THE SCREAMING MACHINES
It was shortly after midnight that the anonymous late-model Ford turned off the FDR Drive at Houston Street, cutting west. Riding in the car with Sparrow were Randolph and Marcus. Marcus was checking out a bulky suitcase, the side of which had a set of electrical connections. Randolph was working with the contents of the other suitcase.
The weather had suddenly turned warm, a hollow echo of Indian summer. Gusty sou’wester breezes pushed through the half-open windows of the car. The East River, when they had come over the Brooklyn Bridge, had been obscured by fog, the bridge lights pale misty moons. Clouds of fog were blowing in from the river as they left it now, heading west on Houston.
At Avenue D, Sparrow swung the car right, heading north again. This was the worst part of the East Side, but at this hour all but deserted. Trash blew unhindered in the streets, rising in small clouds behind the car.
At 14th Street, they turned east again.
There is only a short block between Avenue D and the FDR Drive at 14th Street. On the south side sits a huge transformer switch yard, guarded by a high fence. On the north side sits the main Manhattan Consolidated Edison power generating plant. Even now its tall stacks belched pollution into the air. The city regularly fined the monolithic utility company, but Con Ed only shrugged, paid the fines, and added them to its already staggering consumer bills. Across the Drive, nestled between it and the East River, almost obscured by the fog now, and only a hulking blotch of darkness, was a coal elevator, into which coal was dumped from river barges. The coal was hauled up several stories and conveyor-belted across the Drive into the power plant, where it was burned, supplying energy for the giant generators that supplied most of Manhattan’s electric power, and then becoming soot, falling gently from the air onto thousands of window sills across the island.
It was a blot upon the city, Marcus felt. He felt a kind of boyish glee at what they were about to do. Perhaps someday the city would thank him. It was a thought worth smiling about.
Ralph Amberson, at fifty-three, was senior engineer in charge of the midnight-to-eight shift at the 14th Street plant. Four regular men worked under him—Milton Krankowitz, forty-eight; Jeff Jones, forty-four; Julius Postal, thirty-six; and Mark Redwing, forty. Ralph didn’t like Jones; he had no use for most Negroes. Jones did his job fine, but there was no denying that he didn’t belong there. Neither did that young Turkish Jew, Postal. The city was overrun with foreigners anyway. Look at them, not an honest name in the lot. Krankowitz, a Pole; Redwing—well, with a name like that, he had to have Indian blood, even if he didn’t show it.
Amberson was not a prejudiced man, he’d have you know. He didn’t hold with the way they did things down south, and Hitler—well, the man was an insane murderer, and you couldn’t make excuses for the extermination of six million Jews. On the other hand, now that they had their own country, why couldn’t they stop sponging off the goodwill and charity of other countries? Postal! That man couldn’t have known the war. He hadn’t fought in it, the way Ralph had. Why was he—and all the other Jews in the world—still trading on what happened over twenty years ago, still looking for the free ride?
He had never mentioned this to Julius, and he never would. It wasn’t something a polite man would bring up, much less discuss. He wasn’t a bigot. It was like he’d told his wife, Margaret, how could they call him a bigot? He lived on the same block with them. But it galled a man, nevertheless, to see the way they took over jobs, pushing their way in. They talked about anti-semitism, and discrimination against Negroes. He could show them a thing or two! How about that officious Negro clerk down at City Hall, when he’d tried to get a little action on a parking ticket? Hah! In this city, to get anywhere, you had to be Negro or a Jew. Then they leaned over backward. City Controller, Borough President, anything you wanted!
The outside door, just beyond his office, slammed. He dropped his newspaper and pushed to his feet. Before he could reach it, his door swung open, and a neatly dressed young man was standing in the doorway. What was the office doing, sending men around at this hour? Or was he from the city?
The neatly dressed young man pulled a revolver from under his arm. It was blued steel. The barrel was five inches long. It looked longer.
“You in charge here, Pop?”
“Yes, I…What’s going on?”
The terrifying gun exploded. Ralph Amberson’s body was driven back against his desk, his spine smashed, arms flailing. The bullet left a hole in the wall beyond. The hole was ringed with bits of flesh and blood.
Sparrow had explained it to them. “No witnesses. This is the biggest job that’s ever been pulled. It’ll make the Brinks robbery look like peanuts. We’re blacking out a whole city, just to pull it off. We don’t need witnesses.”
He was in his element now. There had been only five men they could find. He’d held one of them, a Negro, at bay with his own gun, while the two gunmen had gone hunting for the other three, their guns sounding occasionally over the throbbing roar of the generators. “Just five of you, eh?” he’d asked. The Negro had nodded, sweat pouring down his face.
“You wouldn’t be holding one or two back?”
“I wish I had.”
“Don’t be stupid.”
“You’re gonna kill me anyway, right?”
“Make it easy for yourself. Don’t make it hard.”
“Why should I? Why should I make it easy for you?” Jones leaped at him, clubbing at Sparrow’s gun hand with one arm, going for his body with the other.
Sparrow had to admire the fellow’s guts. He lifted his knee and chopped with his gun hand, driving the other’s head down, smashing the man’s nose. Then, as he collapsed at Sparrow’s feet, Sparrow put a bullet through the back of his head.
That had taken care of the opposition. Now for the work.
Randolph had assembled the laser gun from the second suitcase with care. Now he plugged its leads to the power pack in the other suitcase, and handed the weapon to Sparrow.
It didn’t look like much. It consisted mainly of a tube. It was one of the new gas types that didn’t use a jewel. Energy was pumped into the tubular chamber. It was converted into photons—light particles. These bounced back and forth between the mirrors at each end of the chamber until they were perfectly aligned, and could escape at one end as congruent light.
With the tight red beam of light, diamonds could be cut, messages sent to the moon, anything. The possible uses of the laser as a tool or weapon are almost unlimited.
Sparrow used the beam to carve through solid inches of steel, to cut through the heavy maintenance shielding of the bearing assembly at the hub of one of the huge powerhouse generators. He used it to fuse and destroy the bearing upon which the giant generator rotor spun.
There were nine generators in the powerhouse. Without pause, he moved on to the next. And then the next.
The instant the bearing had been damaged on the first generator, imbalance was introduced to the tons of spinning mass that was the rotor. A vibration was set up.
When the bearing was destroyed, vast amounts of friction were quickly created by the spinning shaft. The rotor, no longer on a true course, began scraping against the fixed fields. Showers of sparks began to fly from the wobbling generator, while the bearing journal heated to a red glow. The vibration was shaking the steel mounts imbedded in concrete and, through the concrete, the whole structure of the powerhouse. A terrible screaming filled the air, the keening screech of tortured metal.
Very quickly the agonies of the first generator were joined by those of the others. The place sounded—felt—like a madhouse. Sparrow was laughing insanely, tears streaking his face.
Smoke was filling the great room, and with it the smell of burning rubber and ozone. Marcus grabbed Sparrow’s shoulder, all but stumbling on the dancing surface of the vibrating floor.
“Boss!” he shouted into Sparrow’s ear. “We gotta get out!”
Sparrow shook the man loose, but nodded, and beckoned toward the entrance. Stumbling, running, the three ran for the doorway.
Outside the air was thick with fog, and the fog muffled the terrible death throes of the powerhouse. The pounding vibrations could still be felt through the pavement, but the machines were dying, and soon they would slow to a stop.
The street lights were already dimmer, Sparrow thought. Then he heard a pounding of footsteps running down the road. It was a guard, his gun drawn. “Hey! Hey you,” he was shouting. Randolph shot him.
The lights had not dimmed appreciably. If anything, they were brighter. The noise of the generators was a great deal less now. The power was not off.
Inside the building, they could hear a phone ringing.
“It didn’t work,” Marcus said.
“They switched in another power source,” Sparrow said.
“But, hey. We took care of all them guys.”
“It was automatic. After the last power failure—the big one—they must’ve installed a lot of new equipment.”
“So what do we do?”
“We find that equipment. We destroy it.”
Randolph spoke. “Wait a minute. How about over there?” He gestured across the street. “How about them things—all them wires?”
Sparrow’s face lit. “The transformers, of course! You’re right! We’ll try them. Bring the laser.”
They cut a hole in the fence, and stepped through.
The transformer yard was an incredible jungle-gym gone mad. Metal lattices crossed and criss-crossed, wires weaving webs among them. And, squatting bulks in their midst, like fat spiders in the centers of their webs, stood the heavy transformers.
Sparrow triggered the laser, sweeping its sharp lance of light across the yard. The metal beams glowed only momentarily from the heat, but thin wires snapped, a succession of rifle-shots in the foggy night.
Then he brought the beam to bear upon the nearest transformer. He trained it on the center of the dark object, watching in satisfaction as the heavy outer case of the transformer began to glow dully where the beam struck it.
Then, suddenly, the yard was brightly lit by showers of sparks. The transformer was arcing and spitting angrily, the outer case cracking, sparks flying. Then the whole transformer seemed to glow for a moment.
The street lights flickered, then dimmed perceptibly. The transformer ceased its showers of sparks, and its glow slowly dimmed.
There were only three transformers in the yard. The electrical displays as they shorted out internally were impressive.
On 63rd Street, in the Con Ed Energy Control System headquarters, a meter recorded a frequency drop in the power-net system. A load-shedding relay closed, and a link was cut from the system before it could drag the entire system into a second major blackout. Only two-thirds of Manhattan was affected. Only the lower two-thirds. It was late at night. Few people noticed.
And the fog rolled in, through darkened streets.
A police car, siren screaming, raced through the near-empty streets to the 14th Street plant. It was too late. The Ford carrying Sparrow, Randolph and Marcus had already left. Policemen poked flashlight beams incredulously through the wreckage of the transformer yards, and then moved silently past the dead bodies into the silent powerhouse.
When the lights died, Starling gave the signal, moving his car off Broadway onto Liberty Street, a caravan of trucks, led by Raven, following. The trucks turned up Liberty Place, the Continental hanging back until they had all entered, then moving across the narrow mouth of the street, blocking it.
The first truck rumbled to a stop in front of the warehouse door, and backed up onto the sidewalk. The truck’s back doors swung open and five men jumped down, each carrying a small sub-machine gun. Raven hopped down from the cab. He unlocked the door, and two men laid down their guns and helped him push it up. The elevator was at the bottom of the shaft, a much more decrepit one now at ground level. Raven climbed up its side, and over its open top, cutting into the dead wires of its motor system, splicing in wires that ran to the back of the truck, where a gasoline-powered generator was turning over.
It was a smooth operation. There were no guards stationed in the tunnel. The lights in the vault were off, and the four guards stationed there were shot. They had only one bad moment, when a police car turned into Liberty Place from Maiden Lane. But then Sparrow’s Ford turned in behind it, blocking it, and two officers in the car were marched down into the tunnels, where they were disposed of quietly and efficiently, without shots being heard on the street.
The men worked in teams, loading the heavy gold ingots onto carts which were then pulled down the long tunnel to the elevator, where they were taken to the street and the trucks. Each truck received several cartloads, the tonnage settling it heavily upon its springs. The men in the tunnels each carried guns in hip holsters. The men on the street patrolled each end of the block with their machine guns.
The fog was heavy, clammy now. The temperature had risen to a freak 67° from the below freezing of only hours earlier. The working men had shucked their coats. Sparrow and Raven stood smoking on the street, watching each truck loaded. The police car and the Ford had been moved onto the sidewalks, allowing each truck in turn to rumble up the street and out of the narrow block. Each truck carried a driver, and a guard with a sub-machine gun. Each truck’s engine labored under the load it pulled.
Captain America stared unblinkingly at the girl who faced him. A short cigarette was clenched between her lips.
“No,” she said. “I told you—shut up. Stop telling me these things. It won’t do you any good. What do you think, I’d turn informer and give up over a billion dollars? A billion dollars, Mister Goody-two-shoes! You know how many people in this world got a billion?”
“You must want it pretty bad.”
“Why not? What do I have now? It’s go for broke, fellow. You should know that. I’m in as deep as I’ll ever be now.”
“How did you get into this?”
She smiled. “What’s a nice girl like me doing in a racket like this? You guess.”
“Money, I suppose. That’s the usual excuse.”
“Excuse?”
“Sure. You think money will solve all your problems, whatever they may be, if you get enough of it. Funny thing, it never does. You just get new problems.”
“Sure. Like, should I get a black Rolls Royce or a gold one.”
“More likely, how will you make use of your billion?”
“Huh? Try that again, more slowly.”
“What will you do with your billion in gold?”
The girl stared at him, as if at a simpleton. Rogers smiled.
“Ever try cashing a gold bar at your local neighborhood candy store?”
Robin’s mouth dropped, the cigarette falling, forgotten, to the carpet.
“Gold is illegal for private possession in this country,” Rogers pointed out, “except as jewelry, and things like that. Private ownership of gold in ingot form, or as any kind of money except rare coins in collections, is illegal. Maybe illegal ownership doesn’t bother you, but how will you convert it to spending money?” He nodded. “That’s the least of your problems, of course.”
“What do you mean?”
“A billion in gold, that’s not something you can carry around in your purse. Gold weighs almost as much as lead. It’s a soft, heavy metal. You know how much a billion in gold weighs? Well over eight hundred tons. You know how much a ton is? How will you transport it? Where will you keep it? If you want to get out of the country with it, how will you take it?” He sighed. “The life of a master crook is fraught with problems, you see.”
“I—I could grind it to powder, and claim I’d mined it.”
“High-quality gold like this? Uh-uh. Besides, gold is easily traceable. Gold from different areas differs in ways any expert can detect. This gold is highly refined. You’d have trouble explaining it as just a little something you’d panned from the creek out back.”
A tear squeezed out from one eye. “Damn you, damn you!” the girl cried. “Why do you have to do this? Why are you ruining everything?”
“There’s still my offer,” Rogers said. “There’s still an out. It doesn’t pay so well, but the security is a lot better.”
She turned her back on him and moved, almost stumbling, across the room to the kitchenette. He heard her pulling out drawers, and the sound of silverware as she dug about. When she came back, she was holding a thin, wicked-looking knife.
(Yes, it's the book's title, but it's also this chapter's title!)
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