Chapter 15.

CENTRAL PACIFIC OCEAN (1930)

The "Seven Seas" rendezvoused with a Japanese whaler called the "Ikuchi-maru" just north of the Equator. Vandal Savage, having already radioed her captain with the special nature of the cargo his passengers, would be transferring from ship to ship. And what he would probably need from the whaler's chief medical officer, as a result.

Sure enough, the mummy-wrapped captive from the cargo hold broke loose of his bonds once the freighter's own doctor ran out of chloroform. And the only thing that kept him at bay, within the hold, during his initial grogginess was a constant hail of gunfire from pump-action twelve-gauge shotguns. But, eventually, he shook off that bit of disorientation and charged toward the shotgun-toting crewmen with a scream of berserker fury. Breaking the neck of the first one; fracturing the skull of the second; and strangling the third with his bare hands.

That last part, however, kept him distracted just long enough for Dr. Kobura Takeo to sneak up behind him, tap him on the shoulder, and then (just as the former spun about) slap a pie plate straight into his face at point blank range!

The not-so-good doctor leapt backward as the rebellious captive exerted all his maniacal strength to pulling the strangely adhesive plate from off his face. Yet, the very moment he did so, he suddenly started breathing in sharp, staccato gasps. Followed, almost instantly, by a face-first collapse to the deck.

"What...? How...?" the startled young woman understandably stammered.

"Simply hydrated flour paste," replied Dr. Kobura. "Mixed with freeze-dried tetrodotoxin. A neuro-paralytic venom secreted by a certain gland within puffer fish!"

Vandal Savage nodded, adding: "That is why fugu is such a dangerous delicacy in Japan."

"Hai!" agreed Kobura. "Because, normally, it causes death by respiratory failure. But, obviously, this gaijin is far from normal! Still, the amount he inhaled should, at least, keep him paralyzed till our ship docks in Shanghai."

HIROSHIMA, JAPAN
(AUG. 5, 1945)

"Sugoine!*" muttered the astounded Dr. Kobura, as he gazed upon the ice-encased Russian. "How. . .?"

"Elementary, Herr Doktor," replied a grinning Otto Schimmel. "The flamenwerfer on my back has been modified to emit a concentrated stream of liquid nitrous oxide. In its gaseous state, a common form of anesthesia. But, the liquid nitrogen component (housed in the left tank) is also capable of near-instant freezing! While the liquid oxygen component (housed in the right tank) is the only non-ferrous substance in the world susceptible to magnetic attraction. Or, in this case, magnetic repulsion... straight towards the intended target."

"Ah!" exclaimed Kobura, once more. "Hence, the horseshoe magnets bound to these telescoping iron poles with copper wire."

He gestured to the Japanese soldiers holding the microphonic booms in clarification. All of whom were all too eager to help capture the strangely powerful gaijin who had otherwise proven impervious to bazooka shells, armor-piercing rifle bullets, and even point-blank strikes with katanas that could split bamboo tripods into kindling!

"Jawohl," affirmed Schimmel. "Now, then. Let us load him aboard the refrigerated delivery truck and begin our road trip to Tokyo."

GOTHAM CITY, NJ.
(JUNE 27, 2001)

Batman and Robin hurriedly rode off on their modified Kawasakis, with Batgirl having no trouble keeping pace on Robin's right flank.

"Dark Knight to Squire," Batman recited over the radio: "Status report. Over."

"Copy you, Dark Knight. As anticipated, the sky crane once again went radar-invisible over the northwestern portion of the Knickerbocker National Forest. Over."

"Did either of those disappearances happen to be in the vicinity of Camp Second Chance? Over."

"As a matter of fact, yes, sir! How. . .?"

"What's Camp Second Chance?" Robin interrupted.

"It was initially built, in the 1930's, as a training camp for members of the Civilian Conservation Corps," replied his mentor: "But, during World War II, it became a prison camp for German and Italian soldiers. Deactivated in 1946, it was converted into a summer camp for under-privileged children. Remaining such for twenty years! That is; till it was closed down in the mid-1970's because of toxic levels of water pollution detected in a neighboring lake. Or, at least, that was the official explanation given out by the EPA, at the time!"

"Are you implying that the camp was commandeered by the military for some kind of top-secret research?" inquired Batgirl.

"Let's just say it's the only theory that explains the observed facts."

"Black Spider to Tower One. Black Spider to Tower One. Do you copy? Over."

The radio operator manning what was supposed to be just an ordinary forest fire watch tower wasted no time in replying.

"Roger, Black Spider. We copy you loud and clear. Over."

"Tower One, we have you in sight at our one o'clock. Request immediate commencement of retraction. Over."

"Roger, Black Spider. Retraction commencing in five-four-three-two-one. Now!"

And, with that, the massive array of camouflage netting once again began to slowly roll back. Once more slowly exposing the large, red-encircled landing pad. Although, this time, it was a fully-occupied APC they were transporting. An APC that was gently dropped off about twenty feet outside that circle, first. Only then did the spidery-looking cargo carrier finish its vertical descent. Which, in turn, was followed by the immediate closing up of the camouflage nets.

By that point, however, the psionically disguised Wesley Crusher had teleported out of the dimly lit interior of the APC. Carefully rematerializing within a nearby hangar.

"Traveler," he telepathed. "Can you hear me? I'm in!"

"Good!" his mentor promptly replied. "Stand by. Captain Picard, Mr. Data, and I will be with you, shortly. Mr. Spock and Commander Riker are staying with the run-about. The ambassador wants to try something. Personally, I think it a highly illogical move. But, trying to out-stubborn a Vulcan who's made up his mind is like trying to get a Trill host to change his or her spots."

Before Wesley had even finished chuckling, he found himself surrounded by the aforementioned trio.

"Nicely done, Mr. Crusher!" exulted Picard. "Now, where's the creature?"

"The soldiers off-loaded him, almost immediately. Carrying him toward what looks like a recreational shower building. Similar to the beach-side ones they have on Risa. But, I've a feeling what it really houses is the 21st-century equivalent of a turbolift used for receiving massive deliveries of supplies to an underground facility."

"I believe the historically correct term is 'freight elevator'," the android instinctively corrected.

"Thank you, Mr. Data," replied Picard. "The question, now, is... where exactly are they taking it within that underground facility?"

"Everyone clasp hands and we shall soon find out," instructed the Traveler.

Two seconds later, they rematerialized within a room that seemed to be filled, from wall to wall, with glass tubes. Each one of them angled at ninety degrees; and each one of them seemingly built for an Earth person of average (six-foot) height. That is, if the cryogenically-preserved, dark-haired Caucasian male hibernating before them could be used as criterion!

Wesley looked down at the foot of the glass tube and instantly recognized a medical information chart. He knelt down to peruse it and read the name scrawled at the top.

"CLARK, DAVID
Subject #00001."

tbc