Showing posts with label Blogathon. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Blogathon. Show all posts

Monday, July 27, 2026

AVENGERS BATTLE THE EARTH WRECKER "Chapter Four: Earth Death!"

Art by Jack Kirby & Dick Ayers
Read the Previous Chapter HERE
Chapter Four: Earth Death!

In the bleak iciness at Mount Everest’s peak, Karzz, the alien, conqueror of a host of worlds, spoke again. “No, I came not to conquer Earth but to destroy it. I will wreck your world and annihilate " all humans on Earth, every last one.”

Iron Man was stunned by Karzz’s threat and by the venom of his words. “But why? What has Earth done to you or your faraway future world?”

“That is too long a tale to explain right now,” responded Karzz abruptly. “I am wasting time. I must set the co-ordinates of my ultramagnet and keep it centered on its target.”

“Just what is your ultramagnet aimed at, out in space?”

“I have no time for frivolous explanations,” Karzz answered sharply. “It is part of my plan to destroy Earth, that’s all you need to know before you...die!”

With that he pressed a stud on his belt. A livid ray sprang forth and a rock next to Iron Man turned to dust. The next ray struck Iron Man squarely in the chest.

“Good-bye, Iron Man,” said Karzz, starting to turn away. He swung his head back, in a perfect movie double-take. “You’re still standing there!” he gasped.

“Sure,” said Iron Man cheerfully. Whatever your gizmo was supposed to do it failed against my steel suit. Which, by the way, has withstood a dozen assorted types of rays, bullets, shells, rockets—you name it—hurled at me by my enemies.”

Respect shone in Karzz’s eyes for the first time. “I see you are a very special earthling, equipped to battle super-forces.”

“You’re right on the nose,” iron Man came back. “And it so happens that as an Avenger, l’m an unofficial guardian of all earth. Now I'm ordering you off our world...you and your contraption both.... Or else!”

“Or else you will drive me off?” Karzz said with a scornful laugh. “All right, do so.”

“You asked for it, Frankenstein.” iron Man was already rheostating up his suit’s power, getting ready for action. He charged forward suddenly. “I'm going to knock you halfway to Aldebaran,” he grated between clenched teeth.

Iron Man wondered why Karzz didn’t move, why he didn’t show the slightest fear. Except for his belt, he seemed unarmed helpless. iron Man touched a push button on his power-pack, sending a surge of more than human power into his mechanized right arm. Then he swung his fist, ready to knock all the fight out of the alien right from the start.

Klang!

Iron Man’s balled fist struck some invisible barrier before it reached Karzz. Iron Man reeled back himself, seeing now the glowing indigo aura that surrounded Karzz protectively.

“I should have known,” the Avenger chided himself, “that you would have the same force-field shield around you as around your ultramagnet. But don’t worry, I'm not through. I’ve got a dozen other fighting tactics to try.”

Tensing himself and clicking over transistor power relays, Iron Man prepared for all-out battle against a super-scientific foe.

On the podium at the Avengers’ gathering, the Wasp pressed the stud that swung the spotlight on Captain America beside her.

“Last, but the furthest from least you can get,” she said, “is the Avengers’ leader, whom I hardly need name. He’s known not only to the younger people of today, but to all of you of the previous generation some twenty years ago. Captain America is unique among us he’s had two glorious careers as a fighting hero upholding American ideals!”

Cap’s face was dreamy, as his own ‘thoughts flew back to those former days....

“It’s a strange story,” resumed the Wasp. “At the start of World War II, a young Mr. A—for anonymous—was rejected by the army as being too puny and in poor health. But it so happened. some scientists were looking for just such a 4-F specimen of manhood, to use the last term loosely. Mr. A was then given a special hormone injection, and before their eyes he changed like a Jekyll-Hyde into a big, brawny, powerful man—the ideal soldier—and more.”

Cap glowed, reliving that grand and glorious moment of his transformation from the proverbial “90-pound weakling” of the ads into a 190-pound mass of fighting flesh.

“Mr. A now passed the army tests with flying colors; and soon after, he ran into Nazi saboteurs and laid the whole gang low with his pile-driving fists. He then. adopted his colorful uniform in order to work as a mysterious champion. against democracy’s foes. The fame of Captain America became a byword to the world all during the War years, as he and his young pal, Bucky, smashed spy and saboteur rings right and left.”

At the name “Bucky,” Cap’s eyes had gone bleak with painful memories.

“Unfortunately,” added the Wasp, and her tone went down sympathetically, “Bucky one day gave his life to stop a Nazi plot involving a high-flying drone. Cap seemingly fell to his death too, landing at sea and sinking never to come up again. They finally gave up the search and pronounced Captain America dead.”

The Wasp paused dramatically.

“They were dead wrong. By an amazing twist of fate, Cap sank and was frozen in suspended animation for twenty years. A block of ice holding his preserved body finally drifted ashore and was worshiped by Eskimos as some kind of ‘ice god.’ But one day the ice block was broken, probably during a violent storm*. Later, as the ice melted, we Avengers, traveling in our submarine, found a figure in a spangled. costume coming to life. Captain America lived again!”

Cap looked bewildered, in memory of that utterly unbelievable moment when he had opened his eyes to find out he had not met his end . . . but faced a whole new life ahead.

“Amazingly,” continued the Wasp, “a physical examination showed that despite his twenty-year frozen sleep, Captain America retained his full physical powers and his same youthful vigors. He had not aged a day in those twenty years. Time had stood still for him. So, although he was an ‘old-timer’ chronologically, he soon proved he was far from an ‘old man’ ready to be retired. He froze at sea at the peak of his lighting career—and he was revived at the peak of his powers to resume his fighting career. After a ‘rude interruption’ of twenty years, We might say.”

Everybody smiled, except Cap himself. The Wasp intuitively knew what he was thinking.

“But don’t think it was all glory for the two-time hero. Behind him, lost forever, lay the world and the times he knew . . . the people he loved…and Bucky. He was in a new and strange world, almost terrifyingly different at first. And though Captain America was invited into the Avengers and quickly gave ample proof that his fighting prowess was undiminished, there at times came nagging thoughts—would his age suddenly catch up with him? Would he slip sometime and endanger all the Avengers during a crucial moment? Could a man from the past really live up to his role as the world’s greatest fighting man...twice in a row? Yes, doubts gnawed at him constantly.

Cap tried to smile, or at least to look blank before the pitiless TV camera’s eye, but he knew that his eyes were haunted from those inner agonies he had gone through.

The Wasp drew herself up and her voice rang out once more.

“But all that is by the board now. If Captain America was a has-been who could never make the grade, why did we Avengers unanimously elect him our leader? Here’s why—for his great experience, double that of any of us, due to his two careers. For his unquenchable courage, undimmed by a twenty-year hibernation. For his cool level head, and his ability to weigh and judge matters of life and death in battling cunning enemies, and last.... But let us demonstrate this final quality. Cap, go to it.”

The spotlight broadened to take in a machine gun that came out of a recess in the Wall, with the dummy of an old-time Nazi behind it.

“That machine gun will be fired by automatic devices. The dummy is just window dressing, to bring back a scene of the past when Captain America faced such dangers and had to smash through. Watch!”

Crouching like a track star ready for the hundred yard dash, Captain America waited until the loud staccato of the gun crashed through the silence. At almost the "same second he leaped forward, his shield in front of him, as if deflecting a hail of death.

Like a tiger he sprang forward, leaping in great bounds, powered by the strongest leg muscles on earth." He had spent countless hours in the toughest training camp ever known—the rugged Commandos of World War ll. And today he spent more endless hours between duties‘ in the Avengers’ superb gym, practicing the gymnastics that made his body a smooth human machine with speed, power, and quickness of reflexes never achieved before by any human being on earth.

Where Goliath could rely on his giant form, Hawkeye on his amazing arrows, and Iron Man on his steel suit, Captain America had nothing to depend on except his own original self—plus his shield.

Running straight into the barrage of hot lead, warding it off with his shield, the spangled fighter then made an incredible flying leap the rest of the way—a leap that would have broken the world’s Olympic record. While landing head foremost, his mighty rock-hard fist swung against the dummy’s chin, knocking his enemy twenty feet away. The machine gun was stilled and Captain America stood up, a momentary triumph lighting his face as if he were reliving an actual episode in the long-gone past.

“Great, Winghead!” yelled Hawkeye, leaping to his feet, as all the TV audience must be doing. “Anybody says we ought to send you to the old man’s home will get my arrows zinging at his heels, the whole quiver full!”

“Why, Hawkeye!” rumbled Goliath, half accusingly. “You said something good about Cap for once.”

Hawkeye flushed guiltily.

“Amazing!” muttered Goliath, shaking his head as if to clear it. “Don't let it happen again, Hawkeye, or we’ll begin to think that down underneath it all you’re a right guy.”

The Wasp had a shock—two shocks—for the audience.

“That dummy wasn’t stuffed with light straw. It weighed two hundred and fifty pounds. And those bullets he waded into—they were real. Captain America insisted on it—he doesn’t believe in fakery.

All over America this brought down the house, figuratively speaking. They hardly had to be told the conclusion spoken by the Wasp: “And so, the primary quality that won this peerless battler our Avenger leadership is his one-man-army fighting ability."

The red-white-and-blue champion was flattered...but also worried. It would have been the turn next of Iron Man, the missing member. His absence was now definitely alarming.

Across the world on Mount Everest, Iron Man tried a new tactic against Karzz the Conqueror. From the index finger of his right glove, fed by transistorized power, shot a laser-beam, a thin ray of intense light that ate down into rock as if it were cheese. A tunnel swiftly formed into which Iron Man plunged, disintegrating rock ahead of him a-t the rate. of twenty feet a second.

In essence, he was “diving” through the solid stone. Hidden from his enemy’s eyes, Iron Man tunneled down, then arched upward, finally popping up right behind Karzz, who was taken by surprise.

An iron fist lashed out and caught the alien in the small of the back, sending him sprawling ignominiously.

“I thought so,” grated Iron Man. “Your force-shield only protects you from the front, not from the back. It’s not a curving shield all around you but a fiat barrier that can protect you -only on one side.”

“Clever deduction, Earthling,” snarled Karzz, leaping to his feet. “But it will gain you nothing. And now let us see if you can withstand the lightning-blast ray.”

He touched another stud. on his belt and a lightning flash sprang forth to strike Iron Man. It had such staggering power that it hurled him back a dozen feet as dazzling sparks flew off his armor. But Stark had‘ felt none of the unbelievable voltage inside his metallic shell, and quickly recovered his balance.

“No good playing Zeus,” mocked Iron Man. “I'm fully insulated against all electrical forces. And now...”

Iron Man’s jets propelled him into the air in a blur-swift arch, to come down directly behind Karzz. An iron leg swung before the alien could turn.

“Owwww!” It was a very human-sounding yelp from Karzz as an iron boot connected with the proper part of his anatomy in back.

“A kick in the pants is only the first of the punishment you’re going to take,” Iron Man vowed grimly darting away as the infuriated alien whirled and shot forth another ray, which missed.

A strange duel began then. Again and again, Iron Man twisted through the air in swift flight, circling to come up behind Karzz and deliver blows at his unprotected back. Angrily, Karzz shot forth a variety of rays, all of which spanged off Iron Man’s armor without doing any harm.

“You’ll be a mass of bruises from the back of your head down to your heels,” promised iron Man relentlessly, delivering another blow from the rear.

“Donnerrvetter!” cursed Karzz. Iron Man was startled at the German word, until he realized the space master-mind was a world linguist knowing all tongues. “It is not you,” said the alien, “but your iron suit that l am fighting.”

He suddenly touched another stud on his belt. The ray that struck Iron Man seemed to do nothing at all. He felt no blow, no force... But with a gasp he noticed the trail of red dust left in the air as he jetted in a loop.

“Yes, iron oxide,” gloated Karzz. “That was the Rust-ray, with the ability to oxidize iron instantly. Keep coming until I can turn your whole suit into crumbling dust.”

Iron Man tried to twist and loop in the air, but Karzz made an adjustment on his belt and the rust-ray expanded into a wide cone constantly bathing its target. Stark could sense his iron suit crumbling away, layer by layer.

It was a losing game. If all his protective armor turned into rust, he would not be Iron Man any more. Then only frail Anthony Stark -would face Karzz and his frightful superscience weaponry.

Rheostating full power into his jets, Iron Man spun away from the peak of Mount Everest as fast as he could.

“Round one goes to you, Karzz,” he called back. “But I’ll return...with the other Avengers.”

“You will be doing me a favor,” came back the challenge. “I want to prove how futile it is for any Earthlings to match wits and weapons with me. Nothing can stop me from fulfilling my mission—earth’s destruction. N’est ce pas?”

That incongruous French phrase, coming from the lips of the non-earthly being, made his threat all the more horrifying. It was a sign of the multiple-IQ mind they were pitted against.

To Be Continued Tomorrow with "A Job for The Avengers" at Atomic Kommie Comics!
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Avengers Battle the Earth-Wrecker
by Otto Binder
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Monday, July 20, 2026

AVENGERS BATTLE THE EARTH WRECKER "Introduction" & "Chapter One: The Avengers Meet"

Introduction
Since the dawn of time man has ever striven for the impossible—sought the unreachable—pursued the unattainable. Spearheading the endless struggle for survival, the ceaseless quest for glory, have been the heroes among us.
Each age has had its crusaders…its Robin Hood and his Merry Men…its Knights of the Round Table—heroes all, and more than heroes—superheroes all!
Who among us can say which were fact and which were fancy? Who can say where legend ends and history begins? Who can deny that the myth often outlives the moment?
Today, a new group of superheroes has risen among us. As proud as the past-as courageous as the present—as unpredictable as the future. From the colorful pages of bestselling Marvel Comics to this great, block-busting Bantam Books edition, a new age of myths is born as we enter the glory-studded era of…the mighty Avengers!
Stan Lee

Chapter One: The Avengers Meet
“Avengers, assemble!” rang out the cry from Captain America.

On their TV screens over a national network, millions of viewers saw that the leader of this famed group of costumed vigilantes was dressed most colorfully of them all. A blue form-fitting suit, huge white stars on chest and back, and a pair of red boots symbolized the meaning of his name by bearing the colors of the American flag.

Around his midriff above the belt were thirteen red and white stripes, carrying the patriotic theme further. Decorative white sleeves and red gloves completed the uniform, except for the hooded cap with an identifying A. Two small silvery wings at each side of the hood represented the American eagle emblem. Eye-slots cut in the lower front part of his hood allowed him to peer out. And his eyes were, though hardly by design, a patriotic blue.

This “burglar mask’ effect was necessary for a good reason. None of the multitude watching over TV suspected that in his everyday identity Captain America was Steve Rogers, ordinary citizen. The secret was jealously guarded from the world at large. As an Avenger, he had many enemies who might take him by surprise if his private identity were known to them.

Beside Captain America on the podium lay his ever-present round shield, more important to him than his right arm. Striped like a target in red, white, and blue circles with a central white star, the mighty shield was his chief defense. And chief weapon—as many a rueful opponent had found out in Captain America’s innumerable adventures against villainy.

First to make an entrance, in answer to the call, was Hawkeye. His uniform of blue leglets and black tunic, along with purple boots, shoulder pads, and hood, was of a swashbuckling style reminiscent of Robin Hood-purposely. Hawkeye was an archer supreme, his powerful longbow and quiver of unique arrows always across his back.

Hawkeye’s incredible skill with arrows had already cast in the shade all the great legendary feats of Robin Hood, William Tell, or any other master bowman of history.

Tall and lithe, his muscles rippling like steel springs, Hawkeye wore an impish grin on his face as he waved and spoke in a low bantering tone that the TV audience could not hear: “Hi, Winghead! Oh, sorry, Captain America. I should show more respect to my elders.”

“I won’t insist on it,” retorted Captain America evenly, “until you start shaving.”

“Ouch!” Hawkeye sat down, thinking over what quips he could next devise to sting his spangled companion, who had begun his fighting career way back in World War II.

TV cameras swung as two more costumed figures entered, Avengers known as Goliath and the Wasp. In private life they were Henry Pym and Janet Van Dyne.

Goliath’s form-fitting garment of bright blue was adorned with gaudy yellow stripes running in a Y shape across his chest, shoulders, and back, then down the sides of the legs, terminating in yellow sox-boots.

The Wasp—to the surprise of some uninitiated TV viewers—was a girl. But the Avengers had never been an all-male organization.

Often called the “Wonderful Wasp,” her shapeliness was hardly obscured by her skin-tight costume. A red tunic and shoes, blue leotards, and black-sleeved blouse were blended in a tasteful design to emphasize her lissome strength, yet without detracting from her femininity. Sparkling brown eyes, a pert nose, and a saucy curve of the lips hinted at the warmth of her friendly personality.

Oddly, neither Goliath—who was 5 feet 10—nor the Wasp looked “heroic,” as Captain America and Hawkeye did at the first glance. They simply looked like two ordinary people dressed up in masquerade costumes, who had wandered in by mistake. What would they be doing with the famed fighting team known as the Avengers, who had special abilities?

The answer to this paradox came when Captain America greeted them and added, “Please assume your Avenger forms before we officially open this meeting.”

“Yes, Cap,” nodded Henry Pym, stiffening with a concentrated look on his face, as if willing himself to do something. Suddenly and startlingly, before a million eyes on TV, he began to grow. Taller and taller he shot up, his shoulders broadening in proportion and his body expanding in unison. His suit of specially elastic materials stretched along with him. Seven feet…eight…nine feet he towered, and still kept growing, until…

Bonk!

“Ow! My head!” he growled. “Can’t they make ceilings high enough for a ten-foot man?”

Out over the land, there was a ripple of laughter. But it died swiftly as people stared in awe at the TV image of a ten-foot giant, and it was plain to see why he was an Avenger. Massive muscles over his mighty form spoke of the enormous power he now possessed, like an oversized Samson and Hercules rolled into one.

And now his voice had gone down several tones to a deep rumble as he boomed: “Goliath the Avenger, present!”

Meanwhile, the Wasp was also changing size, but the opposite way. She began shrinking steadily, becoming smaller and smaller, to the size of a dog…a cat…a mouse…and still tinier. Finally—as the TV audience could anticipate from her name—she was only the size of an insect, and the cameramen panned in close. Also, two gauzy wings had sprouted from her shoulders, so that she was as nearly like a “wasp” as a human being could be.

It was not black magic. It was the biological “magic” of scientist Henry Pym, who had originally devised the amazing bio-serums that could swiftly change himself and the girl to a giant and a midge, at will.

The wonderful Wasp’s forte lay not in deeds of valor and strength, as in the case of the men, but in feats of tiny cleverness that often turned the tables against their powerful adversaries when all seemed lost. Far from looking down at her as a “weak female,” the male Avengers respected the Wasp for her performance of miniature miracles when sorely needed, particularly to evade dangerous traps. She had as rightful a place in the roster of Avengers as the men did.

Attaining her final wasp-sized tininess, she flitted gracefully through the air to land on Goliath’s shoulder, sitting there pertly.

“Mind if I park here, High Pockets?” she piped in a thin buzzing voice.

“No parking charge,” rumbled Goliath with a straight face. “Anyway, not for a cute cricket like you.”

It took no Sherlock Holmes among the TV viewers to see that the glance between the two pairs of eyes, gigantic and miniscule, was the look lovers give each other.

As their appointed leader, Captain America rapped a gavel and spoke in authoritative tones. “Avengers, we are assembled not for an emergency, but to…”

“Hey, wait,” interrupted Hawkeye irreverently, glancing around. “One member is missing, Cap—where’s old Rust Pot? Pardon me…Iron Man?”

“Don’t shoot your arrows before you draw your bow,” said Captain America dryly to Hawkeye. “I was coming to that.”

Into the hanging mike he said, “As many of you know, one member of our group is not here yet—Iron Man, or the Golden Avenger. However, he might be called a part-time Avenger in that he is closely associated with Anthony Stark’s scientific work. He joins us only on special missions, but he was invited here and has not arrived yet.”

Cap held up a telegram. “The reason is stated here: TESTING NEW TRANSITORIZED JET PROPULSION FOR MY IRON SUIT. WILL BE DELAYED ATTENDING THE AVENGERS’ MEMORIAL MEET.”

Glancing at the TV director nearby, Cap added, “But since we can’t hold up the televised schedule, we’ll start the proceedings anyway. Iron Man should show up any moment.”
To Be Continued Tomorrow with "Mount Everest Mystery" at Atomic Kommie Comics!
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Wednesday, September 1, 2021

THE SHADOW "Who He Is and How He Came to Be!" Chapter 8

 

Radio Comics' The Shadow was canceled as of this issue (#8 [1965]).
Whatever conclusion the anonymous writer had in mind will never be revealed.
In the early 1980s, I worked for JC Comics (which was based at the Archie Comics offices) and also assisted on a couple of the Red Circle superhero comics as needed.
I enquired of editor Victor Gorlick, whose career at Archie spanned decades, from the Golden Age up to his retirement in the early 2010s, if there was any unpublished Shadow material.
He said there once was, but it had "disappeared", and he didn't remember who had written the text pieces!
Perhaps only The Shadow Knows...
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Monday, August 23, 2021

THE SHADOW "Who He Is and How He Came to Be" Chapter 1

With the most extensive revamp/reboot to the character since the 1960s Radio Comics version...
...by James Patterson and Brian Sitts (now in bookstores and at Amazon)...
...we hereby present the updated (as of the Silver Age) origin/reboot of He Who Knows What Evil Lurks in the Hearts of Men from Radio Comics The Shadow, beginning with this entry from #1 (1964)...
To Be Continued
This ongoing text feature ran through the entire Radio Comics series (1964-1965).
The writer is unknown, but it might have been either Robert Bernstein (who wrote the first couple of issues of the comic, before it became a "campy" costumed superhero title under writer Jerry (Superman) Siegel...
...or Denys Lynds who scripted the updated, superspy-style Shadow novels being published simultaneously by Belmont Books...
...or somebody entirely different!
Only the Shadow Knows!
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Monday, July 19, 2021

CAPTAIN AMERICA: THE GREAT GOLD STEAL "Chapter 13: Birds of a Feather"

CHAPTER 13
BIRDS OF A FEATHER

As dawn approached, Captain America had found his way back down from the rooftops. The heavy darkness of the unlit streets and the swirling fog that moved through them were allies. The fog muffled sounds and concealed his passage up the street.

Just ahead of him now was the vague shape of the parked Continental, its massive trunk facing him. He recognized the car and its diplomatic license; it was one of those near which he’d parked the Volkswagen at the U.N. It had to be the car he’d been kidnapped in.

The car blocked the end of Liberty Place effectively.

Droplets of mist, condensed from the fog, stood out sharply on its highly waxed surface. There seemed to be no one close by; the nearest guard was a man laboriously lighting his cigarette, his hands cupped around his face, twenty yards away. Rogers smiled. He’d never pass muster in the army! Sloppy stance, wandering attention, he was a lousy guard—which was just fine.

The trunk of the car was locked, but Rogers removed his shield from his left arm and pushed its edge under the lip of the trunk lid. The high-alloy steel did not even bend as his heavily muscled body applied pressure and leverage. There was a muffled rasp, and the trunk lid, counter-sprung, started to swing up and open. He grabbed it quickly, before the abrupt motion could catch the careless guard’s attention. Then, sliding the shield in ahead of him, he climbed into the trunk and pulled the lid down after him. There was plenty of room, room enough to stretch out and be almost comfortable. He slipped down his left gauntlet from his wrist and glanced at his watch. Almost five o’clock. They must be closing up soon. In another half hour it would be growing light. He relaxed, and waited.

Twenty minutes later, he heard voices approaching the car, but too muffled to be understood. The metal body of the car transmitted more faithfully, however, the sound of door latches and the heavy thunk of the doors slamming shut. The car shifted and settled as the three men took their seats, and then the engine was setting up a distant hum, and they were moving.

He felt the turns, and could guess the approximate distance traveled between them. The streets, forever being dug up for one reason or another, were jouncing and uneven all the way to the Brooklyn Bridge approaches, where finally the ride smoothed out. Rogers clung to the trunk lid, and waited.

The car followed the Beltway south, over western Brooklyn, taking the fork to the right that put it on the new expressway approach to the Verazanno-Narrows Bridge, Interstate 278. The fog was thick along the waterfront, but thinned as the route dodged briefly inland before swinging up over the bridge.

Sparrow was driving now, the seat pulled all the way forward to accommodate his short legs, much to Starling’s discomfort. Sparrow knew where the estate was, however, and had insisted on driving. It was, after all, a car the Eagle had obtained for their use, DPL tags and all, and therefore Starling’s rights to it were hardly proprietary, despite the fact that he had used it almost exclusively until now. This fact calmed him very little, however. He was feeling the head-pounding, stomach-cramping, adrenalized effects of extreme tension, the tension of trying to make this whole incredible operation work. His hands shook as he took out another cigarette and pushed in the dash lighter. They shook no less appreciably when Raven pointed out, with a certain sardonic tone to his voice, that he still had a half-smoked cigarette between his lips. The cigarettes were tasteless, anyway. He didn’t know why he was smoking them.

The traffic signals on the bridge were blinking yellow for all lanes. Fog swirled thickly over them. Sparrow drove in the extreme right-hand lane, keeping the railing barely in sight. Their speed had slowed to twenty miles an hour, and even then they almost collided with the rear of a large semi- that was climbing the bridge far slower, the tiny sprinkling of red lights on its trailer winking out at them only at the last moment.

Sparrow drove with implacable silence, his face showing no expression, even after they bad passed the truck. It was as though his face was only a mask. Starling felt almost like reaching out and ripping it off, just to be confronted by feelings, something on which to release his own bottled-up tensions. But there was nothing to do but light another cigarette.

They crept into the toll plaza, coasting up to the single booth still open at this hour. Starling felt an inexplicable rush of fear as Sparrow lowered his window and banded a ten-dollar bill to the man in the booth. He wanted to stamp down with his left foot, very suddenly, upon Sparrow’s foot hovering over the gas pedal; to stamp down and make the car move, to get away.

The man was counting the bills very slowly, counting them three times, the third time into Sparrow’s calmly waiting hand. Starling fought his panic. Did they usually take this long? Didn’t they usually keep packets of change ready for such an occasion? The small sign on the booth warned, “Count Your Change,” but did the toll taker normally count it out, like a clerk in a supermarket? Was he trying to delay them?

Then they were smoothly accelerating away, and Starling spoke. “I don’t like it,” he said nervously. “That man took too long.”

“Relax,” Raven said from the back seat. “It’s cold, clammy weather. His fingers were stiff. There’s no traffic now, he can take his time. Besides, why worry? We’re safe. There’s not an ounce of gold in this car, nothing to connect us up. They could stop us now for speeding, and we’d be clean.”

“They won’t.” Sparrow continued to stare ahead through the fog. “We’re not speeding.”

He took the ramp up to a local street, and turned left. The street led a curving path through an old neighborhood, past a private school. The road was red brick, damp and slippery in this misty fog.

The sky was lightening, but this only turned the fog a milkier hue, without thinning it. Sparrow pushed in the lights, leaving only parking lights, then pulled them back on full.

They drifted like ghosts through an abandoned traffic circle, and then were on a wide boulevard, Hylan Boulevard. The car moved effortlessly south, through clusters of haloed traffic lights, all green, past shopping centers, new apartment developments, open fields, and older villages. The boulevard cut south-west, roughly following the eastern shore of the island to its southern tip, a distance of some ten miles from the bridge.

Staten Island, even without the fog, was another country, another land, difficult to associate with New York City, although it was the fifth borough of the City. When a green New York City Transit Authority bus passed by, it was a jarring reminder, but seemed out of place, lost.

Until the completion of the bridge, Staten Island—the borough of Richmond—had been accessible to the rest of the City only by ferry. It had retained its bucolic character, its farms, indeed, supplying many of the vegetable bins of city supermarkets. It was an island of rolling wooded hills, of scattered townships and villages, some three centuries old, reminders that New York was first settled by the Dutch, not the English. The bridge had brought the city to the island, though, and now developers hastily sliced farmlands into miniature subplots, erected cheese-box houses of cardboard quality, and sold them in profusion to harried New Yorkers seeking suburbia.

But most of the land development was in the northern part of the island. As Sparrow drove south, they left the new construction behind. Here was an area mapped for streets and houses thirty years ago, fire hydrants standing alone in the woods, cracked concrete lanes all but covered by weeds and grass.

At the southern tip of the island was the village of Tottenville, a town with narrow, one-way streets, closely set old frame houses, and access, across the Outerbridge Crossing, to nearby New Jersey, where most of the town’s residents worked and shopped. Sparrow wheeled the car through near-empty streets, until he came to a high fence that ran along a weed-choked concrete road. The fence was of boards, and buried beneath years of vines. Behind it, not visible from the street side, was a wall of brick, much newer.

Sparrow touched his horn ring briefly, and the gates to a long drive swung open.

Once this had been a farm. They drove past the weathered old house along the rutted drive, and parked near a large barn. Inside the barn, Starling caught the glint of light on metal. The trucks were parked there.

“So at last we meet the elusive Eagle,” Raven said, climbing from the car, raising his arms over his head and stretching. He drew a deep breath. “Good air out here. I can’t smell the city at all.”

“You wait until the breeze is from New Jersey,” Sparrow smiled thinly. “It’s worse.” He led them up onto the back porch of the old house, and inside.

Captain America waited until the voices had receded, then inched the trunk lid open for a fast peek.

Fog lay heavily over the ground, making the house and nearby trees gray and insubstantial-looking. The trees dripped, drops falling irregularly upon the resonant trunk lid. A light went on in one window of the house, then two more. The light was warm and inviting. The humidity outside seemed to cut through to his bones.

No one was in sight. He wondered if the police had sealed the exits by now. He hoped they were standing by, he might well need their support. Cautiously, he stepped from the trunk and strapped on his shield.

The turf underfoot was damp and squishy, the remains of unmowed summer grass, littered with fallen leaves and twigs. Fortunately, it was too sodden to make any noise.

He crept to the nearest window, and looked in. He could see a tall, bald man, making nervous gestures with his arms. No one else could be seen. The window was closed. He could hear nothing.

The cold tip of a gun touched his spine.

“Okay, fella, ease back gentle now.” It was Randolph, one of the two men who had jumped him before.

He could have taken the man, standing right there. The gunman had been too close for his own safety; commandos were routinely warned never to get that close with a gun—only with a knife.

But he wanted to get inside, and this way was as good as any. As a prisoner, he would be taken for granted. He had no doubt he could handle the situation.

“All right,” he said calmly. “You’ve made your point.”

Randolph prodded him around to the back porch steps. There were over a dozen moments when he could have overpowered the man. But he bided his time.

“Boss? Got a surprise for you!”

The door opened and Marcus stood back, letting Randolph bring his prize in, through an antiquated kitchen and a long-unused dining room, to a parlor-type room.

Three men were in the room, and all turned to look at him in surprise. Two of them—the tall, thin, bald man, and a paunchy, friendly looking man with an overgrown mop of hair—were strangers, although he fitted them, from Robin’s description, with their cover names, Starling and Raven.

The third man in the room was John B. Gaughan.

The two locked eyes and stared at each other as though the room were empty but for the two of them.

“I should have known, ‘Sparrow,’” Captain America said. “You people always seemed to know just a little too much.”

“What’s he talking about, Sparrow?” Starling said. “What’s he mean?”

“What I want to know,” Raven drawled, “is how this sonuvva got here. Last time I saw him, he was tied up in my living room.”

Gaughan—Sparrow—said nothing.

“Your friend, the Sparrow,” Captain America told Starling, “also goes under the name of John Gaughan. He’s a Vice Director of the Federal Reserve Bank, in Manhattan.”

“It was Robin,” Sparrow said. His voice was high and abrupt. “She let you loose, didn’t she?”

“Let’s just say she acquired some sense.”

“I had misgivings about her from the start,” Sparrow muttered. “But she was too lovely to resist.”

“Wait a minute,” Raven said. “You had misgivings? You mean, you brought her in?”

Sparrow smiled a cold smile. “That’s right. I’m afraid the deception goes farther than you’d thought. Gentlemen, I am the Eagle!”

The other two stared at him, open-mouthed. But Rogers spoke.

“Let’s not stop there, ‘Sparrow.’ Why not pull out all stops?”

Sparrow’s eyes glinted. “So you recognized me from the sound of my voice, eh, Captain America?”

“It took me a long time. I didn’t catch on to you at all when you were just being John Gaughan, a fussy bank official. You changed your voice a bit for that role. Then, when you unmasked me—I was awake then—I thought your voice was familiar, but I wasn’t yet hearing too well. At first, when I saw you here, I thought I was just recognizing Gaughan’s voice. But I wasn’t.”

“Er, Sparrow—er, Eagle—what’s he talking about?” Starling was kneading his hands in tension.

“Yeah, what’s going on?” Raven chimed in. “So you were the Eagle all along? That’s cute. I’ll buy that. But what’s he”—he jabbed a finger at Captain America—“talking about? You guys know each other?”

“I’m afraid we do,” the small man said. “It’s an—ah—acquaintanceship that goes back many years. Many years. I wasn’t sure, when I unmasked you,” he said, speaking directly to Captain America. “You looked too young. You looked not much older than when we first locked horns—back during the Great War.”

“Your side lost,” Rogers said.

“But I have found another side,” the man said. “They pay well for success, and they allow me to operate as a free agent.”

“I thought as much. It was the only thing that made sense out of this fantastic robbery. But how well do they pay for failure?”

“Failure?” The little man’s voice rose an octave. “I have not failed! We have less than the whole thirteen billion, but we have taken a great deal. Three billion at least!”

“I doubt it. Do you know how much a billion dollars in gold weighs? Over eight hundred fifty-four tons. I don’t believe your small fleet of trucks brought out even one billion.”

“No! You lie!” He was screaming now. “It makes no difference, no difference at all. I have stolen a billion in gold! And I have Captain America in my grasp again!”

“Boss.” It was Randolph, speaking for the first time since he had pushed Rogers into the room. He was the only one there with a drawn gun.

“Silence, you fool! Look at you all, your mouths gaping, your eyes hanging out. You don’t understand. You can’t understand!” He lifted his hands to his throat.

“You don’t know yet who I am!”

With thin, facile fingers, he pulled loose the skin of his jowls, and pulled it up, over his head, stripping his face of its flesh, leaving only a bloody grinning skull.
The room was frozen, and in that moment, Captain America made his move. Somewhere inside him a hand clamped down, speeding adrenalin into his system, accelerating his metabolism, doubling his reflexes, and his speed. In one swift motion he stepped backward, stamping down hard with his heel on Randolph’s instep, pivoting on it, his elbow sinking into the man’s gut, and then chopping with his other hand at the gun. Around him, the room was still in a slow-motion crawl.

Randolph screamed. His foot was broken. Captain America caught the magnum 38 in his left hand, hefted it, and sidestepped to a corner of the room where he could command both doors and all the occupants. Blood pounded in his ears and he took two deep breaths to calm his system.

“All right, Red Skull,” he said, nodding at the man who still stood with John Gaughan’s face in his hand. “The show is over. The place is surrounded by cops. We’ve had you all under observation since you began this night’s insane work. As I said, you’ve failed.”

The Red Skull—a man scarred and misshapen in both mind and body, a Nazi, once Hitler’s ace terrorist agent—stood stock-still, as though stunned.

But Starling moved. He remembered once before, when he had faced a man with a gun. He had shot and killed that man. He could do so again. He understood nothing of this fantastic caricature who had been their leader except that it must be as Captain America had said. They had failed. His hand flashed into his coat.

He had the gun half out when the gun in Captain America’s hand spoke a single shot. The bullet drilled through his thigh as though through tissue paper, shattering his hip, throwing him to the floor.

But it did not kill him—not instantly. He squeezed off a shot in the general direction of where Captain America had been standing before the darkness closed in. The bullet ricocheted. Then he dropped the gun.

“Apparently this thing shoots high,” Rogers said, hefting the magnum. “Anyone else want to try his luck? You, Red Skull?”

Raven had his hands raised anxiously. “Don’t shoot, fella. I’m peaceable. I’ve never handled a gun in my life.”

Rogers smiled grimly. “Keep it that way.”

The death’s head visage of the Red Skull twisted in a horrible grimace. It seemed meant as a smile.

“You would not shoot us, Captain America. Not in cold blood. See, my hands are empty.”

Rogers sensed movement from the dining-room door, but, before he could move, a shot rang out.

“You lose, Red Skull,” said Marcus, stepping in through the doorway.

The Red Skull’s mouth gaped as his wide jawbone fell slack. He clutched himself. His eyes were wide and staring in their deep sockets as his knees folded and he fell to the floor.

As the Red Skull fell, Captain America trained his gun on Marcus. “Drop the gun,” he said.

Marcus let the gun fall. “You asked him the price of failure,” he said.

Rogers nodded. “You people never fully trust anyone, do you?”

“It was an insane idea to begin with,” Marcus said. “But when he brought it to us, we decided what was there to lose? He is a free agent, available to the highest bidder. If he fails, we have not been involved.” He gave a sarcastic laugh. “What made him think he could get away with it? If he had succeeded, your army and navy, your air force—everyone would have been combing the whole country, both oceans.”

“He expected cash for the gold?”

“Fifty percent. We have dollar reserves available.”

“And you were to have a freighter waiting offshore for the pickup?”

“That was his plan, yes. I…”

The sound of shattering glass swung them all around to the window.

The Red Skull was gone!

Captain America spoke first. “Don’t get excited and try anything. The place is surrounded. He won’t get far.” He mentally crossed his fingers, hoping.

A bitter fire burned in the Red Skull’s brain, an extension of the hot wire that ran through his shoulder. He panted as he ran, dodging through the wet underbrush. Failure! He’d failed! Worse. He’d been sold out. Twice he’d been sold out. First by that double-crossing vixen of a girl—damn her inviting figure—and then by that commie agent, Marcus. Sell him short, would they? Gun him down like a common American punk? He’d show them. He’d show them!

He made his way down to the wharf. They didn’t know about this! They didn’t realize that his property extended down to the waterline. He had his escape route ready, everything waiting. They’d be empty-handed yet, and some day, when they’d forgotten and he hadn’t, he’d be back—to settle the score.

He pulled at the ropes, and the slim, wave-hugging speedboat moved slowly out from under the rotted boards. He cast the line loose, and jumped down into the shallow cockpit. He threw out his right arm to steady himself, and almost screamed in pain as his shoulder gave.

But then he was settled, strapped into the tiny racing cockpit. He touched the starter, and the big engines throbbed into life. He throttled back on them quickly. They were unmuffled, their exhaust going into the water. He swung the wheel, and began edging the boat out into deeper water.

He was only fifty yards from shore when a heavy yellow beam impaled him and the boat.

“This is the Coast Guard,” spoke an amplified and disembodied voice. “We have you on radar and in sight. We have guns trained on you. Prepare to be picked up.”

“No!” he screamed. He shook his fist at the light. “No, I won’t!” he rammed the throttle all the way forward.

The tiny boat gave a great leap up onto the surface of the water and, engines roaring, shot out past the fog-shrouded Coast Guard cutter.

A siren sounded, the banshee wail sliding up and down the scale. Then there was the boom of a gun.

It was a direct hit. All they ever found were expensive hardwood splinters.

Of the already wounded Red Skull, there was no trace. They dragged the bay, but without success. The tides are fierce along that section of coast. The undertow might have dragged him miles out to sea.

And there was no one who shed a tear.

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