Chapter Nine

Haruki sat in a terminal waiting area at Narita International Airport. Seated next to him, in a nondescript brown and black skirt suit, was Lieutenant Colonel Marie Clairemont.

Nine hours prior, he’d met her for the first time. After the chaos of the last mission, with the discovery someone had developed a superhuman drug that dramatically enhanced superpowers, he’d been looking for a distraction. Kensuke gave it to him in the form of a mission briefing.

“This,” the elderly boss had waved her in, “is Marie Clairemont. She’s going to be our liaison between the two nations.”

“Nice to meet you,” she had bowed. Her Japanese had a thick American accent. Her posture and body language had an imposing air about it. He’d never seen an American woman outside of movies and television, so her confident walk and authoritative demeanor reminded him he was a child. She wore an ear-length straight cut of hair the color of a red night sky. The lines around her mouth and eyes spoke of decades of service and not messing around.

He had bowed. “I won’t let you down, ma’am.”

“You’ll be leaving tomorrow morning,” Matomaru had explained. “We’re flying you out of Narita to Los Angeles, and from there, you’ll be flown by the U.S. military to a carrier in the Middle East.” He’d asked why, given that he could fly now, all these planes were necessary.

“Because,” the Lieutenant Colonel had replied, “we don’t want to risk you being spotted using your powers over U.S. airspace.”

Now, sitting here in the terminal, it made a kind of sense. They were in a whole new era. Even without the presence of rogue gods and power-enhancing drugs, just knowing there were far more supers than anyone expected changed the whole picture. The best efforts of the Japanese government had failed to find many people who somehow hid the use of their powers. It’s honestly a miracle none of them are too crazy. He pictured the speedster who’d nearly wrecked him after taking the drug. If that guy had been a little crazier, he might not have been able to hide his crimes.

“Flight to Los Angeles is landing in ten minutes,” a masculine voice announced over the public address system.

Thoughts raced in a circle. If supers had always existed, how had their existence been covered up? The governments of the world could never have been organized enough to do such a thing. History was rife with examples of governmental incompetence. There must be supers working underground. Unlike the manga and anime, supers didn’t put on flashy costumes and operate in the open. Rather, he could imagine people sneaking around in the dark and stopping bad guys. Up until the truck hit him, supers were fiction. Then he discovered a whole world of them.

The amount of stress a super with no backing and no ability to operate in the open must be insane, he thought.

The plane deboarded and everyone shuffled on. He sat in a first class seat next to the Lieutenant Colonel and plugged his Nintendo Switch into the charge port. After the plane reached cruising altitude, games distracted him until they touched down at LAX. After deboarding and retrieving their luggage, a large black SUV picked them up and drove through Los Angeles traffic until they got to the front gate of a U.S. military base.

Haruki stared in delight at the Los Angeles skyline. Sure, Tokyo was bigger, but there were sights that didn’t exist where he came from.

“We’re almost there,” Marie said. The SUV passed through multiple security checkpoints.

‘There’ turned out to be an airstrip. The SUV pulled up to a plane that looked like a mixture of cyberpunk and engineering gone awry.

“Wow,” he stared at the sleek black jet.

“This is our ride,” she explained. “Sorry to have you in the air so much, we just need to get you there unseen.”

The black jet had a flatter top and a wider body than a passenger jet and measured about half the length. “Is this Mach Two?” he asked.

“Mach Three,” she corrected. “We don’t advertise the existence of this thing.”

The inside of the cyberpunk jet immediately struck a radical chord. The jumbo jet had a plastic gray and sterile white interior. As he buckled into his seat and put on an earmuff headset, the dark gray and black hard ceramic and metal interior seemed harsh and merely practical. Even light as he was, he sank into the thick cushioning of the seat, obviously designed to handle extreme G-forces.

Quadruple engines roared to life with a high-pitched screech that snuck through the sound muffling headset. It zoomed forward at highway speeds for a few seconds before slamming into unforgiving acceleration. His back touched the hard metal of the seat through several inches of padding. If he hadn’t had powers, his heart would feel like it had entered his mouth. Considerable effort allowed him to turn his head as the plane angled upwards. The Lieutenant Colonel and the rest of the flight crew held their bodies rigid, facing straight head to minimize risk. The plane had no windows in the passenger area, just a dimly lit interior.

Once the plane leveled out at cruising altitude, his headset crackled to life. “Look in the case in front of you,” Marie said.

He unlatched a solid metal case from under the seat in front of him. A laptop three inches thick with a solid metal shell sat inside and a power brick beneath it. It booted up to an outdated version of Windows and in four minutes, displayed a three-dimensional diagram of the target area. The aircraft carrier sat about sixty or so miles outside of the target area, and the hidden base was marked.

As he took in the names, locations, and pathways to follow, an important detail emerged. “This is different from what I saw in Japan.”

“We didn’t know who to trust,” Marie said. “The fact is, there aren’t a lot of supers we could consider.”

“Thanks, I guess,” he said.

This would be his most rigorous test to date. One hundred and thirteen square miles of desert, separated by sixty miles of ocean from safety, was where his worth as a hero would be tested. I will not be the weak link in the chain. By the time landing began, he could recite names, identities, and locations in his sleep.

“We’re at the second-to-last destination,” she told him.

He checked the clock on the laptop. “It’s barely been an hour and a half.”

“Mach Three, remember?” She got in position for descent. “We’re at a military base on the east coast.”

“So,” he asked, “are we flying out to the middle east from here?”

She shook her head. “Not tonight. It’d be way too late to get maximum likelihood of success. You’ll sleep on base tonight, and first thing in the morning, we head out.”

“Sounds good to me,” he replied.

The plane touched down and a few minutes later, a Humvee took them to a private barracks. Inside, he brushed and flossed his teeth, then sprawled out on his bed. Sleep brought him dreams of fiery stars out in space and lightning storms over furious oceans. A gentle buzzing at his door woke him up.

“You ready?” she asked.

He stretched and jerked to a standing position. Combing his hair with a swipe of his hand, he got dressed in the clothes provided and headed back out. Inside the cyberpunk jet, after strapping in, two soldiers came in, unbolted the seat in front of him, and replaced it with a desk-sized metal container. Eight bolts later and it stuck rigidly to the floor and the flight prepped for takeoff. The sun hadn’t poked over the horizon yet when he got on.

The plane took off with a roar and a whine. At cruising altitude, the heavy-duty laptop came out again, and his heartbeat accelerated as names, locations, and movement pathways refreshed in his mind. Few things could be as important as getting everyone in and out as quickly as possible. America was the big league in the world. If he failed here, it would ruin Japan’s reputation in the world’s eyes.

A rough jostling snapped him out of his mental exercises. “We’re here,” she said.

On the flight deck, jets parked and service members running back and forth put him in awe. “Wow.” Somehow, despite seeing these images in action movies, it didn’t hold a candle to the real thing. The sun beat down, and he followed the Lieutenant Colonel below deck.

“Is this the boy?” a gruff voice asked in English.

“Yes,” the Lieutenant Colonel replied in English. “This is Haruki Kawakatsu.”

Haruki looked up at the man, graying black hair and wrinkles putting him somewhere in his early fifties. “So,” the man said, “you’re going to bring us our men back.”

“This is General Vandeventer,” Marie told him in Japanese.

“Nice to meet you,” he shook the man’s hand. His English wasn’t great, but he was at least conversational. “I will do my best.”

“Respectful,” the General complimented. “Lieutenant Colonel, make sure he’s situated before the mission.”

He followed her down a set of stairs, past a hallway joining many rooms. A huge meeting room had sailors and officers poised over screens and maps. He recognized satellite photos of the desert area and maps along with biographies of each man. “Hello.”

All eyes turned to him. The men saw the Lieutenant Colonel and saluted her. “Ma’am,” a project leader said, “as you can see, we have a problem.”

“At ease, lieutenant,” she instructed. “Everyone, this is Haruki Kawakatsu, the Japanese hero known as Laser Hammer.”

Several men shook his hand. He walked around the table, taking in sights from new angles. There were enemy supers in the area. The information on hand showed them to be sensory types mixed with brutes and projectile throwers. He noticed the lack of blind spots. “Speed is the problem. The bad guys in the area can sense fast movement.” The Lieutenant Colonel translated his Japanese into English.

“That’s right,” one junior officer said. “Our speedsters aren’t fast enough. We can’t risk sending them in.”

He sifted through dozens of reports on attempts by their speedsters in other fields of combat. “What I can tell is your speedsters are just slow enough to create detectable air disturbances.” He paused to figure out what his speed would have to be. “I believe I’m fast enough.”

“Pardon me,” the lieutenant said, “I know our government has faith in you, but how can that be?”

From his battle against the speedster at the office complex, he had a basic idea of how fast he’d need to be. “At the risk of sounding arrogant, I can move a lot faster than your speedsters. Also, my power is more magical and less scientific.” He saw diagrams of the few speedsters America had and examples of their movements. This only further solidified his certainty.

“So,” another officer said, “you’ll be able to move in, grab someone, and be gone in the space of a few moments?”

“I believe so,” Haruki said.

“In that case,” the lieutenant said, “let’s get you suited up. Once you have a pathway in mind, you’ll be able to get going.”

“I have a pathway in mind,” he said.

In the attached room, the enormous metal case had been set in the center of the room. Inside, a desert stealth version of his suit, complete with helmet, rested. As he slid on the bodysuit, he marveled at how it fit perfectly. After suiting up, he headed up to the flight deck. He’d gotten good at running on water, but this was the first time he’d made a running leap from the deck of a ship. If he hit the angle wrong, he’d skip for miles across the surface. If he got the speed wrong, he’d make a huge splash and probably give his position away. He might use his flight sparingly, but still wasn't as sure of it as his speed.

One shot to get this right, he thought.

Pushing forward, he leaned into the stride with each pump of his legs. Running at super speed was more of an art than the comics or cartoons made it out to be. If he planted his foot wrong, his strength would shatter the deck. Each step met the ground mid-push. Almost all the force went into the friction against the deck surface. After a few strides, the sound died and everything froze in place. The air curved around him as his body shifted into thousands of miles per hour. The edge of the flight deck appeared and he burned the image of the waves into his mind.

A single pulse of his heartbeat passed as his feet left the deck. The upward curve the waves facing away from the ship formed a geometric equation in his subconscious. He bent into the stride as his boot touched the wave.

He pushed, launching him forward and over the wave. The left foot moved forward and he strode into the downward curve of the wave. The water's surface glided under and behind him as he dashed forward, sprinting like a marathon runner. A fraction of a second later, the waves changed shape as the shore closed in.

With a careful shift of his stance, he transitioned from water to sand without kicking up a cloud. Sensory supers are all around, I can't give myself away. Each step became much more focused. If a step caught in the sand and he tripped, he'd become a projectile kicking up a sandstorm for miles. The village approached and sand gave way to a mixture of gravel and sand.

The first target, an American reporter embedded with the Army, was in the first structure. Two guards stood outside, cigarettes in hands, paused in place at the speed he moved. Turning abruptly at his speed might cause disaster, so he made a long, sloping curve and sprinted into the structure at a straight line. A dimly-lit interior showed a white man chained to a chair surrounded by two men with AK-47s. Weaving between them like a figure skater, he hoisted the chair and carried it out.

His heart thumped like a techno beat from the stress of carefully changing stride. The hard floor of the structure gave way to gravel and sand, then to sand, then to water. Each time, weight and position errors of the slightest degree could mean disaster.

The ship zoomed into view. A quick leap and he planted his feet on deck. With a careful aim, he set the chair down and kept running. Planting an object at rest while moving challenged him. If the chair had any horizontal movement when he let go, the man would slide off the deck at super speed. Yet, stopping might throw off his rhythm. Dropping out of super speed, even by accident, could not be risked.

The instant the seat left his grasp, he dashed off the deck again. To his relief, the chair stood still; he'd planted him in place perfectly. Once more the careful tango of water striding and sand striding went off without a hitch. The whine of the breathing apparatus of the helmet helped him focus. Any stray thought might ruin him.

The second structure stood eight hundred meters from the first, disguised as a natural rock formation. Two American servicemen knelt against a wall, hands tied behind their backs. The position of the enemy soldiers required delicate leans one way and then another to weave between them like the wind. His throat caught as fear took over. Grabbing both at once required a small hop between them. Any misjudging of his position would be disaster.

He placed his foot down on the side of one, lifted his left leg as his momentum carried him over the man, then his right leg. Both legs touched down in the meter or so between the men. Still moving sideways, he ducked down and wrapped each arm around a man, hoisted him up, and shifted position, putting his weight into a new running direction.

Relief at not colliding with either man at super speed, though palpable, gave way to strenuous concentration once more. As nimble feet shifted and weaved along sand, then water, he risked a thought. Normally, running while carrying a person gave them his speed and allowed them to perceive him normally, even talk to him as he carried them. With his focus entirely on task, however, they remained frozen, even if his durability shielded them from friction and immense G-forces.

He couldn't risk them breaking his concentration with their surprised reactions.

A nanoscopic moment later and they knelt on deck instead of in a bunker. A nanoscopic moment after that and his feet propelled across water once again.

The third through eighth men sat in front of computers in a large building with armored pickup trucks parked in front. This would be his toughest challenge yet. Two men plopped onto his shoulders and he took off. Carrying more than two men would mean stopping for careful grabbing. Even his enormous confidence in maintaining super speed at a standstill could not convince him to risk it.

The six men were safely on deck in three trips.

Another four trips netted him eight more men. Each trip for two more men pushed his skills to the brink. The cigarette hand of the first guard outside the first building had snuck a millimeter closer to his lips. Sixteen men to go, eight more trips.

Haruki's feet touched deck. Fourteen men remained in danger. Feet met water, then sand, then floor, again and again, trip after trip. Six men remained in danger.

The mind stopped focusing on the thundering heart. Now it was audible in his ears. Nervousness, already high as a mountain, soared ever higher. Like an Olympic swimmer feeling the terror of the last few feet of the pool, fear of failure poured over him. Focus became a primal need. Teeth grit against teeth until his jaw ached. Feet pounded sand and then pavement. Arms reached out, lifted, the body leaned and shifted into the direction of momentum. Tile floor became gravel became sand, became water.

Feet slapped onto flight deck. Men lie next to their paused brethren. Two men remained in danger.

The first guard's cigarette moved a millimeter closer to his lips. Haruki couldn't tell if the high-pitched tone he heard was imagination, fear tricking him, or his worry given form. His arms crossed in front of his chest as he plowed through a wooden door three inches thick. Without losing stride, he pushed past the splinters which slowed to a crawl once he passed by them. Two men went under his arms. To turn in place and go out the way he came would be folly.

This'll either work or they'll both die, he thought.

There could be no other way. Both feet left the ground as the wall closed in. He turned his body midair so his back faced the wall, and shifted the men's position so only his back was the impact surface. Please shatter enough of the wall so they don't collide with it.

Super speed momentum launched him back-first in the wall. Thick concrete turned to powder as a boy-sized battering ram impacted it with the force of a rocket sled. For several feet past the impact point, the wall became gravel and blasted outward.

He heard nothing but his heartbeat as fear erupted. The ultimate test had arrived.

Using flight, he spun midair to face forward. His feet touched sand and his stride continued uninterrupted. No measurable quantity of forward momentum had been lost in turning.

Feet slapped onto the flight deck. The last two men lie next to the other twenty-eight.

All thirty men had been rescued.

“Oh god,” he flopped onto the deck. Shaking hands tore his helmet from his head. Sweat poured off him. All at once adrenaline stopped and body heat cascaded into him like a blast furnace. His lungs sucked in salty ocean air and pumped like a bellows. “Oh god, I did it.”

Sailors cheered and soldiers cried. He heard none of it over the sound of his jackhammering heart as it gradually slowed.

Two pairs of strong hands helped him up. Gloves came off and his naked hands poured sweat. A tight grip and pull later, and his suit top came off, pouring. A hand offered a sports drink, purple color. He tore the top off without unscrewing it and emptied the pint of liquid in a few giant gulps. Without care for politeness he tossed it aside and held out his hand for another. He emptied it and reached for another. He emptied it and reached for another.

“Hey!” the Lieutenant Colonel greeted him with an open-mouthed cheer. “You saved everyone!”

“Not, one, lost,” he panted.

She walked alongside him as he stepped below deck. “Less than a second of normal time.” She held up a stopwatch as she said it. “You've done our country a massive service!”

He flopped into a chair in the meeting room as sailors ran up and shouted in joy, a few hands slapping his wet shoulders. “I'm finally an international hero.”

“The guys won't give you any trouble if you take a shower,” she told him.

“Thanks,” he said. The shower area vacated as he entered. He yanked the rest of his costume off and lathered himself up with soap under the hot water. The tension melted away like snow in late spring. After showering, he toweled off and dressed in a provided change of clothes.

Ten minutes later, after a hearty congratulations from everyone, he was on the cyberpunk plane back to mainland America. Hours later, when he touched down in America, servicemen gave him a standing ovation.

“You're a hero,” the Lieutenant Colonel said. “Your family and government will both be paid, and you'll be sent home in approximately five days' time.”

A black sedan took him to a hotel. A porter carried his luggage to a five-room hotel suite.

“Holy crap,” he uttered.

The moment his suitcase touched carpet and he shut and locked the door, he stumbled to the bed. He plopped forward and fell asleep, clothes still on.