After approximately a mile of punishing terrain, the trail intersected with a wider logging road that, if his sense of direction remained accurate, should lead in the general direction of his objective. Trevor paused momentarily, listening for sounds of pursuit. The forest was eerily quiet save for the patter of rain on leaves and the ticking of the motorcycle's cooling engine.
He was about to continue when a sound froze him in place—the distinctive whine of HYDRA aircraft. Looking up through gaps in the canopy, he spotted search planes circling the area, their powerful lights probing the forest below. The Ultra-Humanite was committing significant resources to his recapture, which confirmed the value of the intelligence Trevor had stolen.
The aircraft complicated matters significantly. Even if he evaded ground pursuit, the planes might spot him once he reached more open terrain. He needed a distraction, something to draw their attention away from his actual route.
Trevor surveyed his surroundings, mind racing through possibilities. The logging road showed signs of recent use—fresh tire tracks and cut timber stacked at intervals. Following it might lead to some form of civilization, perhaps even alternate transportation.
Decision made, he continued along the logging road, keeping the motorcycle at a moderate speed to minimize noise while maintaining progress. The forest gradually thinned, revealing signs of human activity—stumps from felled trees, equipment tracks in the mud, and eventually, a small lumber camp nestled in a clearing.
The camp appeared deserted, likely due to the late hour and inclement weather. Several rugged trucks were parked near a cluster of simple wooden buildings. Trevor approached cautiously, alert for any signs of occupation. Finding none, he wheeled the motorcycle behind one of the structures and proceeded on foot to investigate.
The largest building proved to be a combination office and supply depot. Trevor slipped inside, using his field flashlight to navigate the cluttered space. Maps on the wall confirmed his location—the lumber operation was legitimate, apparently contracted to provide materials for HYDRA's mountain facility. More importantly, the camp was positioned roughly halfway between his current location and the emergency airfield.
A plan began to form in Trevor's mind. The lumber trucks would be slow but might pass without suspicion if HYDRA patrols established roadblocks. Additionally, one vehicle moving openly might draw attention away from a lone motorcyclist taking a more circuitous route.
Before he could implement this strategy, headlights swept across the windows—vehicles approaching the camp. Trevor doused his flashlight and moved to a position where he could observe without being seen. Three HYDRA personnel carriers rumbled into the clearing, disgorging soldiers who immediately began searching the buildings.
Among them was a figure that made Trevor's blood run cold—the Master Man from the facility, no longer burning but its uniform charred and partly melted to its unnatural flesh. The creature showed no signs of pain or fatigue, moving with the same unsettling efficiency as before. It paused, head tilting as though listening or perhaps smelling the air.
Trevor remained perfectly still, scarcely daring to breathe. The Master Man turned slowly in his direction, those inhuman eyes seeming to penetrate the darkness separating them. For a heart-stopping moment, Trevor thought he'd been detected. Then one of the HYDRA officers called out, and the creature turned away, distracted by new orders.
The search party began methodically checking each building, moving ever closer to Trevor's hiding place. He needed an exit strategy, and quickly. The lumber office had a rear door that likely led behind the row of buildings, potentially offering a path back to where he'd hidden the motorcycle. If he could reach it undetected, he might slip away while the HYDRA forces concentrated on the camp.
Staying low, Trevor crept toward the rear of the building, careful to avoid creating any noise that might alert the enhanced senses of the Master Man. He had almost reached the door when a floorboard creaked beneath his weight—a small sound, but in the tense silence, it might as well have been a gunshot.
Outside, the Master Man's head snapped toward the building. It uttered something to the nearest officer, who immediately directed soldiers toward the lumber office. Trevor abandoned stealth for speed, bolting for the rear door. He burst through it just as HYDRA troops entered the front, their shouts confirming his detection.
The space between buildings was narrow and dark, offering momentary concealment as Trevor sprinted toward where he'd left the motorcycle. Behind him, the rear door of the office splintered as something massive—undoubtedly the Master Man—crashed through it rather than bothering to open it properly.
Trevor reached the motorcycle and kicked it to life, the engine's roar announcing his position to every HYDRA soldier in the camp. Energy weapons fire erupted around him, blue beams slicing through the darkness. One struck the building beside him, removing a section of wall as neatly as a surgeon's scalpel.
With no time for subtlety, Trevor gunned the engine and shot directly toward the largest gap between buildings, bursting into the main clearing where HYDRA vehicles were still parked. Soldiers scrambled to intercept him, some diving out of his path while others attempted to bring their weapons to bear.
The Master Man charged from between buildings, moving with that unnatural speed that defied its bulk. It was on an intercept course, positioned perfectly to cut off Trevor's escape from the camp. With no time to change direction, Trevor made a split-second calculation and opened the throttle fully, aiming directly at the hulking figure.
It was a game of chicken the Master Man clearly expected to win, planting its feet and bracing to catch the motorcycle head-on. What it didn't anticipate was Trevor's last-second maneuver—releasing the handlebars to grab the combat knife from his boot, then leaping from the speeding motorcycle an instant before impact.
The riderless bike slammed into the Master Man with the combined force of its momentum and weight. Even the enhanced soldier couldn't remain standing against such impact, toppling backward with the motorcycle tangled in its massive limbs.
Trevor hit the ground in a controlled roll, coming up in a crouch with his knife at the ready. The distraction had worked, creating a momentary gap in the HYDRA perimeter. Without hesitation, he sprinted toward the parked personnel carriers, selecting the one with keys visibly in the ignition.
Gunfire followed him, bullets pinging off metal as he dove into the driver's seat and started the engine. The heavy vehicle responded sluggishly compared to the motorcycle, but its armor would provide protection the bike couldn't. Trevor crashed through a wooden barrier at the camp's edge, turning onto a wider road that appeared to lead eastward—toward the emergency airfield.
Behind him, the HYDRA forces scrambled to reorganize their pursuit, delayed by the confusion he'd created. The Master Man was extracting itself from the wrecked motorcycle, its movements suggesting damage that, while not debilitating, had at least slowed it down. Small victories.
For the next hour, Trevor navigated the labyrinth of rural roads and forest paths, the sounds of pursuit fading and then occasionally resurging as HYDRA patrols swept the area. The stolen personnel carrier was conspicuous but faster on the improved roads than his pursuers might have expected. Its headlights carved tunnels through the darkness, the wipers fighting a losing battle against the relentless rain.
The HYDRA aircraft continued to circle overhead, their searchlights probing the forest below, but the densely wooded terrain and poor weather conditions hampered their effectiveness. Trevor used every trick he'd learned in years of covert operations—doubling back, fording shallow streams to break his trail, and once, driving with lights extinguished through a particularly dense section of forest where overhanging branches provided cover from aerial observation.
The rain finally began to slacken as dawn approached, the first hints of gray light penetrating the forest canopy. Trevor consulted his waterproof map, confirming that his circuitous route had indeed brought him within striking distance of the emergency airfield. He abandoned the personnel carrier in a deep ravine, covering it with branches to delay its discovery, and continued the final miles on foot.
By the time Trevor reached the abandoned airfield, his uniform was caked with mud, his body battered from the rough journey, but the intelligence—safely waterproofed in his pack—remained intact. The airfield itself was little more than an overgrown grass strip with a dilapidated hangar at one end, long abandoned after the German occupation of the region.
The approach of dawn brought both advantage and risk. Better visibility would aid his takeoff, but also make him more detectable to pursuing forces. Trevor moved with renewed urgency toward the hangar, where his extraction vehicle waited.
Inside the hangar, concealed beneath moldering canvas tarps, waited his salvation—a Fieseler Fi 156 Storch, a German reconnaissance aircraft chosen specifically for its short takeoff and landing capabilities. The SSR had acquired several of these versatile planes, modifying them for covert operations behind enemy lines. This particular craft had been painted in Luftwaffe markings to allow it to pass casual inspection if spotted in German-controlled airspace.
Trevor worked quickly to prepare the aircraft, removing the camouflage covering and performing an abbreviated pre-flight check. The Storch was designed to take off in under 200 feet of runway—a critical advantage given the airfield's limited size and his need for rapid departure. Its fuel tanks had been topped off during the insertion phase of the mission, providing sufficient range to reach Allied territory.
Just as he was completing his preparations, the distant sound of engines reached his ears—HYDRA vehicles approaching along the main road. They had somehow tracked him, perhaps guessing his destination when they found no sign of him along their standard patrol routes.
No time for further checks. Trevor climbed into the cockpit, started the engine, and began taxiing to the end of the grass strip. The Storch's engine caught on the first try, a small mercy in a night that had offered few. In his mirror, he could see the first HYDRA vehicles emerging from the tree line, specialized weapons already being aimed in his direction.
The Storch's engine strained as Trevor pushed it to full power, the aircraft accelerating down the bumpy grass runway as blue energy blasts began striking the ground around him. Each impact created a perfect circle of destruction, advancing closer to the aircraft's path like deadly stepping stones. The plane lifted off just as a blast hit the ground directly behind it, the shockwave actually helping to propel the aircraft upward with a violent jolt that nearly slammed Trevor's head against the cockpit roof.
"That was too close," he muttered, hands steady on the controls despite the adrenaline flooding his system.
Banking sharply to the east, Trevor kept the plane low, using the rolling terrain to mask his escape from any pursuing aircraft that might be scrambled. Dawn was breaking now, painting the landscape with golden light that would normally be beautiful but currently served only to make him a more visible target. His immediate objective was to cross the Adriatic to Allied territory in southern Italy, where he could deliver his intelligence to SSR headquarters.
Trevor's original flight plan had called for a direct route across the narrowest part of the Adriatic, but the HYDRA pursuit had pushed him significantly south of his intended path. Checking his fuel reserves and consulting his charts, he made a quick recalculation. A direct crossing to Italy would take him over heavily defended airspace—suicide for a lone aircraft flying a captured German model, especially one already damaged in his escape.
"Looks like we're taking the scenic route," he said to the empty cockpit, adjusting his heading slightly. He would follow the Albanian coastline southward before cutting across the Ionian Sea, a longer journey but one that would keep him away from the heaviest concentrations of German anti-aircraft defenses.
For the first half-hour of flight, Trevor maintained his evasive course, skimming treetops and following river valleys to minimize his radar profile. The Storch performed admirably despite the rough treatment, its high-wing design providing excellent visibility of the terrain below. Eventually, the forested hills gave way to the coastal plains of southern Albania, and soon the brilliant blue expanse of the Ionian Sea spread before him.
As he approached the coast, he finally allowed himself to climb to a more sustainable cruising altitude, the Storch's engine settling into a steady rhythm that was almost soothing after the chaos of the past twelve hours. The morning sun glinted off the water below, and for a brief moment, Trevor felt something approaching peace—a rare sensation in his line of work.
"Don't get too comfortable," he reminded himself. "Still a long way from friendly territory."
The relative safety of altitude gave Trevor his first opportunity to examine the information he had risked his life to obtain. Keeping one hand on the controls, he opened his pack and reviewed some of the photographs he had taken, confirming that the images were clear enough to be useful to intelligence analysts. The miniature camera had performed its job perfectly, capturing documents with resolution sharp enough to read even the smallest notes in the margins.
What he saw confirmed his worst fears. HYDRA was preparing for a major offensive, with weapons capable of destruction on an unprecedented scale. The documents mentioned testing sites where entire villages had been eradicated in seconds, leaving no trace of structures or inhabitants. One photograph showed a before-and-after aerial reconnaissance image of a small Polish hamlet—present one day, replaced by a perfectly circular depression the next, as if God himself had pressed a thumb into the Earth.
More disturbing still were the references to "enhanced soldiers" nearly ready for deployment—not in the dozens, but in the hundreds. The Master Man he'd encountered was apparently just a prototype, one of the early test subjects. The production models would be more refined, their physiologies more stable, and their minds completely subservient to HYDRA command through a combination of chemical conditioning and something cryptically referred to as "the Faustus method."
If this intelligence was accurate, HYDRA represented a threat far beyond conventional Nazi forces. These weapons and soldiers could potentially turn the tide of the war, even at this late stage when Allied victory had begun to seem inevitable. Schmidt was preparing to reshape the world in his image, and from what Trevor had seen, he had the means to accomplish it.
The Storch continued its journey southward, passing over the Greek coastline. Trevor consulted his charts, plotting the safest route across the open water toward Allied-controlled areas of southern Italy. The crossing would take approximately two hours—the longest stretch of the journey without any potential emergency landing sites. Once over water, he would be committed.
"In for a penny," Trevor said to himself, turning the aircraft westward over the Ionian Sea. The crystalline waters below seemed deceptively peaceful, hiding the deadly game of cat and mouse played by submarines and destroyers beneath the surface. Somewhere out there, Allied and Axis vessels hunted each other in a silent, lethal dance.
Trevor's contemplation was interrupted by a sharp rattle of the airframe. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw what he had feared—a German Bf 109 fighter closing rapidly from behind, its distinctive profile unmistakable against the morning sky. The fighter's black crosses stood out starkly against its light gray fuselage, and the morning sun glinted off its canopy, obscuring the pilot's face.
"Where the hell did you come from?" Trevor muttered, scanning the skies for additional threats. The 109 must have been on a routine patrol and spotted the Storch by chance—terrible luck, but not entirely unexpected. The Luftwaffe maintained regular patrols over these waters, watching for Allied shipping and aircraft.
The Storch was a remarkable aircraft for reconnaissance and liaison duties, but it was never designed for combat. With a top speed less than half that of the pursuing fighter, outrunning was impossible. Trevor's only advantages were the Storch's superior maneuverability at low speeds and its ability to fly slower than the 109's stall speed. It wasn't much, but it would have to do.
Banking sharply, Trevor pushed the Storch into a steep dive toward the sea now visible below. His plan was to get as close to the water as possible, where the fighter's superior speed would become a liability rather than an advantage. The Storch responded sluggishly to his inputs, protesting the sudden maneuver after the sustained cruise.
"Come on, old girl," Trevor coaxed, feeling the aircraft shudder as he pulled it into a tighter turn than the designers had likely intended. "Just a little cooperation here."
The 109 followed, its machine guns chattering with a sound like canvas ripping. Tracer rounds streaked past the cockpit, uncomfortably close. The next burst found its mark—bullets tore through the Storch's canvas-covered wings, but miraculously missed the cockpit and engine. Small holes appeared in the fabric, the slipstream immediately causing them to tear into larger gaps that threatened the wing's structural integrity.
Trevor pulled up mere feet above the Adriatic waves, the Storch's landing gear nearly touching the whitecaps. At this altitude, the sea's surface wasn't the uniform blue it appeared from above but a constantly shifting tapestry of peaks and troughs. Trevor used these natural contours to further mask his flight path, weaving between larger swells in a display of piloting skill that would have earned admiration had the circumstances been different.
Above and behind him, the 109 pilot faced a dilemma—continue pursuit at dangerously low altitude, or gain height for another attack run. Flying this low over water was notoriously disorienting, with few reference points for judging altitude and the constant risk of misjudging a wave and striking the surface. The pilot chose the safer option, pulling up and away to circle back for another pass. This gave Trevor precious seconds to assess his situation.
A quick scan of his instruments confirmed what he already suspected from the aircraft's handling—the damage was significant. The altimeter needle wobbled erratically, and the fuel gauge was dropping more rapidly than it should. A glance back revealed fuel streaming from a punctured line, leaving a thin rainbow sheen on the water's surface below.
The Italian coast was still too distant to reach before the fighter returned. The Storch was damaged, losing fuel from the punctured tank, and unlikely to survive another attack run. Trevor checked his map again, searching for any closer landfall—a small island, a shoal, anything that might offer a chance at survival. His options were rapidly diminishing with each passing second.
Then, through a break in the clouds ahead, Trevor spotted something unusual—a bank of fog that seemed fixed in place despite the morning breeze. It stretched across the horizon like a wall, too geometrically perfect to be natural. And within it, just barely visible, was what appeared to be an island—not on his charts, but clearly visible several miles to the south.
"That can't be right," Trevor muttered, checking his position again. He'd memorized the charts for this entire region before the mission, and there was definitely no island marked where he was now seeing one. Yet there it was, partially concealed by the strange fogbank but undeniably real.
If he could reach it, perhaps he could find cover or at least crash-land somewhere the Germans couldn't follow. It was a desperate gamble, but with fuel leaking and the 109 already beginning its second attack run, desperation was all he had left.
Trevor banked the struggling Storch toward the mysterious island, pushing the wounded aircraft to its limits. The engine coughed occasionally, starved of fuel as the leak worsened, but continued to run. Behind him, the 109 had completed its turn and was diving for another attack. This time, the German pilot opened fire from maximum range, perhaps wary of flying too low over open water or confused by the unusual fogbank ahead.
Most of the bullets went wide, but several struck the Storch's engine, which immediately began belching black smoke. The aircraft shuddered violently, losing altitude despite Trevor's efforts to maintain level flight. The controls grew sluggish, responding to his inputs with increasing reluctance.
"Come on, girl," Trevor muttered to the dying plane. "Just a little further."
As the Storch approached the mysterious fogbank, Trevor experienced a sensation unlike anything in his years of flying—a subtle pressure against his ears, a momentary disorientation, as though passing through an invisible membrane. The aircraft shuddered again, but differently this time—not from damage but as if it had encountered an atmospheric disturbance unlike any natural turbulence.
Then, suddenly, they were through. The fog parted like a curtain, revealing a vista that made Trevor momentarily forget his dire situation. The island before him wasn't just land—it was paradise. Lush green forests covered gently sloping hills that rose to majestic mountains in the center. Waterfalls cascaded down cliffs to meet pristine beaches of white sand. The water surrounding the island was a blue so intense it seemed almost artificial, clear enough to reveal coral reefs beneath the surface.
"My God," Trevor breathed. The island looked like something from classical mythology—the kind of place gods might choose for their retreat from the mortal world. No signs of modern habitation were visible from his approach, but at this point, Trevor would have welcomed even enemy occupiers if it meant surviving the imminent crash.
Behind him, something even stranger occurred. The 109, pursuing closely, seemed to hit an invisible barrier at the fogbank. Trevor caught a glimpse in his mirror of the fighter bouncing off the nebulous boundary like a stone skipping across water, its pilot clearly struggling to maintain control of the suddenly destabilized aircraft. After a moment's recovery, the German plane circled the fogbank warily, as if unable to perceive the island within it.
"They can't see it," Trevor realized with astonishment. "Or they can't get through."
The 109 made one final, frustrated pass along the boundary of the fog before banking away, perhaps satisfied that the crippled Storch would crash into open sea, or more likely, concerned about fuel reserves for the return flight to base. Whatever the reason, Trevor wasn't going to question his good fortune.
With the fighter's departure, Trevor's full attention returned to the urgent matter of survival. The Storch's engine had gone from smoking to actively flaming, orange tongues licking back along the cowling toward the cockpit. Control response was now minimal, the aircraft responding sluggishly if at all to his increasingly desperate inputs. The shoreline of the island was approaching rapidly, but the aircraft was losing altitude even faster.
Trevor aimed for the water just offshore, knowing that a water landing offered the best chance of survival with his deteriorating control. As the Storch skimmed the waves near a crescent-shaped beach, he cut the engine, hoping to reduce the risk of fire upon impact. The sudden silence was almost as shocking as the roar of flames had been moments before.
"Here goes nothing," he murmured, bracing himself for impact.
The aircraft hit the water hard, the impact throwing Trevor against his restraints with bone-jarring force. The cockpit canopy shattered, and frigid seawater rushed in as the Storch began to sink rapidly. Despite the shock and pain, Trevor managed to unfasten his harness and grab his pack containing the vital intelligence before the cockpit filled completely.
Swimming clear of the sinking aircraft, Trevor found himself perhaps a hundred yards from shore, fighting against pain and exhaustion to stay afloat. His waterlogged pack felt like an anchor, but he refused to abandon the intelligence that had already cost so much to obtain. The images of the HYDRA facility, the weapons, the Master Men program—all of it needed to reach Allied command, no matter the personal cost.
Stroke by stroke, Trevor made his way toward the beach, his strength ebbing with each movement. His limbs felt increasingly leaden, responding to his commands with diminishing effectiveness. The beautiful shoreline seemed to waver in his vision, as consciousness began to slip away. Still, he forced himself to continue, focusing on each stroke as if it were the only thing in the world.
As darkness crept in from the edges of his perception, Trevor became aware of a disturbance in the water nearby. Through blurring vision, he glimpsed what appeared to be a figure swimming toward him—a woman with long dark hair, moving through the water with impossible grace and speed. Her approach seemed effortless, cutting through the waves with a fluidity that no Olympic swimmer could match.
"Hallucinating," he managed to think as his strength finally failed him and he began to sink beneath the waves. "Nobody could swim like that."
Yet the figure was undeniably real, reaching him just as consciousness fled. The last sensation Trevor registered was strong arms encircling him, drawing him upward toward light and air. Even in his near-unconscious state, he couldn't help but notice the remarkable strength in those arms, strength that seemed beyond ordinary human capacity.
His final thought before darkness claimed him completely was tinged with wonder rather than fear: Who was this woman who had appeared from nowhere to pluck him from the sea? And what was this mysterious island that existed on no Allied or Axis chart?
The answers would change not only Steven Trevor's life, but the course of the war itself.