JSA: Classified #2

Secret Communiqué:
From: Spy Smasher
To: General Harrigan

The political situation in Central Europe continues to deteriorate rapidly. After the suicide bombings of last week, the Queen of Markovia has demanded that Kronstadt find and extradite the terrorists responsible before they strike again. Of course, the Crown Prince of Kronstadt, Frederick, objects strenuously that his countrymen have committed no crimes, and meanwhile Illyria has fortified its border and Kasnia has recalled its ambassador.

Diplomats from Kronstadt’s ally, Ostenburgh, have made little headway in Petrovna or Kasopolis, and there seems to be little chance of a brokered peace summit at this point. Vlatava and Modora have declared their neutrality, but both countries have released statements saying they are watching the situation “very closely” and will likely intervene in the event of an armed conflict.

We have been in Kronbourg five days now, and the city feels like there is a storm cloud hovering over it, ready to burst. Sandman goes out every night, and has twice broken into the Volkshalle, the ministry building of the Kronian government, but has uncovered no overt connection to the Fourth Reich. He has also made an unsuccessful foray into Castle Kron, but security proved to be too tight, and he was forced to flee or be captured.

In response to the escalating military threat from its neighbors, Kronstadt has mobilized its armed forces, a modern and impressive display of tanks and marching soldiers parading through the streets of the capitol. Martial law has not been declared, but it isn’t hard to see it coming.

And through it all, a surprise announcement: the wedding of Graf Von Kron and Elektra Kostopoulos has been moved up to tomorrow night. This hasty change of plans can only mean that the old man is not long for this world, or that events are moving faster than the Fourth Reich have anticipated. Preparations for the nuptials have the city running around the clock, and all the news is of the future Graffin being fitted for her dress, or the great hall of the castle being decorated in antique finery--- it’s almost enough to make one forget there is something rotten in the state of Kron.

Wesley Dodds and Katrina Armstrong have secured invitations to tomorrow night’s festivities, at which point we will ascertain the true identity of Elektra Kostopoulos, and if necessary, take her into custody. But I get the feeling that when we kick over this mound, we may be hard-pressed to handle the angry ants that come swarming out after us…








She placed one stiletto heel on the marble basin of the sink countertop, one creamy thigh exposed through the slit in her dress: one by one, she slipped a brace of throwing knives into her specially-modified garter. The tie that bound up her elegantly-coiffed hair was a garrote.

Surveying herself in the hotel room mirror, Katrina Armstrong was pleased: she was dressed to kill--- and dressed to kill.

This was the mission she’d been waiting for all her life, ever since she read her grandfather’s wartime journals. Things were so clear-cut in his day, so black and white: there were heroes, like the JSA, and there were villains, like the Nazis. When her time came to serve her country, she devoutly wished for that sort of clarity in an ambiguous world of shades of grey. Now they were come again, and this was her chance to strike a blow against evil, to shut them down before they could menace the world again….

All of her training had led her to this moment. Her studies at Harvard, her grueling physical training at Quantico; her body fairly hummed with the need for action. Of course, she realized she was walking into the lion’s den, but, hell, that’s where the lions were…!

A noise behind her caught her attention, and she turned as Wesley Dodds emerged from his adjoining room.

“Is that what you’re wearing?” she asked, somewhat incredulous.

The only concession the non-plussed JSAer had made to Kronstadt’s social event of the century was a tie, and even that was rumpled.

“When they try to throw me out,” he told her grimly, holstering his wirepoon gun under his coat. “It won’t be because of the way I’m dressed.”

Any other time she would have laughed. But the look on his face was one of grim certitude: this man had lost a friend. And though he would never admit it, this mission was no longer only about bringing a criminal to justice, but also revenge.

“The let’s go crash a wedding,” said Katrina Armstrong.





Castle Kron, ancestral seat of the proud house of Von Kron, sat on the banks of the Kas River, across an ancient Roman bridge from the town of Kronbourg. Streams of people flooded from the town towards the castle, the night lit by torches along the path. Ahead of them, the gothic building was warm and inviting, the music and light coming from it could be heard and seen from miles away.

A news crew broadcast from just outside, the correspondent in her evening gown interviewing the scowling Crown Prince Frederick.

“… of course, the Royal Family is delighted our dear father has found such happiness with Fraulein Kostopoulos, but the people should be reassured that the ship of state shall continued to be steered by experienced hands. Chancellor Zwerg and I are exerting all efforts to avert any hostilities with our neighbors…”

Wesley Dodds and Katrina Armstrong walked arm-in-arm with the rest of the finely-dressed guests, aristocrats and commoners alike. For many of them, the wedding was a brief respite in a world that seemed to be plunging swiftly towards violence and insanity. Some in the crowd were dressed in new military uniforms, proudly bearing the white and red of the Kronian Eagle.

At the opened portcullis, Pachebel’s Canon drifting loudly out to them as the ceremony got underway, they parted company. Wes pulled her close to him for a moment, and in the pretext of kissing her on the cheek, whispered, “Good hunting--- and be careful.”

Thrilled a little at the kiss--- Katrina had been forced to admit to herself she had a crush on the older man--- she gave him a tight nod, let her hand linger for a moment on his arm, then moved away: their mission was to not only to get the Baroness, but to uncover the trail to the Fourth Reich. If any existed in Castle Kron, Katrina Armstrong, Spy Smasher, would find it: they had a war to head off…





The ceremony got underway. Graf Otto Von Kron, looking pale and detached, though resplendent in his regalia, was flanked by his sons and grandsons, but all eyes went to Elektra Kostopoulos as she descended the grand stone staircase, a long white train trailing behind her. Cameras flashed, and appreciative gasps and flutters were heard over the organ music as she approached her future husband and the Arhcbishop of Kronstadt waiting at the newly erected alter.

While all eyes were on the spectacle, Katrina took the opportunity to slip away. She went through the kitchens, walking confidently, as if she belonged there. No one gave her a second look amid the bustle. A corridor on the other end led her to a narrow stone staircase that seemed to lead down to the wine cellars, and up to the servants’ quarters. She went up, even stepping aside to let pass a maid too busy to realize Katrina was not supposed to be there.

After climbing a long way, at the ninth landing, she glimpsed a hall draped with tapestries: according to the plans she had committed to her photographic memory, this was the area reserved for the Royal Consort and her staff. The sounds of the celebration far below were muffled and distant. Katrina crept along the corridor, sticking close to the wall; from around the corner there came the sound of someone approaching. It was too late for her to retreat, and there was nowhere to hide.

The woman that rounded the corner was tall and grey, wore oversized glasses and a lab-coat--- and was not alone: a guard accompanied her, not one of the Royal Guard of Kron, but one wearing a red and white arm band that proudly bore a swastika.

Astonished to see her, they were momentarily caught unawares--- which was all the time Katrina needed. The armed escort fumbled for the rifle slung over his shoulder, but Katrina was quicker. In one fluid motion, she dropped to one knee, detached a throwing knife from her garter and hurled it end over end at the guard. It sprouted from the man’s throat, taking him down soundlessly. The lab-coated woman barely blinked at the sudden blood-letting, turned and ran back the way she came. Katrina sprang after her, not even slowing as she swept up the fallen guard’s rifle, and was atop her prey in a flash.

The woman shouted for help, but was quickly silenced by a rifle stock to the back of the head; she crumpled to the floor, Katrina standing over her. A door in the corridor opened, and a similarly-uniformed man poked out, this time an officer.

“Vas ist---?”

“Save it, fascist.” Katrina swung her weapon around, training it on the stunned military man. “How many more of you on this floor?”

The man snarled and went for his holstered sidearm. Not wanting to fire the rifle and raise an alarm, Katrina gambled that she could reach her knives and throw before the officer got off a shot.

The knife thudded into the Nazi’s chest and he staggered backward, dead before his body hit the ground, his pistol clattering on the flagstones.

By the time the woman in the lab-coat came around, Katrina had dragged the two dead bodies into the room, which was empty but for a table strewn with medical reports and personnel files.

“Who are you, Amerikaner…?” asked the woman, slumped against the wall, Katrina’s high-heeled shoe pinning her in place.

“You can call me Spy Smasher,” she held the rifle expertly, her brace of knives peeking out from her intentionally-exposed length of thigh. “And you are…?”

The woman just glared up at Katrina. Without batting an eyelash, Katrina kicked the woman in the face, then repositioned her foot to keep her from sliding to the floor. The older woman spit out a tooth, and shook her head, dazed.

“Your name. If I have to ask again, I’m going to put my heel through your shoulder.” To emphasize this, she dug the stiletto point of her heel into the fleshy area between the woman’s shoulder and neck.

“Dr. Gerta Von Gunther,” the woman gave up sourly. “I am Fraulein Kostopoulos’ personal physician.”

“You mean Magdalena di Sforza,” Katrina corrected her.

Von Gunther looked daggers at her, but the pressure of the stiletto heel caused her to squirm and nod her head grudgingly.

Katrina smiled without humor or warmth. “Your cooperation is greatly appreciated. So, the Fourth Reich has designs on Kronstadt… What do you gain by inciting war in the region? What’s the masterplan, here, doc?”

Von Gunther’s lip curled and she snorted. “You give me too much credit. I am just a scientist. They don’t tell me those---.”

Katrina tried a different tack. “Those files over there all talk about Project Herrenvolk, and I’m guessing you’re the brains behind it. Tell me about that--- and don’t give me any of that underling crap: you’re important enough to have two guards assigned to you.”

The defiance in the older woman seemed to drain a little, replaced by genuine fear.

“It is a great work, done in the service of our Fuhrer,” she stammered, reticent to say more.

“Your Fuhrer? You dusted that one off? You gotta be kidding me…!” Katrina shook her head in disgust. “Who is this megalomaniac, anyway? And where is he? I want to personally put this foot up his ass.”

“I have never seen him, and I don’t know where he is, but I have heard his voice. We all have.” Von Gunther lifted her head, her eyes glazing as if recalling a cherished memory. She actually shuddered in weird transport. “He is the one who will lead us to glory, to an Everlasting Reich, and a new Golden Age of---.”

The sound of Katrina throwing the bolt on the rifle caused Von Gunther to snap her mouth shut.

“Back to Project Herrenvolk, then.”

Von Gunther swallowed. “I… It will be better if I show you. You’ll will understand then, ja? My lab is downstairs. I will take you---”

“You mean walk me into a trap?” Katrina dug in her stiletto so hard, the woman cried out.

“Nein, nein, the lab is empty now, all are busy elsewhere!” Von Gunther gasped. “I can take us there by a secret route--- no one will stop us. Only by seeing it can you understand the import of my work.”

Katrina didn’t have much of a choice: for the better part of a year, they had heard rumors and whispers of this Project Herrenvolk, but it had remained shrouded in mystery. General Harrigan would give his right arm for this intel, and she knew she could not pass this up.

But she had the feeling she wasn’t going to like what she saw.

Katrina took her foot off the scientist and yanked her up roughly. “If you lead me into a room full of stormtroppers, the first bullet goes into your brain. Now lead on, Dr. Dementrix.”





True to her word, Von Gunther navigated little-used corridors and back passages of Castle Kron, and they met no other living soul. The lab was deep beneath the castle, where the walls were rough-hewn from the bedrock, and fitted for torches, which provided the only light.

“We are here.”

The door was out of place in the medieval setting, a heavy steel portal, with a palm-print scanner for access. Von Gunther unlocked it, and it hissed open, a gust of chill air causing the little hairs on Katrina’s body to stand up.

They walked in, Von Gunther ahead, prodded by the nozzle of Katrina’s rifle. The lab was eerily lit by dull florescent lights, was kept cold and smelled of sterile chemicals. It was filled with rows upon rows of man-sized amniotic chambers, in which floated humanoid figures, each chamber carefully labeled. Chilled compartments held beakers of unnaturally colored fluid, work stations ran on without attendants, and amidst it all walked Dr. Gerta Von Gunther, her face lit with pride.

“Project Herrenvolk was conceived in the early days of the Third Reich, and was my mother’s life’s work, but when the Allies occupied Berlin, she was forced to abandon her research and flee,” the older woman began as Katrina looked around her in growing horror. “She had her mandate from Adolf Hitler himself: create for him a Master Race, one with which he could rule the world. At first, she met with only qualified successes: the super-soldier serum that turned Albrecht Krieger into Captain Nazi was her doing, but the formula killed everyone else she used it on. After the war, she continued her work in secret, and when I was old enough, I became her assistant and partner; we would not fail our Fuhrer. For many years, we toiled on our Great Mission, funded by American supremacist Hermann Von Bach. My mother’s last great breakthrough was the longevity serum, by which many of our wartime comrades, such as the Iron Major and General Zahl, are able to continue the great struggle.”

Katrina shook her head, appalled that science could be twisted to such perverted ends.

“Alas, my mother was not to live to see the fruition of her labors: she was killed when one of her… experiments went wrong. Nevertheless, I carried on, and became an essential component to the growing junta that would become the Fourth Reich!”

“Just exactly what have you done?” Katrina demanded in a deadly-soft voice. “What… are those?” she indicated the amniotic tanks and the still figures within.

“Those are the Untermenschen,” Von Gunther waved a dismissive hand at the rows of tanks. “Brutes and imbeciles, not born, but grown in those nutrient baths. They are failed experiments, but perhaps there is yet some value in them.” Von Gunther walked over to one and switched on an interior light. The thing in the tank opened its eyes and thrashed about in the greenish fluid: it was impossible to tell if it was enraged or terrified, as it had a mouth like the maw of an octopus, and all four of its limbs were squirming tentacles. But its eyes were wide and panicked. Von Gunther turned the light off, and the thing in the tank settled down. “An abomination. But from such trial and error we learn.”

Katrina was losing her patience and the disgust welling within her threatened to bubble out in the form of a spray of bullets. “Trial and error? What did you hope to accomplish here?”

“Hope?” Von Gunther’s eyebrows arched. “Nein, Amerikaner, it is a reality! You see, we always knew if the Fourth Reich was to take its rightful place upon the world stage, we would be opposed by the verdammt Justice Society of America, so we needed ubermenschen of our own. That is the true mission of Project Herrenvolk--- I am a one woman superhero factory! Baroness Blitzkrieg was my first breakthrough, her metagene adapting most ideally to the chrono-spatial field of the so-called Speed-Force. I gave Der Sturmer the ability to perfectly replicate himself, dozens, hundreds, thousands of times over, each diploid capable of the same ability--- a virtual army of synchronized stormtroppers! And just a few days ago, I completed work on my newest ubermensch, one who will deliver death on an unimaginable scale, one who will usher in our new era of power…!”

“What are you talking about?”

Von Gunther’s eyes were lit with a feverish ecstasy. “Even now, he is making his way upstairs to the wedding, my angel of death, my Zyklon. His very breath means a swift, agonizing demise. The attack will look like retaliation for the suicide bombings in neighboring nations, giving us ample reasons to ramp up for our great crusade. The slaughter will be complete, laying waste to the entire Royal Family of Kronstadt, leaving only a grieving widow to rally the country against the aggressors who surround us. We are on the eve of World War Three, Amerikaner, and you are too late to do anything about it!”





The Great Hall is strung with lights and bedecked in traditional Kronian heraldry. A chamber orchestra is playing something by Hoffman, and on a newly erected dance-floor, gaily-dressed couples are twirling and laughing.

This is a far cry from the stolid, Teutonic state I remembered, and indeed, much unlike Graf Otto Von Kron. The old man himself is seated in a comfortable chair on a balcony overlooking the Hall, looking every inch his eighty-plus years. Around him are gathered his family, some in military dress, all of them wearing almost identical scowls of disapproval. Presumably, his young bride is below, mingling with the guests.

On the dance-floor, one woman is the object of attention. She is passed from partner to partner, none of them keeping her very long. She is gorgeous, with flowing hair the color of midnight, eyes like chips of arctic ice, and a laugh that rings like the finest crystal.

I stare for a moment, reluctantly admiring her beauty. As if alerted by my scrutiny, she catches my eye, holds it for a moment, then finds an excuse to leave the dance-floor. Blushing prettily, she approaches me, slightly out of breath but managing to look coolly aristocratic.

“A little underdressed for my gala, aren’t you, Herr…?”

“Dodds,” I doff my hat, and unselfconsciously smooth back my mousy brown hair. “Wesley Dodds. And my invitation came late. I only just arrived in Kronstadt.” I offer her a bland smile.

A small frown crinkles her nose and brow, as she surveys my scruffy raincoat and weathered fedora.

“Are you a friend of my husband?”

“I have known Graf Von Kron for many years. Since he was a child, in fact.”

“Impossible,” she sniffs. “My husband is many years older than you. You are a queer little man.”

I incline my head, conceding the fact. I cannot help but bait her, just as I cannot forget this woman is responsible for the death of my friend. I want to see her sweat.

“No matter. Come Wesley Dodds, all is forgiven on this night. Dance with me, and I will make you a Knight of Kronstadt!” She holds out her hand, which is clad in white lace, but much to her surprise, I demur.

“Forgive me, Baroness, but I haven’t danced with a woman since my Dian died, and I have no wish to start with you.” I meet her outrage squarely. “Pardon me while I pay my respects to Graf Otto.”

Her icy eyes become tempest –tossed, and the skin of her neck and cleavage flush.

“I am the Grafin Von Kron.”

“Pardon me…?”

“You called me ‘baroness.’ My title is Grafin, Herr Dodds. You would do well to remember that.”

Unrepentant, I watch her stalk back to the dance-floor, an affected laugh following in her wake. But I got what I came for: there is no doubt in my mind that this is Magdalena di Sforza.

“Kat, I have made contact and positive identification,” I whisper into the trnasmitter on my cufflink. “Elektra Kostopoulos is the Baroness Blitzkrieg. I am going to secure Otto and his family then we can---.”

“Wes, get out of there!” my partner’s voice on the ear-bud receiver is breathless and scared. “You have to evacuate the hall--- they’re going to kill everyone!”

But the screaming has already begun. I look up, as do all the wedding guests, and see an unearthly figure, a man who is half-wraith, flying high over the crowds. He is a thing of flesh and vapor, his face a veritable death’s head mask--- and from his abnormally-extended mouth comes billowing a noxious green gas that falls down like a gentle, misting sentence of death.

Then the choking and gasping for breath begins. I watch in horror as people start to fall, twitching, to the ground, the life strangled out of them. My god, there are hundreds of people in the great hall of Castle Kron… This is going to be a massacre.

I don’t remember putting on my gas-mask, but it is the only thing that is keeping me alive right now. The green mist settles on my outstretched hand, and I rub the green granular substance between my fingers; it burns slightly, like cyanide. The cry that wells up from within me is for Charles and for Otto and for all the dead and dying souls all around me.

I scan the upper balcony where last I had seen the Royal Family: the deadly toxin has not yet spread that far, and Otto has risen from his chair as two of his panicked sons attempt to usher him to safety. But above, the apparition has spotted me, cocking its head at my survival like a curious ghost. The air in the hall is hazy with its fumes, and surely its job is nearly done.

My wirepoon gun is in my hand, and I fire it at the upper balustrade; the cable hooks the marble, and I hold on tight as I take a running leap and activate the retractor. It yanks me off the ground and into the air, and I sail across the gulf of empty space towards the frantic Royal Family.

The poison-spewing specter glides up behind me, just as I swing up over the ledge of the balcony--- the little hairs on the back of my neck tingle it is so close!--- and I spin around to face it, my gas-gun raised. It gets a face-full of my knockout gas, and it shrieks in surprise, a hideous, piteous and inhuman sound. It flutters away, hoisted on its own petard.

The balcony is temporarily safe; the gas attack has not reached this far, but the Graf and his sons remain terrified, huddled by a door that seems to be barred against them from the other side.

“Sandman!” Graf Otto wheezes in his rheumy voice, his eyes clouded by age. “Is it really you, mein freund…?”

I lost my hat swinging up to the balcony, but I tip an imaginary fedora at my old friend.

{We’ll catch up later, Graf; we’ve got to get you out of here…}

“You’re too late, Sandman,”

My coat flaps in her wake, and she makes her entrance with a speed even Jay Garrick would admire. The Baroness Blitzkrieg, now also the Graffin Von Kron, stands at the top of the stairs, still in her wedding dress, but wearing a military cap emblazoned with a swastika. “Or should I call you Wesley Dodds?” she inquires with a knowing smirk. “Now we shall have that dance after all.”

I waste no time with banter, but blast her with knockout gas. She is, of course, too fast, fanning it, dispersing it harmlessly over the edge of the balcony. But all I needed was to momentarily distract her; from my other hand, I fire my wirepoon gun at her, and the grapple shoots out, striking a glancing blow across her alabaster forehead. She drops like a sack.

“Gott in Himmel…!” Graf Otto exclaims, moaning in the arms of his eldest son. “Elektra! What madness is this…?”

Below, the doors of the Great Hall are being forced, and Kronian troops are pouring in, aghast at the holocaust that greets them: the poison-gas wraith is nowhere to be seen. I am about to call down to the troops that the Graf is safe, when the door to the balcony crashes open.

I’ve never met the man, but I saw his file decades ago: he is the vision of the ruthless, war-hardened Nazi officer, his left hand lost to frost-bite on the Russian front, and replaced by an iron prosthetic. His name is the Iron Major, and I am too far away to do anything, as I watch that iron hand chop down upon the head of the Crown Prince, shattering it like the rind of a watermelon. Otto barely has time to call out before the gun in the Major’s other hand barks, and the venerable Graf Von Kron goes down, brains spraying out the back of his head. I scream in inarticulate rage and hurl myself at the killer, at the same time as the Graf’s young grandson, Karl, the only other survivor on this balcony tonight. The Iron Major’s indomitable hand sweeps up, cracking the skull of young Karl, whose body falls back into mine, causing me to stagger backward and fall to the ground, dazed and overwhelmed with horror.

Dead. They are all dead.

The boots of the Iron Major appear in my field of vision, and I gaze up at him through the goggles of my gasmask. The barrel of his Lugar is aimed at my forehead, but in his other hand, he has pulled from his pocket a set of familiar rectangular glasses.

“And now I do what nobody else has ever done,” the Nazi says in heavily accented, guttural English. “I will kill my second Amerikaner Mystery Man. Mine was the last face your Dr. Midnight ever saw, too. Give him my regards, schweinhundt.”

As his finger tightens around the trigger, all I can think of is Charles, dear, brave, loving Charles--- and in the space of an instant, I recall the night he saved my Dian’s life after she miscarried our baby. I owed that man everything.

Rage and adrenalin roar through me, and I am rolling off the ground to my feet just as the bullet strikes the floor where my head had been a millisecond ago. The Iron Major is stunned but reacts quickly, bringing his weapon up after me. He gets off another shot, the bullet drilling a hole though my flaring raincoat. My fist connects with his face in a satisfying crunch, knocking him backward, his gun falling from his grasp. I follow it up with an uppercut I’ve seen Ted Grant throw a thousand times, then a right hook that sends my foe staggering against the low balcony wall. Blood covers a mouth of broken teeth, but the Nazi killer smiles and raises his iron hand, beckoning me on.

From out of nowhere, there is a screech and the shadow of great wings. I look up in time to see a Great Horned Owl diving from the rafters of the Great Hall, straight for the stunned Iron Major, its claws extended. Hooty slams into the face of the Iron Major in an explosion of feathers and blood. Caught completely unawares, the Nazi killer lets out a gurgling scream, and in trying to pull away from the flashing razor-sharp talons, topples backward over the edge of the balcony. His scream echoes all the way down.

I rush to the edge, and look over: the Iron Major is sprawled out on the stone floor, his neck broken, and his limbs twisted in unnatural angles. Hooty lays atop him, unmoving. In her last act, Dr. Midnight’s faithful companion has avenged him.

Then the troopers below spot me, pointing up at the balcony, and yelling. I am on the verge of calling down to them, when I notice the man leading them: his broad, cruel face is twisted in a half-smile, and I recognize Albrecht Krieger: Captain Nazi. He barks a command and the Kronian troops let loose with a barrage of gunfire, forcing me to spring back from the firestorm.

My transmitter crackles, and I’ve never been so happy to hear anyone’s voice: “Sandman, it’s all gone to hell. The Kronian Army is storming the castle, prepare for extraction. Where are you?”

{The upper balcony of the Great Hall! River-side!} I yell into my cufflink, listening as booted feet storm up the marble staircase.

“Perfect. Keep your head down!”

They are coming for me quickly, swarming up the curved ornate staircase. I can hear Krieger’s shouted commands to take me alive--- then the wall behind me explodes. Ancient stone, mortar and dust erupt outward, and I am grateful that I had taken Katrina’s advice to keep my head down. The soldiers on the staircase are not so lucky; the luckiest ones are hurled back by the blast, but others are smashed by debris. Most of them lose their footing and fall. Only Krieger remains standing, hurling men out of his way and glaring at me through the rubble that separates us.

Through the gap blown in the castle wall, I can see the Gyrosub, hovering close. Sirens are wailing somewhere, and any minute now, Krieger is going to fly over the rubble and kill me: this guys goes toe-to-toe with Captain Marvel--- not on my best day could I stand against his might.

“Wes, hurry!” I see Katrina beckoning through the cockpit.

With a final glance at the carnage around me--- so many dead, my enemies in possession of the field--- I leap the distance from the castle to the Gyrosub’s open hatch. Not one second after my feet hit the bulkhead, Katrina guides the Gyrosub into a steep climb at full acceleration, away from the castle.

I tear my gasmask off, and in a fit of uncharacteristic anger, throw it across the cabin.

“We’ve failed, Spy Smasher. The Fourth Reich has pulled off their coup, and by morning will be in complete control of Kronstadt. We’ve failed.”

“Not completely.” Katrina looked over her shoulder at me, and pointed to something I hadn’t noticed before: a severe-looking woman with gray hair and round spectacles, in a lab coat, was tied-up and gagged, slumped in a corner bulkhead. “I took a souvenir.”





The next morning, Chancellor Zwerg addressed the Volkshalle in a passionate, rousing speech that Adolf Hitler might well have been proud to deliver. With tears flowing down his cheeks, the diminutive man pounded his podium as he railed against the enemies of Kronstadt, and paraded the grieving, beautiful widow of their beloved Graf, the only survivor of the cowardly terrorist attack. Then he showed footage of the dastardly American Mystery Man, accomplice of the aggressor nations, clad in his gasmask amid the bodies of the fallen Graf and his two sons.

“However our enemies beset us, the most ancient and proud nation of Kronstadt shall not bow to the foes that surround us,” Zwerg announced with a feverish glint in his eyes. “We have a sovereign right to be free and live without fear of attack, whether that attack be from the weak and cowardly states of Kasnia or Illyria or the great America and its Justice Society! They have killed our beloved leader! They have slaughtered his family! The tears our beloved new Graffin sheds, we shed too! But we shall have justice! We shall not rest until we are secure in our lands, and the shades of our glorious dead trouble us no more…!”

“What a load of crap,” Spy Smasher had dismissed it at our debriefing with General Harrigan, back in Washington, D.C. “And the fact that they’re making it look like Wes had something to do with the massacre just because it was a gas attack can easily be disproven.”

“It already has.” General Harrigan told us. “I delivered the report to the U.N. Security Council myself, and they’ve dismissed the accusation against Sandman completely. In response, Kronstadt recalled its ambassador to the U.N., and has started deportation procedures against all foreign nationals on their home soil.”

I shook my head, staring at the replay of Zwerg’s speech at the Volkshalle. “Hitler said that people will always believe the Big Lie, because they could not conceive that the truth could be so distorted.” I turned back to them, memories of dark days, of madness and horror rushing back to me. “The lies will get bigger and the truth harder to find. We’ve got to start preparing for the worst.”

No doubt General Harrigan and his team will learn much from her, but for right now, Dr. Von Gunther is proving to be most uncooperative. I had been too quick to declare the mission a failure--- with her capture, we had at least shut down Project Herrenvolk. There is no telling what damage this sick and disturbing woman could have done if left unchecked--- nor what hideous surprises still undiscovered from her laboratory yet await us. She is taken out of play for now, but on their first move, the Fourth Reich has captured the castle.

Not all the players have been revealed, and the game is far from over, but for now my part is done. I have come home, to the retreat in Westchester, where the Justice Society trains the next generation. I walk the peaceful lawns of the estate, far from the machinations of villains and the deeds of madmen, and I remember how we fought the last great war so our children would not have to… Can they be spared just such a conflagration, or is history doomed to repeat itself?

On the grounds, there is a small, but expanding memorial, a grouping of headstones, crosses and angels, all bearing familiar names. Valhalla, they’re calling it. The final rest of heroes. No bodies are buried here, but their spirits dwell in this place, inspiring us, comforting us… C. C. Batson, Polly Prince, Ted Knight, Shiera Saunders, Lee Travis, Johnny Thunder, Terry Sloan and now Charles McNider.

The monument is a plain headstone, engraved with an owl. Charles was not a religious man, and while he appreciated the finer things life had to offer, he was never ostentatious. No one I knew had more refined taste, as a matter of fact.

In my hands are his glasses; a crack spider-webbed the front of one of the rectangular lenses, testament that my friend fought to the end. I have not dreamed since I left Kronstadt, but I know Charles’ spirit is resting quietly.

“We’ll get them, Charles,” I say aloud, on this bright Spring morning, far from the fields of horror sure to come. “The Justice Society hasn’t forgotten. We never will.” My jaw clenches of its own accord. Charles McNider’s labors were done, but it fell to me--- and my comrades in arms--- to bear witness and fight the good fight. I linger only a moment more, remembering… But fond reverie is a luxury I can no longer afford.

“Sleep well, my friend.”

I tuck the glasses safely into my coat pocket, and trudge wearily back up to the house. There is a long road ahead, and miles to go before I can lay my head down…





They sat around the circular conference room table, in a bunker below the Volkshalle in Kronbourg. They had been meeting secretly in this place for almost two years, ever since one of their number had been “elected” chancellor of Kronstadt. There was little need for secrecy now, though: between Zwerg and the Baroness, the nation was utterly in their power.

This was a moment of great triumph for them, and they had all gathered here for a grand council. Captain Nazi, to whom they all answered, sat with his arms crossed over his powerful chest. On his right was the dwarf Chancellor Zwerg, who had just arrived from a briefing with the General Staff of the Kronian military. He had just installed as their new Chief of Staff the ancient-looking man sitting next to him, General Zahl, who had a look of satisfaction on his puckered, malevolent face. Fresh from the Red Panzer factories in Ostenburgh, Von Bach the Masterman squirmed in a chair too small for him, his bulky frame threatening to collapse it. Next to him was the Valkyrie, her eyes sharp and fierce--- her feral otherworldliness no doubt contributing to Von Bach’s discomfort. Sturmer-Prime, the one from whom all the others sprang sat quietly, his dark mirrored faceplate concealing his features. Zyklon came next, an utterly non-descript man, bald but for colorless and lanky strands of hair at the side of his head, with hollowed eyes and cheeks stretched taut over his skull. His form was corporeal now, for which the Baroness, sitting next to him was more than grateful. She glanced sidelong at the poisonous wraith, then addressed Captain Nazi with a disgusted sigh.

“Does he have to be here? A new recruit at our highest council?”

Zyklon directed at her an unnerving, unblinking stare she did her best to ignore. But it was Captain Nazi that answered.

“Mr. Smythe volunteered for the procedure that transformed him into our poisonous angel of death, my Baroness, as his already-altered physiognomy made him uniquely suitable… But he has earned his place at this table, having battled our most hated adversaries longer than almost any of us, you included.”

The Baroness sniffed, and pointedly ignored the continued stare from Zyklon, the man formerly known as Smythe.

“I want only the opportunity to kill Starman,” he declared in a voice that was as ethereal as his transformed body. “If I cannot have the father, I shall take the son.”

“Before we are done, we shall take them all, old friend.” Captain Nazi rumbled. “And we all shall sit at the right hand of our Fuhrer in the Glorious Reich to come. But we must be patient. Our plans proceed apace. I declare Project: Danzig 2.0 a complete success, and Project: Herrenvolk has borne wondrous new fruit.”

“A pity that sow Von Gunter got herself captured,” the Baroness’ lip curled, gesturing to the empty chair next to her. “Better that she had killed herself.”

“It is of little moment, Baroness. We have her notes, and her research. The work will continue. But before her capture, Dr. Von Gunther had made a breakthrough. General Zahl, will you show us?”

The decrepit old man’s head bobbed and he pointed a remote control at a wall monitor. All eyes turned to the screen, which was of a video-taped interrogation. The prisoner was tied to a chair, bloodied and bruised, but unmistakably defiant. “This man was a pawn of Checkmate, the American elite covert intelligence agency.” Saliva dripped unchecked down Zahl’s chin, and it was apparent he enjoyed watching the scene of torture. “Der Sturmer dupes worked on him for days, but the man would not crack--- which made him the perfect test subject. Now look here---.” The screen showed the man, some time later and much the worse for wear, barely conscious in his chair, being injected by Dr. Von Gunther. The fluid in the syringe was black as old blood. “This was two weeks ago.” Zahl told them, clicking off the monitor and turning to look at them. “Here is that same man, today. Mach schnell!”

At the General’s command the door to the conference room opened, and two troopers entered, flanking a third man clad in the uniform of the Kronian Army, though wearing the swastika armband of the Fourth Reich. It was the same man in the video, the agent of Checkmate who wouldn’t break.

“Heil!” He declared, snapping his heels in tight and slashing the air with his crisp salute.

His eyes gleaming, General Zahl said “This man was renounced his former loyalties and has sworn undying fealty to the Reich. When asked, he delivered up the names of his wife and children back home, and watched with glee via satellite as our agents in America found them and slit their throats.”

Von Bach looked bored, but stifled a sigh. “So we have a serum to brainwash prisoners. I hardly think this qualifies as a breakthrough.”

“Dummkopf, this man is not merely loyal, he is fanatical!” snarled Zahl, spittle flying from his mouth. “He will serve the Reich unto his dying breath, and put its needs above his own. But that is not what is so extraordinary about this breakthrough! What Dr. Von Gunther has developed--- what she injected into this man--- was not a serum at all, it was a virus!”

The implications of this sunk in immediately, even with Von Bach.

“Think of it, my friends,” Captain Nazi said into the stunned moment of silence. “A legion of fanatical adherents converting masses, even enemies on the battlefield…! Any exchange of fluid will transmit the virus: sweat, blood, saliva…”

“We are calling it the Aryan Virus,” commented Chancellor Zwerg with grim contentment. “We have already released it into Kronstadt’s water supply.”

The Valkyrie released an almost hysterical laugh. “We shall bring all the world to its knees before out Fuhrer…!”

General Zahl’s head continued to bob, drool running unheeded down his chin to pool on the table top.

<Indeed, I am well pleased.>

The disembodied voice filled the room, sending chills down the backs of all them without exception.

As one, they stood at attention and saluted at the sound of the deep, rich voice. This was a momentous occasion indeed if the Fuhrer had deigned to address them. One and all hung on the next words of their unseen leader.

<We have won a great victory, my loyal followers, but the war is just beginning. And though the Aryan Virus will spread our creed across the kingdoms of the earth, we shall have to bring the blitzkrieg to the mongrel nations who oppose us, and to the thrice-damned Justice Society of America. For them, it is Götterdämmerung, and they must never see another dawn… Now hear my words, soldiers of the Fourth Reich, for this is what we must do next…>

NOT THE END…!