The Initiative #2: Sgt. Logan and His Howling Commandos

The Initiative #2
Sgt. Logan and His Howling Commandos
First In, Only Ones Out Pt. 2

Triskelion – Washington, D.C., (Present)
Strangely enough, more than one comparison could be made about Tony Stark's attic and a SHIELD basement. Dust was evident. The Hooded Man fought back sneezes as he pulled himself up over the edge, wincing in pain just a bit from his encounter with Iron Man. There was barely any light. Meaning, his eyes didn't take long to readjust to the darkness. What really connected the two was an overwhelming sense of neglect, that these things had been sealed away to be forgotten. The feeling was palpable, hair raising. His pulse raced as adrenalin and anger flooded his system. Nobody cared about the past. They wanted to cover it up and lock it away behind heroic tales of patriotism, love, and sacrifice.

The Hooded Man stamped down on the ember that was his fury before it could become something more.

Dust and mold forced him to do what little he could to stamp down on that as well. Thankfully, he'd come prepared with his infiltration and simply needed to put the bandana back in place over the lower half of his face. It covered up some of the scent. His body would have to do the rest.

As if to rebel against that reliance, a coughing fit wracked his body. The Hooded Man braced himself against the nearest surface, a shelf. Just like the hundreds of other shelves down here. Each one full of boxes, some sealed, many not. He tasted the metal in his blood as he swallowed some phlegm.

At least Stark's attic had been small (relatively speaking). Aisle after aisle full of boxes containing mostly documents reached from floor to ceiling. The shelves stretched as far as his eyes could see and that was saying something. This would be no simple search. The best thing to do was get started. He didn't exactly have the same freedom of time on his hands that he had expected in Malibu. SHIELD did not play around but just maybe, just maybe... A feral grin stretched his lips from cheek to cheek.

Nineteen aisles later, the material no longer featured the symbol for Strategic Homeland Whatever Other Words They Decided Spelled Shield and instead had a simplistic eagle with the label "Strategic Scientific Reserve." Four aisles after that, he found what he was looking for. Or to be more precise, he found what he was looking for once he cleared some of the dust away and suffered a second coughing fit.

Goddamn Stark.

The Hooded Man popped the seal on the box and got to reading.

Mission Report…



Somewhere in the Mediterranean Sea, (Past)

A lot of hand movement was going on as General Sawyer chewed the Sergeant and by proxy, Snapper, out. The two men, still in fatigues, faced down their trio of commanding officers. In fairness, Logan stared them down. Snapper found comfort in standing in the currently stoic man's shadow, taking a picture every so often when he thought the general made an amusing gesture. It was technically his job and every time he did, he caught the handsome man with prematurely white hair hiding the inklings of a smile.

"Ole Happy" Logan had called him. It was safe to assume that like many things, it was some sort of sardonic joke to the soldier. The general was not happy. He did not, at least not during the two times Snapper had met him, smile but was rumored to possess a large, familial one if the mood ever struck. A widow's peak poked out of a large, olive skinned forehead covered in wrinkles. In another lifetime, Sawyer probably would have found a home as a mob boss. And who was to say he hadn't? The army was the biggest mob of goons there was, and he was one of those at the top of the food chain.

"Excuse me, Generals," a pencil-stached Englishman pushed his way into the room, "Sergeant Logan thought it best if these photos were developed immediately. Doubly so when I told him of mine."

Percival "Pinky" Pinkerton both the Howling Commandos intrusion expert and one of their many demolition specialists handed the folder of photos not to Sawyer but the other general standing beside him. Stone-faced, not even Chester Phillips the head of the Strategic Scientific Reserve, was immune to the monstrosities, the atrocities, sealed within. He flipped through them, his expression darkening with every new image. Round features betrayed emotion more so than Logan had showed the entire debriefing.

"I was there, sirs, with Specialist Morita," Pinkerton voiced as Phillips passed it over to Sawyer. "The Sergeant was kind by comparison."

"Well, shit," the general slapped the folder against the third and so far silent officer's chest. "A picture is worth a thousand words, eh? Your idea to save your pet project might just work, Trevor." He patted Phillips' shoulder. "All yours, Chester. I'm going back to being glorified helmsman."

Metal groaned around them, accenting his words. It was a painful reminder that they were currently moving along under the Mediterranean Sea in Stark's Nauticarrier with millions of pounds of water just waiting to crush them beneath its weight. He really questioned the man's genius in creating a giant submersible object capable of launching multiple aircraft. Did it really need to be a submarine? Wouldn't a normal carrier with whatever stealth technology he had developed sufficed?

It reeked of ego. Which, Snapper did allow, was Stark through and through. He'd thought so ever since his first meeting with the man at his Expo some years back as a rookie photographer.

"Son, if you snap my photo one more time, I'm going to shove that camera so far up your ass that the only pictures you'll be developing in the future will be of the inside of your mouth." Phillips barked out the order without the acerbic tone of Sawyer but retained the same raw intensity.

"Yes, sir."

"Sergeant, you know what I enjoy the most whenever we have these heart-to-hearts?"

"No, sir." Logan stared at the bulkhead over the general's head. He gave no other response.

"Happy there does all the talking for me. Your men did God's work and I mean that in a biblical way. Brought down His Divine Wrath on those Nazi bastards." Phillips shook his head in disbelief. Potentially at the thought of it being achieved with less than ten men. "Now I need to report back to the suits in Washington and explain that Prince Rudolfo will be in search of a new Royal Palace for Latveria though I have no damn clue why."

The white-haired officer behind him chuckled.

"Pictures. A historian," Phillips scoffed. "Brilliant idea except it makes my goddamn job a helluva lot harder."

"This initiative will work, believe me," reassured the other officer.

"It had better. Now if you excuse me, gentlemen, I'm gonna get the hell out of this deathtrap and back to my poster boy."

The fact the head of the SSR called the Nauticarrier a deathtrap made Snapper feel his paranoia justified. It was insanity. Pure stupidity. Dumber than jumping out of a plane without a… Scratch the last thought. That had turned out to be savagely effective. Still, he could feel the thrum of his heartbeat. Or was that the engines? Was it too early to have cabin fever? He –

"He doesn't mean it. The SSR's Nauticarrier is perfectly safe and field tested." Steve Trevor, American Icon, rested a hand on the photographer's shoulder. He still looked the part over twenty years later albeit his hair had gone white. Rugged jawline, eyes you could lose yourself, he was at home both in the cockpit that had made him famous and on the frontlines that had turned him into a hero. What made him look a little stiff, if Snapper had to guess, it was that he could no longer be that man. He had to serve in different ways.

It would have been very difficult to turn him down when he recruited Reilly. Or rather, it would have been if the Howling Commandos hadn't kidnapped him from his hotel, put a bag over his head, and tied him to a chair in some dark, windowless room. When the bag was removed, there he was, the picture-perfect officer… flanked by Sergeant Logan, Dog, and Runt. Saying yes was the easiest choice Reilly ever made.

"This is the field," grunted Logan.

"Well, yes, but it's been perfectly safe so far. Not a single accident." The squeeze of Snapper's shoulder felt forced instead of assuring. "How'd the rookie do?"

"He didn't shit himself if that's what you're asking. Otherwise, what else should I be expecting, Colonel?"

"That's exactly what you should be expecting. This man was brave enough to go behind enemy lines without a gun before he had the Howling Commandos watching his back."

That smile really should be outlawed. The Sergeant was immune to it. He grunted a second time.

"What name they give you?"

"Snapper."

"Fitting. Pinky, go show Snapper the bar. He earned it. There's a few things I have left to discuss with your NCO."

"Right away, sir," Pinkerton saluted smartly. Perfectly. Probably the best salute Snapper had seen a Howling Commando do. Must be because he wasn't American.

Feeling he should probably do it too, Snapper saluted, earning a snort and a shake of the head from Logan. Trevor shot him a look that the Sergeant ignored entirely. The gesture gave Snapper a chance to glance at a photo sticking out of the folder before they left. It was the arm with the three bones stabbing through the skin of the knuckles.

Leave it to Howard Stark to have a fully functional bar in his prototype submersible aircraft carrier. No. The Nauticarrier deserved more than a cabinet with a few shots of whiskey and the like. Soft music played in the background. Jazz, surprisingly, given the current occupants. Comfortable looking chairs surrounded tables. Bottles, drinks of varying types, spanned the far wall behind a counter. Entire shelves of intoxicating beverages. It was a goddamn speakeasy from his childhood. Low lighting included.

There was no way this was practical from a design standpoint. What happened if the Nauticarrier got hit? Dove unexpectedly?

"Magnets," Pinky explained, reading his mind. "Among other things. Primarily our instinct to activate every safety precaution to ensure a good drink whenever we need it. Always remember. Flip the switch when not in use. If you don't, we'll shoot you before the Germans have the chance."

"If there's one thing Stark knows more about than blowing shit up, it's how to keep his liquor stocked and secure." The massive frame of Dog shifted as he tipped his head, and his glass, back, draining it in loud slurping gulps.

Pinky and Snapper took the stools on either side of the ferocious looking man. The latter took the time to actually look at him for once, trying to find any evidence of injury, of the bullets that had so riddled his uniform at the Royal Palace. Surely, he should be moving strangely at the very least. But no. He stretched out the seams of his jacket as his silky blond hair brushed the back of it.

That insignia. It stopped Snapper in his tracks for a moment.

"Yes, I'm a sergeant. That idiot is our Specialist in falling." He gestured with his mug at the small man behind the bar.

"You landed first," Runt retorted in low voice.

"Wanted to make sure you had some padding, pipsqueak."

Runt refilled the mug without response. Then he moved on, pulling out a bottle and glass from below the counter, serving Pinky a custom cocktail. Dark shaggy hair, sideburns that almost rivaled the Sergeant's, he really couldn't be more different than Dog. Yet they acted as brothers more than the rest of the commandos. There'd been so many unspoken words between the two during the mission to Hassenstadt.

"What's your poison?"

Arms rested on the counter before Snapper. His eyes traveled up them. Clad only in an undershirt, there should have been no hiding the blistering burns that he knew, he knew Runt had possessed. There was picture evidence of it. Now it was baby smooth. Well, not exactly. The little man was one hairy bastard.

"Gin."

"Lager it is."

"Real men drink beer," Dog laughed, leaning in close after draining his second mug. "Plus, you could say we're overstocked."

"Jesus, boys, how much did you steal this time?"

"We didn't steal nuthin', Percy." An arm wrapped around the photographer's shoulders, squeezing him tight enough to know Dog could break every bone in his body without exertion. "The rookie was watching. Gotta be on our best behavior. Now Dum Dum did bring back a tasty snack for us though..."

"Ah, yes, the cute little babe."

The strangely jovial nature of the seemingly drunk Dog did not hide what Snapper thought was a kernel of truth. It almost sounded like he meant it. Literally. Would they truly eat a baby? Eat anyone?

"Girl needs a papa," Runt clarified, drinks in hand.

"I think Dum Dum beat you to it," Pinky sipped at his. "I admit that I find myself at a loss how you Americans manage that. Never seen an uglier band of miscreants before I got caught up with this outfit."

"Animal magnetism."

Whoever was at the helm of the Nauticarrier really needed to learn how to keep her steady. Snapper hoped Runt had sealed the bar as he stumbled down the corridor, bracing himself against the bulkhead as he belched. It'd be a shame if all those bottles shattered. How would he drink with his new best friend Dog if that happened? So many drinks. They laughed, they sang, they drank. It had been marvelous. He was really starting to feel like a proper Howling Commando. Had himself a nickname and everything.

"Who's strong and brave, here to save the American Way?" he sang, swallowing down something that tasted nasty.

"Who vows to fight like a man for what's right night and day?"

Dog could really knock them back. Even Runt had joined in on the fun and Snapper didn’t think shortstack knew the meaning of the word. Not the stuck-up Brit though. Pinky just watched with some, some bemused expression on his face.

"Who will campaign door-to-door for America, Carry the flag shore to shore for America!" He stepped through the hatch leading into the hangar. "From Hoboken to Spokane…"

Such a catchy jingle.

"The Star Spangled Man with a Plan!" finished the photographer before vomiting all over the nice pair of boots that filled his vision.

He looked up, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, to find those boots belonging to General Phillips. The stone-faced general's expression never faltered. His hands went to his hips and sighed, as if this had somehow been expected.

"Son, best you stay behind the camera. Don't think you'll find a future on stage."

There was something oddly threatening about the inflection the general used for future.

"My word," the gentlemanly voice of the Squad's batman and pilot saved Snapper from having to reply. "Why don't we get you aboard the Trinjet and cleaned up, General. I'm sure there's some boots in your size… And pants."

Edwin Jarvis, his hair perfectly parted with a charmingly disarming demeaner, led the general away, leaving Snapper swaying because of that goddamn helmsman and cursing his seasickness. Was it really that difficult to keep her steady? Not waiting on an answer given that he didn't have one, he took a picture of the vomit. That's why Sergeant Logan had ordered him here. He was to take photos of, of something.

The Nauticarrier swayed beneath him. He settled down on a nearby crate to steady himself. In the amount of time it took to find boots and maybe pants, he spotted Batman lightly stepping down the ramp of the Trinjet, a glass full of a putrid looking liquid in hand. This guy was Howard Stark's personal valet? Butler? All around servant? His fatigues had only the wings of the Howling Commandos and the SSR's patch on it. He was in no active military service and yet he'd been assigned to the them as a pilot and technician. Tall, handsome, dignified. He was almost a younger English version of Colonel Trevor. A poster boy.

And he was content to serve some rich snob who was insane enough to create an unstable submarine.

"Why'd you get booted from the Royal Air Force?" Snapper asked without thinking.

"Questions aren't good in our line of work, Mr. Reilly," he forced the glass into the photographer's hands. "Here. Personal blend I put together to help Mr. Stark after particularly grueling evenings."

Snapper downed it, trusting his Howling Commando brother. For a moment, there was no effect. Then he felt like a bolt of lightning struck every single one of his nerve endings. His body was on fire. His eyes opened wide in horror.

"Did I – "

"Best not to dwell on it. Better still to not get in drinking contests with Dog and Runt. That could kill you."

"Oh god…"

"Come, come. It's all in the past now and you have a job to do. Remember, one foot in front of the other. Keep moving forward." It was part pep-talk, part actual direction as Jarvis led him under the wing of the Trinjet where a familiar figure in a bowler hat stood with someone in an SSR uniform and the mother they had saved back in Latveria.

Dum Dum had a big smile on his face. The mother spoke fast. And it turned out the third was a translator. They had a conversation as the gentle giant rocked the baby in his arms.

Ah, that's what he had come to take photos of. Jarvis was flying the woman and her child somewhere safe. This could and would likely be the last they ever saw of the pair. Logan wanted to remember it, to remember the two he had saved.

"You need anything, anything at all, just mention Sergeant Logan's name to any American, British, maybe a few French Resistance soldiers you come across. They'll get word to us or my name ain't Timothy."

The mother patted his cheek, great sorrow on her face. Snapper couldn't imagine what she had gone through with first the Nazi Occupation, the Hydra Experimentations on her people which had taken her husband from what they had gathered, to watching the very men who spared hers and her daughter's lives blow her home straight to hell. She'd known her neighbors. The Howling Commandos didn't save them.

Yet, Dum Dum… Dum Dum's steadfastness and honesty, that broke through whatever shell she had protected herself with. There were trails of tears on her cheeks. Never had Reilly believed his presence as a photographer as invasive. He was meant to be an outside party, apart from it, even though more often than not he had found himself dragged into causes not because he wanted fame but because it was the right thing to do. This felt wrong. He didn't want to capture the moment forever on film.

Snapper took the picture for him. And another.

"Stark's going to take care of them?" Dum Dum spoke up suddenly, still holding the child.

"Of course, Mr. Dugan. In fact, I shall have my wife oversee it personally."

"Good. Good." He kissed the baby girl atop her head. "You behave for your mama, Cynthia, or Uncle Dugan will come find you."

The passing of the girl back to her mother signaled an end to Snapper's photographs. He had run out of film. This thing he'd found himself part of, for good or ill, was important. The Howling Commandos had a job to do in this war and he'd be the man behind the camera, making sure they were remembered for their kindness as well as their ferocity.



Triskelion – Washington, D.C., (Present)
"There was an idea." Booted feet echoed all around the Hooded Man. "To bring together a group of remarkable people." The Hooded Man quickly tucked a folder into his jacket. "To see if you could become something more." It was a single pair of boots. His ears had figured that much out. "So that when we needed you, you could fight the battles…"

"That you never could," he finished the rhetoric, standing, growling.

At the end of the aisle, framed in the flickering lighting of what for all intents and purposes was his basement, was Nick Fury the Director of SHIELD. His long black coat nearly dragged in the dust. The wrinkles of his brow the only sign of his age. That and the life of experience hidden behind his one good eye. Experience which left him smart enough to not take a single step towards the Hooded Man.

"Stark warned me that you might stop by, soldier."

"Not soldier," snarled the Hooded Man, taking the steps the Director would not. "Weapon. Weapon! You treated me as a thing to be aimed at the enemy and fired!"

"Whoa, hold on there. That's not on me. I had nothing but respect and a healthy dose of fear of you. As did Trevor." Fury held up his hands, showing he was unarmed. "Him. You. The rest of the Commandos. You were heroes. Unsung heroes but heroes nevertheless. And his Initiative continues on in you. We need you now more than ever, Sergeant."

The Hooded Man was already charging, screaming himself hoarse.

"Easy there, little guy. The sun's getting real low…"

He was almost atop him when Fury finally drew his gun and opened fire. "Motherfucker…"