CAPTAIN AMERICA: THE GREAT GOLD STEAL "Chapter 9: Robin's Song"

CHAPTER 9

ROBIN’S SONG

As they approached the corner booth in the fashionably dim-lit hotel bar, Bloody saw that Sparrow was not alone; another man and a girl were with him. Seeing Sparrow sitting with them, he was reminded again of the appropriateness of the man’s cover name; the little man looked like a bookkeeper or a bank clerk, not at all like one of the Eagle’s top lieutenants. They slid into the curved seat. “Ah, there you are, boys,” Sparrow said cheerfully. “I’d like to introduce you to a couple of my associates. Randolph and Marcus, this is Starling and Robin.” He turned to the couple on his other side and explained, “Randolph and Marcus were loaned us by Chicago.” He turned back to the pair of Ivy-League hoods.

“Starling and Robin will be working with you on your new assignment. Actually, you’ll be working under Starling on this occasion. It’s his job. Miss Robin will assist you.”

Randolph—Blondy—tried to size the girl up in the dim light. He could tell little. She wore shoulder-length strawberry-blonde hair. Her features seemed slightly exotic, but she wore simple glasses that tended to obscure the effect. She gave him a half-smile, her lips quirking up on one side. Her severely tailored business suit did not hide the fullness of her figure.

“If I might regain your attention…?” It was the fastidious bald man speaking—Starling. “We have an operation to be planned.”

Steve Rogers wiped his mouth and pushed himself away from the table. He’d eaten his fill now. Jarvis began clearing the dishes away, his movements silent, as if aware that he must not intrude upon Rogers’ thoughts.

His thoughts were largely unpleasant ones. He had gone from the bank to a conference with the police and the local head of the Treasury Department. It had not been a fruitful meeting.

He could tell them little; only what he had discovered, and what had happened to himself. They had little to add. The entire block of buildings on Liberty Place had been searched. The elevator had been tested. It was found to have been dropped down into an abandoned BMT subway tunnel—one never completed and long forgotten. When the elevator was up above, the tunnel beyond was open, and traces had been found of a man’s passage through a newly broken hole into the main subway line. This must have been the exit used by the man who had smuggled out the gold seal. A search of FBI fingerprint records revealed him to be one Andrew “Monk” Mayfair, a West Coast trigger-man with a long record. But there was nothing to connect him with this operation.

An upstairs room in a building two doors south of the warehouse—the building in which Ray Thompson’s body had been found—had shown signs of occupancy: a cot, a wardrobe, a dresser, all from the Salvation Army, and a phone which the telephone company had put in two months earlier in the name of Henry Starling. In the basement of the same building was a blocked shaft which presumably led down to the underground room. A set of wires came up the shaft and were clipped directly and illegally to an outside telephone company line.

Digging was still underway, but they hadn’t yet got through to the underground room. It would be hours yet before the remains of the other two bodies could be recovered. There were no clues to the whereabouts of the missing gold. An inventory showed the amount missing to be worth almost eight-hundred thousand dollars. “Apparently just a preliminary haul,” the Treasury man had observed wryly.

They had nipped the operation in the bud; a mere four-fifths of a million missing. And at the cost of two men, and another in the critical ward. It was nothing to be proud about. Gaughan’s words kept ringing in Steve Rogers’ head: “You are responsible.”

He was responsible.

He had led two good men, family men, to their deaths. And he had lost the only man who could have told them where the gold was. They were still digging, traces, clues might be found. But he doubted it. The responsibility was his. And he’d botched it.

The FBI was checking on Monk Mayfair’s recent associations, searching out the connections that had brought him to New York. There might be a lead there, a path might open up to Mayfair’s employers. But if it did, it would be the FBI’s baby. It required days and weeks of careful footwork in which the FBI excelled. There was nothing there for Captain America.

There was so little to go on—the gold seal, the tunnels themselves. About all it told him was that someone had great daring, great technical skills. Using a laser beam for an assassination! And using it to cut through the concrete floor of the vault as well. This wasn’t a common, unimaginative, syndicate job. It had been planned by a man with daring, and a man with the scientific know-how available to put his fantastic plan into operation. Who could it be?

Jarvis strode silently into the room again. “The phone, sir. The police, downtown.” He took it on the extension.

“A couple of patrolmen who have the squad car on that beat,” his caller told him. “They remember seeing a car parked on Liberty Place the night Mayfair was killed. Reason they remember it, it was parked there from early evening until sometime after midnight. They were going to ticket it, but it had diplomatic plates. A black, ’66 Lincoln Continental.”

“Do they remember the license number?”

“Nope; didn’t take it down. But we’re checking the registry for a Continental with DPL tags. There’ll be a god’s plenty of ’em, that’s for sure.”

It was a lead; it might develop into something solid, and it might not. But there was still nothing in it for now.

“The phone again, sir.” It was Jarvis. “A young lady. She refuses to identify herself, but wished to speak with you.”

A girl! Could it be the girl? The girl who worked for S.H.I.E.L.D., the Supreme Headquarters International Espionage Law-enforcement Divisions, whose life he had twice saved* without learning her name, and whose face reminded him of another girl he had known and lost, a lifetime before?

But when he heard her voice, he knew it was not she.

“Captain America? I must see you! I have valuable information for you.”

“Who is this?”

“My name doesn’t matter, you don’t know me anyway. I’m a SHIELD agent, and I’ve managed to work my way into a fantastic organization run by a man who calls himself the Eagle. Of his highly placed agents, I’ve met two—Sparrow and Starling.” Her voice was breathless. “I haven’t time to talk long. Where can we meet?”

“You could come here.”

“I dare not. I think they’re watching your place. They killed one man who tried to get through to you.”

“Did you…?”

“I sent him, yes. You found the gold seal, I know. But there’s so much more.”

Steve thought quickly. This could be a trap, but even if it was, it would lead him to the very people he sought. It would be best to play along. Besides, the girl might be telling the truth, in which case…

“Where do you suggest?”

“It’s got to be where we can talk, where no one can bug us. How about the United Nation Plaza? You know, where all the benches are? It must be deserted at this hour”—Rogers glanced at the clock; it was 9:07—“and it’s convenient.”

“All right. How soon can you get there?”

“I’ll have to get free here. Give me forty-five minutes. Okay?”

“Nine-fifty?” “Right.”

There was a click, and the line was dead.

The Stark mansion was deceptive from the outside. A passerby would see it only as a town house. It was larger than its neighbors, being almost twice as wide, but its brownstone facade was set back from the quiet, tree-shaded side street, its miniature front yard, filled with ivy and shrubbery, filling the gap to the sidewalk. All the other houses on this block sat flush with each other. If one looked closely at the fittings—the brass door knocker, the stained-glass fanlight over the door, the dragon’s-claw foot-scraper at the side of the porch—one saw undeniable quality. The house appeared to be carefully kept as well. The woodwork was all freshly painted, unstained by the city’s soot and corrosive air. The windows were all sparkling clean, despite the fact that almost all were discreetly shaded by rich draperies.

But this view from the street showed only a wealthy town house. An aerial view would have shown much more.

Most of the houses on this block had back yards. These were small, but big enough for patios, a flower garden, even a small swimming pool. Each back yard abutted the back yard of the house on the opposite side of the block.

Both the house to the east, and the one to the west of the Stark mansion did not have back yards. Instead, they had high walls that extended to the center of the block on their outside property lines, where they met identical walls from the houses that backed them up. An aerial view would show that these two houses, and their counterparts on the opposite side of the block, extended back the full distance of their property, their backs directly touching. This, along with the two houses behind the Stark mansion itself, made up a square within the center of the block. And the open area between the back of the Stark mansion and the two houses opposite was a private plaza, with a landscaped garden.

Stark owned all seven houses, owned them in a block, and joined them so that their interiors were entirely linked to form one huge mansion, a bastion of complete privacy within the heart of the city.

Only portions of this vast building complex were used for living purposes—although each Avenger had his own apartment of rooms—for much of the remainder was taken up with labs, training areas, assembly rooms, and shops. Beneath the entire structure was an immense underground garage.

It was to the garage that Steve Rogers, back in a clean uniform, went now. The exit of the garage was not on the street on which the mansion fronted but on the street on the opposite side of the block, the next street north. Rogers could have instructed the girl to come to one of the addresses on that street, but he had sensed her reluctance to come into his own sanctum sanctorum. She had her own reasons for wanting to meet him elsewhere. He hoped he was wrong about what those reasons might be, but he had not wanted to scare her off. He had let her choose the place.

He stepped out of the elevator into a vast open area broken only by supporting columns and blocks of fluorescent lights, under which the hoods and bodies of many cars and vehicles gleamed darkly. Tonight he wanted something inconspicuous. He chose the Volkswagen.

The aluminum Buick V-6 engine started immediately, its ingenious muffler system accurately duplicating the sounds of a VW air-cooled flat-4. A special chain that ran uselessly between the fan and two dummy pulleys even re-created the distinctive sounds of the VW timing chain. He left the knob controlling the Paxton supercharger out; he wouldn’t need that extra performance boost just yet. The 176 horsepower of the hot-tuned V6 would be enough, even for the specially modified and heavier chassis of the bullet-proofed VW. He moved his shield to the back seat, where it could not slide into his legs, and engaged the clutch. The car moved easily out across the open floor, and up the ramp, where the outside door, responding to the signal from the car’s dash, was already up. Then he was turning east and heading crosstown.

There was no sign of pursuit, but just to be careful, he did not head directly for his destination. Instead he swung down into the midtown area, cutting through lights just turning yellow, watching for signs of anyone following, either directly on his tail, or a block away on the parallel. It was 9:45 when he turned north of First Avenue at 38th Street and, swinging into an outside lane to avoid the tunnel under 42nd Street drew up beside the U.N. rotunda.

There were only a few other cars parked here at this hour, most of them carrying the diplomatic licenses of the various legations located nearby. He drew the VW into the curb and parked it, retrieving his shield from the back seat. It was a replacement shield for the one he’d lost in the cave-in; he always kept spares.

When he entered the parklike plaza, the street lights from the avenue cast long shadows from the trees and plantings. At first he didn’t see her. There she stood, her full figure separating itself from the shrouded shadows of a bench.

“Captain America?” she called softly.

He walked toward her, the sound of his boots on the hard concrete loud in his own ears.

When he was closer, he could see full dark-blonde hair framing her face which itself remained shadowed. Light glinted from the lenses of her glasses. She was wearing a tailored business suit, and carrying a small purse.

“Captain America?” She smiled. “I’m Robin.” She clutched her purse tighter, and suddenly a vapor shot out of it, surrounding him in a mist.

“You were easy,” she said, as he started to fall.

Then, before she could regain her guard, he had rolled to the side, and was rising from his crouch. His shield held high on his left arm, his right hand knocked the purse from her grasp. It hit the pavement and slid away from her clutching fingers.

Then Randolph and Marcus were on his back.

Marcus was grunting as he swung his sap. “I toldja it wouldn’t be that easy!”

“Ahhh—!”

Captain America pivoted, suddenly slippery as an eel. This was his game they were playing now—no gas, no sudden explosions, just a close rough-and-tumble. He swung his fist at the blond man, catching him high on the jaw, and driving him back to the pavement. But before he could follow up the blow, the other one was on his back again. He ducked, throwing the man over his shoulders, pitching him into the other, who was starting to rise. “When’ll you guys learn not to hit a man when his back’s turned?” he grunted, gathering the nearest in his fist, and chopping him with a series of hard, fast rights.

“Is this it?” he asked. “Are you guys all they sent?” He knocked their heads together and dropped them to the ground, unconscious. “It hardly seems worth coming out on a cold night for.”

“Maybe this will,” he heard the girl mutter. But he hadn’t time to react. The heel of her shoe caught him at the base of his skull, at the neck. He dropped as though poleaxed.

“Good job, guys.” The girl spoke in derision as she looked down on the unconscious bodies of her two helpers. “Maybe I should just leave you here for the cops. Not likely. That’d be doing them a favor.”

Lifting her short skirt higher on her thighs, she ran awkwardly out of the plaza to a dark Continental. “Starling!” She rapped on the rear side window. “Hey! You’ve gotta help me.”

Starling pressed a button and rolled his window down. “What is it?”

“Come on. I got three guys out cold back there. If you think I can handle them all by myself…”

With Starling’s help, the two thugs, looking much worse for the wear, were dumped in the back seat, Captain America between them. Starling opened the glove compartment and removed a small black case. From it he took a loaded hypodermic. With a knife, he slashed the arm of Captain America’s uniform, baring his skin.

Then he gave him the injection. “That should keep him cold for six hours,” he told the girl. “And he won’t be feeling like much for the next eighteen.”

Robin slid into the front seat next to him and he started the big car, moving it out onto the one-way avenue, heading uptown.

They had turned onto the FDR Drive, heading downtown, when Randolph woke up. He announced this fact to the others in the car by vomiting on the floor.

“What a stink,” the girl said. “Clean it up!”

“So stop the car for a minute and I’ll be better,” he groaned. But Starling didn’t, and Randolph had to be content with using tissues while Robin sneered at him about his manliness, or his lack thereof. And Randolph, unable to put up with this kind of criticism, demonstrated his manliness by taking his frustrations brutally out on the unconscious form of Captain America.

Somewhat later that evening, after ticketing an illegally parked Volkswagen, a policeman discovered a small black ladies’ purse in the United Nation Plaza. When he opened it, a gas bomb exploded in his face, leaving him a huddled form on the cold concrete.

* It all happened in Tales of Suspense #’s 75, 76, 77, March, April, May, 1966, and #85, January 1967.—Reminiscent Stan

Tomorrow:

Chapter 10

Unmasked!

Please Support Hero Histories

Visit Amazon and Buy...

Captain America

The Great Gold Steal

by Ted White

The long out-of-print first Captain America novel!

CAPTAIN AMERICA: THE GREAT GOLD STEAL "Chapter 8: the Eagle Screams"

CHAPTER 8

THE EAGLE SCREAMS

When he awoke again, Captain America felt lightheaded. Cramping pains shot up and down his legs, his mouth was dry, his throat parched. He felt feverish, arid—that, he knew, was wrong. He was a man who was never sick.

He shook his head. It was the wrong thing to do. A wave of nausea attacked his stomach, while sharp hammers beat upon his skull. His ears still sang.

How long had he been unconscious this time?

Gritting his teeth, he willed his body to quiescence, and the pains began to subside. It was time now to make use of his own special abilities. If he couldn’t bring them into play soon, there would be no more chance at all.

He slowed his breathing until it was somnambulant, and brought his pulse down to forty. His conscious mind began to dim, but his subconscious knew exactly what must be done.

When he reemerged from his dreamlike state he had only vague memories of what he had done. But he could feel the difference. His ears were no longer ringing, his head felt clear, and his body was fit. The aches and pains were gone; he tingled with liveliness.

There was a price, of course. He felt hungry. And well he might, for he had lost seven pounds in the last few minutes, the weight having been converted into caloric energy to rebuild and revitalize his muscular tissues, and to clear the toxins from his body.

His hearing was restored, but he heard nothing—nothing save a slow dripping sound somewhere not too far away. The glimmer of a distant light bulb was still there when he turned his head, but it gave him no useful illumination. He was still trapped, still buried to his chest in the heavy earth.

Quietly, with determination, he began using his hand to dig himself out.

The heavy gauntlets helped; he blessed them many times over. Without them his fingers would be raw and bleeding by now. But even with them, the going was painfully slow. For every handful of dirt he pushed aside, a new handful would collapse upon him. It was a slow and tedious business.

At last he was free to his thighs. Pushing his hands against the firmer ground, he arched his body and yanked.

He catapulted out, bootless.

He thought about that for a moment, grinned to himself in the darkness, and then reached through the looser rubble, down through the twin tunnels in the packed dirt where his legs had been, and freed his boots. He hadn’t relished going out barefoot.

Only one bulb was burning near the elevator; the others had shattered. He’d been thrown halfway down the side tunnel before it had collapsed on him. The main tunnel, even in this weak light, was a sight for sore eyes.

But not for long.

First he found the guard. He was unconscious, blood oozing in a thin trickle from the corner of his mouth. When Rogers turned him over, he saw blood in his nose and ears. The effects of the concussive power of the explosion, obviously. He applied first aid, doing the best he could. The rest was up to the emergency ward teams, as soon as he could get them down here.

He wondered where the rescue teams were. He had been down here, conscious and unconscious, for what seemed like hours. Where was everyone?

Then he remembered the room he’d been in; the thug and the other guard. He hadn’t had time to warn them. They must be dead. It was only a freak accident that had prevented his own death.

Or had he had time?

It was so difficult to remember. Everything was so packed into those last split seconds. Could he have grabbed the other two and thrown them out, ahead of him?

His head was starting to throb again. This was no time to rehash the past. He had to assess the rest of the damage.

He didn’t have to blunder far up the tunnel to find the reason for the temporary absence of any rescuers; the old timbers, temporary supports in the first place, had collapsed. The tunnel was totally blocked.

That left the elevator. No one had had time to check it out; he had to hope it would still run, still get him up to the surface. If it was undamaged it should; it had to be the route by which the gold had been taken.

He carried the still unconscious bank guard into the bed of the elevator, and then pushed the heavy switch. Immediately a motor, somewhere up above, began to hum. Cables snapped taut, and the elevator made its slow assent.

Captain America gave a heartfelt sigh of relief.

Starling stared around in surprise as Raven led him down the stairs to his basement apartment beneath the tin-sided garage. It was not at all what he had expected.

In his own mind he had cast Raven as a cloddish oaf when he had first met him. He imagined Raven living in some squalid little flat somewhere not far from the waterfront, sitting in front of his TV set in the evenings, a can of beer in his hand. He had not added it to his mental picture, but flies buzzing about Raven’s dirty undershirt would have been totally in keeping. Raven was a mechanic, that was about all he knew of the man. Both of them, Starling and Raven, were only lieutenants, along with one other, Sparrow, and undoubtedly others of whom Starling hadn’t heard, for the boss, Eagle. He had never met Eagle, and doubted privately that he ever would. The boss kept himself removed from the scene of his nefarious schemes, manipulating his lieutenants instead as a man might puppets on a string. This much Starling knew; his contacts with Eagle had been entirely over the phone.

The stairs had led down from a partitioned-off area in the back of the garage. He had expected a low-ceilinged basement area, dank, not so different from the dirt-floored tunnels he had himself dug, rusting beams and pillars supporting the concrete floor overhead.

Instead, he found himself standing on a lush-piled carpet, indirect lighting softly illuminating somber paneling on the walls and boxed stanchions that did, indeed, support the floor above. The furniture was polished wood, deceptively plain; he knew it was expensive. Portions of the walls were draped with richly textured fabric, softening the fact that there were no windows.

There was a TV screen, but it was custom-fitted into a wall of bookcases. On either side, also recessed, were large AR3 speakers and, below the books, cabinets, one door of which was partially open, revealing neat rows of record albums. It was a complete stereo system.

“Sit,” Raven said. “Surprised, eh?”

Starling mumbled something indistinct.

“Everyone has their secrets,” Raven said. “This is mine.”

“You keep the gold down here, too?”

Raven guffawed. “Sent that out on the boat last night. You think I’m gonna carry that stuff down all these stairs?”

“Oh.” Starling felt deflated and somehow defeated, as though by the simple act of having this secret apartment, Raven had gained the upper hand.

“Okay, now let’s hear it. How’d you blow it?”

“Me? Why, you stupid…!” Reflexively, Starling’s hand reached inside his topcoat for his gun.

“Ease off, fella. Touchy, eh?” Raven smiled, showing a mouthful of brown stubs for teeth. “What I mean is…”

“Touchy?” Starling cut him off “Touchy? The biggest operation of its kind in the world, and it’s shot, and you’re surprised I’m touchy!”

“Aww, come on now. You didn’t expect it to go on forever? You think we’d have milked the whole bank? They’d have caught on, sooner or later; had to. A little skimmed off the top they mightn’t miss, but more’n that? So we don’t set up in competition with Fort Knox, we still cleared a tidy sum.”

“What are you talking about? You didn’t expect us to succeed?”

“I guess the boss ain’t told you everything, huh?”

That was galling. The knowledge that this oaf might be more in the Eagle’s confidence than he, Starling, was too much. “Shut your mouth!” He turned away from the other man, then whirled back on him. Raven was still grinning. “What hasn’t he told me?”

“Ohhh,” Raven rolled his eyes in mockery. “My lips are sealed.”

“Well, for your information, there was a leak. I don’t know how it happened. One of the men, a guy named Monk, he slipped out. At the time we thought he was just trying to sell information. I told the boss; he had the man taken care of. Then, after our boys left the scene, we found a bar of gold—one of the first ones we’d taken after we’d broken through—with the seal cut off it. Monk must’ve had it. It must’ve been found on him. That’s what blew it.”

“Monk, huh? An undercover cop?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. He made a beeline for the Stark mansion.”

Raven whistled, tonelessly. “The Avengers, huh?”

“Captain America. The others are away. He came down to the bank this morning. I got the warning, but all the men were out except for Bruno. He was no use. I had to use the dynamite.”

“Well, that takes care of one of those costumed nuts.”

“Let’s hope so. But it also takes care of two months’ planning and hard work. It’s not a fair trade.”

“That’s from your point of view. Maybe…”

The quiet buzz of a phone cut Raven off. He ambled across the room. “It’s an unlisted number; the safe wire. Must be the…” He picked up the phone. “Yeah. Hullo, Boss.”

Raven listened for several moments. “Yeah, he’s here. Yeah.” He held out the phone to Starling. “He wants to talk to you.”

Starling took the handset. “Yes?”

“You failed.”

“What?”

“You failed. Captain America is still alive.”

“But, but—he can’t be! I mean, the dynamite! I felt the explosion myself! It must’ve sealed off the whole underground!”

“It did. But nonetheless, he got free. He is free. I have a new assignment for you.”

Starling felt a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach.

“I want you to capture Captain America. I want you to get him, and bring him to me!”

When the freight elevator had reached street level, Captain America found and worked the controls that opened the door.

A man in a business suit was staring at him in consternation when he stepped out onto the chill gray sidewalk. “You! What are you doing in my store?”

“I beg your pardon.” Captain America smiled. “I’d appreciate it if you’d call an ambulance. I have a badly injured man here.”

“But, but,” the man sputtered. “That’s my freight elevator, my warehouse! It hasn’t been opened in years! What do you think you…?”

“What’s going on here?” a new voice inquired. It was a uniformed policeman, the cop on the beat. “Oh, hello there, sir.” He nodded at Captain America.

“You’re just the man I wanted to see,” Captain America said. “I’ve got a man here” —he gestured into the gloom of the elevator—“and he needs medical attention. Will you get an ambulance?”

“I’ll phone in right now, sir,” the policeman nodded.

“But, but, my warehouse,” the man was still protesting. “What’s been going on in my warehouse?”

Captain America was already striding off down the street. The cop nudged the other man with his billy club. “Better pipe down, fellow. Looks like there’s trouble here.”

“Who was that man, in that wild get up?”

“You don’t know who that is? That’s Captain America, that’s all,” the cop said. He shook his head, as if in total disbelief of such ignorance.

When he got to the bank, Captain America made directly for Gaughan’s office. A startled secretary stepped back as he pushed open the door without knocking. Except for her, the room was empty.

“Where’s Gaughan?”

“Oh, you startled me! Why, you must be Captain America!”

He smiled, patiently. The tantalizing smell of coffee lingered in the room, reminding him of his hunger. “I’m looking for Mr. Gaughan,” he said.

“Oh, he’s in the director’s office,” the girl said. “He’s in conference,” she added in confusion.

“Will he be long?”

“I—I have no idea.”

The door opened.

“Ah,” Captain America said. “Just the man I was looking for.” John B. Gaughan stopped in the doorway.

“Captain America! You’re alive!”

“Yes, just barely.”

“We’d had reports—half the tunnels are totally caved in. We’ve got men down there now, digging.” He shook his head distractedly. “How did you get out? Did you bring any of the others with you?”

Rogers held up his hand. “One at a time. I—do you have, could you send for some coffee?”

The girl nodded. “I’ll get you some. Can I get anything else? Coffee cake?”

“Yes, fine.” He returned his attention to Gaughan. “I managed to dig my way out of a cave-in.” He shrugged down at his dirt-smeared uniform. “I brought out one of your men. He’s suffering from the effects of the explosion. The others? I don’t know about one of them—he went up a ladder to the building above. But the one with me, I’m afraid he’s…”

“Dead?”

“Yes.”

“Couldn’t you do anything?”

“Mr. Gaughan, I may wear a fancy uniform, but I cannot see through walls, stop bullets with my skin, or do any of those other comic-book things. My strength, my powers of recuperation, my reflexes—they’re all superior, but they’re not superhuman.”

“So a man died.”

“Two men died. We’d caught one of the gold robbers. The explosion went off before I could get anything from him?”

“Two men died then, and you escaped.” Twin patches of angry color dotted Gaughan’s cheeks. “I sent those men down with you. What am I going to tell their wives? I…”

The phone on his desk rang.

“Yes?” He turned in his chair to stare directly at Captain America. “Yes, I see. Yes, thank you. Thank you, sir.” He hung up.

“That was the local precinct. After you showed up with one of my boys in bad shape, they sent a couple of men through the nearby buildings. They found another of our men, Thomas. He was in the hall of a building. The front hall. Dead. He’d been shot.”

“The one who went upstairs…” Rogers mused. “Shot, you say?”

“Three times.”

“Then whoever triggered that explosion must’ve been in the same building. He must’ve surprised the man.”

“Thompson has been with us five years. He was a trusted employee. He had a wife and three children. The youngest can’t be a year old yet.” Gaughan struck his desk with his fist, a surprising gesture, coming from him. “We don’t hire these men to risk their lives. They wear guns, but that’s largely a precautionary measure. Two of them dead, the other in the hospital.” He shook his head. “I’m afraid I’ll have to consider you responsible, sir.”

In a midtown hotel room, two men rested on twin beds, their shoes off, watching a TV set across the room. They had the bland look of corporation men. Each looked younger than his age; one was dark-haired, the other blond. Their luggage was stacked in the clothes closet. The bottom suitcase held a neatly stowed-away laser-gun unit.

The phone rang, and the blond-haired man reached for it. “Yeah?” He listened quietly for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah, sure. We’ll meet you in the bar. Ten minutes. Sure.”

He hung up.

“Our money?” the other asked.

Blondy shook his head. “More work.” He swung around and sat up. He nudged his partner. “Come on, let’s go. We gotta see the Sparrow downstairs, in ten minutes.”

“So, ten minutes. How long can it take in the elevator?”

The blond-haired man grinned and laughed. “Move it. It’ll take you half that time to get your shoes on.” He tied his own, and slung on his shoulder holster. He tested the action, slipping his 38 magnum revolver in and out several times. The spring clip worked fine.

Tomorrow:

Chapter 9

Robin's Song

Please Support Hero Histories

Visit Amazon and Buy...

Captain America

The Great Gold Steal

by Ted White

The long out-of-print first Captain America novel!

CAPTAIN AMERICA: THE GREAT GOLD STEAL "Chapter 7: Captain America is Dead!"

CHAPTER 7

CAPTAIN AMERICA IS DEAD!

The underground explosion shook the old building’s very foundations. Starling listened for another moment to the dead phone, then replaced it. Damn that man! He had cut short what might have been the greatest criminal coup in the history of the United States! They’d managed to get out only one load of gold; less than a million dollars’ worth—a drop in the bucket. And now the scheme was smashed, the entire plan, the underground tunnels, approaches, all shot.

His fingers shook as he dialed another number and misdialed the last digit, forcing him to hang up and dial over. Then he had an open line.

“Yes?”

“This is Starling.”

“What? Not now, not here!”

“I had to. I…”

“I know, you fool. I know. Captain America has discovered the tunnels.”

“Yes. Yes, I…”

“Did you manage to take care of him? I realize that the operation has been blown, but…”

“Yes, I think so. I mean, I don’t know. But he must be dead. I had the circuit open. I’d left Bruno in charge, as you’d said. I heard everything that happened. Bruno couldn’t stop him. He must’ve noticed the phone. He picked it up. I exchanged a few words with him to hold him there while I threw the switch. I know the stuff went off. I could feel it up here.”

“We’ll have to scrub operations there. Don’t call me at this number again. I’ll get in touch with you through Raven.”

“Yes. Okay, Boss.”

Starling hung up slowly. He moved with equal slowness across the dim-lit room. From the cot in the corner he picked up his topcoat, his hat. He put them on almost abstractedly. Captain America was almost certainly dead. But so was their plan to loot the greatest stockpile of gold in the United States. It was bitterly galling. If there had been another way… But there could have been no other way. He’d had to let the men out for a little air and recreation. He’d done that even before the boss’ call, earlier that morning. Only Bruno had been there. And Bruno had been an inadequate defense.

If he could have stopped Captain America without destroying the tunnel network…

But it would have been no good. Too many others knew by now. In a sense, the explosion of dynamite had been a pointless, almost petty thing—a futile revenge, nothing more. No, it had been good for more than that; it guaranteed confusion, and escape. He slammed the door to the room without locking it, and hurried down the stairs.

Ray Thompson was a hardworking, underpaid (in his wife’s opinion) bank guard. Until today, his life had been a dull one. It had been one free of taint, his record clean. There had been no trouble with his application to be bonded when he was accepted as a guard.

The sight of the gold bars it was his duty, in part, to guard, didn’t affect him particularly. He couldn’t connect those dull-yellow leaden bars with money; not with his monthly paycheck, with bills, with a Friday night beer at the bar on the corner, with infrequent movies with his wife (when a babysitter could be found). Money was an official light-green IBM card with his name typed on it, and the respective holes punched, that came every fifteenth of the month, was deposited in his checking account, and went out again in the form of rent, utility bills, and time-payments on his TV set, his wife’s washing machine and dryer (a necessity since the kids), the new living room set, his car.

Sometimes his palms itched when it was his duty to carry or guard bags of bundled bills, or boxes of rolled coins. Then he felt himself to be in the presence of money, real and palpable money. Sometimes he thought, in a wistful, daydreaming sort of way, of helping himself to a stray bundle of bills—tens or twenties, say—not enough to be missed; just enough to get a few of those monthly payments out of the way, and maybe make his ownership of just one appliance free and clear.

But he had never given way to such an impulse, and he never would. Ray Thompson was that rarity—an honest man, even in the face of temptation.

The thought of anyone stealing those heavy gold ingots, stacked so evenly, row upon row, in the subterranean vaults of the Reserve Bank, came almost as a surprise to him. An equal surprise had been the sight of the almost-mythical uniformed figure of Captain America, as he had led them down into the clandestine tunnels beneath the vaults. He had wondered, briefly, if a man like Captain America ever knew the pinch of too many bills, had ever felt desperate over the arrival of yet another mouth to feed. But, of course, Captain America had no family, and would hardly concern himself with such matters. It didn’t occur to Thompson to wonder if this in itself might not be something for which to pity Captain America.

He had been standing in the darkened cellar above the linked tunnels, the concealed shelf-door closed, when the explosion came. It came through two closed doors, and up a long shaft. It flung the heavy shelves over on him, knocking him to the floor.

The thunderclap had been muffled but, as he pulled himself out from under the collapsed shelves, he coughed rackingly. The cellar was chokingly full of dust. It tickled his nose and throat, turning his coughs into painful sneezes.

He moved stumblingly for the stairs, and fresher air—what there was to be had of it. Then duty overtook him again, and he moved back, into the cellar.

The lights, when he switched them on, still worked. They received their power from above, not below.

The light that spilled from the landing beyond the collapsed wall of shelves was foggy, and his moving shadow cut thick holes in it. He tugged at the shelves, groping at them to pull them aside. His gun was under them and, without thinking beyond that, he knew he needed his gun.

He didn’t think about the explosion below, and what must have happened to the men down there. Instead he searched methodically for his gun and, finding it, holstered it and moved into the landing area, to the ladder.

The lights showed only halfway down the shaft. But he climbed carefully down the unsteady ladder until he reached that point. He could go no further. It was caved in below.

He poked with one foot, halfheartedly, as though poking might unstop the shaft like a momentarily plugged drain, and free the way. But he was rewarded only by a quiver from the ladder, and it was with the haste born of caution that he reascended it.

There was nothing to be gained by remaining in the cellar now. It no longer connected with the tunnel network below; there was nothing to guard against. Leaving the lights untouched, he trudged up the stairs to the grimy hallway that led to the street.

The clatter of running feet on the stairs above stopped him. It was probably only someone alerted by the subterranean explosion, a curiosity seeker, but it paid to be on one’s guard. The building itself had not yet been explored.

He had his gun drawn when Starling turned the corner of the last flight of stairs.

When Starling saw the man in the dark-blue uniform, standing there with a drawn gun and covered with dust, he had no doubts in his mind. He plunged his hand under his coat, drew his slim 25 caliber automatic, and squeezed off three fast shots. The sound was like that of three sharp slaps in the dim hallway. The uniformed man fell.

He hadn’t been able to make out the man’s features, and had only begun to be surprised at the sight of a man so elegantly dressed in these shoddy surroundings, when the man’s arm had made a quick motion, and something was flashing at him.

From a vast distance he heard the shots, and understood their meaning. He had never been fired upon before. He had never fought in a war. There was nothing real about this situation. It was barefaced melodrama.

And grossly unfair. He felt the shock of the bullets’ impact. One of them hit his chest, striking bone. The second collapsed his left leg under him. Such tiny things, bullets. The third lodged in his brain as he was folding.

Starling stared down at the dead man. His thoughts raced close to panic. He’d killed a man. Had anyone heard the shots? Were there more people about? Where had the man come from? He forced himself into a calmer deliberation.

The cellar lights were off. Yet if the dust on his clothes was any indication, the man had come from there.

Okay, he’d been in the cellar, above the explosion when it had come. He’d come up. Alone. No one else had responded to the shots.

It was safe.

He slipped the gun into an outer pocket, where he could touch it, feel its reassuring grip easily, without appearing suspicious. Then he stepped over the body, and walked quickly to the door.

He pulled the door open, and eased his way out. There was no sign of police. In measured strides, he walked down the block to Maiden Lane. He glanced to the right. The forbidding bulk of the Federal Reserve Bank seemed to glower back at him from a block away. He turned left instead, and headed west. At least he’d got out free.

When Captain America awoke, there was a loud ringing in his ears, and his body was racked with pain. He wondered at first if he was also blind, but when he moved his head he caught a glimmering of light.

Where was he? What had happened to him?

The only thing he could remember was that voice on the phone—that slightly oily voice. It had threatened him; he remembered that. The voice had seemed too certain of itself, too undisappointed. That had warned him. But what then?

His head ached. Something pounded at it, rhythmically, in cadence with the ululations in his ears. He tried to shift to a more comfortable position.

Something pinned down his legs. There was no distinct pressure at any one spot; he couldn’t sort out any special sensations in his legs beyond that ache that seemed to permeate his body. He felt as though he’d been worked over by a meat grinder. He let himself relax again. He had detected the warning. After that?

He fought to reconstruct it in his mind. It was important. Perhaps he’d understand where he was if he could remember what had happened.

He’d dropped the phone—there was something odd about the phone. Yes, he remembered now. It was a lineman’s phone. That meant…

He began rebuilding his memory forward and backward. He’d been in an underground room, a room he’d reached through—through tunnels! Tunnels—from the vault, the bank vault, the gold depository.

The voice on the phone had held a note of triumph, as though another card was yet to be played. He’d felt the warning, the urgency. He’d dropped the phone, sprinted for the tunnel. The guard, the captured thug? He couldn’t remember. The last thing he remembered was a blow, a jarring concussion. After that, darkness.

At least he had some idea of where he was now. He was in one of the tunnels.

Carefully, he raised his right arm. He felt as weak as a baby. Sweat broke out on his forehead under his cowl mask, trickling an itchy path down his face. His fingers touched something that crumbled.

Dirt.

He was buried under a pile of dirt. He felt a smothering wave of claustrophobia sweep over him.

Buried, yes. But his exploring fingers found the dirt covered him only midway up his chest. His upper chest and shoulders, his head, were free.

He craned his head, and again caught the far-off glimmer of a light. It didn’t move, but it was reassuring. A way was open—that far, at least.

He wished he could hear. Or, rather, hear more than the nerve-jangling ringing that pervaded his ears.

Raising his arms, he dug down with his hands, and tried to sit up.

Nausea hit him like a club to the side of his head, knocking him flat. He passed out.

The big black Continental took the 39th Street ramp off the Brooklyn Belt Parkway elevated expressway, coasting down to the stop sign at Second Avenue. Straight ahead lay a freight yard, a few rusting freight cars surrounded by tall grass. Beyond, the squat building of the 39th Street Pier, and the oily water of the bay. If you squinted closely, you could separate the haze from the water, and make out between them, across the bay, the equally squalid New Jersey shoreline, with its own rundown industrial area.

Diagonally across the intersection was a yellowed concrete building, from which came the staccato chatter of many small machines. In the center of Second Avenue were two pairs of railroad tracks, recessed like old trolley-car tracks. Every few yards, a pair of tracks would split off into the yards and warehouses. On a gray day like this, Starling found it particularly depressing.

Ignoring the Right-Turn-Only sign, he swung the car left, onto the jouncing cobblestones, and south, down the avenue. A city bus, lumbering into the intersection, honked its impotent horn at him. He replied by goosing the gas, his tires chirping on the uneven surface of the street.

As he drove down the narrow avenue, past trucks angled out into the street, cars double-parked, and darting oncoming cabs that swung into his lane, and then ducked back into their own, he watched the street signs closely. On his right were warehouses, industrial lofts, trucks backed against their loading bins. On his left, going up the hill away from the water, rows of narrow tenements, paint peeling, dirty children in inadequate clothing swarming in the streets, playing their arcane games.

When he reached the fifties he slowed, and paid closer attention to street signs and addresses. He had been here only twice before, both times at night, when things were quiet. He chuckled as he remembered the first time, when he’d come down off the expressway to be confronted by a freight train in the center of the avenue, its big single light gleaming like Cyclops’ eye, an incongruously tinny bell jingling. This wasn’t his New York. This was Brooklyn.

Up ahead, on his right, was a tin-sided two-storied building, flush against a taller, concrete building. The gray paint was peeling from its corrugated sides, leaving blood-brown patches of rust. He angled his car into the curb, and tapped his horn lightly. One of the huge twin doors that covered the face of the building swung inward, and he drove up, over the sunken curb, and into the building.

A man in shirtsleeves, heavy blond hair a crop over his face and down the back of his neck, his belly joggling, pushed the door shut and ambled over. “Staying long?”

“What do you mean by that?” Starling snapped.

“Nothing much. Just, if you intend to make a day of it, I’ll put the car on the elevator. Otherwise it can stay.”

Starling shrugged. “The operation is blown. I’ll be here till the boss calls. Better put it on the elevator.” He slid the door open and climbed out, leaving the engine running.

The other took his place and, revving the engine, backed and angled it over onto an elevator.

“Watch it, Raven,” Starling said nervously. “You’re no parking-lot attendant.” The floor of the building was littered with odd pieces of heavy machinery. In the back stood an old van.

Raven slid the car onto two parallel skids. Then he leaned across the seat to the nearby wall, and punched a switch.

Immediately, the elevator began to rise, the thick column pushing the skids, lifting the Continental ponderously into the air.

Above, a section of the flooring overhead swung open and up.

The elevator didn’t pause at six feet, nor at nine. It didn’t stop until the skids were even with the floor above, and the car had all but vanished. Raven engaged the transmission and slowly backed the Continental out of sight. There was a pause, then the elevator mechanism began to sigh, and the skids started dropping.

Soon the ceiling was solid again, and the elevator was on the floor. There was no sign of a car in the dimly lit building. Raven came whistling down some side stairs, his feet heavy on the squeaking steps.

“Okay,” he said, fixing Starling with a sudden stare.

“Tell me about it.”

Tomorrow:

Chapter 8

The Eagle Screams

Please Support Hero Histories

Visit Amazon and Buy...

Captain America

The Great Gold Steal

by Ted White

The long out-of-print first Captain America novel!

CAPTAIN AMERICA: THE GREAT GOLD STEAL "Chapter 6: Into the Vault"

CHAPTER 6

INTO THE VAULT

A cab drew up before 44 Maiden Lane, and a big man in a topcoat and a slouch hat stepped out. The imposing edifice of the New York Federal Reserve Bank rose up beside him, dwarfing his massive figure.

The day was chill and drab, a heavy overcast under which lower clouds scudded. The forecast said there was a chance of snow.

It was not yet 8:30 in the morning, yet the big main door of the bank was opened as the man approached it. As he stepped inside, he removed his hat with red-gloved fingers.

“Captain America? This way, please.” A small, middle-aged man secured the door and then led him into an office area.

Rogers shrugged his way out of the topcoat and slung it over the back of the chair before he sat down. They were in a small but richly paneled office.

“Now, then…” The man behind the desk couldn’t seem to take his eyes off the form-fitting uniform, and the gong-like shield that Rogers had set against his chair.

He took advantage of the awkward pause to do a little sizing up of his own. The door had said only “Vice Director,” but the name on the desk was “John B. Gaughan.” Gaughan seemed taller seated behind his own desk. It was possible he’d had his chair built up. His thin lips pursed nervously, and then he smiled.

“I—I must apologize for staring. I’ve seen you in photographs, of course, but…Tell me, do you find the, ah, costume as effective these years? I mean, before the war, everything was so different.”

Rogers shrugged. “It serves its purpose. Now, as to my purpose in coming here…”

“Umm, yes. What was your purpose?”

“As I told your director, I have reason to suspect that gold is being stolen from a United States depository.”

“What?” Gaughan waved his hands distractedly. “Impossible. Most impossible. Movies like Goldfinger to the contrary, um, sir, our depositories are most adequately guarded. And we have no losses.”

“No reported losses,” Rogers corrected. He turned to his topcoat and felt in the pockets. He pulled out an object and tossed it onto Gaughan’s desk blotter, where it tore a thin rip. It was the chunk of gold. “What do you make of that?”

Gaughan picked it up dubiously. “Of course, I can’t ascertain that it is gold…”

“It is. How about the seal?”

Gaughan set the piece down gingerly and reached for a desk drawer. Then he was studying the seal with a magnifying glass.

He turned the piece over and over, studying each surface. Finally he looked up. His complexion seemed two shades lighter. “I—I must state that this piece gives every evident of being cut from a bar of government-owned gold.”

“How about a bar in private hands?”

“Not with this seal. No, sir.”

“All right then. It was removed from a government bar of gold. Which takes us back to my original statement. Gold is being stolen. Or rather, has been.”

“May I ask how you came by this piece?”

“You may,” Rogers said, unsmiling.

“I—uhh—well, how did you?”

It delighted Rogers to shake the fussy little man loose for a moment from his tidy world. “It was brought to me by a man who died before he could tell me how he’d gotten it.”

“Died?”

“Murdered.”

“Oh, my!”

“Getting back to cases, Mr. Gaughan. Just where do you suppose this man might have got that thing?”

“Well, sir, I’m sure I don’t know. I…”

“Not Fort Knox, I should imagine,” Rogers said, cutting through the man’s vague protestations.

“No, sir. I must admit that it seems more likely that it would be here.”

“I rather thought so.”

“We—we have more gold in our vaults than Fort Knox, anyway,” Gaughan said, almost visibly puffing with pride. “We currently have almost thirteen billion dollars in gold on deposit, as against only a little over ten billion at Fort Knox. We act as a depository for many foreign powers, you see,” he explained, leaning forward at his desk. “They feel safer just keeping it here. Our underground vaults are airtight, and absolutely safe.”

“Uh huh! And somebody just couldn’t resist the challenge.”

“I—well, I—I just can’t imagine…

“Let’s not leave it to your imagination. Let’s check it out. Let’s take a little guided tour.”

“What? I’m sorry, sir, but that’s out. I mean, you may be Captain America, but the security on these vaults is absolute. After all, we don’t even know that beneath that mask…” His words trailed off as Rogers rose ominously.

“I can go over your head, Gaughan,” he said softly. “And I will, if necessary. What were your orders from the director?”

Gaughan wilted under the stare of the awesome figure standing over him. “I—I was to give you every courtesy, sir. But,” he began to pull himself together. “But I must remind you, sir, that this is not the Army. We do not function under rigid orders here. I have discretionary powers.”

Rogers smiled. “If I removed my mask, would you have any better idea of who I am?”

Gaughan wiped away the perspiration on his forehead. He pushed his chair back, and stood. “Come this way,” he said in defeat.

Gaughan was still not trusting; two guards preceded them, and two more followed behind.

“You realize, a minor loss would not be easily discovered, if there was a loss,” Gaughan said, as he led Rogers through the low vaults. They were buried eighty-five feet below street level. “We would require an inventory.”

Rogers smiled, said nothing. His eyes were alert, but he was not looking at the gold ingots, stacked with precision in neat rows. The others would spot any real loss there before he would. Instead, he was scanning the floors and walls, particularly the joints where they met, watching for the slightest irregularity.

Suddenly he stopped, a guard behind stumbling against him.

“I think I’ve found something,” he said quietly.

“Eh? What’s that?” Gaughan asked nervously.

“Dirt,” Rogers said, holding the palm of a hand upward. On the tips of his crimson-gloved fingers was a whitish clay powder.

“Dirt? Come now,” Gaughan said impatiently.

“Dirt that was obviously tracked into here,” Rogers replied. “You.” He gestured at the guard next to him. “Let’s see the soles of your shoes.”

“My shoes are clean, sir,” the guard said, raising one foot and bracing himself against the wall.

“Exactly,” Rogers said. “Gaughan, we’ve got solid evidence.”

“Evidence? What evidence? What are you trying to prove?”

Rogers’ voice took on a patient tone, as if humoring someone not very bright. “This dirt. It was not tracked in here by the guards. It was not tracked in by you, nor by me. It is clay, of a type found in this area of the city, but only underground. Are you starting to get the picture?”

“Good heavens, man! Are you saying that someone—ah—dug his way in? And tracked that dirt in with him?”

Rogers sighed. “Exactly.”

It didn’t take long to find the concealed entrance. A square of concrete in the floor sounded hollow. Close inspection proved the concrete to be newer, fresher; dirt and oil had been worked over it to “age” it to the color of the surrounding concrete floor.

The square sat flush with the floor. “We’re going to need tools to get this open,” Rogers grunted.

“Tools?”

“A pry bar, at the least. We may have to smash it. They may have it secured on the underside.”

“Can—can you be sure that this is what you’re looking for?”

“Sure enough,” Rogers replied without looking up. Gaughan was getting on his nerves.

“Here, sir.” A guard handed him a pry bar and a hammer. “We keep these handy for crating.”

“Fine.” He pushed the pry bar against the crack between concrete slabs, but it was too fine for the thick bar to penetrate. Instead, he turned it like a chisel, and began hammering at it, chipping away the edges of the concrete square next to the one he wanted to pry up.

“Isn’t that the wrong one?” Gaughan inquired.

Rogers didn’t answer. When he had cut away enough of the concrete, he pushed his bar into the newly widened gap and began to pull back on it, applying pressure against the phony slab.

For a moment nothing happened. Then the muscles on Captain America’s arms began to stand out, like thick ropes, and there was a grating sound as the steel bar ground against the concrete.

Then there was a muffled snapping and the phony slab flew upward, rocking Rogers back on his heels.

He rose to his feet, and handed the bar back to the guard who’d supplied it. “I’m afraid that won’t be much good any more,” he said. The bar was badly bent. The guard gave a soft whistle.

The concrete slab had been a trap door and, now that it was lying upside down on the floor, they could see that it had consisted of a plywood board, onto which concrete had been cast. Hanging at a twisted angle from the plywood was a heavy metal bracket, only one slot still holding it. Below, in the opening in the floor, they could see a four-by-four still braced across a shaft, its intended purpose defeated. Rogers gave it a kick and it slid sidewise and fell clattering down the shaft.

The guards had their guns out, and Rogers told them, “Okay, you boys follow me. Gaughan, you’d better get upstairs and pass the word.” He picked up his shield, and started down the ladder. As his eyes reached floor level, he noticed a series of wires, crudely fastened around one side of the hole. A network of alarm wires laid under the floor had been neatly bypassed and clipped.

The shaft dropped twelve feet, where a dim yellow bulb cast its feeble rays upon the foot of a passageway. As Captain America dropped to the ground, his massive shadow moved ominously across the densely packed earthen walls. They were six feet apart, but he couldn’t shake the claustrophobic feeling that they were too close. There was no sign of anyone in the tunnel.

The first guard dropped behind him, gun drawn. “Anybody down here?”

“Not in sight.”

“Mark is staying up above, just to backstop us.”

“Good idea.” He moved out a little further in the tunnel to make room as the second and third guards, gun each in hand, came down the ladder.

“All right,” Rogers said. “You’ll stay behind me, and not fire unless I say to. In these confined spaces, gunshots could be dangerous.”

The tunnel smelled dankly of dampness and earth, mingled with the stale odor of old cigarette smoke. The packed floor was rutted, and Rogers noted in passing that these tracks must have been created by the cart used to haul the stolen gold.

The tunnel extended forty yards of widely spaced yellow lights, and then suddenly opened out into a much larger tunnel. This passageway was ten yards wide, and twenty feet high. Old timbers shored up the roof, and Rogers poked at one with one finger. A piece gouged out, dry and crumbling.

“Odd,” he mused. “This certainly isn’t recent construction.”

They moved more cautiously now, edging along one wall of the tunnel, which was gradually curving to the right.

“Hold it,” Rogers whispered, raising his hand to halt the men behind him. Ahead was the lighted interior of the freight elevator and, off to one side, a more brightly lit passageway.

“Okay, men. This is it. We’ve reached the end of the line. If anyone is hanging around, he’ll be up that side tunnel. I want you to fan out along the sides of this tunnel and keep me covered. I’m going in.”

Holding his shield before him, crouching a little, Captain America ducked, then darted into the side tunnel.

Immediately, heavy gunshots boomed out, the explosions almost concussive in the confined space.

Captain America’s shield carried a white star, painted at its center, and surrounded by a blue field with concentric rings of red, white, and red. The effect was often hypnotic; despite the known effectiveness of the armored shield, his enemies often found themselves firing at it, as if at a target. It was a psychological effect that Rogers had counted on more than once—and it saved him now.

Holding as much of his body as possible behind the shield, he ran down the short tunnel toward his attacker.

He could see the man only in silhouette, his bulky body outlined by the doorway behind him, his gun raised, its muzzle-flashes bright punctuations. The shots were a sharp thunder on Rogers’ ears, their impact clanging heavily against his shield.

The man seemed suddenly to realize that his shots couldn’t stop Captain America’s onward rush, and he jerked backward into the room.

Then Rogers was through the door and, in one swift motion, throwing his shield.

It was like hurling an oversized discus. The shield sliced into the still-retreating heavy-set man, doubling him over to fall, clutching his stomach and retching, only semiconscious.

The guards burst into the room behind him, and Rogers motioned them to spread out along the walls, to approach the other two doors only with great caution.

But it didn’t matter.

No one else was there.

“It looks like you’ve cleaned out the rats’ nest, sir,” one of the guards reported, after climbing back down the long ladder from the cellar above. He’d left his companion stationed there. The third man was standing guard at the elevator.

“Only one man,” Rogers mused. “But that room in there looks like living quarters for half a dozen. Where are the rest?”

“They must operate at night, sir. They couldn’t risk getting into the vaults in daylight. Maybe they left only this man on guard.”

“Perhaps.”

The tall figure of Captain America moved purposefully to the fallen thug. The man was unshaven, and his eyes, when he eventually opened them, were weak and shifty.

He sat against the wall, his legs straight in front of him.

Rogers leaned over him.

“Okay, fella. It’s time for some talking.”

“I don’t know nuthin’,” the man grunted sullenly.

Rogers bent, and fixed his gauntleted fist in the man’s shirt. He rose smoothly to full height, pulling the heavier man with him. He shook the man twice, jerking his head back and forth.

“Let’s not be stubborn.”

“I—I…” The man’s eyes had glazed, and his mouth hung slackly. He was slumped, limp, in Rogers’ grasp.

But he had stolen a covert glimpse at the crude desk at the side of the room.

Rogers let the man fall, sprawling to the dirt floor. With two quick strides, he was at the desk.

There were papers on the desk, most of them covered with. penciled notations and computations. The figures were mostly in feet and yards; calculations apparently used in digging the tunnels.

Also lying on the plywood desk was an olive-drab handset, a lineman’s phone. Rogers’ eyes traced the leads from it to the wall, the ceiling, and the door he knew led upward. He picked the phone up, and held it to his ear.

The line was open. For a long moment he heard nothing. Then he caught it—the swallow rasp of a breath caught and held at the other end of the wire.

He listened, and waited. Suddenly a voice spoke.

“Who is this?”

Rogers chuckled. “Company.”

“Captain America?”

“Speaking. And you?”

“I’m sorry I missed you,” the voice said. “Had I known you were coming, I’d have arranged a reception committee.”

“You did the best you could, under the circumstances,” Rogers said. “Sorry we’ve had to clean you out.”

“Oh, don’t be. Just be sorry we’ll be cleaning you out.” The voice paused for emphasis. “Try this, for openers.”

A giant hand smashed through the wall and drove Captain America into oblivion.

Monday:
Chapter 7
Captain America is Dead!

Please Support Hero Histories

Visit Amazon and Buy...

Captain America

The Great Gold Steal

by Ted White

The long out-of-print first-ever Captain America novel!

CAPTAIN AMERICA: THE GREAT GOLD STEAL "Chapter 5: With The Avengers"

Chapter 5

With The Avengers

Time had not stood still while Steve Rogers slept his dreamless sleep. One war ended, and other, smaller ones began. The cause of freedom was not settled, and the lines that separated right from wrong were forever blurred on that day the Atomic Bomb took its first lives in Hiroshima.

The hemline went up, then down, and then began a climb which was not to stop even at the knee. Dresses ballooned, then tightened into slender sheaths. Women’s hair became boyishly short, then bouffantly teased, and then returned to the shoulder-length “natural” look, while men’s hair descended for the first time in a century. Cars got bigger and then smaller, while air travel shortened the distance between New York and London to six hours, and threatened to reduce it even more dramatically within the next decade. Big boxes that received radio programs grew into tiny miniatures, while little television screens swelled in size and exploded into color. Records increased their diameter from ten inches to twelve inches, and their playing time from six minutes to thirty-six.

For those who have lived through this era of fantastic growth and change—the “post war” era—it all seems quite dull and inevitable. Even space travel seems commonplace today, and the launchings rarely excite news as they did only a year or two ago.

But for Steve Rogers, this new, affluent, exciting America was a more foreign land than any he’d ever known He had hardly been prepared for the sight of the strangely costumed people who greeted him upon his awakening, but they were only a foretaste of what was to come.

These people, the Avengers, were a strange lot, by any era’s standards.

Take Iron Man, for instance. He was not truly a man of iron, but a man who wore a suit of flexible steel armor, full of transistorized microcircuits, powered by a miniature power-pack. His armor was an exoskeleton which not only provided protection from attack, but quadrupled his strength as well.

Then there was Giant Man, and his partner, the Wasp. He was a biochemist who had stumbled onto a chemical which would allow its user to compact his molecules and reduce his size—or, in reversing the process, expand to giant-size. He was not to have an easy time of his size-control, however, and he and the Wasp, who was his fiancée, had retired from the Avengers soon after.

The final member was by far the most impressive: Thor, God of Thunder. Rogers had found him least easy to understand or accept. Even after Thor had told him that the gods of legend were indeed superhumans who had once walked the face of the earth, and that he had returned when a mortal had found his hammer and enchanted him into his earthly personification, Steve remained torn between awe and skepticism and was relieved when Thor, too, became less active an Avenger.

But these Avengers had saved him, and accepted him into their midst, and for this he was grateful. For them he was himself a modern-day legend, and in a way he was indirectly responsible for them.

Captain America had been the first of the costumed crime-fighters now so familiarly known as “superheroes.” At the time, his uniform had been developed for patriotic and symbolic reasons, and for practical reasons as well. It was simple and effective, since the snug-fitting knitted cloth did not hamper freedom of movement, or offer folds to snag against rough edges, while the boots and gauntlets were tough enough to take the heavy wear demanded of them.

But Captain America’s appearance had set off a chain reaction and, in his wake, other men appeared, some to fight by the side of law and order, others to prey as criminals upon the unwary, each wearing a useful, functional costume, but using the costume chiefly for its psychological effect. When a man donned a mask and costume, he became a more fearful figure, for all his new anonymity.

There was a power in the unknown. People feared that which they could not understand.

The science of the fifties, like the fallout of the forties, helped develop more of these costumed superheroes. Some found their roles accidentally, others by design. Drawing upon the space-age technology of printed circuits and micro-miniaturization, such men as Iron Man were able to carve out whole new roles for themselves in the ever-increasing fight against crime within the nation, and foreign threats from without.

It was all enough to make Rogers feel way behind his time.

The Avengers had fished him out of a gulf stream in which his block of ice had melted, and aboard their ship. When they sailed into New York, it was a harbor and a city he had never seen before.

As they approached land, Rogers, his army fatigues long since in tatters and gone, wearing only his Captain America costume, and a heavy topcoat over it, marveled at the sights. Before them was a great bridge that stretched across the harbor, linking Staten Island with the southern tip of Brooklyn. It had yet to open, but its span was complete. It looked longer than the Golden Gate Bridge—and was.

An expressway paralleled their route along the Brooklyn shore and Steve stared, entranced, at the sleekly futuristic cars that sped along it.

Lower Manhattan, as they approached it, looked different too. The skyline was taller, and there were many buildings which looked like long slim boxes upended.

They moved slowly up the East River, passing under the Brooklyn, Manhattan, and Williamsburg bridges, passing close by the United Nations Building. In quiet tones, Iron Man explained the U.N., and its function since the end of World War II.

Then they had disembarked at a special pier, and were in a taxi, heading crosstown for a quiet town house on the Upper East Side.

Giant Man, now normal-sized, explained it to Steve: “You see, Cap, the house is owned by Tony Stark. He’s a wealthy inventor who’s been responsible for a lot of our top defense work. Iron Man works for him, and talked him into donating the place to us as a headquarters. It gives us a good central meeting place, and it’s just the place to put you up. Nobody else is living there now, except for Jarvis, the man who takes care of things. Unobtrusive; you’ll find him easy to get along with. He likes to pretend he’s a British-type butler. Don’t ever let him know I told you he’s from Flatbush.”

And all too quickly, Steve found himself ensconced within the Stark mansion, a permanent resident.

It was no lark, being an Avenger. If the going had been rough before, it was no easier now. He had stepped into a world infinitely more complicated, a world in which science and technology played an increasingly important role. Free moments Rogers spent in the main branch of the Public Library at Fifth Avenue and 42nd Street, just trying to bone up.

Then, while Steve was in the midst of an important case, Thor disappeared, saying only that he must attend a "Trial of the Gods", and Giant Man, Wasp, and Iron Man began to look longingly back on the days when their problems were only those of other ordinary people. They began auditions for new Avengers to replace them.* As the Wasp put it, “Why don’t all of us take a leave of absence? Everybody deserves a vacation sometime. I—I’d like to lead a normal life for a while; just like anybody else!”

When Rogers returned from his mission, he found himself the leader of a new outfit. Gone were Thor, Giant Man, Wasp, and Iron Man—the few friends he’d made in this new life. Instead he had under his command Hawkeye, an archer whose unusual arrows had the uncanny way of always hitting their mark, and a pair of young mutants, a brother and a sister, Pietro and Wanda, better known as Quicksilver and the Scarlet Witch. Their names were appropriate since, as Quicksilver, Pietro could move at speeds which made him only a blur, while Wanda’s scarlet witchery consisted of a strange hex power which manipulated the laws of chance in favor of those she sided with, and against their enemies.

The new Avengers had less individual power, and it seemed strange to some onlookers that the man with the least obvious superpowers, Captain America, should be their leader. Yet his experience was far greater and, as their leader, he melded them into a functioning team—an organized team that the old Avengers had never been.

The Avengers were often faced with challenging assignments in the months that followed, and those assignments shaped and tested them, building the confidence of each in his fellow teammates, and developing their maturity as Avengers.

But they didn’t spend all their time together. That would be impossible. Just now Wanda and Pietro were in their home country for a visit, while Hawkeye was pursuing a solo mission.

And Steve Rogers, Captain America, faced his newest problem alone.

Five minutes after midnight, a patrol car drove down Liberty Street. As it passed the entrance to Liberty Place, the policeman at the wheel gestured at the dark bulk of the Continental parked half on the sidewalk, and slowed his car.

“It’s been there since early evening,” he said. “Ticket it?”

“Might as well.”

The car stopped, reversed, and drew up at the neck of the narrow street. The patrolman in the passenger seat climbed wearily out, and walked without haste to the Continental.

As the man behind the wheel watched, the patrolman used a small pencil-flash on the car’s license plate, paused, then flashed it again. Then he pulled something else from his pocket and used the flash again. With a clearly visible shrug, he stuffed everything back in his pockets, and returned to the car.

“You didn’t ticket it?”

“Nahh. One of those licenses.”

“Oh. Oh, well.” The driver put the car in gear, and it rolled quietly away.

Twenty-five minutes after midnight, a heavy van rumbled down Liberty Street, and made a clumsy left turn into Liberty Place. It stopped halfway up the block, then backed around until it was blocking the street, its rear almost against a dingy warehouse door.

Had anyone familiar with the street and its few, failing businesses seen this, he would have been perplexed. That warehouse door had not been used in years. The first-floor windows of the building had been bricked up years ago. The stationery store next door had expanded into the building.

But the door rolled up soundlessly and, behind it, lit by dim yellow bulbs, was a cubicle, measuring eight feet across, and eight feet deep. Its walls were wood, fresh-looking, but already work-scarred.

Five men stood in the small room, although there were no other doors visible. One of the five was tall, thin, expensively dressed, and quite bald.

The other four were dressed in dirty coveralls and, now that the door was up, they moved quickly to open the back doors of the van, which opened into the room and cut off the last opportunity of visibility for anyone on the street. There was no one out on the street, of course. No one lived in these buildings.

A cart stood in the center of the small room. While the bald man stood in one corner, watching, the other men began unloading the cart, three of them passing its contents up to the truck bed, while the fourth, leaping up into the truck, positioned each load.

The cart wasn’t large and its load wasn’t large, not more than two cubic feet. The load looked basically like a load of bricks. But as each man in turn lifted a brick from the stack on the cart, muscles stood out on his arms, and his back strained.

Each man slid his brick into the wood-ridged truck bed, where the fourth man pulled it, slid it, to the front of the load-space, where the bricks were arranged side-by-side.

There were not that many bricks. Soon they were all loaded. The man in the truck released the plywood boards standing against the van sides, and they fell over the bricks. He aligned them, and finished driving in the nails. Now, to all casual eyes, the truck bed looked empty. A tarp, tossed loose into one corner, completed the illusion. The man jumped down from the truck, and one of the others helped him close and bolt the doors. He gave the closed doors a smart rap, and, in acknowledgement, the truck’s starter whined and the engine roared into life.

As the truck started way from the curb, the tall, bald man thumbed a heavy button, and the door began unwinding, sliding its jointed metal slats smoothly down into place. When the door was closed, and its motor silent, he thumbed a second button, and the room began to sink.

The five men waited in stoic silence as the open front of the elevator slid whining past old bricks, and then new concrete, until finally light began to show along its bottom edge, and it was facing an open passage.

The men in working clothes grabbed the cart and leaped off the elevator while it was still a foot from the floor of the passage, but the bald man remained stationary until it was halted. He glanced up. Overhead, invisible in the gloom of the shaft, he knew a second elevator had moved down to replace the first at ground level. It would not come lower, would only rise into the upper stories of the warehouse building. It was very unlikely that the lower shaft would ever be discovered.

The passageway ahead was an old tunnel, its air musty, and thick with dust. Half-rotten timbers provided the shoring, while a wire meandered along the roof, hanging from shiny nails, light bulbs sprouting off it at intervals like fruit on a vine.

The other men had disappeared ahead, but, instead of following them, the bald man turned into a side passage. This was narrower, wide enough only for two men abreast, and fresher-looking. He followed it into a room.

The room was of obviously recent construction. It was not large; perhaps ten-feet square. The floor was packed dirt, while the walls and ceiling were of plywood, braced by two-by-fours. There were two other doors and, through the open one, beds and another room could be seen. The air here was damp, and musty as it had been in the tunnel, but other odors also hung unmoving in the room: the smells of cooked food, human sweat, stale tobacco smoke, and other odors of men living in a confined area.

The man seated himself in a straight-backed chair before a crude desk made of packing-case wood and plywood. There was little on the desk—a few papers, an unfolded map, which he folded and set aside, and a telephone.

The telephone was a lineman’s phone; handset made of thick hard rubber, with a small dial on its back, wires leading from it ending in alligator clips.

The alligator clips had been attached to a heavy wire, and secured with friction tape. The wire ran up the wall and along the ceiling to the top of the closed door, where it disappeared around the corner.

When the thin, tall, bald man lifted the phone, a dial tone was buzzing steadily from the earpiece. He turned it over and, taking the piece that protruded from the miniature dial with careful fingers, he dialed a number.

There was a series of clicks, then the sound of a phone ringing at the other end of the line.

It rang four times, and then a voice answered. The voice was thin, colorless, and impossible to distinguish as to sex. It might have been a man; it might have been a woman.

“Yes?”

“Starling here.”

“Yes? How did it go?”

“Successfully. We got the first big load out. No difficulty.”

“I’ll be expecting to hear from Raven, then, shortly?”

“You should be. The truck shouldn’t take more’n half an hour.”

“Good. Very good.” The line went dead.

Starling set the handset down, and pushed the chair back, rising. Its legs caught in the rough dirt of the floor, and he had to reach to grab the chair and keep it from falling. He allowed his face to express momentary annoyance, and then smoothed his features blank once more.

He crossed the room to the closed door, opened it, stepped through, and closed it again. He was at the foot of a ladder. He followed it up past dim yellow light bulbs spaced almost too far apart, islands of light that didn’t quite touch, past raw earth and splintered rock, until at last he reached a landing.

He pushed a button next to the gap in the wall and, as a servo-motor began whining, the wall behind the gap swung back, and he was again in the litter-strewn cellar.

He moved up the stairs without haste, meticulously turning off the lights as he went, until he was out of the building and once more on the empty sidewalk.

The wind had grown chillier. He pulled his topcoat more snugly around him, and settled his Homburg on his bald pate. There was no traffic on the street. His footsteps made loud echoes. When he slammed his car door shut behind him, the heavy thunk bounced back and forth between the deserted buildings that lined the street.

At 1:05 a.m., the patrol car passed Liberty Place at Liberty Street. The driver glanced up the short block, and noticed it was empty. He made no comment to his companion.

* Check your files, frantic ones! It’s all in The Avengers #16, May, 1965.—Helpful Stan.

Tomorrow:

Chapter 6

Into the Vault

Please Support Hero Histories

Visit Amazon and Buy...

Captain America

The Great Gold Steal

by Ted White

The long out-of-print first Captain America novel!