a degree myself.

> All in all, one of the best pieces of fan fiction I've read (though
> admittedly, I haven't read a lot). I don't want to sound as though I'm
> overstating myself, but nobody else at either MV1 or Faux DC knows how to
> tell a story quite like this, though I tend to think the aspects of the war
> genre lend Jess a few advantages over other straight comic book fan fiction
> stories.

Thanks - glad you enjoyed it. The war genre does give a writer certain
advantages, I agree; there's a built-in backdrop of drama to the story,
and the enemy is usually fairly explicitly and easily presented. I tried
not to cut corners, but having written this I begin to understand why
filmmakers showed the Vietnamese as shadows flitting through the jungle
forest, and little more than that; it's just so much easier to concentrate
on your guys, and to let the enemy be nothing more than cyphers.

Anyhow - thanks!

Next Issue: Between the Darkness and the Light