Chapter 6: Preparation for Sand and Sorrow
POV: Clark
The map of Afghanistan covered most of Clark's living room wall like a geographical manifestation of approaching doom. Red pins marked Ten Rings activity zones, blue pins showed military installations, and yellow pins indicated the probable route of Tony Stark's convoy. The convergence point—a stretch of desert road approximately forty kilometers from Bagram Air Base—was circled in black marker with the kind of finality that made Clark's stomach twist.
Three weeks had become two days.
Clark sat cross-legged on his floor, surrounded by intelligence printouts, satellite imagery, and the kind of tactical planning materials that would have gotten him arrested if anyone official had known he possessed them. The Echo Stone lay warm against his palm, having just finished recording his fifteenth conversation with suspected arms dealers. The investigation had yielded everything he'd hoped for and nothing he'd wanted to hear.
Obadiah Stane was the architect of Tony Stark's assassination.
"Assassination disguised as terrorist kidnapping, designed to destabilize Stark Industries stock and remove Tony from succession, clearing the way for Stane to sell weapons technology to the highest bidders. Elegant, profitable, and absolutely guaranteed to change the course of human history."
The system agreed with his assessment:
[MISSION UPDATE: SAVE THE FUTURE IRON MAN]
[TIME REMAINING: 47:23:16]
[THREAT LEVEL: EXTREME]
[B-TIER ARTIFACT DETECTED: DESERT WALKER CLOAK]
[LOCATION: AFGHANISTAN MOUNTAINS, GRID REFERENCE 34.5°N 69.2°E]
[MISSION: CROSS DESERT WITHOUT WATER FOR 24 HOURS]
[FAILURE CONSEQUENCE: PERMANENT MISSION LOCK + STARK DEATH]
Clark stared at the coordinates, cross-referencing them with his maps. The artifact was located approximately fifty kilometers from where Tony would be captured, in mountainous terrain that would require serious desert survival skills to reach. The system wasn't just offering him help—it was demanding that he prove he deserved it.
"Twenty-four hours in the desert without water. In Afghanistan. While Tony's being tortured by terrorists. No pressure at all."
His phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number:
"Electronics store on 47th Street. Red shirt. Come alone. —S"
Clark checked his watch: 6:47 PM. Whoever 'S' was, they'd been watching him closely enough to know his investigation schedule. Either that was very good news or very bad news, and his recent experiences suggested it was probably both.
The electronics store was the kind of place that existed in the gray area between legitimate business and outright fraud. Displays of cell phones competed for space with computer components of questionable origin, while the smell of electrical tape and desperation hung in the air like incense. Clark found his contact in the back corner, examining a circuit board with the focused intensity of someone who spoke fluent technology.
Scott Lang looked exactly like the kind of guy who'd steal from corporations and somehow make it seem like public service. Mid-thirties, wearing a red shirt as advertised, with the slightly manic energy of someone running on caffeine and bad decisions. He glanced up as Clark approached, and their eyes met with the mutual recognition of people who'd both spent time on the wrong side of the law.
"You the guy who needs things that aren't exactly legal?" Scott asked, keeping his voice low.
"Depends what you're selling."
"Skills. I'm very good at getting into places where I'm not supposed to be and taking things that don't technically belong to me. Assuming those things need to be liberated for good reasons."
"He's been watching the news about Stark Industries. Probably figures I'm some kind of corporate whistleblower. Perfect cover story."
Clark studied Scott's face, noting the subtle signs of desperation barely held in check. "What do you need the money for?"
Scott hesitated, then seemed to decide honesty was the better sales pitch. "Custody payments. My ex-wife won't let me see my daughter unless I prove I'm financially stable. Hard to do when nobody wants to hire an ex-con for legitimate work."
"Desperate people make loyal allies, assuming you give them something worth being loyal to."
"I need someone who can get into places without being seen," Clark said. "Someone who understands electronics, security systems, and how to move quietly in hostile territory. The work pays well, but it's dangerous."
"How dangerous?"
"The kind where people might shoot at you in foreign countries."
Scott was quiet for a moment, weighing financial necessity against personal survival. Clark could practically see the internal calculation: daughter's custody versus probability of death.
"How much does it pay?"
"Fifty thousand for one job. Completed successfully, with bonuses for speed and discretion."
Scott's eyes widened. "Fifty thousand? What exactly are we stealing?"
"We're not stealing anything. We're saving someone."
"True, from a certain point of view. We're stealing Tony Stark from the people who kidnapped him."
"Saving someone from who?"
Clark looked around the electronics store, noting the security cameras, the other customers, and the general background noise that would make eavesdropping difficult. Even so, he lowered his voice to barely above a whisper.
"Bad people. In a bad place. Someone's life depends on getting them out, and I can't do it alone."
Scott studied Clark's face with the kind of intensity that suggested experience reading people under pressure. Whatever he saw there seemed to satisfy him.
"I might know some people," Scott said. "Guys who are good at this kind of thing. But if we're talking about international rescue operations, we'll need more than just breaking and entering skills."
"What else do you need?"
"Transportation specialist. Communications expert. Maybe someone who knows weapons and tactics. And we'll need equipment that doesn't show up on any official inventory lists."
Clark felt the familiar weight of decisions that would echo through time. Recruiting Scott Lang meant potentially changing the future trajectory of Ant-Man. But it also meant having allies who could help save the most important person in the fight against Thanos.
"Sometimes you have to trust people with more than they signed up for. Sometimes you have to build a team."
"Bring your people," Clark said. "Tomorrow night, my apartment. We'll discuss details and compensation."
Scott nodded, pocketing the address Clark scribbled on a business card. "One question—are we the good guys in this?"
"Yes," Clark said. "Absolutely yes."
"Then I'm in."
Clark's apartment had never been designed for tactical planning sessions. The living room, already cramped with Afghanistan intelligence materials, now hosted four men who looked like they'd been recruited from the world's most unconventional temp agency. Scott Lang sat on the couch, flanked by his associates: Luis, a wiry Latino man who talked like he was narrating his own life; Dave, a laid-back driver who seemed to view everything with mild amusement; and Kurt, a pale hacker with an indeterminate accent and the kind of nervous energy that suggested extensive familiarity with caffeinated beverages.
"Okay," Scott said, studying the maps on Clark's wall. "So we're going to Afghanistan to rescue someone from terrorists. That's... actually less crazy than some jobs I've considered."
"The pay is still fifty thousand each," Clark said, "plus expenses and hazard bonuses. But I need to know you understand what we're walking into."
Luis raised his hand like he was in school. "Question, boss. How do we know the person we're rescuing is worth risking our lives for?"
"Because he's going to become Iron Man and help save the universe from a purple titan who wants to kill half of all life. But I can't exactly say that."
"Because he's working on technology that could revolutionize clean energy," Clark said, which was technically true. "And because the people who took him plan to use that technology to build weapons that will kill thousands of innocent people."
"Clean energy," Dave mused. "Like, solar panels and shit?"
"More like something that could replace every power plant on Earth."
Kurt's eyes lit up with the fervor of someone who'd found a cause worth hacking for. "This is about arc reactor technology, yes? I have read papers, very theoretical, very impressive."
"Of course he knows about arc reactor research. These guys are better informed than I gave them credit for."
"Something like that," Clark admitted. "The point is, we're not just saving one person. We're preventing a technology theft that could destabilize global energy markets."
"And fighting terrorists," Luis added helpfully. "Don't forget we're fighting terrorists. That's like, automatic good guy points."
Clark spread detailed satellite photos across his coffee table, showing the mountainous terrain where intelligence suggested Tony would be held. "The operation has three phases: infiltration, extraction, and escape. I'll handle infiltration—I have specialized equipment for desert survival and reconnaissance."
He pulled out what looked like a collection of camping gear and cheap electronics, each piece carefully selected to hide its true nature. The Swift Step Boots looked like standard hiking footwear. The Hawk Eye Monocle resembled a cracked magnifying glass. The Echo Stone appeared to be exactly what it was—a smooth river rock that Scott immediately picked up to examine.
"What's this for?" Scott asked, turning the stone over in his hands.
"Oh shit. Don't let him activate it accidentally. I don't need him hearing Obadiah Stane's voice coming out of a rock."
"Communications," Clark said quickly, taking the stone back. "It's... a prototype. Very sensitive equipment."
"Looks like a rock," Dave observed.
"The best equipment always does."
Kurt was examining the electronic components with professional interest. "These circuit boards, they are custom work, yes? Very sophisticated for camping gear."
"They're getting suspicious. Time to redirect their attention before they start asking questions I can't answer."
Clark pulled out a set of perfectly ordinary military surplus gear—night vision goggles, tactical radios, body armor, and weapons that he'd purchased through entirely legal channels.
"This is the gear you'll be using," he said. "Standard equipment, properly documented, nothing exotic. Your job is to provide extraction support and cover my retreat route."
"What about transportation?" Dave asked. "Getting to Afghanistan is one thing, but getting around once we're there is something else entirely."
"I've arranged for a documentary filmmaker's visa and equipment transport permits. As far as official records show, we're shooting a film about reconstruction efforts in rural Afghanistan."
Luis perked up. "I always wanted to be in movies."
"It's a cover story, not an actual film."
"Still counts."
Scott was studying the satellite photos with the focused attention of someone who'd learned to spot security weaknesses in complex environments. "This place where they're holding our target—it's a cave complex, isn't it? Natural formation, multiple entrances, easy to defend."
"He's good. Really good. No wonder Hank Pym eventually recruited him for Ant-Man."
"That's my assessment," Clark confirmed. "Which is why we need multiple approach routes and contingency plans for everything that can go wrong."
"Question," Kurt said, raising his hand. "How do we know target is still alive when we arrive? Kidnapped persons, they do not always survive long periods of captivity."
Clark felt the familiar chill that came with knowledge he couldn't share. Tony Stark would survive his captivity, but only because he'd build the Mark I armor with Yinsen's help. And Yinsen would die in the escape attempt unless Clark found a way to change that outcome.
"Intelligence suggests they're keeping him alive for his technical expertise," Clark said. "They want him to build something for them."
"Build what?"
"Weapons. They want him to build weapons. And if I don't intervene, he'll build a suit of armor instead and blast his way out of there."
"Weapons," Clark said. "Which is why time is critical. The longer they have him, the more dangerous they become."
Dave was examining the topographical maps with a driver's appreciation for terrain challenges. "Getting to this location, it's going to require off-road vehicles, probably modified for desert conditions. And fuel supplies, lots of fuel supplies."
"I've got contacts who can provide transportation once we're in-country," Clark said. "Your job is to establish a secure base camp and be ready for rapid extraction."
"Actually, my job is to survive a B-tier artifact mission in the desert while preventing Tony Stark's death and ensuring he still becomes Iron Man. Your jobs are to not get killed while I perform the impossible."
Scott stood and walked to Clark's wall map, tracing potential approach routes with his finger. "This is doable," he said finally. "Risky as hell, but doable. When do we leave?"
"Tomorrow night. I've booked us on a cargo flight to Kandahar, with connections to our operational area."
"Tomorrow?" Luis squeaked. "That's like, really soon. I haven't even told my mom I'm leaving the country."
"Don't tell anyone anything. The fewer people who know about this operation, the better chance we have of maintaining operational security."
"Don't tell anyone anything about this job," Clark said. "As far as your families know, you're going on a legitimate business trip."
"Legitimate business trip to Afghanistan," Dave repeated slowly. "Because that's totally normal."
"Tell them it's documentary work. Media companies send crews to conflict zones all the time."
Kurt nodded enthusiastically. "Yes, this is good cover story. Very believable."
Clark reached into his collection of artifacts and pulled out what looked like a small cloth pouch filled with some kind of powder. The Giggling Dust had been his first E-tier artifact, acquired during a mission to help a children's hospital. It seemed harmless enough for a field test of his team's ability to handle unusual situations.
"Before we finalize anything," Clark said, "I want to test your reactions to unexpected developments. This job will involve some... unconventional elements."
"Please don't let them freak out completely. I need these guys functional, not convinced I'm some kind of wizard."
Clark opened the pouch and shook a small amount of the sparkling powder into the air. It dispersed like glitter, coating everyone in the room with a fine dusting that seemed to absorb into their skin.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then Luis started giggling.
It began as a quiet chuckle, the kind of laugh that escapes when someone's trying to stay serious during an inappropriate moment. But within seconds, it had escalated to full-blown laughter. Dave joined in next, then Kurt, then Scott, until all four men were doubled over with uncontrollable mirth.
Clark watched them laugh for exactly sixty seconds, then helped them to chairs as the artifact's effects gradually wore off.
"What the hell was that?" Scott gasped, wiping tears from his eyes.
"Field test," Clark said. "The work we're doing involves some experimental technology. I needed to know you could handle unexpected effects without panicking."
"Experimental technology. Not magical artifacts that grant superhuman abilities and occasionally cause spontaneous giggling fits."
"You drugged us," Dave said, but he was still smiling. "With glitter."
"I exposed you to a mild psychoactive compound," Clark corrected. "The kind of thing we might encounter during the mission. Chemical warfare agents, experimental drugs, hallucinogenic compounds used for interrogation."
Luis was staring at his hands like they might start glowing. "I feel... really good. Like, really, really good. Is this permanent?"
"No. Effects last about five minutes, no long-term consequences, no addiction potential."
Kurt nodded thoughtfully. "This is good preparation, yes? If enemies use chemical weapons, we are now familiar with altered mental states."
"They're taking this remarkably well. Either they're very adaptable, or they're still slightly high from the Giggling Dust."
"Exactly," Clark said. "Think of it as inoculation against unconventional warfare tactics."
Scott stood up, testing his balance and coordination. "Okay, I'm convinced. You're serious about this operation, you've planned for contingencies, and you're not completely insane."
"Completely insane would be doing this alone."
"Completely insane would be letting Tony Stark die and hoping someone else figures out how to stop Thanos. This is just moderately insane."
"So we're really doing this," Luis said. "We're really going to Afghanistan to rescue someone and prevent weapons technology theft."
"We're really doing this."
"Cool. Can I be the guy who says the one-liner when we blow something up?"
"We're not going to blow anything up. We're going to infiltrate a terrorist compound, rescue Tony Stark, and get out without starting an international incident."
"We'll discuss one-liner privileges once we're on the ground," Clark said.
Scott clapped his hands together with the decisive energy of someone who'd made a career out of high-stakes decisions. "All right, team. We've got eighteen hours to prepare for an international rescue operation. Luis, you handle travel documents and cover stories. Dave, research ground transportation and local logistics. Kurt, communications equipment and electronic support."
"What about you, boss?" Luis asked.
Scott looked at Clark, then at the maps covering his wall, then back at Clark. "I'm going to study these plans until I know them by heart. Because something tells me this job is going to test every skill we've ever learned."
As his new team dispersed to handle their preparations, Clark stood alone in his apartment, surrounded by the evidence of an operation that would either save the future or get them all killed. The system countdown continued its relentless progress: forty-one hours and seventeen minutes until Tony Stark's convoy entered the ambush zone.
He picked up his phone and dialed Tony's number.
"Collins? Please tell me you have good news."
"I have terrible news that I can't share, a half-formed plan that might get me killed, and a team of criminals who just proved they can handle magical artifacts better than most trained soldiers."
"I have a lead on the threat to your Afghanistan trip," Clark said. "Someone inside Stark Industries is definitely coordinating with hostile forces. I'm still gathering evidence, but Tony... be extra careful over there."
"I always am. Paranoia is what keeps billionaires alive."
"Paranoia and experimental armor built in caves with a box of scraps. But mostly the armor."
"I'll call you when I get back," Tony continued. "We can discuss my security overhaul and your bonus for exceptional service."
"You'll call me when I bring you back. If I bring you back. If I don't get us all killed trying to collect a B-tier artifact in the middle of a desert war zone."
"Safe travels, Tony."
Clark hung up and stared at his reflection in the darkened window. Tomorrow night, he'd board a cargo plane to Afghanistan with four criminals and a collection of magical artifacts, planning to single-handedly alter the course of history.
He walked to his refrigerator and pulled out a beer, then sat down at his computer to type a message that would only be opened if he didn't return:
"Scott—If you're reading this, something went wrong. In my freezer, behind the ice cream, there's a safety deposit box key. Box 247 at First National. Inside you'll find money, documents, and instructions for taking care of some people who matter to me. Use the artifacts wisely. The world is stranger than you know, and it's going to need all the help it can get. —Clark"
He sealed the message in an envelope, addressed it to Scott Lang, and placed it prominently on his kitchen table.
Then he went to bed, setting his alarm for 6 AM. Tomorrow would bring final preparations, equipment checks, and the beginning of a mission that would either establish him as Tony Stark's guardian angel or get him buried in an unmarked grave in the Hindu Kush.
Either way, it was time to find out what he was really made of.
The system hummed in the back of his mind like a countdown to destiny. Forty hours, sixteen minutes, and twenty-three seconds until everything changed.
No pressure at all.
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