CAMP LEHIGH - NEW JERSEY, OCTOBER 15TH, 1943
The morning mist hung low over the advanced training grounds as Peter Parker approached the infamous "Devil's Range," a course that had broken more recruits than any other facility at Camp Lehigh. It had been four months since that final conversation with Steve Rogers, four months since his best friend had looked him in the eye and promised they'd serve together in the 107th when he got his own unit. While most of their original cohort had been shipped off to various postings after basic training, Peter had been held back—not for deficiency, but for something else entirely. Something that had begun with Steve's parting words: "Stay alive out there, Pete. This war isn't over yet."
Those words had echoed in Peter's mind during the darkest weeks after Steve's departure, when depression had threatened to derail everything he'd worked for. When other recruits were celebrating their assignments and preparing to deploy, Peter found himself alone in the barracks, wondering if he'd somehow failed to measure up. That's when Drill Sergeant Marcus Kane had appeared—a man whose weathered face and ancient eyes suggested he'd been watching, waiting for precisely this moment.
"Parker!" The voice cut through the dawn air like a blade. Drill Sergeant Marcus Kane stood at the edge of the range, his weathered face bearing scars that spoke of conflicts stretching back decades. There was something ageless about Kane, though his records listed him as forty-five. His eyes held depths that suggested he'd witnessed more than any one man should in a single lifetime.
"Yes, Sergeant Kane!" Peter snapped to attention, his body moving with the crisp precision that had become second nature over months of relentless training.
"You've been selected for advanced marksmanship protocols," Kane announced, his voice carrying an authority that went beyond mere military rank. "The weak-eyed photographer who stumbled through basic is dead. Time to see what's been born in his place."
The transformation hadn't happened overnight. Those first weeks after Steve's departure had been among the darkest of Peter's life. Without his friend's unwavering determination to inspire him, Peter had foundered, his scores dropping as depression set in. That's when Sergeant Kane had intervened.
It started with extra duties. While other recruits enjoyed evening recreation, Peter found himself on the range until well past midnight, Kane's patient voice guiding him through breathing techniques that seemed to draw from martial traditions far older than modern military doctrine.
"The weapon is not separate from the warrior," Kane had told him during one of those late night sessions. "It becomes an extension of your will, your purpose. Master yourself, and the gun will obey."
Peter had initially dismissed the philosophy as military mysticism, but gradually he began to understand. Kane wasn't just teaching marksmanship; he was rebuilding Peter's entire relationship with conflict, with precision, with the warrior mindset itself.
"Remove your glasses," Kane commanded now, as Peter stepped up to the firing line.
"Sergeant, I need them to—"
"No." Kane's interruption was absolute. "You've been using them as a crutch, hiding behind the perception of weakness. Your eyes are better than you think. Trust what I've taught you."
Peter hesitated, then slowly removed his glasses. The world didn't blur as much as he'd expected. Months of training in varying light conditions, of exercises designed to strengthen his natural vision, had indeed improved his sight beyond what he'd thought possible.
The target stood at three hundred yards, far beyond what most soldiers could hit with a sidearm. But Kane had been preparing Peter for this moment for months, each lesson building on the last, each exercise pushing him closer to what the sergeant claimed was his true potential.
"Feel your heartbeat," Kane instructed, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "Count the rhythm. Fire between beats, in that perfect moment of stillness."
Peter raised his M1911, the weapon feeling like part of his hand after countless hours of practice. But this wasn't the same gun he'd started with. Kane had somehow acquired a custom weapon, its balance and trigger pull adjusted to microscopic precision. When Peter had asked about it, Kane had simply said it was "inherited equipment."
The first shot split the morning air. Three hundred yards away, the target shuddered as the bullet found its mark dead center.
Around him, the other advanced trainees who'd gathered to watch fell silent. Hitting a man-sized target at that distance with a pistol was the stuff of legend, yet Peter had just done it as naturally as breathing.
"Again," Kane commanded.
The second shot followed, placed so close to the first that the holes overlapped. Then a third. A fourth. By the time Peter had emptied the magazine, he'd created a single ragged hole in the exact center of the target.
"Outstanding doesn't begin to cover it," whispered one of the watching soldiers.
Kane walked downrange to examine the target, his expression unreadable. When he returned, there was something in his eyes that Peter had never seen before. Pride, perhaps, but something deeper. Recognition.
"Sergeant Major Collins wants to see you," Kane announced. "Seems your transformation has attracted attention from the brass."
As they walked across the camp, Peter found himself studying Kane more closely. There were details about the man that had always puzzled him. The way he moved with perfect balance regardless of terrain. The scars that seemed to tell stories from conflicts spanning decades. The way his eyes sometimes seemed to focus on distant horizons, as though seeing things beyond normal perception.
"Sergeant," Peter ventured, "how long have you been in the Army?"
Kane was quiet for a long moment. "Longer than most people would believe," he finally said. "I've served in more conflicts than I care to remember."
"You talk like you've seen a lot of history."
Kane stopped walking and turned to face Peter directly. For a moment, his carefully maintained military mask slipped, revealing something distant and weathered beneath.
"Some men are born to fight, Parker. Some are called to it by circumstance. And some..." He paused, seeming to weigh his words carefully. "Some find themselves standing guard against things most people never see coming."
Before Peter could ask what that meant, they arrived at the administration building. Kane's professional demeanor snapped back into place like a shutter closing.
"Remember what I've taught you," he said. "The skills you've learned here will keep you alive in the trials ahead. And Peter?" Kane used his first name for the first time since training began. "Your friend Rogers isn't the only one with a role to play in what's coming. Sometimes the most important battles are fought by those nobody expects."
Inside the building, Peter found himself face to face with Sergeant Major Collins, a no-nonsense career soldier whose reputation for efficiency was legendary throughout the camp.
"Private Parker," Collins began without preamble, "your scores have been remarkable. Unprecedented, in fact. Sergeant Kane speaks very highly of your development."
"Thank you, sir."
"This isn't a social call," Collins continued. "There's a situation developing that requires soldiers with your particular skills. Are you familiar with Lieutenant Theodore Knight?"
Peter's eyes widened. "Ted? Yes, sir, we're old friends. We met at the recruitment center in Bayonne, though we'd seen each other around before that. He was accepted into the Signal Corps."
"Lieutenant Knight has specifically requested you for a special assignment. Something requiring both your technical photography background and your newly acquired combat skills."
Collins handed Peter a manila folder marked with classification stamps. "The 107th Infantry is deploying to the European Theater for operations against an enemy unlike anything we've previously encountered. They need specialists who can think on their feet and adapt to unconventional threats."
Peter opened the folder, finding photographs that made his blood run cold. Images of destroyed villages, of weapon damage unlike anything conventional explosives could create. Perfectly circular holes burned through stone buildings. Entire military units simply... gone, with only scorch marks remaining.
"What kind of weapons could do this?" Peter asked.
"That's what you and Lieutenant Knight are going to help us find out," Collins replied. "Your photography skills will document whatever you encounter. Your marksmanship will keep you alive long enough to get that intelligence back to command."
Peter closed the folder, his mind racing. This was it—the chance he'd been hoping for since Steve's departure. Real service, real danger, real opportunity to make a difference in the war.
"When do we ship out?" he asked.
"One week. Sergeant Kane will continue your advanced training until departure. I suggest you make the most of it."
That evening, Peter found Kane on the same range where his transformation had begun. The sergeant was practicing with what appeared to be a highly customized pistol, his shots placing with mechanical precision at distances that should have been impossible.
"That's not standard issue," Peter observed.
Kane lowered the weapon, revealing a sleek firearm with modifications Peter didn't recognize. The grip was perfectly balanced, the barrel extended and weighted in ways that suggested master craftsmanship.
"This pistol has served me well in more conflicts than I care to count," Kane said simply. "Had it custom made by a gunsmith who understood precision better than most."
Peter studied the weapon with professional interest. "The balance is incredible. Where did you find someone who could do work like that?"
Kane's smile held secrets Peter couldn't fathom. "You'd be surprised what kind of craftsmen you can find when you know where to look. Some skills get passed down through generations, refined over time."
He shouldered the weapon again, aiming at a target so distant Peter could barely make it out. "The enemy you'll face in Europe isn't just another army, Peter. They've gotten their hands on things they shouldn't have, technology that changes the rules of warfare. You'll need every skill I've taught you and more."
Peter watched as Kane fired again, the bullet finding its mark at an impossible distance. "Why are you telling me this? What makes you think I'm ready for something like that?"
"Because I've been watching you, Parker. Watching how you think, how you adapt." Kane turned to face Peter directly. "Your friend Rogers was chosen for his character. You've been chosen for something else entirely—your ability to see what others miss, to capture truth even when everyone around you is seeing lies."
Kane holstered his custom pistol with practiced ease. "Trust your training. Trust your instincts. And remember that sometimes the most important shot is the one you choose not to take."
The next week passed in a blur of intensive preparation. Kane pushed Peter through scenarios that seemed designed to test not just his marksmanship but his ability to make split-second decisions under impossible pressure. Mock battles where allies and enemies were indistinguishable. Precision shooting in complete darkness. Combat photography while under simulated fire.
On the final day, Kane presented Peter with a custom-made camera, its construction far more sophisticated than standard military equipment.
"This will function in conditions that would destroy conventional gear," Kane explained. "The lens can capture images in lighting conditions from complete darkness to blinding flash. The shutter is silent, and the case is bulletproof up to .50 caliber."
Peter accepted the camera with something approaching reverence. "Where did this come from?"
"I've had many lifetimes to collect useful equipment," Kane replied. "Consider it a graduation gift."
As Peter prepared to depart Camp Lehigh, Kane pulled him aside for final words.
"The man you were when you arrived here is gone," Kane said quietly. "What stands before me now is a warrior worthy of the battles ahead. But remember—your greatest weapon isn't your marksmanship or your camera. It's your ability to see the humanity in others, even in the darkest circumstances. That's what will keep you from becoming a monster."
Peter shook Kane's hand, surprised by the strength in those weathered fingers. "Will I see you again?"
Kane smiled, and for a moment the weight of years seemed to lift from his features. "I have a feeling our paths will cross again, Peter Parker. Warriors like us have a way of finding each other when the world needs us most."
As the transport truck pulled away from Camp Lehigh, Peter watched Kane's solitary figure through the rear window until distance swallowed him. He was heading toward a war that promised to be unlike anything in human history, carrying skills taught by a man who clearly harbored secrets spanning decades of conflict.
The uncertain photographer who had enlisted with Steve Rogers was truly dead. In his place sat a soldier who could put bullets through playing cards at three hundred yards, who could capture perfect images in the heat of battle, who had been trained by someone whose past remained tantalizingly mysterious.
Now it was time to see if Kane's training would be enough for whatever waited in the mountains of Italy.
—
SOMEWHERE OVER THE ATLANTIC - OCTOBER 20TH, 1943
The C-47 transport plane droned through the night sky, its engines fighting against headwinds that made the aircraft shudder with each gust. Inside the dimly lit cargo hold, Peter Parker sat among a dozen other specialists being deployed to the European Theater, each man lost in his own thoughts about what awaited them.
Across from him, Ted Knight adjusted his Signal Corps equipment for the third time in an hour, his nervous energy evident despite his attempts to appear calm. The physics teacher turned military technician had filled out since their days at the Stark Expo, his frame carrying the lean muscle of someone who'd spent months preparing for combat conditions.
"Remind me again why they need a photographer on a reconnaissance mission," Ted said, keeping his voice low to avoid disturbing the sleeping soldiers around them.
Peter patted the custom camera Kane had given him, secured in a specially designed case that could withstand the rigors of combat. "Someone has to document whatever we find. Command needs proof of these new weapons if they're going to develop countermeasures."
Ted leaned forward in his jump seat. "I've been working on some experimental equipment that could give our forces a significant advantage in the field. But I need someone who understands both the technical and operational sides of what we're doing. Someone I can trust."
Peter smiled at his old friend. "Just like old times, right? Remember when we used to try to figure out how Stark's flying car worked at the Expo?"
"Except this time, if we get it wrong, people die," Ted replied soberly.
The conversation was interrupted by the pilot's voice over the intercom: "Gentlemen, we're approaching the drop zone. Weather's not ideal, but it's the best window we're going to get. ETA fifteen minutes."
Peter felt his stomach tighten with familiar pre-mission nerves. Kane's training had prepared him for combat, but this would be his first real test in actual war conditions. Everything he'd learned over the past months would either prove sufficient, or it wouldn't.
"You nervous?" Ted asked, noting Peter's expression.
"Terrified," Peter admitted. "But ready."
—
AZZANO, NORTHERN ITALY – OCTOBER 25, 1943
The Alpine air carried the scent of pine and snow as Sergeant James "Bucky" Barnes crouched behind a fallen log, studying the German positions through his field glasses. Three months of combat in the European Theater had transformed him from an eager young soldier into a seasoned veteran, his face bearing the lean hardness that came from leading men in battle.
The 107th Infantry had been fighting their way through the Italian mountains for weeks, pushing back German forces that defended every ridge and valley with desperate determination. It was brutal, close quarters combat that tested both courage and endurance in equal measure.
"What do you see, Sarge?" whispered Corporal Timothy "Dum Dum" Dugan from his position nearby. The broad Irishman cradled his Thompson submachine gun like a lover, his distinctive bowler hat somehow still perched on his head despite three days of hard fighting.
"Machine gun nest in that farmhouse," Bucky replied, not lowering his binoculars. "Two more positions on the ridge line. They've got the approach to the village covered pretty well."
Behind them, the rest of the squad spread out in tactical formation. Gabriel "Gabe" Jones, a combat engineer from New York, monitored the radio with practiced efficiency, his dark face serious as he coordinated with other units. A Japanese-American soldier from California worked methodically to redistribute ammunition among the squad, his movements precise despite the stress of their situation. Near the rear, a British liaison officer kept watch on their escape route, occasionally calling out observations in his crisp accent.
Scattered among the veteran members were the newer additions to their squad. Peter Parker crouched nearby, his camera equipment carefully secured in a waterproof case while his rifle rested in hands that had spent countless hours perfecting their grip on the firing range. Ted Knight, officially their communications specialist, checked his experimental radio equipment while maintaining a full combat load. Robert Frank, a runner from Detroit whose speed on foot had made him valuable for reconnaissance, studied the terrain with the intensity of someone who'd already learned that seconds could mean the difference between life and death. Adam Brasher, a former college student whose analytical mind had quickly adapted to tactical planning, quietly sketched the German positions in a small notebook.
"Parker," Bucky called softly. "Get up here. I want you to document this before we move."
Peter low crawled to Bucky's position, his movements smooth and confident. The transformation from uncertain recruit to competent soldier had been remarkable to witness. Where once he'd been hesitant about his abilities, he now moved with the assured competence of someone who'd found his place in the war.
"What am I looking for?" Peter asked, already preparing his camera.
"Defensive positions, fields of fire, anything that might help the next unit that comes through here." Bucky handed him the field glasses. "And see if you can spot any of those new weapons we've been hearing about."
Peter studied the German positions with professional attention, noting not just the obvious machine gun emplacements but the subtle signs of more sophisticated defensive preparation. After several minutes, he lowered the glasses with a frown.
"There's something odd about their equipment," he said. "Some of those weapons don't look like standard Wehrmacht issue."
"How do you mean?" Ted asked, crawling up to join them.
"The proportions are wrong. Too bulky for conventional guns, and I'm seeing power cables running between positions." Peter raised his camera, adjusting the telephoto lens. "Whatever they're using, it's not in any manual I've seen."
Bucky felt a familiar unease settle in his stomach. Over the past month, there had been increasingly frequent reports of German forces using advanced weaponry unlike anything Allied intelligence had catalogued. Entire units had been found obliterated with no obvious cause, their positions showing signs of extreme heat damage but no conventional explosive residue.
"Lieutenant Knight," Bucky said formally, acknowledging Ted's technical expertise. "What's your assessment?"
Ted studied the positions through his own field glasses, paying particular attention to the strange equipment Peter had noted. "If I didn't know better, I'd say they're using some kind of directed energy weapons. But that's impossible with current technology."
"Maybe not for these guys," Gabe Jones said grimly from his position at the radio. "Command's been picking up chatter about something called HYDRA. Supposed to be a German research division working on advanced weapons."
"Research division or not," Bucky decided, "we've got a job to do. Frank, Brasher, what's our best approach?"
Robert Frank pointed toward a ravine that curved around the German left flank. "I scouted that approach on my last recon run. We can get within fifty meters without being spotted, but we'll have to move fast once we commit."
Adam Brasher studied the terrain carefully, his analytical mind processing the tactical situation. "If we time it right with the artillery barrage, we should be able to reach their positions before they can react. But we'll need to neutralize those machine guns quickly."
"How's our ammunition?" Bucky asked the British liaison officer.
"Adequate for the assault," the man replied, "though I'd prefer more grenades if we're going against fortified positions."
Bucky made his decision. "We go at sunset. Artillery starts at 1900 hours; we move at 1905. Parker, I want continuous documentation once we begin. Knight, keep that radio working; we'll need to call for support if this goes sideways."
As the sun began to sink behind the mountains, painting the sky in shades of orange and red, the squad made final preparations. Peter checked his camera equipment one last time, ensuring he could operate it even in the heat of combat. Ted tested his experimental communication device, confirming its connection to both the conventional radio and the photographic transmission system.
"Remember," Bucky told them all, "we're not here to win the war single handed. Get in, document what we find, and get out. If those weapons are as dangerous as they sound, we need intelligence more than territory."
The artillery barrage began precisely on schedule, shells screaming overhead to impact the German positions with thunderous explosions. Smoke and dust filled the air as Bucky led his men into the ravine, moving with practiced efficiency despite the treacherous terrain.
They had covered perhaps half the distance when the unexpected happened.
The German return fire came not from conventional artillery but from weapons that split the night with brilliant blue energy. Trees vaporized where the beams struck them, leaving perfectly circular holes burned through trunks three feet thick. The very air seemed to crackle with alien power.
"What the hell?" Dum Dum Dugan breathed, his usually unflappable demeanor shaken by the sight.
"Those are the weapons we've been hearing about," Ted said grimly, his scientific mind already working to understand what they were witnessing. "Some kind of directed energy system."
"Parker, are you getting this?" Bucky called.
"Every frame," Peter confirmed, his camera clicking rapidly as he documented the impossible blue fire that was reshaping the battlefield around them.
But their reconnaissance mission was about to become something far more dangerous. From positions they hadn't spotted came the deep rumble of heavy armor; not the familiar sound of German tanks, but something else entirely. Something larger.
The first HYDRA tank that rounded the mountainside defied every assumption about armored warfare. It was massive, easily twice the size of a standard Panzer, its hull covered in the distinctive octopus skull insignia of HYDRA rather than German military markings. Most unsettling of all, its main gun glowed with the same blue energy they'd witnessed from the infantry weapons.
"Jesus Christ," the British liaison whispered. "That's not Wehrmacht."
The tank's main gun swiveled toward a group of German soldiers who were retreating from the American artillery barrage. To everyone's astonishment, it fired on them, the blue energy beam vaporizing an entire squad of troops wearing German uniforms.
"They're firing on their own people," Gabe Jones reported in disbelief.
"Not their own people anymore," Bucky realized with growing dread. "This HYDRA group must have broken away from German command."
The implications were staggering. The Allied forces weren't just fighting the Wehrmacht and SS; they were facing an organization with advanced technology and no apparent loyalty to any nation or ideology beyond their own power.
A second HYDRA tank appeared, this one moving to flank the American positions. Its energy weapon carved through the mountainside like a knife through butter, sending tons of rock cascading down toward the 107th's position.
"We need to get out of here!" Bucky shouted over the sound of falling stone. "This is way beyond our mission parameters!"
But their retreat was already cut off. HYDRA infantry, wearing black uniforms and faceless masks, had moved to surround the American position. Unlike regular German soldiers, these troops moved with mechanical precision, their advanced weapons making conventional cover useless.
"Sarge!" Robert Frank called out, his keen eyes spotting movement in the shadows. "We've got company from three directions!"
The HYDRA forces were closing in with overwhelming superiority. Their energy weapons could punch through any cover the Americans might find, and their numerical advantage was decisive. Worse, the strange blue glow of their equipment seemed to interfere with conventional electronics; Ted's radio was filling with static, and even Peter's camera was behaving erratically.
"Into the cave!" Adam Brasher spotted their only possible refuge, a narrow opening in the mountainside that might offer protection from the energy weapons.
The squad fought their way toward the cave entrance, laying down covering fire with their conventional weapons. To their surprise, standard ammunition proved at least somewhat effective against the HYDRA troops, though their advanced armor absorbed damage that would have felled regular soldiers.
Peter managed several more photographs as they retreated, documenting both the HYDRA technology and the faces of his squadmates under fire. These images, if they survived, would provide crucial intelligence about this new threat.
They had almost reached the cave when a new sound joined the battle: the distinctive whine of aircraft engines. Looking up, Peter saw planes bearing German markings engage HYDRA aircraft in an aerial battle that defied military logic. The two supposedly allied forces were fighting each other with murderous intensity.
"The whole German war machine is falling apart," Ted observed as they ducked into the cave. "HYDRA's broken away completely."
But their respite was temporary. HYDRA forces continued to advance, their energy weapons carving through the mountainside around the cave entrance. It was only a matter of time before they would be forced to surrender or face obliteration.
That was when salvation arrived from an unexpected source.
The first indication was the sound of small arms fire from a new direction, followed by voices calling in accented English. Canadian voices.
"Looks like the cavalry's arrived," Dum Dum Dugan said with renewed hope.
Through the smoke and chaos, they could see Canadian troops engaging the HYDRA forces from the flank. The newcomers fought with remarkable skill and coordination, their conventional weapons used with tactical precision that somewhat compensated for the technological disadvantage.
Leading the Canadian charge was a sergeant whose ferocity in combat was immediately apparent. He moved through the battlefield with predatory grace, his combat knife and sidearm claiming HYDRA lives with brutal efficiency. Most remarkably, he seemed to shrug off wounds that should have been debilitating, pressing forward even when enemy fire found its mark.
"Who is that guy?" Peter asked, watching the Canadian sergeant single handedly clear a HYDRA machine gun position.
"Sergeant James Howlett, according to his tags," Gabe Jones reported, having managed to establish brief radio contact with the Canadian unit. "His men call him Logan."
The combined American and Canadian forces managed to break the HYDRA encirclement, though at terrible cost. The energy weapons had claimed numerous casualties, and several men had simply vanished where the blue beams struck them, leaving no trace beyond scorch marks on the ground.
"We need to fall back to friendly lines," Logan told Bucky as their forces regrouped. The Canadian sergeant bore multiple wounds that should have required immediate medical attention, yet he seemed barely affected by them. "These HYDRA bastards have more troops coming."
"Agreed," Bucky replied. "But we need to get intelligence about their weapons back to command."
"Already on it," Ted confirmed, checking his experimental communication device. "If this thing works, I've transmitted everything Parker photographed directly to SSR headquarters."
As they began their fighting withdrawal from the mountains, Peter found himself wondering about the implications of what they'd witnessed. HYDRA represented a threat unlike anything the Allies had prepared for; an organization with advanced technology, no national loyalties, and the willingness to turn their weapons on anyone who opposed them.
The war had just become infinitely more complicated.
But their relief at escaping the immediate trap was short-lived. As the combined American and Canadian forces moved through what they thought was secure terrain, Logan suddenly raised his fist, signaling everyone to stop.
"Something's wrong," the Canadian sergeant whispered, his weathered face tense with concern. "Too quiet. Where are the birds?"
Bucky felt it too—an unnatural silence that had settled over the forest. No wind rustled the leaves, no insects buzzed, even their own breathing seemed unnaturally loud in the oppressive stillness.
"Ambush?" Dum Dum Dugan asked quietly, his Thompson at the ready.
Before anyone could answer, the forest erupted in brilliant blue light. HYDRA energy weapons opened fire from concealed positions on all sides, their alien beams cutting through trees and turning rocks to molten slag. But these weren't aimed to kill—they were herding the Allied soldiers into a kill zone.
"Move! Move!" Bucky shouted, but there was nowhere to go. Every direction led to more energy fire, more HYDRA troops emerging from camouflaged positions.
Logan let out a roar of fury and charged toward the nearest HYDRA position, his combat knife flashing. Peter watched in amazement as the Canadian sergeant seemed to shrug off direct hits from energy weapons that should have vaporized him, pressing forward with inhuman determination. But even Logan's remarkable resilience had limits. A concentrated barrage from three different directions finally brought him down, his body smoking but somehow still breathing.
"Fall back to the ridge!" the British liaison shouted, but Ted's voice cut through the chaos.
"My radio's dead! All electronics are down!" The experimental communication device in his hands sparked and went silent. "Whatever they're doing, it's jamming everything!"
Peter tried to raise his camera to document the new HYDRA tactics, but the device wouldn't respond. Every piece of electronic equipment had been rendered useless by some kind of electromagnetic pulse emanating from the HYDRA positions.
The trap was perfect. HYDRA forces closed in from every direction with methodical precision, their black uniforms and faceless masks making them look like demons emerging from the forest shadows. Their energy weapons hummed with deadly potential, but they held their fire now—these soldiers were clearly under orders to take prisoners.
"Surrender your weapons," came an electronically distorted voice from the nearest HYDRA squad leader. "You are surrounded. Resistance will result in immediate termination."
Bucky's jaw clenched as he surveyed their situation. They were outnumbered at least four to one, outgunned by weapons that could disintegrate a man in seconds, and trapped in terrain that offered no cover from the energy beams. Logan was down, barely conscious but still breathing. The Canadian's men looked to Bucky for guidance, their own sergeant unable to lead.
"What do we do, Sarge?" Gabe Jones whispered, his normally steady voice tight with tension.