Thor Meets Captain America

4

Poor Major Marlowe had been right about one thing. The Nazis would never have won without the Aesir, or something like them. Hitler and his gang must have believed from the start that they could somehow call forth the ancient “gods”, or they’d surely never have dared wage such a war, one certain to bring in America.

Indeed, by early 1944 it had seemed all but over. There was hell yet to pay, of course, but nobody back home feared defeat anymore. The Russians were pushing in from the east. Rome was taken, and the Mediterranean was an Allied lake. The Japanese were crumbling—pushed back or bottled up in island after island—while the greatest armada in history was gathering in England, preparing to cross the Channel and lance the Nazi boil for good and all.

In factories and shipyards across America, the Arsenal of Democracy was pouring forth more materiel in any given month than the Third Reich had produced in its best year. Ships rolled off the ways at intervals of hours. Planes every few minutes.

Most important of all, in Italy and in the Pacific, a rabble of farmers and city boys in soldier suits had been tempered and become warriors in a great army. Man to man, they were now on a par with their experienced foe, and the enemy was outnumbered as well.

Already there was talk of the postwar recovery, of plans to help in the rebuilding, and of a United Nations to keep the peace forever.

Chris had been only a child in knee pants, back in ’44, devouring Chet Nimitz novels and praying with all his might that there would be something half as glorious to do in his adulthood as what his uncles were achieving overseas right then. Maybe there would be adventures in space, he hoped, for after this, the horror of war would surely never be allowed again.

Then came the rumors… tales of setbacks on the Eastern front… of reeling Soviet armies sent into sudden and unexpected retreat. The reasons were unclear… mostly, what came back were superstitious rumblings that no modern person credited.

Voices on a street corner:

Damn Russkies… I knew all along they didn’ have no stayin’ power… Alla time yammerin’ ’bout a “second front”… Well we’ll give ’em a second front! Save their hash… Don’t fret, Ivan, Uncle Sam’s coming…

June, and the Norman sky was filled with planes. Ships covered the Channel Sea…

Sitting against a cold stone wall in an underground cell, Chris pinched his eyes shut and tried to crush away the memory of the grainy black and white films he had been shown. But he failed to keep the images out.

Ships as far as the eye could see… the greatest armada of free men ever assembled…

It was not until he joined the O.S.S. that Chris actually saw photographs never shown to the public. In all the years since then, he wished he had not seen them, either.

D-Day… D for disaster.

Cyclones, hundreds of them, spinning like horrible tops, rising out of the dawn mists. They grew and climbed until the dark funnels appeared to stretch beyond the sky. And as they approached the ships, it seemed one could see flying figures on their flanks, driving the storms faster and faster with their beating wings…

“Marlowe’s come up aces and eights, man.” O’Leary sighed heavily as he sagged down next to Chris. “You’re the big cheese now, dad.”

Chris closed his eyes. All men die, he thought, reminding himself that he hadn’t really liked the dour marine all that much, anyway.

He mourned nonetheless, if for no other reason than that Marlowe had been his insulation, protecting him from that bitch called command.

“So what gives now, chief?”

Chris looked at O’Leary. The man was really too old to be playing kids’ games. There were lines at the edges of those doe-like eyes, and the baby fat was turning into a double chin. The Army recognized genius, and put up with a lot from its civilian experts. But Chris wondered—not for the first time—how this escapee from Greenwich Village ever came to be in a position of responsibility.

Loki chose him. That was the real answer. Like he chose me. So much for the god of cleverness.

“What gives is that you damp down the beat-rap, O’Leary. Making only every third sentence incomprehensible should be enough to provide your emotional crutch.”

O’Leary winced, and Chris at once regretted the outburst.

“Oh, never mind.” He changed the subject. “How are the rest of the men doing?”

“Copasetic, I guess… I mean, they’re Okay, for guys slated for ritual shortening in a few hours. They all knew this was a suicide mission. Just wanted to take a few more of the bastards with them, is all.”

Chris nodded. If we had another year or two…

By then the missile scientists would have had rockets accurate enough to go for a surgical strike, making this attempt to sneak in bombs under the enemy’s noses unnecessary. The Satellite was just the beginning of the possibilities, if they had had time.

“Higgins was right, man,” O’Leary muttered as he collapsed against the wall next to Chris. “We shoulda pasted them with everything we had. Melted Europe to slag, if that’s what it took.”

“By the time we had enough bombs to do much more than slow them down, they had atomic weapons too,” Chris pointed out.

“So? After we fried Peenemünde, their delivery systems stagnated. And they haven’t got a clue how to go thermonuclear! Why even if they did manage to disassemble our bomb—”

“—God forbid!” Chris blinked. His heart raced, even considering the possibility. If the Nazis managed to make the leap from A-bomb to fusion weapons…”

The tech shook his head vigorously. “I scoped—I mean I checked out the destruct triggers myself, Chris. Anyone pokes around to try to see how a U.S. of A. type H bomb works will be in for a nasty surprise.”

That had, of course, been a minimum requirement before being allowed to attempt this mission. Had they been able to assemble the weapon near the “Great Circle” of Aesgard, the course of the war might have been changed. Now, all they could hope was that the separate components would melt to slag as they were supposed to when their timers expired.

O’Leary persisted. “I still think we should have launched everything we had back in ’52.”

Chris knew how the man felt. Most Americans believed the exchange would have been worth it. A full scale strike at Hitler’s homeland would sear the heart out of it. The monster’s retaliation, with cruder rockets and fission bombs, would be a price worth paying.

When he had learned the real reason, at first he had refused to believe it. Chris assumed that Loki was lying… that it was an Aesir trick.

But since then he had seen the truth. America’s arsenal of bombs was a two-edged sword. Unless used carefully, it would cut both ways.

There was a rattling of keys. Three SS guards stepped in, looking down their noses at the dejected Allied raiders.

“The great Thor would deign speak vit’ your leader,” the officer said in thickly accented English. When no one moved, his gaze fell upon Chris and he smiled. “This one. This strayed sheep. Our lord asked for him especially.”

He snapped his fingers and the guards grabbed Chris by the arms. “Cool as glass, dad,” O’Leary said. “Drive ’em crazy, baby.”

Chris glanced back from the door. “You too, O’Leary.”

He was pushed through and the dungeon gate slammed shut behind him.