Chapter 5: Galatea

The arguments had continued for the last two hours or so, some advocating Terry’s immediate removal to an escape proof holding facility, preferably under Cheyenne Mountain. Others seemed to think that he deserved a chance to prove himself by his own actions. Hank Von Werner was not convinced of either course of action, but he had uncovered some interesting information. He typed on the portable keyboard that he carried with him at all times while in the RMF Building. A mug shot photo appeared on the back wall of the crowded conference room. “This, is Rolf Landherr, Political Agitator and once publisher of a small newspaper called “The White Pages.” Having the full attention of the room Hank continued, nervously. “He was, as you can see here arrested in 1986 by the Omaha, Nebraska Police Department after an informant had revealed a bomb plot planned by Mr. Landherr and several of his white supremacist compatriots.” Hank saw a look of recognition and surprise dawning on Terry’s face.

“That’s the Janitor from my grade school.” Terry said, the bewilderment clear in his voice.

“Yes,” Hank went on, “He worked for the School District after leaving his last job at the Heartland Ob/Gyn Center.” “The fertility clinic at the Heartland Center was visited in 1975 by Terry’s parents who had been trying to conceive a child for some years with no success.” “The next year, after the Grissoms had their long awaited visit from the stork, Rolf went to work for the Omaha Public School District.”

Terry sat in stunned silence as the theories abounded about how he could have been surrounded with people to guide him to the path of white nationalism. He answered their questions, mechanically while he realized he had been approached by many people in his life who tried to convince him of his natural superiority to his classmates. He always had argued with such people of course. He had not been raised by his parents (they were his parents) to believe such nonsense. He had been taught that a man was no better than he treated those weaker than himself. He had accepted this as the central tenant of his personal belief system. He thought of what a stupendous happenstance that he had been born on the Fourth of July. And not just in any year, but in 1976; the Bicentennial year. When ever he told people his birthday they would almost universally comment that he was destined for great things, not at the expense of others as the sleeper agents had tried to convince him, but through the kind of virtues that he had been taught were American Ideals. The silly terrorists had made a giant miscalculation. They had clearly believed that hiding him in a family which had already had one very accomplished member would allay suspicion. And aid their arguments to young Terry that he was made of better “stuff” than others around him. He had learned no such lesson. Whatever advantages he had been given were gifts, not demonstrating the superiority of the individual but of his creator. Of course his creator would have been a psychopathic Nazi madman, but that was not really the point. Terry did not believe that it was a coincidence that he was born that day, but Providence. That agency that had bestowed free will on mankind had also allowed him to be raised by a family that gave him a firm moral footing. For a reason. Terry did not have to guess what that reason was.

Silence fell about the room when Terry stood. “I can’t promise you that I’m not equipped with some kind of ‘Trojan Horse’ gene that could be activated by some unknown agent.” “But that doesn’t matter.” “The reason it doesn’t matter is you could build an override into the suit to turn it off at any time you were unsure of my allegiance.” “At the first sign of treachery, you could bring the suit back home, switch it off and watch me fall like a rock, or fill the suit with nerve gas.” “The power is all yours.” “What would be a shame however, would be to let the best work of your enemy go to waste.” “You have been handed the wild-cards from your opponents hand.” Terry looked at the faces of the people in this room. He would need to trust these heroes and scientists much more than they would need to trust him. they were not equipped with software “back-doors.”

So far the only other people in the room who had been silent were Mystic, the mind reader from New York’s Star Force, and the man at the head of the table. He had been introduced as Buchanan “Buck” Johnson, Chairman of the Rocket Man Foundation. Buck had watched and listened quietly, while most of those talking seemed to be addressing him. Respectfully. Whoever this man was the heroes of this room spoke to him with a deference that suggested his approval was the only one that mattered. Terry had no idea how this man had earned the respect of the legends in this room but he was certainly possessed of an air of confidence and authority. The kind of authority that came with years of command. This man appeared to be in his 70’s with close trimmed gray hair and piercing blue eyes that would not be out of place on a Marine General. Those blue eyes looked over to Mystic, who nodded then back to Terry. Then Buck Johnson spoke.

“He’s right.” He said in a deep, gruff voice, “If he does anything tricky we could deposit him in Lake Michigan, and have a look alike flying around the city in less than an hour, and nobody would be the wiser.” “But if we don’t use him we lose probably the best chance we will ever have to put someone in that armor who could squeeze every last drop of performance out of it.”

The reason Buck had not spoken in Terry’s presence yet was now as obvious as a lightning strike. Before he had spoken three words, Terry recognized his voice. Buck Johnson was Action Man. Terry stood, transfixed by the image of this man. Until seconds ago Terry would have bet his next months pay that Buck was a Marine General, but there was absolutely no chance that voice could belong to anyone else. He had seen every single one of the nearly seven hundred episodes of the Action Man cartoon show, many of them multiple times. He had made every attempt as a child to set aside the time of day, to no purpose other than to see that show, even if it was a rerun. He had lugged heavy newspapers through deep snow while his classmates slept so he could buy the VHS tapes of all thirty seasons, And again later the DVD’s. He never imagined he would meet this living legend in person. He certainly never thought it would be Action Man himself who decided his fate. And decided it was, as since Mr. Johnson had spoken it seemed to be a settled matter for the rest of the people in the room.

Terry had never thought that he would miss the stiff, itchy meta-weave costume he had been issued during the testing. This garment was worse, much worse. Not that it was stiff, it was as a matter of fact quite soft. What made him uncomfortable about this garment was that it was so thin. Miraculously thin. Terry was sure that it must have been a triumph of fabric manufacturing to have material that was this thin and still be (mostly) an opaque white. He thought it was like wearing a dress sock as a full body covering. Only now did Terry notice how many of the workers and technicians here in the control room were female. Several of them were clustered about him now discussing how various sub-systems could be hidden in the armor using the contours of his body. The “sock” would be the under layer that would be there to wick perspiration away from his skin while wearing the metal outer layers. He would wear this at all times to be ready to have the armor assembled around it when needed. The thinness of the material also allowed the many sensors to monitor his vital functions. Terry wondered briefly if the embarrassing stretchy catsuit may just be a practical joke being played on him by the team. He had no knowledge of what happened inside this building until recently to inform him as to whether this was in fact a hazing done to the “new guy.” It would be best to remain stoic if not dignified, and simply pretend nothing out of the ordinary was happening.

He had been carefully measured with calipers, lasers and good old fashioned measuring tapes. Molds had been taken of his various body parts, to be cast in whatever miraculous substance they intended to use to make the new armor. First, a proof of concept, as Julie had called it, would be made. This would be a full scale working mock up of the super suit with the ability to install all the actual working subsystems. With the notable exception of the nigh indestructible skin layer it would be built from the actual components meant to be used in the final version. When Terry had asked Julie if this mock up had one of the code letter names that she had mentioned on the first day they had met, she answered that it would be “Armor version RM5v.(-1).xxxx.” The outer layer would be made of a common alloy of stainless steel, far heavier and much softer than the revolutionary “molecular machine” material of the final product. But the important part was that it would fly. Although he had logged hundreds of flight hours over the years, this time it would be in an actual full scale rocket man suit.