Greg Cox - Man of Steel

“I’ve been coming here for fifteen years,” he said. “I’ll leave when I’m ready.” He snatched a foaming glass off the table and hurled the liquid in Clark’s face. “But my buddy here needs a new beer, so why don’t you help us with that?”

Beer ran down Clark’s face. His expression darkened and he clenched his fists at his sides. Ludlow had no idea who—or what—he was messing with.

The trucker snickered at Clark’s anger.

“Hey, Weaver!” he called out to the bartender. “I think your busboy’s about to go postal.”

The bartender shrugged and kept on wiping the bar counter. He weighed the value of a busboy against a steady customer.

“You’re fired, kid,” he said casually.

Ludlow grinned triumphantly. Laughter spread across the bar. Even the airmen looked amused by the episode. Nobody came to the Bearcat expecting good manners and a tranquil atmosphere. Brawls were considered a good night’s entertainment.

“There,” Ludlow gloated. “Crisis averted.” He nodded toward the exit. “Now out !”

Meaty hands shoved Clark in the chest. He seethed, wanting nothing more than to pound the crap out of the trucker. Solar fire smoldered behind his furious blue eyes, ready to be unleashed. A hush fell over the bar as the staff and patrons waited to see what the humiliated busboy would do next. Was he going to stand up to Ludlow after all?

“It’s not worth it, sweetie,” Chrissy said, looking worried.

He knew she was right. Even though it killed him, he backed down and unclenched his fists. He tossed his beer-stained apron onto the floor and headed for the door.

Ludlow lobbed an empty beer can at him. It bounced off Clark’s back.

“Here’s your tip, asshole!”

Ludlow was still chuckling at his own wit later on, when he decided to get back on the road. He stood up from the table and tossed a handful of greasy singles next to a half-eaten meal. Then he belched loudly

“This food sucks!” he announced for everyone to hear. “I’m calling the health department.”

Chrissy kept her distance as he pulled on his hat and exited the bar. He strolled across the parking lot, fumbling for his keys, only to stop in his tracks.

His jaw dropped.

His eyes bulged.

“What the hell ?”

Ludlow’s eighty-thousand-pound rig was nothing but a heap of mangled metal. The cab was smashed flat, while the entire trailer had been twisted into a smoking pretzel. The smell of burnt rubber polluted the air.

He wasn’t going anywhere tonight.

Clark trudged along the side of the highway. A duffle bag was slung over his shoulder. Snow and ice crunched beneath his boots. The road wound through densely wooded hills. The Northern Lights glimmered on the horizon.

He smiled for a moment, imagining Ludlow’s reaction when he saw what was left of his eighteen-wheeler. Then he put The Bearcat behind him and kept on hiking north… toward Ellesmere Island. The conversation he’d overheard in the bar played over and over again in his mind.

What sort of “anomalous object” had been found up north?

A truck approached from the south, heading his way.

Clark stuck out his thumb.

From above, it looked as though the Ice Age had never left Ellesmere Island. Vast ice caps and glaciers covered the mountainous Arctic island, which was barely more than five hundred miles south of the North Pole. Global warming had taken its toll on the thick ice shelves that extended beyond the island into the sea, but Ellesmere was still forbiddingly white, and barren in appearance. It was said to be one of the most remote places on Earth.

Lois Lane hoped the trip was worth it.

The Sikorsky S-61 helicopter touched down on a landing field at the northeastern tip of the island. Lois braced herself for the bitter cold as she exited the ’copter. A heavy parka and boots provided a degree of protection against the harsh polar climate. Her long auburn hair was tucked beneath the hood of the parka. Not the most flattering outfit she had ever worn, but Lois didn’t care about that.

If anything, she sometimes regarded her own— admittedly—striking good looks as an impediment, getting in the way of her career. She wanted people to pay attention to her byline, not her eyes or figure.

A two-man welcoming committee was waiting. The older of the men, who was obviously in charge, came forward to meet her.

“Ms. Lane? I’m Jed Eubanks with Arctic Cargo.” His breath frosted in front of his lips. “We’re a private contractor augmenting NORTHCOM on the operation.”

US Northern Command had been established in the wake of 9/11, to defend and secure the United States and its interests. Although the island was under Canadian rule, NORTHCOM was authorized to coordinate efforts with America’s allies. In recent years, Lois knew, budget cuts had led to the privatization of various support services on Ellesmere.

“Got it,” she said. “How far’s the station?”

He indicated a distant ridge. Snow and ice covered the rugged hills and valleys. They were far above the timberline, so there was no vegetation or wildlife in sight. Sunlight glinted off rolling expanses of white.

“Camp is just over yonder,” he said. “I’ll walk you there. Joe can get your bags.” He turned toward his associate, a strapping young man with a scruffy black beard. “Help her out, Joe.”

Lois briefly checked Joe out. He wasn’t bad-looking, in a hunky Ice Road Trucker kind of way. He nodded to her and began unloading cargo from the helicopter. As he did so, he reached for her overstuffed duffle bag.

“Careful,” she said. “That one’s heavy.”

He lifted it easily. Lois was impressed.

Guess they grow them strong up here, she thought.

Leaving Joe to deal with the luggage, Eubanks escorted Lois away from the landing field.

“Gotta confess, Ms. Lane,” he said, “I’m not a fan of the Daily Planet, as such. But those pieces you wrote when you were embedded with the 1st Division were mighty impressive.”

She appreciated the good review, especially after what she’d survived to get those stories.

“What can I say?” she responded. “I get writer’s block if I’m not wearing a bulletproof vest.”

“So what brings you to the ass-end of nowhere?” he asked. “Ellesmere’s not exactly your standard vacation spot.”

That was putting it lightly. The Alert Station at the tip of the island was the northernmost permanent settlement on the planet. The base had been established as a weather station back in the fifties, and had served as a joint US/ Canadian listening post during the Cold War. Today it also hosted a handful of environmental science facilities, but nothing worth writing headlines about—until recently.

“Same thing that brought a few hundred assorted Army personnel,” Lois said. “Word is their climatologists found something under the ice.”

Eubanks neither confirmed nor denied her words, but the view from the ridge lived up to the rumors Lois had heard.

The remote outpost, which rarely housed more than fifty residents at a time, had ballooned into a miniature city supporting hundreds of US and Canadian troops. Temporary structures consisting of insulation draped over steel and aluminum frames had been erected in the snowbound valley. Barracks, garages, hangars, and mess halls had sprung up practically overnight. Mechanical earth movers had been employed to carve out a large settlement out of the permafrost.

And at the center of the base was a deep pit, where a thermal meltdown generator was being used to bore through the packed ice. Steam rose from the borehole.