thefirststark

Factory Building #3 doesn't stand out much from the dozens of manufacturing sites in southern California. The two things that distinguish it most? That it was build after the war ended, when so many other factories were being shut down. And that it's in Whittier, more than a little off the beaten path. It had been a bit of pork brought home by Congressman Voorhis, something that Howard was glad to take advantage of. And the fact that Voorhis was gone and replaced by a newcomer named Richard Nixon wasn't important. Everyone in the district wanted the jobs, after all.

The location wasn't perfect. The nearest full scale airfield was a good drive, meaning that planes would have to be towed on substandard roads for testing. And those same roads didn't make the drive there an easy one. But Howard was still pleased with the factory, with the labor pool, with the cost of the construction, and the government contracts that went with it. Specifically, the B-35. The next generation in long range bomber.

The staff was all abuzz today. Howard's visits to the factory were rare. He generally trusted his managers, and usually had somewhere else to be. That he was making an inspection left everyone eager. Or nervous. Was there something wrong? Was there someone even more important coming? Or was he just being a boss and pulling the sort of surprise inspection that other bosses love? All anyone knew was that he arrived through the private garage and went to his office unseen.

They didn't know that he had left the office and gone into another dimension for a while. Or that he was bringing back a guest.

The space within the SXF-16 is cramped. Three seats, and room for maybe two suitcases. Ask anyone who flew on the Pan Am clipper ships, and they would say that this is a step backwards. But ask anyone who sat at the controls of the SF-12 Mockingbird or SF-11 Vulture, and he would be thrilled there's room for a co-pilot.

Howard opens the hatch from the outside, leading his passenger aboard.

"Welcome aboard, Helena."

It seemed like a good time to finally take a room in the Bar. Sleep had been hard to come by, with the ever increasing level of work that everyone in the SSR was handling. Howard was getting four hours a night and living on terrible coffee (salted with chicory and who knows what else). So one or two nights here, away from the war, seemed necessary.

And yet, here he was, wide awake at some godawful hour of the night. Which, it quickly came back to him, was December 25.

Which didn't explain either why he was awake or why there seemed to be something...someone?...in his room.

"Mister Stark, do you know what vibranium is?" Colonel Chester Phillips sounded grumpy and impatient. He always sounded that way, which both amused and annoyed Howard Stark. Having such a boss reminded Howard why he'd never work for anyone else after the war was over. But for now, the war was far from over, and they Were All In It Together. Something innumerable posters he saw in London every day reminded him of. Thereby making sure he didn't fly back to the states.

"It's a rare metal, supposedly available in one country in Africa."

"Ever seen any?" Phillips was enjoying this. Phillips always did. He knew something Stark didn't, and that gave him power. Power Stark intended to get back somehow.

"Colonel, I don't think anyone outside of the royal palace of Wakanda has. Assuming it's real and not a legend told by Belgian soldiers looking for an excuse to conquer another patch of Africa."

"Oh, it's real, Mister Stark. And two days ago, the king of Wakanda made a gift of it. To the United States. A gift that was immediately passed from the State Department to the Secretary of War, and then the Chief of Staff, and then to the Strategic Science Reserve. And it arrived two hours ago." Stark tried not to blink. Or stare. Or gape. Or say anything that gave away how big a deal this could be.

""And you want me to see what I can do with it? Anything in mind?" He wanted to sound utterly bored. The way socialites do at every occasion. Howard was not much of a socialite. He hated being bored. And was ready for another new challenge.

"Run every test you can here. If you need to, take some - take a tiny bit - back to New York. Find out if it really does everything the stories say. And then find an application for it. But be warned...the king didn't give us much. Officially he's neutral and officially we never got anything from him. So whatever he's sitting on, it's not here." Phillips seemed just a tiny bit excited. As with the Super-Soldier Project, the promise of a huge leap ahead tantalized even as the likelihood of failure kept both the colonel and Stark from acting like anything special was going on. Stark could see that in Phillip's eyes.

"It's here, you said?"

"On the way to your lab. 43 pounds of pure vibranium. Officially disguised as 43 pounds of lead alloy, so no one but us knows it's even here. Do I make myself clear?" This time, there'd be no show for dignitaries, no promises made, no disappointments that would lead to Senator Truman raising questions about unnecessary expenditures. One failure was tolerable, barely. Two, and Phillip would be shipped to Greenland while Stark was drafted. And with that in mind, the vibranium didn't exist until it was useful.

"Perfectly, Colonel. Should I go check on my delivery?"

"Well, what are you waiting for?" Howard could have sworn that there was the hint of a smile on the colonel's face. The colonel, he knew, would deny it.

_______

Two hours later, Howard and the mound of vibranium had gotten acquainted. A few basic tests revealed the metal was not magnetic, had a high resistance to heat, and seemed oddly flexible. There would be no way to be sure this was the case until they smelted it and gave it a shape. Just what shape, Howard didn't know. With such a small supply, the application would have to be special. No bullets or blades from it, that he was sure about. And there was enough to armor all of one tank. Unless that tank was carrying MacArthur, there would be no point to such a thing.

He knew something would come to him. It usually did. But for now, Howard needed food. And coffee. He'd settle for whatever the commissary was serving, and hope that the shipment of real coffee had arrived, and that the SSR was eligible to receive it this time. He stepped out of his lab.

He wakes up. In a strange bed.

It takes a moment to remember where he is. And who he's with.

As he gets his bearings, he smiles to himself and looks over at Alisa.

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