Hydra Base - 02:00 AM
For days, Ernst watched Dr. Erskine.
The man was unraveling.
He jumped at loud noises and checked his watch every five minutes.
He's waiting for extraction, Ernst deduced.
The Americans are coming.
Ernst didn't intervene. He needed the chaos.
That night, the attack began not with a bang, but with a whisper.
Ernst woke up instantly.
His enhanced brain didn't need time to boot up; it went from sleep to full alert in a microsecond.
He felt it. The drop of blood he had placed on the Celestial Phalanx box was moving.
Fast.
'They are here.'
He expanded his mental sensory field.
He sensed movement in the corridor, heartbeats that didn't match the patrol patterns of the Hydra guards.
"Azazel," Ernst whispered.
The demon was already awake, standing by the door with a Luger in each hand.
"Intruders," Azazel said softly.
"Six of them. Professional."
"Let them trigger the alarm," Ernst ordered.
"We need the noise."
Outside, the door handle turned silently.
Ernst pressed the emergency button on his bedside table.
SIRENS WAILING.
The base erupted into chaos.
The intruders, realizing their stealth was blown, kicked the door in.
"Clear the room!" a voice shouted in English.
Azazel opened fire. Bang. Bang.
Two American commandos dropped before they crossed the threshold.
The remaining four took cover, returning fire with Thompson submachine guns.
Ernst stood calmly behind the heavy oak desk, using his mental link to guide Azazel.
Left flank. Grenade.
Azazel didn't look.
He simply teleported two feet to the right, catching the grenade mid-air and tossing it back into the hallway.
BOOM.
Cries of pain echoed from the corridor.
"Hold position," Ernst ordered.
"Hydra reinforcements are thirty seconds out."
The firefight was intense but short.
Caught between Azazel's supernatural precision and the arriving waves of Hydra stormtroopers, the American team was forced to retreat.
As the gunfire faded down the hall, a Hydra squad leader rushed in, breathless.
"Dr. Ernst! Are you injured? The General ordered us to secure you."
"I am fine," Ernst said, smoothing his pajamas.
"Report."
"It was a coordinated strike, sir. Three targets: Your quarters, General Schmidt's office, and the Laboratory."
Ernst's eyes narrowed.
"The Laboratory?"
"Yes, sir. They breached the containment vault. And... Dr. Erskine is missing."
Perfect, Ernst thought. They took the bait.
Ernst feigned exhaustion and dismissed the guards, locking his door.
"They have the Phalanx," Ernst told Azazel.
"I can feel it moving. It's airborne."
He closed his eyes, focusing on the blood connection.
"Ten kilometers west. Altitude rising. They are on a transport plane."
He looked at Azazel.
"Do you have the gear?"
Azazel reached into the air, his hand vanishing into his personal pocket dimension.
He pulled out two military-grade gas masks and a glass vial of concentrated knockout gas.
"Ready," Azazel said.
They strapped on the masks.
"Target is the cargo plane," Ernst said, placing a hand on Azazel's shoulder.
"Cargo hold. Go."
BAMF.
US Army Transport Plane - 15,000 Feet
Captain Kane rubbed his shoulder.
It had been a messy extraction.
They had lost Team Bravo, but Team Alpha had secured the package, the scientist, Dr. Erskine.
He was on the lead plane, already halfway to Switzerland.
Kane's team, Charlie Squad, had the secondary objective: The Artifact.
Kane looked at the reinforced metal box strapped to the cargo netting.
Intelligence said it was a weapon of mass destruction.
"Good work, boys," Kane shouted over the roar of the engines.
"Drinks are on me when we get to London."
Suddenly, the air pressure in the cabin dropped.
POP.
Two figures materialized in the center of the cargo hold.
They wore pajamas and gas masks.
"Contact!" Kane screamed, reaching for his sidearm.
But the intruders were faster.
The one moved like a blur, twisting Kane's wrist with crushing force.
"Argh!" Kane dropped his gun.
His squad mates raised their rifles, but Kane was in the line of fire.
"Don't shoot!" Kane yelled.
That hesitation was fatal.
Ernst smashed the glass vial on the floor.
A thick, yellow cloud hissed out, expanding instantly in the pressurized cabin.
It was a neuro-paralytic agent Ernst had synthesized for exactly this kind of situation.
Kane tried to hold his breath, but the gas hit his eyes, his skin.
The world spun.
"You..." Kane gurgled, collapsing to the metal floor.
Within ten seconds, the entire squad was unconscious.
Ernst stepped over the bodies, walking straight to the secure box.
He punched in the code he had memorized from watching Schmidt.
Click.
He opened it.
The Celestial Phalanx glowed blue, humming with cosmic power.
"Beautiful," Ernst whispered.
He nodded to Azazel.
"Switch."
Azazel pulled a replica box from his dimensional pocket, filled with scrap metal of the same weight, and placed it in the netting.
Ernst stowed the real Phalanx in Azazel's dimension.
"We're done here," Ernst said.
The plane began to bank sharply; the gas had reached the cockpit.
The pilots were out.
"Leave no trace," Ernst ordered.
Azazel pulled a magnetic timer charge from his pocket, armed it for ten seconds, and stuck it to the fuselage near the fuel tanks.
"Ten seconds," Azazel said.
He grabbed Ernst.
BAMF.
Hydra Base
They reappeared in Ernst's bedroom.
The air was still and quiet.
Ernst walked to the window, looking west.
In the distance, a small flash of light illuminated the night sky, followed seconds later by a dull rumble.
The plane was gone.
To Schmidt, it would look like the Americans stole the artifact and crashed during the escape.
To the Americans, it would look like Hydra shot them down.
The Celestial Phalanx was officially lost to history.
"And Dr. Erskine?" Azazel asked, removing his gas mask.
"He is on the other plane," Ernst said, unbuttoning his pajama top as if getting ready for bed.
"He made it out. An American Super Soldier will be born, just as planned."
Ernst lay back on his bed, a satisfied smile on his face.
"We have the Serum data. We have the Celestial tech. And we have our cover. Get some sleep, Azazel. Tomorrow, we have to act very angry about the 'theft'."
——
Authors Note:
Rule #1 of generic action movies:
Never, ever say 'Drinks are on me when we get back.'
That is a death flag visible from space. Captain Kane practically signed his own death warrant with that line. Nothing I could do about it.