Greg Cox - Man of Steel

“Found your Achilles heel,” Superman said. “My parents taught me to hone my senses, Zod. Focus on just the things I wanted to see, and tune out everything else.”

He advanced on his enemy. It was time to finish this, before anyone else got hurt.

“But without your helmet, you can’t focus. You’re getting everything . And it’s too much, isn’t it?”

A dropship flared in overhead, coming to Zod’s rescue. Plasma cannons fired at Superman, knocking him backward into a parked delivery truck, which crumpled when he hit it. Momentarily stunned, he pulled himself out of the demolished truck even as the ship touched down in the street. One of Zod’s lieutenants rushed out and hurriedly dragged his general to safety.

Forget it, Superman thought, determined to stop them from getting away. He started toward the ship, only to be blocked by Faora and another soldier, who suddenly leapt into the street before him.

Superman gaped at the sight of the woman’s comrade, who was at least nine feet tall. An opaque helmet concealed the giant’s features. Wide in the chest, with fists like anvils, he put any human bodybuilder to shame. He overheard Faora address the brute as Nam-Ek. They looked as if they were spoiling for a fight.

Smack dab in the middle of Smallville.

Superman was acutely conscious of his surroundings, and of the countless innocent lives at risk. He scanned the downtown area with his X-ray vision, noting dozens of scared and helpless people taking cover in the nearby buildings. Parents clutched their crying children. Clerks and customers cowered behind shelves and counters while calling for help on their cell phones.

Doors and windows slammed shut and were locked as quickly as possible. Gun owners sought out their weapons, never imagining just how futile they would be in the face of the Kryptonian threat. Sobs, curses, and desperate prayers reached Superman’s ears.

But he heard something else as well—the whirr of approaching helicopters.

Six AH-6 gunships swept in from the east, ferrying Special Forces troops. Spinning rotors sliced through the afternoon sky. The smoke and flames rising up from the small Kansas town and its surrounding farmlands were visible from the cockpit of Colonel Nate Hardy’s own “Little Bird.”

His blood boiled at the rampant destruction. Before joining the army, he had grown up in a rural community much like Smallville. He took this unprovoked attack personally.

“All players,” he barked over the radio. “This is Guardian. I am Airborne Mission Commander. Stand by for words. I have previously encountered and observed the beings we are about to engage at close proximity. They possess technology and capabilities well beyond our own. In addition, at least one of these beings is capable of flight. They are extremely dangerous and we have been authorized by executive order to use deadly force.”

He hoped that he’d gotten his message across—that the Kryptonians were significantly more dangerous than any human combatants. But how could even highly trained Special Forces personnel really grasp what they might be up against here?

Hardy had seen Superman fly, witnessed it with his own two eyes. And even now, he could hardly believe it.

Who knew what these other aliens were capable of?

His radio crackled as the lead gunship called in.

“Roger, Guardian. This is Gunslinger 06. Sitrep, Over.”

“Gunslinger 06, request you put troops down in LZs One, Two, and Three. This operation is non-permissive.”

His order made it clear that they were flying into a hostile environment, presumably under enemy control. This was not how he had ever thought of Kansas before.

“Roger that, Guardian.”

The gunships weren’t the only birds under Hardy’s command. His radio crackled once more as the pilot of an A-10 Thunderbolt fighter jet contacted him for orders.

“Guardian, Thunder-One-One flight. Checking in and stand-by for A/O update.”

Hardy scoped out the scene below, spotting Superman, Faora-Ul, and a hulking Kryptonian bruiser. They were facing off in the middle of the town’s main drag. He couldn’t see any civilians, but they hadn’t had the time to evacuate. So he assumed they were taking shelter in the modest commercial buildings that lined the street. A two-story Sears department store made a workable landmark.

“Thunder-One-One, I need you to engage the targets with gun and Maverick. Your field elevation is as needed. You’ve got three individuals occupying intersection just in front of Sears, marked by laser.”

“Copy all, Guardian. Tally three targets. Thunder-One-One Flight in from the east.”

A pair of fighter jets rocketed ahead of the ’copters. The twin-engine, straight-wing aircraft, nicknamed “Warthogs,” were equipped with both heavy-duty rotary cannons and six Maverick missiles each, the better to provide close air support for troops on the ground. Hardy figured the Hogs were their best bet at taking out the aliens.

They were built to take out tanks, for Pete’s sake.

“Thunder-One-One Flight, you are cleared hot!”

The jets came in low for a strafing run. Powerful 30mm autocannons unleashed a barrage of firepower on the alien trio, spraying more than four thousand rounds a minute. Precision-guided Maverick air-to-surface missiles followed the explosive rounds. Each missile carried a three-hundred-pound warhead.

Hardy felt sorry for Smallville.

Superman spotted the Warthogs as they began firing. He dived out of the way of the air strike, but was tagged anyway. An armor-piercing shell, made of depleted uranium, failed to break his skin, but sent him crashing through the front of a hardware store. The property damage hurt even worse than the ammo—this was his hometown that was being wrecked. He knew these people and their businesses.

His father had shopped in this store.

Faora dodged the shells and missiles, but her lumbering comrade, Nam-Ek, didn’t even try to get out of the line of the fire. Standing like an alien goliath in the middle of the intersection, he took the full brunt of the attack.

Anti-tank missiles slammed into the armored giant, hurling him down the length of the street. He skidded to a halt some thirty feet back.

Well, that’s one down, Hardy thought, watching from the cockpit of his chopper. At least we got the big guy.

“Thunder-One-One Flight,” he said into the radio. “Good hit. Request immediate reattack.”

“Guardian copy,” the pilot of the lead A-10 replied. “We’ll be back in one minute.”

The Warthogs circled around for a second pass. Their first attack had inflicted serious damage. Smoking craters pitted the intersection. Charred rubble was strewn everywhere. Water gushed from blasted hydrants and water mains. Broken glass had spilled onto the street and sidewalks. Abandoned cars had been reduced to burning heaps of metal.

“Flight in,” the pilot reported. “Coming from the east.”

The Warthogs screamed in for another run, ready to let loose their devastating firepower once again.

But this time Nam-Ek was ready for them. Climbing to his feet, he leapt to meet the oncoming aircraft. The giant Kryptonian shot through the air and collided with the cockpit of the lead jet. Superman heard its pilot cry out in alarm.

“Thunder, jink! Target off the nose!”

Nam-Ek clung to the front of the aircraft. A mammoth fist smashed into the cockpit. Superman watched in dismay as the A-10 spiraled out of control, taking the Kryptoian with it. The spinning jet crashed into the street, drilling into the pavement.