Greg Cox - Man of Steel

Leaving America behind, he streaked above the North Atlantic, passing over the waves like a low-flying jet. Hundred foot-high walls of water, of the sort that would have capsized the Debbie Sue, were churned up in his wake. He heard whales crying out in the depths. They seemed to sense what the World Engine was doing to the planet.

The whales were in danger of extinction, too, along with every other Earthly lifeform. He wasn’t just fighting for humanity, Superman knew. He was fighting for the Earth.

Along with Lois and the others…

The Boeing C-17 Globemaster was a massive transport plane, nearly 175 feet long. Its generous cargo compartment was big enough to carry tanks, trucks, trailers, and even a secondhand Kryptonian space capsule.

Lois watched as Colonel Hardy oversaw the crew using a K-loader to install the capsule into the aircraft via the aft ramp. She started toward the C-17, not wanting to be left behind.

“Where do you think you’re going?” General Swanwick asked.

“You need me on that plane,” she insisted.

“Absolutely not,” Swanwick said. “This is a military operation.”

“And that’s an alien spaceship.” She glanced over at Dr. Hamilton, who was still sticking close to the general. “Do you or Mr. Wizard have any idea how to actually activate the Phantom Drive he was talking about?”

The men exchanged uncertain looks. Hamilton shook his head.

“Well, lucky for you, I do.” She held up the Kryptonian command key. “Superman showed me how.”

She chose not to mention that Superman’s dead father had originally briefed her for this mission. That was probably more weirdness than the military could handle right now.

Better I keep to that to myself, she thought. Along with Clark’s secret identity.

Swanwick sighed in resignation. He gestured toward Carrie Farris.

“Get her a flight suit, Captain.”

“Tower, this is Guardian. Approaching the hold short, ready for takeoff.”

Laden with its unearthly cargo, the C-17 taxied down the runway. Hardy manned the cockpit beside the copilot, anxiously awaiting clearance.

“Guardian,” the tower responded. “After takeoff, turn right, heading 090 then as filed. You are cleared for takeoff.”

Four powerful turbofan engines lifted the heavy cargo plane off the runway. It took off into the sky, escorted by a flight of four F-35 fighter jets. The fifth-generation fighters were sleeker and more high-tech than the Warthogs the Kryptonians had brought down over Smallville. Capable of breaking the sound barrier, the supersonic Lightnings could fly faster and climb higher than anything Zod’s forces had faced before.

Hardy wondered if that would make a difference.

Back in the cargo hold, the Kryptonian starcraft had been jury-rigged onto a railed delivery system built to convey more earthly bundles out of the back of the plane. The C-17’s designated loadmaster, a beefy grunt named Gomez, inspected the cargo to make certain it was secure, while Lois mentally took notes for the front-page story she hoped to write someday.

Like Gomez, she wore a helmet and flight suit. A radio headset—built into the helmet—kept her in contact with Hardy and the pilot. A pair of armed soldiers was there to provide security, although Lois wasn’t quite sure how they expected to fend off any attacking Kryptonians. The men probably didn’t know either, but they checked their weapons regardless.

She was grateful for their courage, at least.

Meanwhile, Dr. Hamilton had set up a makeshift workstation, from which he was busily monitoring the gravitational anomalies in Metropolis and the South Indian Ocean. He adjusted the settings as he established a link with General Swanwick, who had remained back at the command center.

“And we’re online,” he pronounced. “Are you seeing this, NORTHCOM?”

“Roger, Hamilton,” Swanwick replied over the radio. “We are.”

“General,” the scientist said, “the gravity fields are expanding faster than I anticipated. At this rate, I’d say Metropolis has less than an hour left.”

A display at Hamilton’s station showed the C-17 inching across the map toward the city, along with its lethal escorts. On the gravity map, the growing circle was consuming a larger and larger swath.

“Then we’re throwing everything we have at them,” the general replied.

Lois wished she could believe that it would be enough. She anxiously examined the gravity map. As nearly as she could tell, the destructive beam hadn’t yet reached the Daily Planet building, but it was getting closer by the second.

She couldn’t help worrying about Perry and her other friends and colleagues.

Even Lombard.

Confident that Hamilton and the soldiers could babysit the starcraft without her, she made her way up to the cockpit, where she joined Hardy and the co-pilot, Captain Brubaker. She arrived just in time to glimpse a flight of F-35s as they zipped past the cargo plane on their way to engage the Black Zero. With any luck, the fighters would distract Zod long enough for her to carry out Jor-El’s plan—and send the invaders back to the Phantom Zone.

Faora tracked the approaching aircraft on a holographic display. She presided over the bridge in General Zod’s absence, assisted by Jax-Ur and the senior officers. The scientist observed the display with interest.

“It would appear the humans are mounting a final defense,” he observed.

Excellent, Faora thought, eager for battle. “Then they will die with honor.”

The contours of the ancient scout ship were immediately recognizable, despite the heavy layer of snow that hid it. The ship had anchored itself to an icy mountain peak, much as the Citadel had been rooted to that steep basalt cliff back on Krypton.

It seemed as if the House of El had claimed a new fortress.

Zod brought his own craft down to the Arctic landscape. Exiting the ship, he set foot on the Earth once more. A force-helmet protected him, even as the memory of his debilitating weakness chafed at his pride. His slowness to adapt to Earth’s alien environment had left him at Kal-El’s mercy.

That could not be allowed to happen again.

He paused upon the wintry slope. Girding himself for the trial ahead, he deactivated the helmet and cast it aside. His senses once more came under assault as a riot of unfiltered sounds and color descended upon him. Prismatic hues, blindingly bright and intrusive, made his eyes blink and water. The wind whipping through the mountains sounded like a hurricane. He saw through rocky ridges and thick sheets of ice.

The world around him dissolved into a kaleidoscopic storm of shapes and colors and vibrations, not unlike the seething chaos at the heart of the Phantom Zone. He was tempted to lunge again for his helmet, to find relief from the disorientating barrage.

No, he resolved. I must master this. I shall master this.

He raised a hand before him, seeing past the glove. His skin, his flesh, were transparent to the bones and ligaments beneath. Skeletal fingers tightened in a fist, as he focused upon that hand, inhaling deeply to control his breathing.

The thin Terran air irritated his throat and lungs, but he stoically ignored the discomfort. He would not let this planet’s wretched atmosphere defeat him again. If Kal-El, a freakish product of random genetics, could adapt to this world, then so could he. There was nothing a true Kryptonian could not do—if his will was strong enough.

Zod closed his eyes and concentrated.