Agent Shield and Spaceman

In gloom of early morning, the base appeared as a long sloping wall, embedded in the ice. Frankie had suggested abandoning the snow tank several rises back to make a more stealthy approach to the headquarters of the AC’s. There were three layers of security between them and the outside of the station but none of them looked overly formidable. The big problem was there didn’t seem any obvious gate for them to enter. At least none left unguarded by any less than a platoon of AC henchman. “I’m surprised they brought this much security out here,” Frankie whispered. “Got to keep out the penguins,” Shield replied. D gestured for the binoculars. Adjusting the focusing wheel, she got a good view of the buildings surrounding the structure. “That shack off to the left, did either of you find it peculiar?” “Seems far from the airstrip and not tall enough for a guard tower.” Frankie pointed out a few low dome-like structures just beyond the anomalous shack. “Those are muni...

Four Months Ago The man awoke on a very narrow bed on a very thin mattress. His limbs were in awkward, improbable positions and he felt the ache of the sickness. The ceiling above him was more recognizable to him than the faces of old friends. Was he home? Looking around he decided he was. His mouth felt old, full of desert. It was a hot day and the sweat poured from his body. On the floor near the door of his room was a fat brown envelope. Some residual optimism suggested it was his pension, but he had made it very difficult for the Federal Government to find him. That someone had managed to find his address disturbed him greatly. He opened the flaps and peered inside. There were a few pages of vellum and what appeared to be a small plastic baggie. He reached for the baggie, sprinkled a white powder onto his palm. He really should not touch this stuff, he knew. It could be poison or weaponized anthrax. He dabbed a moistened finger into the powder and ran it beneath his...

The way Frankie figured, he could have either joined the CIA or gone to prison. His background didn’t provide many other options. He kept his nose clean and while his family was not particularly wealthy, his Uncle certainly was. In high school he became fascinated with driving fast cars and getting what other people already had. College showed him the skills to do both of those things to perfection. But his life could have still gone in a very different direction. He was not what his father would have called “book smart,” nor was he especially good at covering his disdain for dull fraternity letter types. Left to his own devices, he would have dug up some kind of trouble even his uncle couldn’t have saved him from. The CIA had many ways of unearthing the talent it needed, countless favors it could call in. Maybe his uncle even reached out. They identified his potential and gently, firmly turned him to espionage. A born field operative, the Central Intelligence Agency found sm...

“You did what?” Shield nearly dropped his gin and tonic. Leaning over the railing on Zanzibar’s patio, Frankie spoke low to hide the sounds of their conversation. “You wanted to find the serpents, I found them.” “Alright, great and now they’re going to kill you.” Frankie sniffed, wounded. “Hardly,” he set aside his Riesling. “I hate to sound cocky, but I’ve handled more dangerous creatures then a couple of snakes.” “And the concept of a set up didn’t dawn on you?” “What set up?” laughed Frankie. “It’s a pit match. Me in a hole with a bunch of snakes. That’s good clean fun. If we were in trouble, they’d just line us up behind a barn and be done with us. They’re going to bring out some real, live Bhutan Tiger Snakes, and then you’ll have the proof you need.” “Burmese,” Shield rolled his eyes. “And we already have the proof. I spoke to Suliman, they have a small colony of the animals in the exhibit hall. We know they’re here; it’s time to move to the operatio...

Frankie leaned against the walls of the elevator, his heart rate returning to an even thrum. By the time the doors opened, he was back to copacetic, ready to face the world. Mullihan’s cavernous underground garage was filled with domestic sedans, in the standard browns, blues, and greys. His own vehicle stood in a distant corner, a spot purposely chosen as far from the entering and exiting traffic as possible. Frankie didn’t drive a sedan. He drove a red Shelby Cobra, with white exhaust pipes nestled low along its frame. He loved this car – considered it one of the truly great masterpieces of human creation. The Cobra could roar from 0 to 60 in the span of a few heart beats and take curves like it was on rails. Put it on a ramp and gun the engine, Frankie figured he had a better than even chance to beat Apollo to the moon. Even as his footsteps echoed back to him, his smile faded though. A figure stepped from behind a concrete pillar, and even though she wore a ...

When the light came back on, the room was empty save for a corpse and two baffled agents of Section Starfire, the premier Anarchist Spy Agency employed by the United States government. Two trained pairs of eyes quickly scanned the room and found it devoid of anything worth mentioning besides an old battle-scarred table along one wall and a book shelf against the other and, of course, the body of the man Spaceman had just shot. For his part, Marcus Delacroix, Agent Shield, stood across the room from him, blinking in the sudden light, unable to focus. On the table by his right hand was a squat metal object about the same color and shape as a wheel of cheddar cheese. Instantly recognizing this object, Spaceman allowed himself a rare moment of panic. Pushing past Marcus, Space dashed to the door and tried the handle. Inevitably, it was locked. “Do you know what this is?” said Marcus, slowly regaining his faculties. “Yes,” said Spaceman as he darted ...