Tracer

"They briefed me en route," Tracer announced as he landed next to Field Coordinator Anders. "Are those guys still holed up in there?"

"Yeah," Anders nodded. "We're down to fifteen minutes. The terrorists say no man or machine can navigate their way to the heart of that cave in less than two hours, and even our best spelunkers agree with 'em. Think you can do it any faster?"

"I can bounce off the walls in mid-flight without skipping a beat," Jeff replied. "So long as I keep twisting myself around and follow the general trend of the corridors, I should be able to sustain about 30 or 40 miles an hour all the way through."

"Mmm," the Field Coordinator grumbled, not sure whether to believe him. He picked up a radiation hazard suit and shoved it in Tracer's face. "You'll need one of these."

Jeff glanced up-and-down at the white full-body suit, then said, "You're right." He powered down the generator box on his chest and began prying open the clamps. "My energy-armor'll stop bullets, vacuum, flame throwers, and probably a hell of a lot more — but the tech investigators don't think it'll shield me from nuclear radiation."

As Tracer clambered his way into the lead-lined suit, Anders commented, "You know, we could let one of our field agents use that alien power-box of yours for this mission instead. There's no reason you have to risk your life."

Tracer gazed levelly at him as he fastened the suit front closed. "Are any of your agents skilled enough in flight techniques with the energy-armor that they can get to the heart of that cavern in ten minutes?"

"Of course not," Anders grunted, "None of our agents has had the opportunity to have any flight time in the energy-armor."

Jeff grinned and shrugged. "See?" He clamped the box back in place and reactivated its wondrous armor field. "Nice try, Anders, but," he patted the box with a wry smirk, "Finders keepers."

The Field Coordinator sighed, then quickly blinked to bring himself back into command. "We'll be in radio contact with you for as long as we can, but you'll be deep underground by the time you reach the terrorists, and it's not likely a signal can penetrate that far. So you'd better take this, too." He handed him a well-folded diagram.

"What is it?" Tracer puzzled, taking the paper and opening one fold to peek inside.

"It's the schematic of an A-bomb we found partially assembled in one of their hideouts. If the same guys built the bomb in that cave, you might be able to use that schematic as a guide to help you disarm it." He cocked an eyebrow. "It's also a classified document, so we'll need it back after you're done." He glanced at his wristwatch. "Get going. We're down to less than thirteen minutes now." Instinctively, he waved Tracer away with a crisp salute, then picked up his two-way radio to bark unintelligible jargon to one of his subordinates.

Tracer was in the air before Anders finished his first sentence.

Tracer thundered over the sand-covered landscape, turning miles into moments. He'd stopped bank robberies in progress. He'd broken up gang riots and stopped chief thugs dead in their tracks. Just seeing the glowing yellow contrail streaking down from the sky toward them was enough to make criminals freeze in terror, and the imperiled cheer with relief. Now, Jeff Boeing was about to test his powers to their utmost.

Before him, the midday sun blazed down on Nevada's desert wasteland, as desolate and peaceful as anything he'd ever known; yet if the terrorists had their way, this peace would shatter in a few minutes. Most knew nothing about it, and most of those who did know thought they were nuclear demonstrators. But there were a few high officials, and now Jeff, who knew the terrorists' true purpose: they were sent on a suicide mission from behind the iron curtain, bent on destroying one of Nevada's largest nuclear testing grounds.

He neared the mountain the terrorists had set their bomb in. The terrorists had announced twenty minutes ago that it would go off in half an hour. There — there was the cave entrance. He dove in. Though there was no outside light, the glow of his armor illuminated the twisting corridors for about three meters in all directions. He made progress at freeway speed by using this three-meter warning and his heightened reflexes to maneuver through the tunnels. Occasionally he miscalculated, but his armor invariably sent him rebounding off the wall and back on course. It was less than a four-minute journey to the cave's core.

The intruding streak of hissing, yellow light startled the cavern's two occupants. Instinctively, they fumbled for their automatic rifles and tried desperately to aim. "Impossible," one exclaimed in startled Russian. "No one is supposed to be able to make it in here before the bomb explodes!" Their superiors were wrong.

The other pulled the trigger on his machine gun, and the first followed his example. Tiny arcs of flame leapt from the guns; Tracer's soft hissing was drowned out by the rat-tat-tat of 7.62 millimeter bullets.

Tracer stopped in midair and just hovered. Helplessly, the suicide agents watched their rain of bullets deflect off the intruder's flowing yellow surface, leaving behind only instantaneous blips of yellow light where they struck. Tracer smiled; he'd always wanted to do the stand-there-and-take-machine-gun-fire bit of a comic book super-hero.

Easing forward once again, Tracer landed in front of the man who'd started firing and yanked the rifle out of his hands. He directed his armor's energy into the gun barrel, which to the amazement of the Russian heated the barrel up to incandescence. At this point, Tracer casually bent the heat-softened gun into a horseshoe shape. Throwing the rifle to the Russian's feet, he turned to face the other man. This one had already thrown his rifle away and stretched up his hands as high as they would reach. Tracer ignored him and turned his attention to the bomb in the center of the cavern.

The illumination the spies had brought in gave off hardly more light than Tracer's energy-armor, but Jeff's eyes had already adjusted to the near-darkness. Tracer approached the warhead and stopped less than a meter away to examine it. The casing was unpainted metal with one welded seam down the middle. The bomb was not made to get back into it once it was assembled. Not a problem. He drew back his right fist and pounded the skin of the bomb with highly charged kinetic force.

The shell fell away completely on impact, exposing the complex circuitry of the bomb underneath; and then Jeff Boeing's courage faltered. He used to be vice president of a shelter, with college work in economics, management, and dance under his belt; he'd never received any formal education in electronics. He'd been given a quick run-down on the structure of an atomic bomb before he left, but this wiry mess looked a lot more complicated than the descriptions he'd gotten. He unfolded the A-bomb schematic that Anders had given him, but it hardly resembled what lay in front of him. What did he know about disarming a time bomb, let alone a nuclear one? A good whack with his powered armor might defuse it, or it might detonate it. Pull out all the wires, or the wrong wire, and the pieces of weapons-grade plutonium might all slam together and harmoniously achieve critical mass.

Well, he'd been lucky in the past. Luck, be a lady tonight! The big sphere with all the wires going into it, that was probably the implosion core of the bomb. That's where the lead-separated plutonium fragments were encased in a thick layer of plastic explosives, surrounded by the spherical explosive lens. About twenty wires led through the metal lens, any one of which could do any number of things.

As Jeff nervously studied the bomb's interior, one of the Russians surreptitiously retrieved his rifle and snuck up behind him. He swung the rifle in both hands, smashing into the back of Tracer's neck with the butt. The gun bounced off and vibrated for a few seconds, shaking up the man considerably.

"You guys just don't give up," Tracer said as he turned around and punched the Russian, using his right fist unenergized but strengthened. The man landed three meters back on the cavern floor. Anxious again, Jeff Boeing turned his attention back to the bomb.

He found the timing device — it displayed a digital countdown — and traced its wires back to the spherical core. This wasn't getting him anywhere; he was still afraid that if he pulled the timing wire, it might set off the bomb instead of disarming it.

The number on the timer changed from 1:24 to 1:23 to 1:22. He had less time than he'd hoped. Somehow, he had to keep the plutonium from getting together; he had to stop the explosives inside the lens from imploding the segments. . . . The lens! Without the explosive lens to guide the force of the conventional explosives, the plutonium wouldn't be jammed together and go critical.

He hesitated, then stepped back. Shielding his eyes, Tracer charged his right fist to full power and jabbed the metal sphere head-on.

A yellow flash, and the explosive lens shattered; but not without a booby trap. The instant Tracer hit the lens, the plastic explosives went off. Their force slammed him against the far cavern wall. But instead of uniting the plutonium, the explosion only blew the shattered remains of the explosive lens apart. Metal and ceramic fragments rained down on the cavern floor, pelting the last armored warrior and the two Russians. A second-and-a-half later, it was all over, and the nuclear bomb was now just a ball full of jumbled, sub-critical plutonium fragments.

Tracer shut his eyes and smiled, exhaling in relief. As he got up and approached the remains of the bomb, he whooped with joy: "All right! Did it!" The bomb's core, where the weapons-grade plutonium lay, was still cased in lead despite the explosion. He thought about leaving it here for the bomb squad to tackle at their leisure, but realized they'd need to haul it out through miles of twisting caves, which carried its own risks. Better if he took it outside himself. He picked it up under his left arm; bulky as the core was, the energy armor's modest enhancement to his bench-press capacity was enough to let him carry it comfortably. He returned to the cavern wall, retrieved both exhausted men, and flung them both over his right shoulder. Then, executing a ballet leap and becoming airborne, he wafted back down the tunnel he had come through.

He set the bomb core down at the cave's entrance. That should be far enough away from anything important.

He arrived at the test site on top of the mountain five minutes later and set the two spies down gently. The staff at the grounds, returning from the evacuation, cheered for the man who'd saved their base. Cameras flashed blue-white all around in the hands of people who had never before seen the glowing marvel in person. The entire world would soon hear about his deed, but Tracer knew the best was yet to come.

"Sorry to save you guys and run, but I have a date with the Vegas news!" Tracer pushed off the ground and accelerated away toward the closest major population center, Las Vegas.

Jeff landed on the edge of the crystal city, and touched the off-panel under his charge box's protective hood. That radiation-proof suit was uncomfortably hot. He pried the clamps loose, took off the suit, and was just about to clamp the box back on when his conscience intruded onto the scene.

They don't want to see Jeff Boeing in there, he thought. They want to see Tracer. He felt a twinge or reluctance, or perhaps it was regret. None of them know me. None of them wants to. They just want their larger-than-life hero. Jeff Boeing just doesn't make any difference anymore.

He snorted and snapped himself out of it. Oh well, if they want Tracer, that's what I'll give them. He hefted the box into position on his chest and clacked the clamps shut with his elbows. It just seemed a shame to sacrifice his identity this way. Did everyone touched by fame go through the same thing?

Pressing the pink button, he took to the air once more. Within the space of a minute, he descended into the heart of the city and the midst of five gigantic television news teams.

From above, the cheering was so thick that it sounded more like an amplified whisper. Before five TV cameras, newsmen and newswomen were all giving their version of an introduction: "We're here today in Las Vegas where Tracer has just returned from disarming a nuclear bomb set by terrorists (spies, Russians, Soviets, etc.). . . ."

The instant Tracer's foot touched the ground, a newswoman thrust a microphone in his face and asked, "Tracer, will you tell the viewing audience precisely what went on down there?"

"All right," he replied. "The trip into the cave took me all of three minutes, and went smoothly barring a few rebounds off the walls. When I reached the cavern with the bomb in it, there were only two people standing guard — and they weren't doing a very good job, either. Their superiors probably told them that —" he switched to a Russian accent, "— no vone could possibly get to you before ze bomb goes off."

Jeff Boeing stopped. I don't sound like that, he worried. I've never mocked a Russian in my life.

But Tracer let it pass. "The agents were practically unarmed; they only had machine guns. They weren't expecting to see anyone, let alone the Last Armored Warrior."

"Who?" asked one of the reporters. The rest of the people there looked equally puzzled.

"The Last Armored Warrior; uh, that's me. Or rather, it's me right now, but it wasn't me a couple of months ago. Er, look, you can get the whole story from Professor Rosenbaum, the cryptographer the government appointed to look into the case."

The cheering had long ago lapsed into reverent silence. Even in the hot Nevada sun, Tracer's body glowed with an awesome presence. In the back of Jeff's mind, this seemed like the perfect time for something of colossal proportions to happen. He pushed that thought aside as a reporter asked him another question.

"Do you know what the purpose of this terrorist threat was?"

"Well, I understand it was an attempt by —"

A shadow appeared above his head and cut him short. He looked up to find its source, and saw something rectangular partially eclipsing the sun. Blinded by the sun's glare, he couldn't get any idea of the object's scale.

Then, the object began to lower itself, to draw closer, and Jeff began hearing a low rumble originating from it. Its corners started resolving into square-shaped protrusions. Harsh lines on its underside became visible, as did many little boxy things sticking out all over. On one of its shorter flanks, Jeff could make out three big circular protrusions spanning nearly its entire width. There was some kind of aperature at the center of each circle, barely visible against the glare. As the object came as low as it dared, Jeff grasped its true size with alarm. The slab had to be more than two city blocks long.

The crowd had turned their attention to what Tracer was looking at. Even the hard-pressed reporters were speechless. Jeff Boeing was the only one present who had an inkling of what the object was, and what it all meant. His lips formed two silent sentences: "The 27 Empire. They're here."

Then, as suddenly as the object had appeared, the air boomed into life with a sound as loud and high as it was incomprehensible. Thousands of screeching clicks shook the air at frequencies just barely within the range of human hearing. The dogs of the city wailed in fear.

After twenty seconds the sound cut off, followed by an Earth-shattering silence that lasted only five seconds. Every eye and camera in the vicinity was trained on the bulky object as it hung motionless in the sky. The watching world was getting a glimpse of what true peril it may very well be in.

The air came alive once more, this time with an unseating low rumble. Above the ominous hum, a voice as loud as the former high clicks made itself heard. Though it was mechanical and excruciatingly tinny, the voice spoke the first sentences from an alien race that were intended for the ears of Homo sapiens.

"I have just informed your armored warrior ally, in his own language, that the war is over and he has lost. Whether he forfeits to us will not concern your race, for we cannot trust him to have not spread the knowledge of his technology to you. In order to ensure the survival of the 27 Empire, your race must be annihilated."

Tracer, now both stunned and angered, floated upward ten meters.

The voice continued. "We've taken a few hours to analyze your language under cloak of radar-invisibility; we wished for you to know the reason for your extermination. It would have been nice if you could have joined us, but now we can't take any chances. Just be proud that even though your system is on the very fringes of the empire, you were privileged enough to have a High Mandarin of the Emperor himself destroy you."

The three wide circles on the rectangle's short side began shining blue-white. Were they the great ship's engines? They mounted in intensity until, two seconds later, they matched the sun's brightness. Tracer had trouble seeing through the glare. From somewhere on the structure came a mechanical whir, and two brilliant red bolts leapt from the whir's source toward Tracer. Startled, the armored warrior tried to swerve around the shining pulses as best he could. He avoided the first shot, which sent chunks of asphalt flying from the street; but his dodge put him right in the path of the second. The bolt smashed into his armor and forced him to the ground.

Then the monolith, as though ignoring its own mass, sprang away from the bluish glowing circles on its side and disappeared over the horizon. For a couple of seconds, it left behind a fading trail of light, similar to the ones Tracer made when he flew but blue-white instead of yellow-white.

Tracer propped himself up on his hands; he'd felt that hit, but it hadn't given him more than a bruise. For the first time since hearing the last armored warrior's log, Jeff Boeing was totally speechless over a story told by an alien. They thought he was the alien who'd crashed to Earth, and they were going to take it out on the entire human race. By wearing the alien's armor, he had signed humanity's death warrant. If he hadn't . . .

No. There was more to it than that. The words of the High Mandarin's speech flooded back to him. Even if he hadn't donned the armor box, even if no one had, the 27 Empire still would have eventually come back and demanded that the human race "join" them anyway. Slaves to an alien empire. When we inevitably refused, or rebelled, they'd have exterminated us.

Then there was that line about the "honor" of being killed by some high-ranking official. Jeff chafed at that, hard. And . . . with all their super-sophisticated space alien technology, surely they must have some device that could tell if the guy under the energy armor was one of their kind or not. Even the outline of his body should've given that away! Yet they never bothered to check — out of arrogance? — and had held fast to their theory that the armored warrior wasn't human, even going so far as to to talk to him in their native alien language.

Tracer knew what he had to do. Frantically, he turned to one of the reporters and demanded, "Where did that craft go?!"

"Huh? I don't know, don't ask me!"

Now more nervous, Tracer glanced quickly around and shouted, "Does anyone know where that space ship went?"

"Yeah!" came a barely audible yell from somewhere in the crowd. Tracer leapt over to where the reply originated, and was cut off before he got the chance to ask his obvious question.

"Emergency alerts just came in from every radio station in the city. They say the ship was last seen heading southwest and — oh, wait a minute!"

The radio blurted out the latest report. The space ship — or aircraft, or whatever it was — was making a beeline directly for Los Angeles. Without a word, Tracer leapt from the ground in a smeared blur of yellow and was on his way.

Send comments regarding this Web page to: Roger M. Wilcox.

Roger M. Wilcox's main stories page

Roger M. Wilcox's Homepage