The Blue Ranger, Chapter Three

Chapter Three:

Reporting to the Fuhrer

David Ban sat alone in his office, his ruined samurai armor laid out on the desk before him. After the attack had failed, he had quickly stripped off his armor and doubled back to the base so he wouldn’t raise suspicion when General Truman returned. Now that the general had checked in on him and alerted him to the situation, his door was locked up tight so that he wouldn’t be disturbed while he assessed the damage.

He picked up two pieces of the cast iron breastplate and tried his best to fit them back together. It was useless. This armor had been an honored piece of his family’s history for centuries, and he himself had spent a fortune painstakingly restoring it to its former glory. Now it was ruined. In a matter of seconds.

He picked up his sword, once a fine blade capable of hewing down even the mightiest foes, now bent and twisted like a pretzel. Furious, Ban threw the blade down on top of the ruined breastplate and stormed the room, kicking his filing cabinet in anger and muttering a series of curses under his breath. He might be able to repair them, if he found himself a forge, but even if he did, they would never be the same as they were.

Ban heard a pair of hushed voices outside his office. He tensed, quickly hiding his armor under his desk just in case. The voices came closer and closer before passing by.

“It’s not nothing,” one familiar voice said to the other.

Ban crept to the door and pressed his ear against it. He undid the locks and carefully peeked it open. Tammy Hayes and Aquila Shumway had their backs to him, heading for the barracks at the other end of the hall.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Shumway said, covering his right arm with his left. “Can’t we just let it go.”

“You saved my life,” Tammy whispered, “by stopping a blade on your bare arm, and you want me to pretend it didn’t happen?”

“Yes.”

Ban pulled his door closed and locked it again. The scene on the mountain ran through his mind. That sword had cut right through a whole pig in one strike before, yet Shumway’s arm had stopped it like it was nothing. He went back his desk and pulled out the shattered remains of his family’s history. What was all that? He wondered. A faint memory triggered in his brain, something about some kind of superhuman soldier taking out the Golden Mask in Silver City a few weeks ago. Maybe that was it.

He got to his feet, setting his armor aside. The Fuhrer needed to know about . . . whatever it was. He crossed to his filing cabinet, typing in a secret code on the cabinet’s keypad. Ban waited for a second, listening as the drawers and shelves inside shifted to the left. He popped open a secret door on the cabinet’s side to reveal a secret chamber.

The chamber was big enough to walk into, with a large cross painted across the back wall in black paint, and hooks on the side for his armor when he wasn’t using it. Sitting beside the altar at the bottom was a small communications device. Ban picked it up and clicked it on.

“This is the Samurai Mask calling the base,” he said in the deeper voice he used as the samurai. “Come in.”

Another voice came through on the other end. “We read you. What do you need, Samurai?”

“Is the Fuhrer still on base?” Ban asked. “I need to report to him about today’s mission.”

“Yes, he’s still here, Samurai. He stepped out to visit his sanctum about an hour ago. He’ll be back soon.”

“Let him know I’m headed up there. I’ll need transport as well.”

“Yes, sir,” the voice said. “We’ll send word down and the bus will be waiting at the rendezvous point.”

“I’ll be there. See you soon.”

“We’ll be waiting. Hail to the Fuhrer.”

Ban pounded his chest. “Hail to the Fuhrer.” He switched the communicator off.

Ban set the device back inside the compartment, closing it up and switching the filing cabinet back to normal. He stood and gathered his suit, packing all the pieces up tightly and wrapping them inside a large cloth. He pulled over one of his carts and placed the bundle directly in the middle, pulling a false box over it and stacking a bunch of files around it.

He crossed to his office door and unlocked it, rolling the cart out into the hall and closing the door behind him. He made his way through the base toward a loading dock on the opposite end, keeping his head down and acting natural as soldiers passed by, most talking in hushed tones because of the attack this morning.

One turn before the loading dock, he bumped into General Truman.

“Ah, Ban,” the general said, looking up from his files. “I thought you had already headed out.”

“I was on my way, sir,” Ban said, patting his cart. “I just had to drop these off. Did you need anything, sir?”

“Yes,” the general said, clearing his throat. “I wanted to collect the files for those soldiers who were killed this morning, so that I could notify their families.”

“Ah yes,” Ban said. “I have those right here, sir.” He picked up the stack he’d prepared on top of his cart. “I was going to drop them off to you after I was done delivering these.”

He handed the files to General Truman, who opened them and looked them over. He sighed sadly. “Thank you, Ban. Carry on. Be careful out there.”

Ban nodded. “Have a good day, sir.”

General Truman headed off down the corridor, absently sorting through the files he’d been given. Ban watched him go before continuing his journey. Once there, he found a truck waiting to receive the files and a number of workers waiting to load them up. He helped the workers get it done faster, letting them know to leave the one in the middle. Once they were loaded up and had pulled out of the garage, Ban pulled his bundle out from underneath the false box and stashed it inside a large pack that he slung across his shoulders. He placed the cart in the corner with the handful of others kept there.

Fifteen minutes later, Ban sat on an old rusty bench at the bus stop that sat just outside Corinth base, having checked out to run a few errands inside the city. The stark wind whipped at him, the bitter winter chill cutting right through him. Ban shivered and clutched his bag closer. After another five minutes, a bus appeared on the horizon, coming from the direction of Corinth’s gates. A bright red sign on the front flashed the words “TRAINING BUS.” Ban got to his feet as the bus pulled to a stop before him and opened its doors.

“We’re not taking on any passengers,” the driver said. “Sorry.”

Ban didn’t say a word. He held out his arm and rolled up his sleeve, showing off the Black Cross insignia hidden there. The driver leaned over to take a look at the mark. “I see,” she said. She rolled up her own sleeve to show a matching one. “Welcome aboard, my brother.”

“Thank you, my sister.”

Ban stepped onto the bus and found a seat in the back. The bus driver closed the door and pulled away from the stop. The bus drove for nearly an hour, winding its way up a steep mountain pass and into the rocky canyons, taking a number of detours down side roads before connecting back to different main roads. Steep sandstone walls rose on both sides, trapping them in. About forty-five minutes into the journey, they passed under a massive rocky overhang that blocked out the sun. The driver took a few more turns before a massive black metal structure built into the side of the mountain appeared.

“Here we are,” the driver said, pulling to a stop. She stood and put on a generic black mask. Ban pulled out one of his own and slipped it on. She opened the door for him.

“Thank you, my sister,” he said.

Once off the bus, he was met by a pair of armed guards. “Clearance?” one asked him.

Ban rolled up his sleeve and showed his insignia.

“Right this way.”

The soldier led him out and around the base’s façade and down a short side tunnel to a secret door. He tapped it open with a keycard and let him in. Once inside, Ban quickly stripped off his everyday clothing and put on the armor of his true self. He strapped on the helmet, gauntlets, boots, and even the shattered breastplate, changing himself once again into the Samurai Mask. He touched the cracked breastplate tenderly before opening the opposite door and stepping out into a narrow, dimly-lit corridor. He followed the corridor as it twisted and turned, false walls opening and closing, steering him in random directions. He finally stepped out into a large atrium somewhere in the middle of the base so no one else could be sure where he came from.

A group of black-clad footsoldiers hurried up to meet him the moment he stepped out. “Our lord Samurai Mask,” one said as they bowed. “We have been assigned to guide you to the Fuhrer’s sanctum.”

“Lead the way,” he said, putting on his deep voice and bowing his head respectfully.

“Yes, sir!” they said, pounding their chests. They led him down a long corridor deep into the mountainside. Masks and soldiers passed on their way, some bowing respectfully at the samurai as he passed, while others seemed to snicker derisively at the hole in his armor. Ban ignored them. He’d deal with them later.

“Here we are.” they stopped just before a grand door at the end of the hall. “The fuhrer is right through here.”

“Thank you,” Ban said, stepping through. “You may leave me now.”

“Yes, sir,” they said, shutting the door behind him.

The room was completely dark, except for one bright spot at the far end of the room, an altar lit from below with a large cross painted on the wall behind it. Ban crossed the room and knelt before the altar. A door opened somewhere in the room. He looked up to see the fuhrer sweop soundlessly out of the darkness and up to the altar.

“Rise, my son,” the fuhrer said in a soothing, gentle voice.

Ban stood. The fuhrer looked much the same as he had the day he had arrived at his family’s ancestral home in Kyoto five years before, requesting their service once again just as they had done centuries before. He wore a pure white cloak with a hood pulled down so low, nothing of his face could be seen, except for two bright lights glowing where his eyes should be. Long sleeves draped down over hands that he kept crossed in front of him.

Ban pounded his chest. “Hail, my master.”

The cloaked figure remained silent, tilting his head as he looked the samurai up and down. He swept down off the altar and circled him, stopping at his breastplate to reach out and touch the cracked shards.

“You’ve had a busy day,” he said finally.

“Yes, sir,” Ban said.

“You failed in your mission to attack the EAGLE base and kill General Truman. A plan you assured me could not fail.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Judging by the state of your armor, I assume you have something further to report.”

Ban swallowed. “Yes, sir, I do. During the attack, my progress was halted by a scuffle with a soldier. One Aquila Shumway.”

“That’s not like you,” the fuhrer said. “You are the pride of the Izayoi clan. You were trained your entire life to be able to take down a hundred foes with ease. One single combatant should not be a problem for you.”

“This one was different, sir.”

“How do you mean?”

Ban gestured to his left arm, the same spot where his sword had struck Aquila. “He stopped my blade, sir,” Ban explained, “with his bare arm. It was like his skin was impenetrable. I didn’t even leave a scratch on him.” He gestured to his destroyed breastplate. “He did this with a single punch. And,” he reached into his bag and pulled out his destroyed sword, still wrapped in cloth, “he did this as well.”

Ban held out the sword. The fuhrer accepted it and unwrapped it, revealing the bent and twisted blade.

“I’d never seen anything like it,” Ban explained.

The fuhrer turned the sword over in his hands for a moment. “What did you say this soldier’s name was again?” he asked.

“Aquila Shumway, sir,” Ban replied. He dug into his bag and pulled out a file. “He’s one of the privates in our unit.”

Ban opened the file and showed him the photograph paperclipped to it. “That’s him there.”

The fuhrer froze the second he saw the photo. He reached out with shaking hands and pulled it free of its paper clip, turning the photo over several times and squinting closer at it to be certain he was really seeing what he was seeing.

“You know him, sir?” Ban asked, studying his master’s behavior with confusion.

“Oh yes,” the fuhrer said, bringing the photo over to the altar and holding it over the light. “I very much do.”

Ban tried his best to comprehend what he was seeing. “Shumway is connected to the Black Cross?” he asked. That couldn’t be right. He’d looked over Shumway’s record several times during his service but hadn’t seen or heard anything about that.

“Not exactly,” the fuhrer said. “At least not by the name Aquila Shumway.”

“Then who—”

“That doesn’t matter now,” the fuhrer said, cutting him off. Holding the photo tightly, he swept over to Ban and put his arm around his shoulders. “What matters now, my faithful servant, is that you have won us a great victory this day. A truly great victory indeed.”

“I have?”

“Oh yes.” He held up Aquila’s picture. “This young man right here is a very valuable asset to our cause, one I had believed lost to me years ago. All we need now is to make sure we bring him in.”

Ban pulled away from the fuhrer and pounded his fist against his chest. “I will do whatever I must to see him brought in, then,” he said. “My honor has been stained by our failure this day. I will see to it personally that he does not escape us.”

The fuhrer stared at him silently for a moment. “No, you will not,” he finally said.

“But, my master,” Ban said, looking up, “if he is as valuable to us as you say, we should act as quickly as possible.”

The fuhrer laughed merrily for a moment. “You will not be leading this charge, Samurai Mask. Look at yourself.” He reached out and fiddled with one of the broken pieces of his armor. “You wouldn’t stand a chance. You have no idea what or who you are dealing with. If you went after Shumway now, he would kill you in a matter of seconds and then he would escape us again.”

Ban’s face grew hot inside his mask. “But, sir,” he protested.

The fuhrer held up his hand, silencing Ban immediately.

“You would not stand a chance against him,” the fuhrer repeated. “No one would. Not at this base at least.”

Ban swallowed his pride, putting his head down. “What do we do then?”

“I have a plan,” the fuhrer said. He swept over to his altar and pressed a hidden button on its underside. “Can I get some aides in here?” he said. “Immediately.”

“Yes, sir,” a voice said.

Almost instantaneously, several doors could be heard opening and closing somewhere in the room. A team of soldiers appeared out of the darkness.

“You called us, sir?” one asked.

“Yes,” the Fuhrer said. “Please prepare the bus to return our friend here back to Corinth. Then prepare my personal airship for immediate departure. Alert our base in Accra that I am on my way and wish to speak with the Sun Mask there.”

“Yes, sir,” they said, immediately vanishing back into the darkness.

Ban turned back to the fuhrer, several questions running through his mind. “Accra?” he asked.

The fuhrer nodded. “One of our larger bases in Africa. I have an agent out there, one of my top masks, with a certain set of skills that make him uniquely suited for the task at hand. I should return in a day or two. Until then, my son, I need you to return to the base and continue wearing the mask of David Ban. Now that our asset has revealed himself, he will surely try to run, and you must make sure he does not do so before I return. Keep tabs on his every movement, and do not take your eyes off of him for even a second. When I have collected my specialist, I will contact you and let you know that we are ready to move. Can I trust you with that?”

Ban bowed again. “I live to serve you, my fuhrer. I will do what I must for our cause and for the glory of the Black Cross.”

A door opened in the darkness again and another soldier appeared. “The bus is ready for you, sir.”

“Good,” Ban said, turning away. “Lead the way.”