The sky is burning . . .
A place . . . a secret place, of flying machines and armored battalions . . . .
From the sky, an implosion . . .
The massacre begins, and I can't feel anything . . .
It's just a dream . . . is it?
New York City. The darkness plagued the citizens for times past. Greed, poverty, murder. It is a dark shadow that may caress them. Their only escape is to succumb to their dreams at night, extinguishing their worries.
For weeks, the United States of America had been plagued with the consuming fear that, one night, they could not sleep. December 7 was marked on their calendars and their minds, after that day had passed them by. Paranoia swept the nation when the sudden attack on Pearl Harbor was announced through the airwaves.
They know fear can catch them unaware.
And that, they cannot give in to sleep to dream about.
But, then again, that is what the Sandman is all about.
Wesley Dodds woke up to the new day, awaiting the sun to rise over their heads. It was Saturday, and he was not inclined to rest in his mansion, for even an well-known investor and businessman must work for his feed. The young man in his early twenties took his clothes from the closet, and called for Kingston, his ever resilient butler, to prepare his meal. Another day. Lately, I've been experiencing more visions than I have had before, he thought, as Kingston placed bacon and eggs on his plate, with a stern look on his face. "Master Wesley, have you been going on your crusades again?" He asked Wesley, who turned to him, startled back into his reality. "Oh, Kingston! Nothing . . . nothing at all."
"Sometimes, sir, I worry about you. This . . . Sandman business is getting to your sleep."
"Does it, Kingston? I can't feel a thing . . . "
Was it the dreams? Phantysima . . . her costume worn of scarlet and velvet . . . blood all over . . . A vision of what is to come? Or some sort of madness?
" . . . I don't . . . know."
"Sir, you are scheduled to meet the sirs Raymond Stark and Troy Angus over at the docks. I suggest taking the automobile."
"Oh . . . yes? Is that so? Come now, Kingston, ready the car. They'll be expecting us shortly."
"What about young master Sanderson, sir? Aren't you supposed to pick him up after school?"
"Oh, you mean Sandy? Yes, I know. That Belmont lady was so insistent we take care of him."
"Mistress Dian wants you to take care of him, while she is gone. Sir."
"I know." Wesley recalled a lot of things. A lot of things have passed, he knew well. Young Sanderson Hawkins appeared in his life a month ago, when he found the secret that Wesley had been keeping all that time. Thus, a new hero was born. Sandy, the Golden boy, became Wesley's sidekick. Which was not so often.
"That boy can stare at danger and not know what it is, Kingston. That's what I'm afraid of."
"Naive, sir?"
"You can say that. Anyways, I will pick him up, after I finish my work with DSA at the docks." Wesley got up from the table and took his coat. He readied himself for work, knowing not what awaited him.
"And, you're saying construction of the luxury liner, S.S. Atlantis, has been detained due of . . . ?" Inspector Samwell eyed sharply the weary foreman, as he suspected some sort of confession from the old man.
"'Tis true, inspector! Aye, Ah've seen it with m'own eyes! A mist, swirling in the darkness! A phantom, Ah tell ya! The Gray Ghost!"
"And you're saying I should believe you because . . . ?"
"Damn ye, inspector! 'Tis is something beyond the clear point of view of man!"
"Er . . . thank you, Mister Neakes . . . we'll call you if you're needed." The 37-year old Troy walked the old man back to the shack, where all the construction workers of the ship were gathered for questioning. Wesley passed the two, and was suddenly jerked by Neakes. "You! Ye bettar watch y'back! The Gray Ghost will haunt the pier to his grave!"
"Excuse me?"
"Wesley, this is not of your concern. I suggest you meet Raymond at the Atlantis's docking area."
"Troy, what's going on?"
"'Tis the mark of the Gray Ghost! He has come to destroy us all!"
" . . . I'll take it from here, Wesley. Go to Raymond. He needs you."
"Troy, I . . . "
"Now."
Troy held on to Neakes, who stared intently at Wesley. "Beware! Heed my words!" his voice faded in Wesley's ears, and somehow, a faint shiver past his back.
Raymond Stark stood still, observing the wreckage and the scene of the crime. Wesley got to him, before noticing that a young, muscled man in a red, white and blue costume stood beside Raymond as well. The man seemed familiar, as if Wesley has seen him somewhere . . . "Oh, Wes, you're here!" Raymond exclaimed, while lighting his tobacco. "See this? It seems there's been quite an rumble here yesternight, and I would've paid to see it!"
"Si . . . Ray, what happened?"
"Not much. Just suicide, explosions, wreckage - did I mention a lot of wreckage? - and arson."
The muscle man huffed, and made his stand on the issue. "It's been a bad week for these people, son," he said, almost gruffing in dismay. Wesley just began to wonder who this man really was. "Pardon me for asking, but you are . . . ?" Raymond was mocking shock, and slapped Wesley's back. "Kid! Don't you read the news often?"
"Not that I remember . . . I have seen him before."
"Wes, Wes, Wes. This is Captain America, kid! American legend, fought along with other mystery men a while back! Cap, this is my partner, Wesley Dodds."
"Yes. Now that, I remember," Wesley muttered, recounting a battle between the pre-christened JSA** awhile back. "I've heard of him. It's a real honor, sir."
The man smiled, and shook Wesley's hand. "Don't worry, son. Please call me Cap."
"Um . . . right, Cap . . . " He let go of the man's hand, and then turned back to the scene of the crime. "So Cap, can you tell us exactly what happened here?" The man focused his attention, and propped his shield upon his arm, and checked the evidence. "It seems to me as a work of someone who can move in and out of the place. Someone who would have an evil intention, my guess."
"This is the work of . . . " Ray paused, watching his surroundings, then whispered to them. "The work of . . . Hitler?"
"No! Something else. It would be a long time before Hitler would step on our proud American soil."
"Then . . . it could be the work of the Gray Ghost?" Wesley asked, and the two other men just stared at him.
"The Gray Ghost is a legend, Wes," Ray told him, and picked up a piece of charcoal. "It's just a story told to entertain the men working around here. There's no such thing as ghosts."
Wesley closed his eyes, and thought to himself. How little do you know, Ray. "Anyway, I've to pick up a ward of mine, so I'll be seeing you two later?" Wesley asked.
"Sorry, son. I'm going to check on certain government issues. I'm not sure I'll make it." Captain America replied. "So, we will meet again. I'll just get my priorities set first and I'll see if I can help out with the case." And with that remark, the American super soldier left the two in each other's company.
"Well, Ray?"
"I'll check on my accounts. My other investments have been worse than this, anyway. Be seeing you, Wes!"
"Yes."
Now alone, Wesley Dodds focused his thoughts unto himself. Is it really true? There has to be a logical reason for all this. I need something to guide me. Then there was this sound . . .
"That's really the jazz! You met Cap? Red, White, Blue and all?" Sanderson exclaimed as Kingston drove Wesley and his young ward home.
"Yes, Sanderson. Met him. Is it really a big thing?"
"Not when you're the Sandman, man."
"And not when you're Sandy, the Golden Boy, for instance."
"Can I change that superhero name? Something like Sand."
"Not now." The limo made its way through the mansion's gates, and they got off. "Anyway, I encountered these rats."
"Not that Troy guy?"
"No, not that rat. Some rats. At first I didn't really count them as a clue, but they were all going into one direction; Pier 10. Weird coincidence, I wonder? Anyway, I keep hearing these strange sounds . . . Sanderson, are you listening?"
Sanderson took his piece of tootsie roll, and shoved it in his mouth. "Huh? Oh . . . sure, go on."
"There was this beeping sound . . . I can't really place it . . . I've heard before, I think in the office of DSA. Something's wrong, Sanderson, and I don't think there's really a ghost."
"This is a job of the Sandman and Sand!"
"Sand-y. Anyway, this may be a dangerous case. From what I've heard, the culprit may be all the more deadly than our usual criminals. I'll take care of this case, Sandy. You stay in the mansion. Period."
"But, Wes!"
Wesley turned to him, and gave him that stern, serious look. Sanderson Hawkins knew what that meant.
The moon cast a shadow over his, as the Sandman made his way across the docks. Placing Sandy over the watchful of eye of a nanny and Kingston is not a good idea, Wesley thought, as he jumped unto the wooden pier docks, which made only a silent creak. The mist was heavy, and only the flicker of a streetlamp guided the way for the Sandman to see. He knew the chill up his spine was more than real, and the howling of wild dogs that made their homes in the alleys was not the cause. Wesley then spotted a flicker of light, a lantern's that went to and fro. Something . . . eerie about that light. He drew closer, as he felt heavier. Then he saw it.
A flash . . . a bomb? A figure in gray, walking down the pier . . . Pier 10.
What? . . . a tapping sound. Hooded men . . . a box . . . a giant shadow . . .
. . . A creature, unbreakable, I can't break. I touched it, and it was cold. What is it?
Atlantis . . . the ship . . . some secrets lurk hidden . . . I can't trace it . . . so much mist . . .
Wesley awoke, and found himself alone again, in the shadows. A woman stared at him in the face, donning a familiar black costume.
"Phantysima," Wesley mumbled, trying to stay alert.
She just smiled. "Well, Sandman. I see you're trying to solve this case. You're going to need more help."
The Sandman, trying to gain afoot, stared in her eyes. "This is not a ghost story, is it, Phantysima? Someone's hiding something."
"Ever the smart one, Sandman. Anyway, I am here to warn you. Watch your back." And she disappeared in the mists where she came, and Wesley was once again alone. Then a flash . . .
He woke up. Wesley was alone, in his dreams. Did I dream that up? he thought, as he once again saw the light moving away. Phantysima . . . was that a warning? Or just my imagination?
Whether or not his question was answered he pushed on. He made his steps quiet, and grabbed the figure carrying the light. "Gotcha," Wesley muttered, as the figure wrestled free of him.
"Who are you?" he asked, before Wesley knew who the figure was.
"Captain America," Sandman said, brushing off his suit.
"I remember you. Back in New York. What are you doing here?" he said, pretending not to know. The Super Soldier did not fully recognize the crusader, but he knew he saw him before. "You're one of them, aren't you? The crusaders of the city, I can guess. Well, I'm here on an assignment that I promised some investors that I would fulfill."
"One of them is Wesley Dodds, young man I presume?" Wesley asked, not being able to hold himself. Captain America was taken back a bit. "How did you know?"
"Resources," Wesley said, and under the gas mask he smiled wryly. Captain America just shook it off and continued. "What are you here for, Mr . . . ?"
"Sandman. Just Sandman."
"Yes, Sandman. What are you here for?"
"To investigate on the Gray Ghost."
"There may not be a ghost."
"It doesn't hurt to look for something you can't find."
Captain America wasn't listening; a moaning sound began to fill the air, and the two quietly waited for it to subside. "There may not be a ghost, Sandman. Just like I said. Let's check it out." The duo silently made their way to the moaning sound's source; Pier 10. As they closed in, the streetlamps suddenly burned out. The wind began to circulate stronger, and then, the Sandman heard the tapping sound again. "Over here," he said, as from faraway, a light coming from an otherworldly lantern began to burn. He led Captain America to a wooden part of the docks, and listened quietly. Below, they both heard a language too familiar to the American Soldier.
"Russian! These are . . . "
"Soviets. Axis. What are they doing here?"
"I don't know."
Then, all of a sudden, a shot was fired from the figure with the lantern. Cap threw his shield directly at the figure, who got in its way. Below, the Soviets were startled, and Wesley broke the wooden entrance, and entered the underground area. One soldier fired a shot at him, but to no avail, missed. The Sandman used his left leg to kick back the soldier, then used the candle to burn the documents on their table. A Soviet managed to grab his rifle and fire directly at Wesley, only to have Captain America block the bullets with his shield. Wesley used the sleep gun on majority of the soldiers, and broke the wrist of another about to shoot at the Super Soldier.
"Thanks," replied Cap, before knocking another soviet with his shield. Sandman trailed one who escaped into the ladder, and reached the end, only to find an abandoned warehouse filled up with a huge machine; a steel-cold creature of death. Before he can make a move, his partner threw his shield at the last Soviet, knocking him out with a concussion. Wesley could only stare at the thing.
"This is . . . "
"A weapon of mass destruction. A war machine. You just burned all the last traces of its existence. I'd say good work, partner," Cap congratulated Wesley.
Sandman and Captain America took a long stare at the hulking abomination, before the break of dawn seeped through the windows of the abandoned warehouse.
"So, that's what happened, Sanderson. Captain America told me that the figure was a Soviet watchdog, ensuring that no one would be able to uncover their plan," Wesley told the teen, as they sat beside the fireplace the next night. Sandy eagerly listened, waiting for the next detail. "According to what they confessed, they smuggled the giant war machine into America, and made plans to send some documents to their contact in New York, to mass produce the machines somewhere."
The fire crackled, and Kingston placed another log inside the fireplace. Wesley continued. "Once one of the construction workers uncovered the secret, the Soviets decided to use the legend of the Gray Ghost as their cover-up, scaring the poor souls. They killed, burned, murdered the crew and the ship, until the last of them committed suicide, afraid that the ghost may get them. Like I said, poor souls. Anyway, Neakes was the only one alive who got a glimpse of the Gray Ghost, and began to reach a boiling point. He's rehabilitating now, after that nervous breakdown." Wesley paused, and drank a sip of hot cocoa. "My company, DSA, is working on rebuilding Atlantis, and making it the best cruise liner possible. As of now though, the budget has been shifted to another company, God knows what they're going to do with it. But I heard they were planning to make a cruise liner too. Poseidonis, they called it."
Wesley turned to the window, as the fog outside began to form. He then turned back to Sanderson, his face illuminated by the crackling fire. "Captain America told me that the government will take care of this problem. But, who knows? Maybe the Gray Ghost is more real than anyone expects . . .
Outside, the mists formed, and a lone Gray figure waving his lantern walks in the dead of night once more.
Next Issue: The Tangled Web!