INCREDIBLE

By Derrick Ferguson

The man that hath no music in himself,
Nor is not mov’d with concord of sweet sounds;
Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils;
The motions of his spirit are dull as night,
And his affectations dark as Erebus:
Let no such man be trusted

-William Shakespeare

Hulkbuster Base, Nevada
Now

“Sir? Wake up, sir. You requested to be woken up at 0200 hours, sharp.”

Lt. Colonel Felton Hardbottle sat up straight on the uncomfortable Army standard issue cot he’s been sleeping on. He’d barely gotten a couple hours of solid sack time but it was better than nothing and in the past he’d had to learn how to go longer on less than what he’d gotten today. Although his bones still felt as if they’d been hollowed out and the marrow replaced with ground glass and gravel, his brain was clearer and his thoughts were once more sharp and focused. He yawned and dry washed his face with one hand while fumbling in a breast pocket for a peppermint that he popped into his mouth with the other one. His aide, Lt. Neville Barrett was looking at him with anxiously with bloodshot eyes that were remote and fearful. Hardbottle swung his long legs over the side of the cot and laced up his knee high boots and looked around the bunker at the rows and rows of injured and dying men on cots identical to his own. The illumination from the recessed halogen lighting gave the bunker a surrealistic look.

“Status.”

Before Lt. Barrett could answer, the entire bunker shuddered as if a localized earthquake had decided to drop in on them for a little visit. Men shouted and cursed as if the earthquake was a tangible, living foe and in a strange way, it was. Some men were quietly praying and other were more vocal in their pleas for God to help them. Hardbottle couldn’t blame them one little bit although his opinion was that God had decided to let them fend for themselves in this particular case. Nurses and doctors rushed to and fro to comfort the injured and dying as the vibrations slowly subsided. The bunker had been built to withstand a direct hit from a megaton nuclear missile. However, the source of the vibrations was a considerably good deal more powerful than that.

Hardbottle stood up, adjusting his Steranko gun belt and held out his hand for the clipboard Lt. Barrett slapped into it as they walked up the slanting corridor that would take them to the bunker’s command center.

“He’s awake, sir. The RA2 gas only knocked him out for about two hours.”

Hardbottle grunted. “That’s not what we were promised, dammit.”

“It’s even worse than that, sir. The Cage has only dropped four miles down.”

Hardbottle’s eyes widened in surprised shock and his brisk, crisp stride slowed. “You mean we’re feeling the tremors of his blows from four miles down?”

Lt. Barrett nodded wearily and his tired shoulder visibly sagged as he continued his report. “Yes sir. As for his waking up ahead of schedule, blame it on his damn healing factor. That’s the only way we can figure he recovered faster than anticipated. The Cage has stopped its descent and we can only assume that he’s digging or punching his way up to the surface.” Barrett stopped and snapped to attention, his previous slumped demeanor gone. His back was ramrod straight, shoulders back and his bloodshot eyes were serious as he said, “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

In answer, Hardbottle reached inside his flak jacket for a plastic flask of rum and unscrewed the top. He took a generous swig before offering it to Barrett who accepted without hesitation and took an equally healthy drink before returning it to his superior.

‘Sir, it is my opinion that we simply cannot contain Dr. Banner. We exhausted most of our weaponry just getting him into The Cage. He’ll be back on the surface in less than two hours.”

Hardbottle took another drink. “Are we ready for him?”

“As ready as we can be. But it won’t be enough.”

Hardbottle nodded in agreement and reached out a hand to steady himself against the nearest wall as another massive tremor rocked the bunker, showering them with a fine sheet of dirt. “And your recommendation, Lt.?”

“My recommendation is we leave and put as much distance between us and The Hulk as is humanly possible in the short time remaining to us before he reaches the surface. He is apparently extremely pissed off and I do believe he will vigorously release his aggression on the first thing he sees. Which is us, sir.”

Brooklyn, New York
Three Days Ago

The girls were practicing for a Double Dutch tournament that was to be held at the Downtown Brooklyn Marriott and the skinny white guy who went by the name of Bob had gotten into the habit of coming out to watch them every afternoon. He had a one-bedroom apartment a block away on Cumberland Street and he had to walk through the park anyway to get to one the several small neighborhood grocery stores that nestled side by side like staunch friends. One was a Spanish bodega, the next a Korean supermarket and the last was operated by Arab Muslims and he made the rounds of the stores, going into one after the other, making his purchases. Bob had drawn a few curious looks when he first started hanging in the park. Not because he was white. Since 9/11 there had been a literal exodus from Manhattan into Brooklyn by upper middle class yuppies, GenXers, baby boomers, whatever the latest media designation was. So many neighborhoods that had been exclusively black and Hispanic before 9/11 were now more multicultural than a United Nations dinner party.

Some of the park regulars had given him a gentle rousting, just to see where he was coming from and what he was about. Bob had responded with a ready, mildly sarcastic wit and glib answers, which endeared him to the regulars since they wouldn’t have respected him if he’d backed down and if he’d ignored them altogether that, would have been even worse. Bob didn’t mind jaw jacking with them for an hour or so before retiring to a bench of his own near the public pay phone. It also didn’t hurt that Bob didn’t mind buying six packs of Heinekens and Budweisers, which he never partook of himself but insisted that the park regulars enjoy themselves with no guilt.

Bob spent a lot of time on the benches nearest to that particular pay phone and when it rang, he’d jump up as if he were a contestant on The Price Is Right and he was invited to COME ON DOWN! and he answered the phone, listening intently to whoever was on the other end as if they were imparting the secrets of the universe to Bob. He would then hang up and return to his bench where he would write furiously in one of many notebooks he carried in a worn leather satchel slung over his narrow shoulder, filling them with wild, mysterious symbols and arcane formulae.

Hattie was one of the park regulars who enjoyed talking to Bob and she would sit quietly watching as notebook after notebook was filled and as they became filled up he would ask Hattie to go to the store and buy him two or three more. Hattie didn’t mind, especially since Bob would generously tip her twenty bucks. Hattie was concerned about the careless way Bob handled money and she mentioned it to him on one occasion. Bob had simply smiled somewhat shyly and said that if anybody ever tried taking something from him, they’d get one hell of a surprise.

Hattie passed the double dutchers as they went through their moves that were as intricate and as well timed as those of Olympic gymnasts. Three girls were in perfect synchronization as they performed their maneuvers inside the barely visible arcs of the double ropes, their legs pumping up and down in an almost hypnotically rhythmic cadence as they chanted a rhyme to keep them in step:

“Doc Bruce Banner
Belted by gamma rays,
Turns into The Hulk!
Ain’t he unglamorous!”

At this point, the middle girl ducked headfirst between the legs of the girl in font of her, who grabbed her crossed wrists and swung her through, up and back over her shoulders and the girl ended up returned to her middle position and all three girls jumped up and executed a 180 degree turn and their legs picked up the step without a miss as they continued the cadence:

“Wreckin’ da town wit th’ power of a bull,
ain’t no monster clown who is as lovable
as everlovin’ HULK! HULK! HULK!”

Hattie plopped herself down on the bench next to Bob, who was as usual, writing ferociously in a notebook that had only a few more blank pages to go before he’d be needing a fresh one. Hattie smiled and said, “What up, Bob? Still lookin’ for the formula for the atom bomb?”

Bob looked up at her and smiled. He had a weird kind of smile. Heartfelt, but sad, she thought. Every time she saw him smile like that she seemed to hear the lonely chords of a far off piano being played by a man with no friends, no future, no hope.

“They already found that, Hattie. It ended a little ruckus you might have heard of called World War II. How are you today?”

“I’m okay. Ankles are a little swollen, though.” She rubbed her left one as she continued. “Bob, you think you could help me out with a few dollars?”

Bob reached into a pocket of his well-worn jeans and drew forth a mass of crumpled bills. He selected a twenty and handed it over without a word.

“I really wish you’d be more careful with all that money, Bob,” Hattie said feelingly, sticking the bill into her bra. “Everybody ain’t so nice ‘round here and everybody knows you always got a roll on you.”

Bob shrugged and continued writing. “Anybody asks, I give it to them. I can get more anytime I want. Money’s not a problem for me.” Bob suddenly laughed. “No…money is most definitely not the problem.”

The public phone rang. Bob jerked as if an electric current had gone through him. He leaped to his feet and ran to the phone, picked up the receiver. Hattie watched in curiosity. Who was it that called him on that phone and why did Bob always look so intense when he talked to that person? Bob’s face was a study of rapidly shifting emotions.

He replaced the phone back in its cradle and stood there for maybe a minute while Hattie just watched him. Then he slowly turned and walked back to the bench and sat next to Hattie, his face paler than normal, if such a thing was possible and his eyes focused on something he was seeing that wasn’t part of the world around them.

“Bob? You okay?”

“No.”

Hattie reached out her hand to place over one of his. He looked so lost all of a sudden. “Bad news?”

Bob laughed. A disturbing laugh. “Oh, yes…very bad news…but I’ve got to act on it. I’ve got to leave Brooklyn today and go out west.”

“Out west where?”

“Nevada. I used to work out there, you see.” Bob swiveled his head to face Hattie. “You ever really listen to the words of that song?” He jerked a thumb at the double dutchers. “I mean REALLY listen? It is one dumb song, isn’t it?”

Hattie was beginning to be just a little bit frightened. She’d lived on the streets since she was 14 and she knew how fast people could turn on you. But she didn’t read Bob as being one of those types that would just go off for no reason and she didn’t think he was going to now. But he was upset, that much was plain.

Hattie nodded. “Yeah…I like the Cap’tin ‘Merica one better…” and left it at that. She really wasn’t sure what else she could say.

Bob reached into a pocket and drew forth money and began smoothing out bills and placing them on the small space of bench between himself and Hattie. “I want you to do me a favor, okay?”

“Sure, Bob.”

“I’m going to give you money to pay for three months rent on my apartment over on Cumberland. I’m going to leave my set of keys with you as well. If I’m not back in two months I mostly likely won’t ever be coming back and you can have whatever you want in my apartment. Here’s five hundred for your trouble.”

Hattie nodded and accepted the rent money and her five hundred. She didn’t ask questions or inquire of motives. She didn’t waste time on such foolishness. The only thing she asked was; “are you going to be okay, Bob?”

Bob laughed that disturbing laugh again while he listened to the double dutchers as they skipped rope to that goofy Hulk song again and Hattie suddenly had the feeling that she was sitting next to a damned soul who had gotten out of Hell on a weekend pass and the pass was almost expired.

Hulkbuster Base, Nevada
Two Days Ago

Lt. Colonel Felton Hardbottle snapped to attention as General Thaddeus ‘Thunderbolt’ Ross entered the spacious office and his salute was military precision itself. But it was a performance wasted on General Ross who considered the last perfect soldier alive to be himself. Ross barely returned the salute, grunted; “at ease” before seating himself in the plush, high-backed leather commander chair behind the huge mahogany desk that gleamed as if it were polished twice a day and knowing General Ross, it probably was.

The General’s office was a shrine to the ego of the man. Everywhere you looked there were plaques, awards, commendations, trophies and pictures of him smiling and shaking hands with Presidents from Kennedy to Bush. Hardbottle stood at attention while Ross when through his file. It was considerable reading as the folder was easily two inches thick. After twenty minutes, Ross closed the folder and sat back. He looked at Hardbottle and Hardbottle looked straight back into the old man’s eyes. The Thunderbolt Stare was a famous Army legend, had been for the past 40 years but Hardbottle was damned if he’d let it get to him.

“Been in some trouble the past few years I see, soldier.” The General’s voice was a gravelly rasp that sounded as if the man had been gargling with sand all his life.

“Yes, sir.”

“Says here,” Ross tapped the folder, “that you have quite a love for the demon rum, soldier. More than a few reprimands for drunk and disorderly. Says that you’ve spent time in way more than your share of rehab facilities drying out but you always go back to the booze. Don’t they have a term for that? Recidivist? Is that the word I’m thinking of?”

“Sir, I’ve never had so much as a mouthful of Listerine while on duty.” And that was a total lie but to look and listen to Hardbottle you wouldn’t have known it. He’d long ago been trained by the best in the art of lying and he’d learned very well.

But Ross wasn’t buying it in any case. His icy gray eyes narrowed as he growled: “So you think it’s fine and dandy for you to get sloppy drunk on your time off, is that it? What if we go to DefCon One while you’re on a weekend binge, mister? You expect us to hold up the damned war until you sober up? I suppose if The Hulk decides to stomp Washington D.C. into a mud puddle we have to wait until you get over your hangover, is that right?”

“Permission to speak freely, sir?”

“Make it good, soldier.”

“I requested to be transferred here but I didn’t ask to be transferred to The Hulkbusters. It’s not my fault you can’t get the officers you want transferred to your command because you’ve wasted billions of taxpayer money and thrown away God knows how many lives and you still haven’t captured or killed The Hulk. Don’t take your frustrations out on me.”

Thunderbolt Ross leaped to his feet, his thick white mustache seeming to bristle as he struggled with the raging emotions inside of him. “Now see HERE, mister! You want to be damned careful how far you know with that mouth of yours. I gave you permission to speak freely but I did NOT give you permission to play junior psychoanalyst with me and if you don’t want to find your ass in Leavenworth for the next thirty years turning big rocks into little ones you’d do well to remember who I am! Is that CLEAR?”

“Yessir!”

“Your transfer to The Hulkbusters is purely a matter of you calling in some IOU’s. You think I don’t know about the Black Operations you’ve performed? And more importantly,who you performed them for? Under other circumstances I’d be impressed with the operations you’ve pulled off, mister.”

“You’ve called in your share of markers to keep Hulkbuster Base active and funded. Sir.”

Ross glared at the younger man for a few seconds before settling back into his chair, a huge grin on his wrinkled, square face. “Good. You’ll do, Hardbottle. You’ll do.”

Hardbottle didn’t let the relief he was feeling show on his face. He had taken a big risk mouthing of the way he did even though Ross had given him permission. Still, he’d stepped way over the line and both he and Ross knew it. But Hardbottle had done his homework on Ol’ Thunderbolt and he knew that if there was one thing the old man hated to see, it was weakness. He appreciated an officer who wouldn’t be browbeaten or intimidated. Still, Hardbottle didn’t think he’d be pulling that stunt too often. After all, the old man WAS a general.

Ross waved for Hardbottle to sit down in a comfortable lounge chair. “Have a seat and we’ll get down to business.” Ross pressed a button on a remote control and the office lights dimmed as a holographic screen slid down from the ceiling. Ross pressed another button and the screen flickered into brilliant life. Hardbottle could tell from the specs being displayed in the lower right hand corner that what they were seeing was a live transmission from an installation some fifty miles south of Hulkbuster Base. Hundreds of soldiers were in position around a gigantic cube that was being held in place inside of a massively complex framework of steel. Hardbottle sat up a little straighter in his chair. The tanks were not only equipped with conventional cannons but plasma casters as well. Special ground troops were armed with portable electron bazookas and shoulder mounted repulsor blasters.

Hardbottle look at Ross. “Tony Stark designed a lot of your ordinance, didn’t he?”

Ross nodded approvingly. “Very good, soldier. Yes, Tony Stark developed many weapon systems for The Army before he got all namby-pamby on us. Every once in a while he makes some noise about it but there’s not much he can do.”

“Exactly what is it I’m looking at, General?”

“A new gas has been developed. Called RA2 and it’s supposed to be potent enough to knock out heavyweights such The Thing, The Rhino, The Juggernaut-“

“-or The Hulk?”

“Exactly! The plan is simple: once The Hulk is here, we hit him with RA2 gas and stuff him inside The Cage.” Ross gestured at the gigantic cube on the screen. “The Cage is a titanium reinforced prison that will hold him long enough while we drop him down the shaft.”

“How deep is the shaft?”

“Damned if I know. It’s one of my auxiliary plans I devised years ago and abandoned for some reason. But I reactivated it and the crew has been digging it night and day for four months now. Damn thing ends up in China for all I know. But it’s certainly deep enough for our purposes.”

“Which is?”

“There’s a nuclear device attached to the bottom of The Cage.” Ross grinned wolfishly. “We drop The Cage and once it’s fallen far enough, we set it off and that will be that. Finally.”

Hardbottle said nothing but privately he thought the scheme about as well thought out and as well planned as one of Wile E. Coyote’s. But what else was he going to do? Ross had sacrificed everything in his life to the pursuit of The Hulk and the only reason The Pentagon kept giving him funding was the unspoken belief that if The Hulk were kept busy being hounded by General Ross, he’d be too busy to stomp New York or Los Angeles or even Washington, D.C. out of existence. Hardbottle had no real animosity against The Hulk himself but after the last bit of foolishness he’d indulged in, he desperately needed an assignment nobody would refuse him. And The Hulkbusters was it. When he’d made some phone calls and pulled strings to swing this assignment, the orders had been cut with a frightening swiftness. 28 hours after requesting the transfer he found himself on an Army transport plane heading to Nevada. And so here he was, taking orders from a modern day Ahab who was out to destroy a creature that could easily eat old Moby Dick for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

“And what exactly am I going to be doing while this is going on, sir?”

“Hardbottle, I’m putting you in command of this operation. What do you think of that?”

“I honestly don’t know what to say, sir. Except: why me?”

“Because I know you were under the impression you were going to push papers and soak your brain in booze while waiting for the stink of your last screw up to dissipate into the upper atmosphere and that simply is not going to happen while you’re serving in my command, mister. A man with your talents needs to be right on the front lines and that’s exactly where you’re going to be. Right out there in front, going toe-to-toe with The Hulk. You’re going to be my Number One Hulkbuster from now on, boy…how do you feel about that?”

“Considering that everybody else in the past who had the job of being your ‘Number One Hulkbuster’ as you so eloquently put it has either gone mad or is dead, you will understand my reluctance to throw my hat in the air and cheer. Sir.”

Ross continued to smile that unpleasantly wolfish smile as he answered; “But you will follow orders. To the letter.”

“Might I ask a question, sir?”

“It’s my understanding that these days The Hulk has the intelligence of Bruce Banner, correct?”

Ross shrugged. “More or less. Some days more than others.” Ross was no longer smiling. “According to reports from field agents who have been following him, it’s the green Hulk we’re dealing with but he’s got an almost vicious attitude. He’s intelligent, all right…none of that ‘Hulk smash’ stuff but brutal, thuggish.”

“Which means that we’re dealing with a far more dangerous Hulk incarnation than you’ve encountered before. One that is more than likely a few fries short of a Happy Meal. What makes you think he’s just going to walk into your trap?”

General Ross leaned forward on his polished desk, interlacing thick, sausage like fingers as he spoke slowly and quietly; “Lt. Colonel Hardbottle, we’ve got a secret weapon on our side that’s helping to bring The Hulk here to us.”

“And that secret weapon would be…?”

“Have you ever heard of…The Leader?”

Las Vegas, Nevada
One Day Ago

It was a simple matter for Bruce Banner to find one of the cashboxes he had buried in the desert outside Las Vegas back when as The Gray Hulk he had used the name Joe Fixit. The Gray Hulk had been the most cunning and devious of all his incarnations and there were nearly half a dozen cashboxes with a total of somewhere around 2.4 million dollars dived evenly between them. The events of the last few days had severely depleted his funds and he needed more in a hurry. And since he had to go out to Nevada anyway, there’d never be a better time to dig up a hefty chunk of change.

He stayed away from The Strip and found a comfortable hotel where the bored desk clerk barely looked at his phony driver’s license identifying him as David Bixby of Hollywood, California and dutifully signed him in. Bruce took the key and found his room. He locked the door behind him and placed his leather satchel on the bed. He removed the many notebooks and looked through them, sighing. First thing tomorrow he’d go to a bank and get a safety deposit box and place the notebooks there. How many sets of notebooks were in safety deposit boxes across the country? The world? He’d long ago lost track. At least three dozen, he figured. Each set another link in a long and complicated chain that stretched back for years. The ever-elusive cure that would rid him of this curse forever. But he was starting to think that he was fooling himself. He’d always be sidetracked by something. If it weren’t his own urges and ghastly desires to indulge in the horrible rampages of The Hulk, it would be something else. There would always be something to get in his way of finding a cure.

Bruce went into the bathroom and washed out the tub. Then he ran it full of very hot water and waited for it to fill up while his mind went over this latest mission of insanity. When he should have been trying to stay the hell away from Ross and his Hulkbusters, here he was planning to invade their stronghold. Insanity. Madness on a grand scale. But he had to do it. For the past ten weeks he’d been in contact with a very special friend being held captive inside Hulkbuster Base and that friend held important information that Bruce absolutely had to have.

He took off his clothes and slipped into the tub, hissing in painful delight as the hot water covered his slim body. The hot bath felt sinfully good. It had been a long trip from the East Coast. He stayed away from train stations and airports at all costs and had taken the risk to hire a pilot and his plane. The pilot was one who knew how to keep his mouth shut for the right price but still, Bruce had been nervous. The last he heard the reward for information leading to the capture of Doctor Bruce Banner aka The Hulk had been upped to five million. Bruce knew plenty who’d be more than happy to turn him in for a lot less than that.
But time had been of the essence and he couldn’t afford to waste even a minute of it.

Bruce indulged himself in his bath for about an hour before climbing out. He wrapped himself in a couple of big terrycloth towels and called the front desk, asked what was a good place to eat nearby that delivered. The bored desk clerk provided him with the phone numbers of a few take out joints and after some deliberation, Bruce ordered a BBQ rib dinner from the diner half a block away. While he waited he got out his laptop from the satchel and hooked it up. Time to make contact and let his friend know that things were about to happen.

Bruce had set up several secure private chat rooms so that he could keep in touch with the few friends he had left scattered across the country and the world. Hell, he could even have pinged Stephen Strange on AIM if he wanted to. Master of The Mystic Arts he was, true that. Sorcerer Supreme of Earth he was, without a doubt. But even a magician of Stephen’s power recognized the value of The Internet to do research and make sure that no website was revealing dangerous information best left unknown.

One of these secure rooms had been hacked into by the man who was now being held captive at Hulkbuster Base and it was this individual who Bruce now made contact with. The laptop was one he had built himself with it’s own satellite uplink, capable of linking with whatever communications satellite was the closest with a hyperwave frequency that piggybacked onto any one of a dozen dummy signals. Since not even Bruce knew which dummy signal the computer would choose to piggyback the hyperwave onto, there was no chance of him overusing one particular dummy signal and running the chance of it being locked onto by interested parties.

His food was delivered and he paid the smiling Asian youth, giving him a two buck tip and he sat in front of his laptop while gnawing contently on a rib, staring at the glowing screen, waiting for contact. His patience was rewarded by black letters appearing on the screen:

The Leader: Is it safe to talk?

Bruce put down the rib bone and carefully wiped his hands free of BBQ sauce before typing a reply:

BGM: Yes. It’s safe to talk. But I wouldn’t advise that we stay online more than ten minutes or so.
The Leader: Where are you?
BGM: Las Vegas.
The Leader: How did you get here so fast?
BGM: That’s not important right now. What you should be concerned about is making sure that everything on your end for tomorrow.
The Leader: Do you honestly think that Ross is just going to let you walk in and take me out of here?
BGM: No. I fully expect him to have an army waiting for me. Like he usually does. But I don’t care. I owe the memory of the man you once were to get you out of there and see that Ross pays for what he’s done to you.
The Leader: I’m scared.
BGM: Don’t be. Do what I do: GET MAD

Hulkbuster Base, Nevada
Now

Hardbottle checked to make sure that the area was clear and pushed the detonator down. The metal framework that had held The Cage shuddered from a series of explosions that brought the entire structure tumbling downward into the square shaft. The ringing and clanging of the savaged metal carried for miles in the clear desert air. The six remaining tanks were positioned in a circle around the shaft along with whatever troops were still able to hold a weapon. Hardbottle grinned in satisfaction. At least he’d bought them some time by dropping a few extra tons of metal into the shaft.

“I don’t care how strong the son of a bitch is, that’s gotta slow him up.” Hardbottle passed the detonator over to Neville as they both watched the huge clouds of dust raised by the explosions blow away from them. The tanks had all weapons pointed at the shaft. Some of the tanks had huge fist shaped dents in their sides, evidence of the ferocious fist battle with The Hulk. “At least until we can get some reinforcements in here.”

“We’re going to make a fight of it, sir?”

“Neville, how far away do you think we could get in a lousy hour? And do you think that Banner couldn’t catch us if he wanted to? He can cover two or three miles in one hop without breaking a sweat. I’m afraid we have well and truly stepped into a huge pile of the smelly stuff and if it is our due that we die under the big green feet of an egghead turned man-monster, so be it. Did you advise General Ross of our situation?”

“Yes sir.”

“And what did he say?”

“That our deaths should be noble and glorious, sir.”

Hardbottle grunted. He had figured that would be the old bastard’s sentiment. Didn’t give a damn how many men were killed or maimed just so long as he pursued his hellish vendetta. At least Ahab had the guts to attack his monster with his own hands. Ross roped in others to do his dirty work. Miserable old bastard. Somebody should toss a grenade right into his-

Hardbottle forced his mind away from that particular train of thought…it wouldn’t be the first time thinking like that had led him to do things he regretted the next day…

It suddenly got very quiet in the desert. The kind of quiet Hardbottle associated with those old Randolph Scott westerns where he would be crossing Apache country and he would suddenly stop and turn to his sidekick (who was probably either Andy Devine or Walter Brennan) and say in a somber, ominous tone: “I don’t like it. It’s quiet. TOO quiet.”

“Get ready,” Hardbottle ordered tersely. He reached down and picked up a rail gun and activated it. The long barrel thrummed with power as Neville turned to cover Hardbottle’s back, also armed with a rail gun.

A thousand feet south of the shaft, between the ring of tanks and the troops, the earth was cracking open, a huge ragged gash being torn in the crust itself. The ground suddenly seemed to be yanked to the right and men struggled to maintain their footing. Once again the ground appeared to be seized by some massive gravitational force and yanked to the left this time.

“The bastard dug a side tunnel! He’s coming up on our flank!” Hardbottle snarled. “He’s digging right up behind us! Shit!”

A pair of enormous emerald green hands thrust upwards into the open air as if the planet itself was giving birth or perhaps whatever it was clawing free from a grave. Broken, cracked nails oozed green blood.
The hands gripped the sides of the ragged gash and simply shoved back the restraining earth on both sides, thousands of pounds of earth being pushed aside as easily as a baby shoved aside his favorite sleeping blanket. And a seven-foot tall, thousand pound behemoth emerged from the gash, escaping gases bursting upwards.

Hardbottle could barely believe his eyes. It seemed that every time he saw The Hulk, he was bigger. Veins the size of South American pythons writhed under the thick green hide. And those muscles…gigantic ropes and slabs of gamma irradiated muscle tissue flexed and rolled. The eyes of The Hulk burned with a deep fire of anger and Hardbottle recalled that The Hulk’s physical power increased exponentially in direct relation to his increasing and continued outrage.

Or to put it simply: The madder The Hulk got, the stronger he got.

“Contact the tanks! Tell them to turn those turrets around and fire!” Hardbottle ordered.

Hardbottle lifted his rail gun and thumbed off the safeties and pulled the trigger. Bullets spewed out of the long barrel. Teflon bullets with spent uranium cores propelled at 3,000 miles a second poured out in a steady stream, making the air sizzle as the bullets took The Hulk right in the face, a even dozen of them. The Hulk roared inarticulately grabbed his smoking face with one hand, stumbling backwards.

“Run!” Hardbottle commanded. It wasn’t easy running while carrying a fifty-pound rail gun but a healthy dose of adrenaline being pumped into your system certainly helped. Neville was frantically screaming something into his radio about The Devil not being red but green which wasn’t a whole lot of goddamn help. Hardbottle tripped Neville up and he hit the ground hard, still screaming incoherently. Hardbottle ran after the durable radio that was bouncing along the ground and snatched it up.

“This is Hardbottle. Track on my signal and fire at will. Do you understand me? Track on my signal and fire at will.”

The radio crackled back, “But sir, you’re right in the line of fire-“

“You have your orders.” Hardbottle stuffed the radio in a pocket and yelled at Neville to find cover. Once those tanks started firing, there would be a lot of destructive energy being flung their way and Hardbottle wanted to be as far away as he could. There was a string of foxholes nearby and he intended to make his home in one of them until it was all over. Hardbottle turned to see if Neville was following but it was The Hulk who immediately caught his attention. The Hulk was glaring right at Hardbottle with molten hatred, his face still smoking from the impact of the rail gun’s bullets. The man-monster’s ears picked up the grinding sound of the turrets of half a dozen tanks being trained on him.

The Hulk crouched and sprang straight upwards into the air. Hardbottle gulped and sprinted for the nearest foxhole and dived in.

The Hulk came plummeting back down and hit the desert with a colossal impact that sent a massive shock wave rippling outwards in all directions from his point of impact. Jagged fissures opened up in the ground, zigzagging crazily in all directions. Dirt burst from the fissures, spewing hundreds of feet into the air. Neville was flung high into the air, twirling over and over, looking exactly like the toy soldiers Hardbottle had thrown at his sisters when he was a boy in Georgia. Neville came crashing back down and Hardbottle heard a sickening, meaty pop! and a pitiful scream from Neville and then nothing more.

The tanks flipped up in the air like tiddlywinks, turning over and over and crashing back down hard, a couple of their sides. Two or three landed upright. One exploded, throwing orange-red flames in arcing cascades over the battlefield.

Somewhere, somebody was begging God to have mercy on them.

Hardbottle himself had popped some ten feet straight up in the air and landed back down heavily in the foxhole. He was choking from a mouthful of dirt. He spat it out. He reached inside his flak jacket and withdrew his flask and swallowed the last of his booze and threw the flask away and took his rail gun in both hands and charged up and over the edge of the foxhole.

The Hulk was heading right for him, ignoring everything else around him. And why shouldn’t he? The tanks were now little more than oversized Tonka toys and the troops had obviously decided to advance in the opposite direction, a highly technical and time-honored strategic military maneuver more commonly known as ‘Retreat’.

Hardbottle let out a war whoop, aimed his rail gun and fired, the shells taking The Hulk in the chest. The bullets lodged in those great chest muscles, leaving smoking pits that oozed thick green blood that glowed slightly. The Hulk advanced slowly, seeming to relish the pain of the hits he was taking, glorifying in his own unstoppable power, his brutish indestructibility. He lifted a massive fist and brought it smashing down on the ground. Hardbottle suddenly found himself soaring through the air to land right in the palm of The Hulk’s right hand. Hardbottle gasped as The Hulk plucked the rail gun from his hands and tossed it away as if it were a toothpick.

“And you must be Ross’s latest asswipe, right?” The Hulk’s voice was like two granite blocks being rubbed together. Somehow it was more frightening to hear such a grotesque behemoth speaking. The Hulk grew impatient with Hardbottle’s silence and gently closed his hand ever so slightly.

The world became a red haze of pain and Hardbottle screamed as he tried to move fingers that simply could not be moved by anything on the planet when their owner did not wish them to be moved. “Yes, Jesus, YES! I’m working for Ross!”

The Hulk relaxed his grip. “Sorry ‘bout that.” While his apology sounded sincere, The Hulk’s square face was grinning hot and wild. He grinned with teeth that looked to be the size of roofing shingles and green blood oozed from his gums. Hardbottle could only watch is astonishment as the wounds in The Hulk’s face were healing right before his eyes. “Sometimes I dunno my own strength. Especially when I’m pissed. What’s your name, soldier?”

“Lt. Colonel Felton Hardbottle. Why? You wanna send flowers to my widow? There’s three ex-Mrs. Hardbottles you’ll have to spring for.”

The Hulk’s grin increased. “I can see why Ross picked you. You got balls, Hardbottle. Let’s go have a talk, me and you. There’s things you oughta know about this situation we got here. Things you oughta know about the jumped-up little jerkoff you’re workin’ for.”

And with that, The Hulk sprang into the air, far away from the scene of destruction he had caused and Hardbottle could only watch in terror, as the desert seemed to vanish.

NEXT ISSUE: The Hulk and Hardbottle have a heart-to-heart! More on The Leader! Who is he and why is he helping Bruce Banner? And Thunderbolt Ross pulls out his final ace-in-the-hole! All this and more in “Did I Hear Someone Say…SENTINELS?”