CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Gotham Stadium had become the hottest spot on the planet, at least as far as the Pentagon was concerned. More than three hundred personnel were crammed into the National Military Command Center in Washington, DC, popularly known as the “War Room.”
Rows of state-of-the-art computer and communications stations faced a huge array of illuminated maps and screens. Live footage from Gotham Stadium dominated the central screen as teams of analysts and military staff members, along with the rest of the world, attempted to assess the ongoing—and unprecedented—situation.
Air Force General Matthew Armstrong, five stars gleaming on his epaulets, watched with concern as the terrorists rolled an ominous-looking device onto what remained of the playing field. The glowing metal sphere was mounted atop a wheeled trolley. Its design did not match any weapon of mass destruction with which he was familiar.
“This is the instrument of your liberation,” Bane declared. CIA analysts had already identified the masked madman as the same terrorist who had staged the attack on the Gotham Stock Exchange last week. Apparently, that had just been his opening number.
“Satellite shows a radiation spike,” an analyst reported. “Whatever it is, it’s nuclear.”
The tension in the room shot up another notch. All eyes remained glued to the monitors, where the terrorists dragged a bedraggled, middle-aged man onto the field and thrust him to his knees before Bane.
“Identify yourself to the world,” the terrorist leader ordered.
“Dr. Leonid Pavel,” the man said, his voice shaking. “Nuclear physicist—”
Bane turned the scientist’s face toward the cameras, even as intelligence experts scrambled to verify the man’s identity.
“Pavel is confirmed dead,” a CIA analyst reported, calling up the data from a computer. “Plane crash on an agency pull out of Uzbekistan.” She compared the man on the monitor to a photo from their database. “But it certainly looks like him—”
The general had to agree. He rubbed his chin, pondering the situation. This was getting more serious by the moment. He stared up at an illuminated screen tracking their response.
A squadron of F-22 fighter jets was already streaking toward Gotham.
On the TV monitors, Bane placed a hand on Pavel’s shoulder. The kneeling scientist shuddered visibly.
“Tell the world what this is,” Bane instructed.
“A fully primed neutron bomb. With a blast radius of six miles.”
Bane nodded.
“And who can disarm this device?”
“Only me.”
“Thank you, doctor.”
With the whole world watching, Bane effortlessly snapped the scientist’s neck. Pavel’s body dropped onto the grass. Screams erupted from the bleachers. People gasped in the war room.
“The bomb is armed,” Bane said, ignoring the screams. “The bomb is mobile, the identity of the triggerman is a mystery. One of you holds the detonator. We come not as conquerors, but as liberators to return control of this city to the people. At the first sign of interference from the outside world, or of people attempting to flee, this anonymous Gothamite—this unsung hero—will trigger the bomb.
“For now, martial law is in effect. Return to your homes, hold your families close, and wait.” He threw out his arms. “Tomorrow you claim what is rightfully yours.”
Bane turned and left the field. His men rolled the bomb after him, leaving Dr. Pavel’s body behind on the desecrated turf.
A hush fell over the war room.
“Pull back the fighters,” the general said finally, breaking the silence. “Start high-level reconnaissance flights. And get the President on the line.”
God help us all, he thought.
Gotham Bridge was the only one left standing. By sunset, tanks and troops were already advancing on the city. Captain Willis Parker, in charge of the operation, just wished he had a clearer sense of their mission strategy. How did one recapture a city being held hostage?
A squad of mercenaries held the bridge. There was no sign of Bane, but one of his men stepped forward, holding a bullhorn. An amplified voice challenged the approaching army.
“Tanks and planes cannot stop us from detonating our device,” he warned. “Send an emissary to discuss terms of access for supplies and communication.”
Captain Parker figured that was his cue. After a hasty conference with his superiors, he marched toward the apex of the bridge, his hands held open in front of him. Washington was anxious to hear the terrorists’ demands, so he walked until he was within spitting distance of the enemy. The lead terrorist had the shaggy, undisciplined look of a professional mercenary—and the dead eyes of a stone-cold killer.
“How many of you are there, son?” the captain asked, receiving only a sullen glare in response. Staring the man squarely in the eye, he attempted to give the terrorists a much-needed reality check. “You don’t have enough men to stop twelve million people leaving that island.”
“No. We don’t,” the mercenary conceded. “But you do.”
The captain snorted.
“Why in hell would we help you keep your hostages?”
“Because if people start crossing the bridge, Gotham gets blown to hell.” He didn’t sound like he was bluffing.
Confronted with such a ghastly scenario, Parker tried to think of a compelling counter-argument, but failed. It was hard to argue with an armed nuclear weapon.
The President of the United States addressed the nation:
“The people of our greatest city are resilient,” he said. “They have proven this before, and they will prove this again.”
Lying helplessly upon his cot, untold miles away from Gotham, Bruce watched the broadcast. All day and night, images of the burning city had seared themselves into his anguished brain. Aerial photos revealed a ring of fire circling his city. Experts and commentators soberly weighed its chances of survival.
Bane’s nightmarish invasion of the football stadium had been replayed constantly, until Bruce knew every moment by heart. He had recognized the reactor core, of course, and knew just what it was capable of doing.
“We do not negotiate with terrorists,” the President continued, “but we do recognize realities…”
Tears streamed down Bruce’s face.
The darkened streets were all but deserted, as Gotham’s cowed citizens took seriously Bane’s admonition to stay indoors. Blake warily drove toward home, while Gordon slumped beside him in the passenger seat. The detective tried to avoid the craters, cracks, and rubble, but Gordon still flinched at every bump. The rough drive had to be hard on his wounds.
They listened grimly to the President’s speech.
“As the situation develops, one thing must be understood above all others. People of Gotham, we have not abandoned you.”
Blake scowled at the radio. “What does that mean?”
“It means we’re on our own,” Gordon translated. “I have to get in front of a camera—”
“Sir, they’ll kill you the second you show your face.”
“The mayor’s dead,” Gordon said. “I’m the symbol of law and order. Bane says he’s giving Gotham back to the people. They need to know that I could lead.”
Blake frowned.
“Bane’s never going to let that happen.”
“Then he’ll show his true colors.”
Maybe, Blake thought. “And you’ll be dead,” he replied.
Gordon stared silently out the window.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Light poured through the barred window of Selina’s private cell. She stretched out on her cot, enjoying the sunshine, until a rumbling noise interrupted her nap.
Annoyed, she rose and went to the window. Then her eyes widened at the sight of three tank-like vehicles, painted in desert camouflage, rolling toward the prison. She couldn’t help noticing that the vehicles bore a distinct resemblance to the Batmobile once used by a certain legendary Dark Knight.
/> Those can’t be his, she realized. They aren’t black, or sexy enough.
Excited shouts roused the entire cell block. Blackgate had been under lockdown ever since the day before, when all those explosions had made it feel as if they were having an earthquake. The guards all appeared distinctly jumpy—and more than a little scared. She couldn’t be sure, but it looked as if several of them hadn’t even shown up for work today.
She wondered what was up.
As she watched from the barred window, a crowd gathered outside the prison walls. News crews were on hand as the tanks came to a halt in front of the gates. Curious citizens braved the streets to see what was happening. Her heart sank as Bane emerged from the lead tank, wearing a fur-lined winter coat with a raised collar.
Guilt mixed with fear as she recalled how the vicious mercenary had broken Batman, right before her eyes. She suddenly wished she had made it out of Gotham in time.
The French Riviera was sounding better and better.
Bane stood atop the tank, his coat open despite the cold. He turned to address the media. A hand-held microphone carried his sinister voice all the way up to her cell. A hush fell over the entire cell block as everyone stopped to listen. Prisoners and guards alike strained to hear his words.
“Behind you stands a symbol of oppression,” Bane declared. “Blackgate Prison. Where a thousand men have languished for years. Under the Dent Act. Under the name of this man.”
He held up a photo of a handsome blond hero.
“Harvey Dent. Held up to you—and over you—as a shining example of justice and good.”
* * *
Blake’s bachelor apartment was small and spartan. He had never expected to entertain the police commissioner there, but life was full of surprises these days.
He rummaged through the kitchen cupboards, foraging for supplies, while Gordon rested on a lumpy couch Blake had once rescued from a crack house. Borrowed clothes had replaced Gordon’s hospital gown. They fit, sort of.
“We’re gonna keep moving you,” Blake said, “till we can get you in front of a camera.”
Gordon stared gravely at the TV set, where Bane could be seen delivering a speech in front of Blackgate Prison. The masked maniac set fire to Harvey Dent’s photo. His voice boomed from the television.
“But they supplied you a false idol,” the lunatic said. “A straw man to placate you. To stop you from tearing down this corrupt city…”
Hardened criminals peered through the barred windows of the prison. They started cheering raucously in the background.
“…and rebuilding it the way it should have been rebuilt, generations ago.” Bane dropped the burning picture. The ashes fell to the pavement in front of his tank.
“Let me tell you the truth about Harvey Dent. In the words of Gotham’s police commissioner, James Gordon.”
Blake turned away from the cupboards, wondering what exactly Bane was trying to pull here. Gordon shifted uneasily upon the couch. Onscreen, the mercenary leader unfolded a sheath of crumpled papers. He began to read aloud.
“‘The truth about Harvey Dent is simple in only one regard—it has been hidden for too long. After his devastating injuries, Harvey’s mind recovered no better than his mutilated face. He was a broken, dangerous man, not the crusader for justice that I, James Gordon, have portrayed him to be for the last eight years. Harvey’s rage was indiscriminate. Psychopathic.
“‘He held my family at gunpoint, then fell to his death in the struggle over my son’s life. The Batman did not murder Harvey Dent—he saved my boy.’” Blake stared aghast at the screen. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“‘Then Batman took the blame for Harvey’s appalling crimes, so that I could, to my shame, build a lie around this fallen idol.’”
Gordon lowered his face to his hands.
“‘I praised the madman who tried to murder my own child.’”
The crowd fell silent, stunned by what they were hearing, as Bane continued reading.
“‘The things we did in Harvey’s name brought desperately needed security to our streets. But I can no longer live with my lie. It is time to trust the people of Gotham with the truth, and it is time for me to resign.’”
Bane folded the papers and put them away. He gazed out over the speechless crowd, which included reporters and neighborhood toughs. Guards and inmates watched intently from inside Blackgate’s forbidding stone walls and towers.
Bane called out to the mob.
“Do you accept this man’s resignation?”
At first no one responded, but then a few angry faces in the back started shouting.
“Yes!”
More voices took up the cry. Inside Blackgate, the prisoners started cheering even more boisterously than before. They whooped and pounded against the bars of their cells. A TV camera zoomed in briefly on an attractive female face in one of the windows. Her guarded expression offered little clue as to what she thought of all this.
“Do you accept the resignation of all the liars?” Bane demanded. “All the corrupt?”
“Yes!” A chorus of voices, both inside and outside the prison, gave Bane their answer. “YES!”
Blake looked away from the TV in disgust. He stared accusingly at Gordon, who sat mutely on the couch. His guilty expression was all the evidence the detective needed. His own face hardened.
“Those men, locked up in Blackgate for eight years, denied parole under the Dent Act,” he said flatly. “Suspects held indefinitely without trial. Based on a lie.”
“A lie to keep a city on fire from burning to the ground.” Gordon looked up at him. He sounded like he was trying to convince himself. “Gotham needed a hero, someone to believe in—”
“Not as much as it does now,” Blake said harshly. “But you betrayed everything you stood for.”
Gordon gave the younger man a rueful look.
“There’s a point, far out there, when the structures fail you. When the rules aren’t weapons any more, they’re shackles, letting the bad get ahead.” His voice was both sad and tired. “Maybe one day you’ll have such a moment of crisis. And in that moment, I hope you have a friend like I did. To plunge their hands into the filth so you can keep yours clean.”
Disillusioned, Blake was in no mood to grant Gordon absolution.
“Your hands look plenty filthy to me, commissioner.”
He went back to packing.
The cell block was in an uproar. Nervous guards looked on apprehensively, clutching their weapons with sweaty palms as Selina’s fellow prisoners reacted loudly to all the excitement outside. A few of the more cowardly turnkeys abandoned their posts, slipping away while they still could. She couldn’t blame them. Judging from some of the rumors she’d heard, Bane had no great love for prisons—or their guards.
Standing atop his tank, Bane signaled to one of the other armored vehicles. A formidable-looking gun turret swiveled toward the prison gates. Selina could see where this was going—and she wasn’t sure what she thought about it.
If Bane was in charge of Gotham now, she might be safer in her cell.
“We take Gotham from the corrupt,” Bane ranted, shouting over the clamor of the mob. “The rich. The oppressors of generations who’ve kept you down with the myth of opportunity. And we give the city to you, the people. Gotham is yours—none shall interfere.
“Do as you please!”
Hellfire blasted from the cannon, blowing the heavy iron gates to pieces. Twisted metal fragments clattered down onto the sidewalk, leaving an open, smoldering cavity in the walls of the prison.
“But start by storming Blackgate and freeing the oppressed,” he continued. “Step forward, those who would serve…”
Bane’s men rushed the prison, surging through the burning gates. The mob chased after them, eagerly joining in the revolt. Pounding boots trampled over the blackened remains of Harvey Dent’s photo. Alarms sounded, but the outnumbered guards offered little resistance.
The cell doors
slid open and the prisoners poured out, trashing the place on their way out. Unlucky guards—the ones who hadn’t fled or hidden in time—found themselves on the receiving end of eight years of pent-up grudges. It wasn’t a good day to be wearing a uniform or a badge.
Taking advantage of the chaos, Selina quietly slipped away through the throng.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
In the hours and days that followed, Bane’s fiery oration was played constantly over the airwaves, as all that he prophesized came to pass.
“For an army will be raised…”
Mercenaries had handed out weapons to the prisoners escaping Blackgate. Shots were fired into the air in celebration, as the criminals rampaged through Gotham, encountering no resistance. Other men and women, eager to join in the looting, poured into the streets as well, swelling the ranks of the ad hoc army. They found the city ripe for the taking.
Looters invaded a tree-lined boulevard across from the park. What had once been one of Gotham’s tonier neighborhoods was overrun by a lawless horde that stormed the luxury apartment buildings. Gun-wielding rioters shot off the locks or battered down the doors. Hopelessly outnumbered, cowed doormen and security guards either retreated from the mob or else joined the insurrection. Mercenaries, convicts, gang members, vandals, anarchists, and opportunists whooped uproariously as they helped themselves to the homes of the rich and famous.
“The powerful will be ripped from their decadent nests…”
On Park Boulevard, looters ransacked a palatial penthouse apartment. High-end televisions, computers, and other pricy electronics were seized and fought over before being hauled out the door. Drawers were yanked out and dumped onto the floor, the better to rifle through their contents. Antique desks and chairs were overturned, priceless vases and paintings trashed.
The one-time owners of the apartment, an investment banker and his much younger trophy wife, cowered in a corner as the rioters rooted through their closets, tossing designer dresses and tailored suits onto the floor. Thirstier looters raided the well-stocked liquor cabinet, passing around rare vintages of wine and bottles of fifty-year-old Scotch and bourbon. Empty bottles shattered against the walls. Costly spirits spilled onto an imported Persian carpet. Cuban cigars were smoked with abandon.