Chapter 63
***
Howard Stark's private jet was something else. Luxury, comfort, style, service — all top-tier. First time in all my lives I'd ever flown on a private plane, as a matter of fact. For a moment I even wanted to buy one for myself. Then I thought about it, ran the numbers, and arrived at the most deflating question of the millennium: what for?
Seriously — what would I need a plane for, when I can cover any distance on the planet on my own, without any extra equipment? And my wife has her sling ring, which puts even my jumps to shame.
Still. I'd buy one anyway. Not one like this, though. I'd commission Howard to build me a properly civilized fighter jet — something sleek. I remembered having one like that back in the twenties and thirties, in France… well, with fifty years of progress factored in. I'd been a decent pilot then, as I recalled.
"Nicole," I turned to Fury, who had tagged along with us to Japan. Well — "with us" was generous: she was the one who'd driven us to the airfield in her car. So really, we were the ones with her. "Do you have a plane?"
"No," she answered, surprised, looking up from her laptop where she'd been reviewing something.
"SHIELD doesn't have planes?" My eyebrows climbed on their own.
"SHIELD has planes," she replied, closing the laptop and giving me her full attention. "I don't."
"But you're the Director. That means everything SHIELD has, you have." I followed the logic to its natural conclusion.
"Hm, Uncle VíktOr, I'm sorry to say — I'm not actually the Director of SHIELD," Nicole said, sending my eyebrows another few millimeters upward.
"But you're—"
"In reality, I'm only the Head of the Operations Division. It was… very awkward for me to correct you at the time. Especially since you said it so confidently. It was flattering." She flushed slightly and looked away.
"Oh," I said, and sat there with my mouth open for a moment. "So who is?"
"Keller. Director of SHIELD, Richard Keller," she said. "Though that information is restricted access, technically."
"Don't let it bother you," I replied, having processed and absorbed this. Then I added, with the easy certainty of something self-evident: "You will be."
"Unlikely," Nicole smiled. "But what brought on the question about the plane, Uncle VíktOr? You don't ask things without a reason."
"I was remembering when we used to fly together. In France. Before the war," I said, making no attempt to hide it. "You loved it back then."
"I still do," her smile turned faintly wistful. "I manage to get airtime on SHIELD transports sometimes. We have a lot of them — different kinds."
"I want to buy myself a fighter jet," I told her. "The newest one. The best one."
"In the Union?" She looked puzzled. "You can't even buy a pistol there. Let alone a fighter jet. And is there even private property there?"
"Some," I shrugged. And then I actually stopped to think about it — she had a point. I'd let the realities of the country I was living in slip my mind. In America, with enough money and the right lobbying, a thing like that could theoretically be arranged. In the Union it was considerably more complicated.
On the other hand: what was making me buy anything in the Union specifically? When it came down to it, I was stateless — a Citizen of the World. Whatever my passport said was irrelevant. If I wanted to fly: take a day off, jump to Madripoor, climb into my plane, and fly until you run out of fuel. I'd just have to get the plane there first… and build a runway. Zen.
But the idea itself wasn't bad. Though I'd need to brush up first. Get familiar with the capabilities and systems of modern aircraft. Being an ace in the twenties didn't mean I could get something built today off the ground.
"What are you thinking about?" Nicole asked.
"How far behind I've fallen," I answered her, completely honestly. "And how to catch up." I paused. "Which universities are considered the best right now?"
"MIT, Caltech, NYU, University of Vienna, Munich Technical, Yale, Moscow State, Bauman Institute," Nicole began listing, taking a moment to think. "The Sorbonne, Pirogov Medical Institute… what is it?"
"Working something out. My four degrees aren't worth much anymore. I need new ones."
"You want to go back to school?!" She looked as astonished as I had been two minutes ago. "But how? You barely get a couple of hours of sleep as it is — and now classes on top of that? Or do you just want to buy a diploma?"
She asked it, and I fell into thought. Deep thought. Went far enough inside myself that anyone who knew me less well than Fury might have taken offense. But Nicole knew me well — had practically grown up in my hands. So she waited patiently and didn't interrupt.
"I'll resign," I said, surprising even myself. I said it and understood immediately: yes. That's exactly what I'd do. The decision had been ripening in me for a long time. I had honestly given ten years of my life to this — to the responsibility Iosif had hung around my neck. The Martial Arts Federation was firmly on its rails now and could keep moving without me. The personnel had been found, the training programs, competition formats, grading systems, and camp schedules developed, refined, and road-tested. A whole new generation of senior-belt instructors had grown up, having absorbed all the knowledge and traditions. And there were enough of them to carry it forward to the next generation.
Ten years. Ten years was a long time.
"We'll see through the Olympics this year, and then I'll resign," I said, as though stating something already settled. I even nodded to myself to confirm it — yes. Exactly so.
"Resign? But how?!" Nicole looked even more startled than before. "Startled" wasn't quite the right word, actually — she was closer to shocked.
"The normal way," I shrugged. "Write a letter of resignation, work the required two weeks, hand things off to Bruce, and go."
"But Stalin—"
"What about Stalin? He's Stalin. He's not not-a-person, is he?"
"Hm. True, I suppose." Nicole turned that over in her mind. She didn't get the chance to continue, because just then Cap and Erik pulled up in Erik's car. The conversation broke off.
After that came greetings, easy smiles, and the plane lifting off — the pilots had been ready and waiting for them and for my signal for a while already.
***
Logan and planes. Planes and Logan. That's a whole separate song — a long one, and funny in the saddest possible way.
Logan hates flying. He simply cannot stand it. Every single time he sits there somewhere between alive and dead. Scowling, going pale, muttering. Flinching and digging his fingers into the upholstery at every smallest lurch of the aircraft. Growling and cursing under his breath.
But this time he didn't raise a single objection. Not one word against the aerial delivery of our backsides to Japan. That's what love does to a man. The sacrifices it demands.
For my part, the flight passed unnoticed — I slept. Shamelessly slept through the entire transoceanic trip. Because Nicole had been right about at least one thing: my training schedule was genuinely wearing me down. I was already at my limit.
***
Natasha was waiting for us at Tokyo airport. I couldn't hold back my surprise when I spotted her and realized who it was.
"Good day, Comrade Creed," she greeted me as we approached the exit from the runway where Stark's plane had stopped. "Here — you forgot this." She held out my Soviet passport.
I took it and stared at that little red booklet with the glazed look of a man who has momentarily misplaced his mind. And she was right — when I'd bolted from the sports complex after Logan's call, I hadn't grabbed any documents. I'd simply forgotten about them. After ten years of never needing them — being recognized everywhere I went, always flanked by KGB handlers who made any question of identification irrelevant — I'd stopped thinking about them entirely.
I'd gotten soft. Let my guard down. And here we were. My passport. My Soviet passport, in the name of Viktor Ivanovich Creed, Colonel of the KGB, twice Hero of the Soviet Union. In Japan. What use was this thing to me here? With credentials like these, they wouldn't let me past the turnstile. And if they did, it would only be to drive me to the nearest state security facility. This was a capitalist bloc country.
I looked up at Romanova with open bewilderment.
"You have arrived in Japan on an officially coordinated visit, as Head of the Soviet Union's Martial Arts Federation, for the purposes of conducting outreach and establishing cooperation with Japanese colleagues," she said, and held out additional documents, which I took on autopilot. "Which organizations have you scheduled visits with? Karate? Judo? Kendo?"
"Aikido — Aikikai Hombu Dojo," I answered, still on autopilot. Then I shook myself and added, "I'd also like to visit Okinawa and the grave of O-Sensei Ueshiba in Tanabe."
"Understood, Comrade Colonel." She nodded. "This way — the car is already waiting. Passport control formalities have been handled. All necessary stamps have been applied."
"But, uh—" I turned to look at my companions.
"Go, Uncle VíktOr," Nicole said with a gentle smile. "We have a separate itinerary. We'll meet tomorrow morning at the hotel — I'll come by for you."
"Alright," I said, a little at a loss, gave Fury a nod, and set off after Natasha.
What in the world was happening? Had I come to Japan to rearrange Shingen's face, or hadn't I? What the hell?
But all that was left was to keep a blank expression and follow Romanova in silence, given that I hadn't managed to think through any sort of infiltration plan myself. No point complaining now. Damn. I was losing my old sharpness. Ten years on the conveyor belt in the Union had blunted my edge. Sabretooth's fangs were getting dull.
***
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