The Great Heroes League Survey...Not a Quiz
Current mood: curious
Category: Quiz/Survey

To those of you who were following the story and read the whole thing this is just a brief survey...questionnaire...whatever to find out what you thought. Please give it some thought. And please be honest. It all helps.

Did you like the story?

If you did, what about it did you like?

If you didn't, what didn't you like?            

Would you buy it as a book?

Was it suitable for kids?

Giving a rating of 1- 10, 10 being the highest, How would you rate "The Great Heroes League"?

Who was your favourite character and why?

Would you like to see a sequel?

Would you, or have you recommended it to others?

Free Space (Whatever else you would like to add)

Thanks for your help,

Mike

1:21 PM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

The Great Heroes League Chapter 15 and Epilogue
Current mood: accomplished
Category: Writing and Poetry

American Agent charged at Ned Allan, but was grabbed by Whitey before he could reach his target.  Still he lashed out with a kick that narrowly missed the enemy agent's nether regions.  The boy hissed, "You rat!  I'll get even with you. You son of a…"

     "That's no way to speak in front your mother," Allan smirked, and swatted American Agent across the face with a resounding slap.
I struggled to no avail with the faceless drone who had my arms pinned to my sides.  I heard Mrs. Levitt scream her son's name, and then the sounds of her being silenced.

     The hatred burning in American Agent's eyes was visible even through the goggles.  A small trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth; he tongued it, then spit in Ned Allan's face.

     "The game is now over, little boy," Allan sneered as he wiped the reddish saliva from his cheek.  "Put them with the others, then secure the area and prepare to vacate."  With that he walked away, tossing aside the Orphan Annie mug as if it were a paper cup.  It shattered on the floor.

     The two of us were dragged over to the area between the sofas and the televisions, kicking and struggling all the way.  But in the end, they were too strong for us.  We were bound together, and I could feel American Agent's muscles tense as though he was trying to break the ropes that had been coiled around us.  We were unceremoniously dumped on the floor.

     Tiger Girl and Mrs. Levitt were bound together in a similar manner and stuck on the couch between the gagged Ezra Stoneman and the unconscious Professor Ashwood.  Mrs. Levitt was also senseless, having been struck by her captors when she screamed for her son.

     When you're ten years old and wearing a mask even though it's not Halloween, and you're tied up back to back with your best friend in a hidden room where a bomb is going to explode, taking with it you and your friends as well as one of the most famous landmarks in New York City, you are bound to ask yourself, "How did I get here?"



    As I said, I know I did.

     The enemy activity increased in intensity.  Files were removed from drawers and stuffed in briefcases, along with bond certificates and cash.  Supplemental explosive devices were wired to the main weapon.  It was a clear example of overkill if there ever was one.  Once their tasks were completed, Allan's men gathered near the hidden entrance, awaiting their cue to exit.

     And just as the Nefarious Ned Allan was putting on his overcoat and making his way to the device on the card table, it began…

     "Stop right where you are Mr. Allan!" An Impossibly Deep Voice said, "This is the FBI."

     And as they all looked up in search of the source of the voice, American Agent relaxed, giving the ropes that bound us enough slack so that he was able to wriggle off his right glove and open the pen knife he had been concealing in his palm. He had to work fast.
Ned Allan drew a .45 automatic from his coat pocket and scanned the upper balcony for the source of the invisible challenger.

     "Drop your weapons or we'll shoot!" the voice commanded.

     Agent worked feverishly at the rope, sensing the bluff was about to be called.  Finally the cord gave way, and we quickly and quietly untangled ourselves and crawled to the sofa.

      "I'm sorry, but we're not about to drop anything," Allan said calmly.
I worked on the rope around Ezra Stoneman's ankles, while American Agent freed Tiger Girl and his mom, who was still unconscious.

     "We have you surrounded!" The Voice responded.

     Tiger Girl tried to revive her father, with no success.  The same thing happened with American Agent and his mom.  I hit a roadblock too: Stoneman's hands were not secured by rope, but by handcuffs.
"Hey Houdini," I whispered to American Agent, "Have you got a lock pick?"

     He reached into his belt, pulled out a piece of metal and tossed it to me.  It was, in fact, a handcuff master key.

     "Where'd you get this?"

     "A hero is always prepared," he said, as he gently eased Mrs. Levitt onto the floor in front of the sofa, out of the line of fire.

     Meanwhile the standoff between Allan and the "FBI" was coming to a head.

     "I see. You have us surrounded.  Normally that would be a deciding factor, however in this case we have hostages we will be more than happy to shoot, and an atomic weapon. Your move, I believe."  Allan grinned.  He seemed to be enjoying this.

     "In that case you leave us no choice," the Impossibly Deep Voice intoned, "Get ready, men…"

      Unfortunately I picked that moment to pull the tape off of Ezra Stoneman's mouth, not realizing that the adhesive of said tape had melded with areas of Ezra Stoneman's beard.  He let out a yowl similar to the Hound of the Baskervilles, or at least close to what I had imagined when I read the book. 

     And every pair of bad guy eyes in the room was suddenly turned in our direction, along with the barrels of their guns.

     …but they couldn't really see us.  We were now on the floor and the sofas blocked their view.  When they moved in for a better look, another sound pierced the air.

     It was the sound of a howler, reverberating through room.  And then all hell broke loose.

     First the lights went out.  This caused a rumble from Allan's men, now shuffling uneasily.  Still, the room wasn't completely dark.  There was a weird blue glow emanating from the televisions, and a smaller greenish one from the device on the card table.

     One of Allan's men flicked a Zippo, and then screamed in a comically girly fashion and cried, "My eyes!!" and the flame went out.

     "What happened, Eddie?"

     "I dunno! Ow! I used my lighter to see better, then something blue flashed in front of me and sprayed something in my eyes!  It stings!"  Eddie moaned.

     "Oof!" came from another part of the huddled group, then "Something hit me…down there" and a squeal, followed by a thud.
In the meantime, Stoneman, American Agent, Tiger Girl and I crept stealthily toward the upper level staircase, careful to avoid the light from the TV, which would have been a good move, but…

     A switch clicked and suddenly the room was flooded with daylight, streaming in from outside. It was as if the entire right wall was opening up, revealing the cityscape beyond

     "Dammit," Stoneman hissed, "He found the blind switch."

     The timing could have been better.  The Blue Wasp and Stinger were attempting to set up one Allan's boys for the double team maneuver they had pulled on Steve the Sneeze and Wubby in the playground.  African Ghost was frozen on the staircase that led to the upper balcony, and the rest of us were stuck at the base of the same stairs.
Allan stalked towards us, gun in hand, his face red with rage. "I hate children!" he snarled.

     "Then you're really not going to like this," African Ghost replied.  He raised the howler in his hand and gave it two short blasts.

     The Entrance opened.  But instead of Allan's agents making their exit, a motley crew of kids in masks and fedoras charged in.

     The Flannery Mob had arrived.

     Sometimes it pays to prepare.  As I said, the previous night was sleepless.  The time was spent in coming up with a plan.

     We all went home and made a big show of going to bed, then we all used our own individual methods to sneak right back out again, except for Brian, who had no reason to.  We met back at his apartment.

     At first we sat around the Levitt kitchen table tossing ideas back and forth.  Brian gave us the code key to the Secret City that Ezra Stoneman had passed on to him in their whispered conversations in the tunnels. 

     The passageways were usually in storerooms in the basement of smaller buildings, but in the case of skyscrapers there were several ways to gain access. For example, a stairway with the requisite geometric symbols at belt level would have a secret panel in the wall behind the door, and the symbols were infrequent and small enough to escape attention.  A triangle would tell you that you were entering a tunnel and the size of that triangle would tell you whether it was a stand up or a crawler.  A circle meant you'd find a stairway, a square meant it would be a room. If the building had an address ending in an odd number, it meant the entrances were on the even floors, and vice versa.  There were other symbols and clues, but these were the basics.
"Mr. Stoneman said that if he was taken, it meant that the Empire State building was the likely target."

     Apparently the Communist Counselor had sent his men sniffing around for the original plans sometime earlier, but all they had ever found were the "official" blueprints that anyone could see.  Brian didn't say how Allan had found out about the Secret City, so it was possible that Stoneman didn't know.  This, in combination with the brochure we'd found at the lab, meant that Stoneman's hunch was on target.

     As the discussion continued, a plan gradually began to form, but it kept hitting a snag.  Josh kept raising the point that we were flying blind until we knew how many people we were dealing with.  Michael countered that it didn't matter how many people there were because our own numbers weren't going to increase.

     "Why not?" Josh asked.

     "Because the only good guys we have are in this room," Michael answered.

    "Then why don't we get some more?"
 
     "Where are we gonna find them?" Butch countered.

     "I have an idea," Brian said, quietly.

     So at 10:00 pm we found ourselves outside Knickerson's pool hall once again.  A dense cloud of smoke billowed out when we opened the door, and inside it was like walking through a fog bank.

     Unlike the day before, the place was crowded with adults.  But there were some borderline teenagers gathered around the pinball table in the corner.  It turned out to be some of the Mob yukking it up.  Brian singled out Gabey Wurtz, he of the missing nostril.

     "Where's Flannery?" Brian asked in that tone he got sometimes.  It was a tone that said, 'I don't have time for smart remarks or crap, so tell me what I want to know or I'll hurt you.' It was amazing how intimidating he could be, considering his size and age.

     Despite this, Wurtz couldn't resist asking, "You mean Snowflake?" He began honking uncontrollably.

     Brian was not amused, and Josh literally growled.

     Gabey coughed to stop himself, then said, "He's out back in the alley."

     Sure enough, there Bobby Flannery was, smoking a butt between the folds of a scarf wrapped around his head, looking not unlike Claude Rains in "The Invisible Man."  He was even wearing sunglasses in the dead of night.

     "Hiya Bobby," Brian said.

     A muffled "Shuddup" emanated from the cloth.

     "He said Shut up," Michael,now fluent in mask speak, offered helpfully.
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  "I heard him," Brian said, "but I'm afraid I can't do that, Bobby.  I need your help."

     The covered head turned in Brian's direction and the sunglasses stared at him for a long moment.  A gloved hand drifted up to the mouth area of the scarf and pulled the cloth away for better communication. "You need me to help you?" Flannery asked.

     Brian nodded.

     He pulled away the scarf and took off the glasses. "But I'm not white," Bobby said pathetically.

     "Neither is he." Brian indicated Josh.

     "I don't know," Bobby said in a low voice.

     Whatever troubles we had been through in the last twenty-four hours seemed to pale in comparison to what had likely been happening to Bobby Flannery.  The bully of yesterday was now a shadow of his former self, no pun intended.

      "I just thought you might want to be one of the good guys for a change.  But I guess I was wrong."  Brian turned to leave.

     "Hold on a second."  Bobby butted out the cigarette. "What do you want?"

     The next hour was spent rounding up the rest of the Mob.  Gabey Wurtz, as mentioned, was in the pool hall with Flatch Fletcher (a pairing that made perfect sense if you thought about it).  Wubby Wendell had snuck into the Loew's to see "Untamed Women."  Steve the Sneeze was actually at home, sleeping with Vapo-Rub on his chest, and still smelled of it when he crawled off the fire escape.  Grunt simply appeared on 22nd Street, as we made our way back to the Sanctum.

     Izzy Himmelman spotted us through his telescope from the roof of his brownstone where he was mapping constellations, and promptly went to bed.  Such an unholy alliance surely meant the end of the world, no matter what the stars said.

     We tried to speak in hushed tones in the basement, so we would not wake my parents.  We laid out the situation. None of the Mob questioned it.  Even if they didn't believe us they seemed to give us the benefit of the doubt.

     In point of fact, and in light of recent events, it was pretty easy to convince the Flannery Mob that they needed a change of image.  Bobby himself was still convinced that the devil had marked him for his insincerity, so he was easy.  Then the mask debate started.

    "Do we get to wear masks?" Wubby Wendell asked.

     "If you want to, but that's not the important thing at the moment…"
Then, of course, came the inevitable discussion.

     "I dibs the Masked Marvel," Wubby called out.

     "The wrestler?" The Sneeze asked.

     "Not the Wrestler, Doofus! The guy in the movie," Wubby clarified.

     "I wanna be Gorgeous George," Flatch pronounced.

     "We ain't doing wrestling! We're bein' heroes," Bobby corrected him.

     "But I like Gorgeous George," Flatch moaned.

     Brian tried to interrupt a couple of times, then gave up.  From experience he knew it was better to let these things run their course.
I was leaning against a wall beside where Grunt had parked himself, when a miracle happened.  He actually spoke.  And what he spoke were actual words.  Two of them.

     "The Heap."

     And that was all, but I understood what he was saying. Grunt was going to become Airboy's green mossy silent second feature known only as the Heap, if nowhere else but in his mind.  Considering his bulk and verbal reticence it was an absolutely perfect choice (far more suitable than big Wubby Wendell as the sleek Masked Marvel), apart from the fact that he wasn't green or mossy. Besides, his natural aroma took care of that. I was beginning to like the big lump. And, once again, Grunt had proved to be more intelligent than his comrades.
 
     In the end, and after consulting Brian's comic collection, Bobby decided to be Midnight.  Wubby stuck with the Masked Marvel.  Steve the Sneeze chose the Black Commando, which led to Flatch's observation that Bobby should have taken that one and to Bobby Flannery thumping Flatch and causing a release of gas the like of which probably hadn't been smelled since World War One.  When it cleared, Flatch picked the Spirit, and the Sneeze decided that Black Commando was too complicated to put together in such short order and changed to the Spider. 

     This was all fine, except that the costume for each of those characters consisted of an eye mask and a fedora, giving them a nice uniformity of look, but making it difficult to tell them apart.  This included Gabey Wurtz who had actually chosen to be the Lone Ranger but couldn't find a cowboy hat.  Come to think of it I never did ask where they got all those fedoras on such short notice, and I'm still not sure I want to know.

      Having settled the clothing argument, the discussion turned to a battle plan.  In this Bobby favored the "run in and kick the snot of them" strategy which had been so successful for him and the Mob in the past.

     When Brian pointed out that running in and kicking the snot out of people who had an atomic bomb might not be prudent, or words to that effect, Bobby was silenced for a time.

     Yet in the end, ironically, that's exactly the function that Bobby Flannery's Masked Men ended up serving.  If Allan didn't buy into the FBI trick, the only strategy we had left was something we figured he wouldn't be expecting, and that was an all-out frontal assault.  So essentially the Flannery Mob's part in the plan was to run in and attempt to kick the snot out of Ned Allan and his men.  The signal that we were going to need them was given when American Agent said the word "Extras."

     But it wasn't going to be easy.  The Masked Marvel drove his head into the solar plexus of one of Allan's men, in an imitation of the move I had used on him on the playground of PS 11.  I was sincerely flattered.

     Their foe now distracted, The Blue Wasp and Stinger proceeded with their patented takedown maneuver to its usual successful conclusion. Stinger added a little dance atop the fallen felon as insult after injury.

     The Lone Ranger and The Spirit (Gabey Wurtz and Steve the Sneeze or, as I came to call them, "The Nose Boys" –- but never out loud) also made an impressive team.  They did a neat hand-boosted alleyoop that resulted in The Spirit being wrapped around the top of a big bruiser of a bad guy, and the two of them hitting the floor like a felled redwood.

     African Ghost vaulted over the stair rail, ending up right behind American Agent, who was headed for Ned Allan, who in turn was watching his best-laid plans going aglay, his men pummeled by a bunch of grade school kids in masks.  By the time he noticed the coming onslaught, Agent had swept Allan's feet out from under him and the Ghost had kicked the gun away.

     Tiger Girl had gone back and managed to revive both her father and Brian's mother and was now edging them over to the staircase.  The plan was to get them up to the second level and out the passageway from which African Ghost and the others had entered. It ran into a snag when she came face to face with Lips who was blocking her way. Tiger Girl cursed under her breath then took a couple of steps back and launched into a spectacular floor exercise. She did front flips into a double somersault landing on Lips head and driving it to the floor then punched him in the mouth for a finale.

     The parents stood gape mouthed until Pamela waved them on. By this time Ezra Stoneman had disappeared and I had know idea where.

      And what was I doing?  I had made it over to the card table and was staring at a mechanism of doom, that's all.

     I examined the connections between the switches.  One went to what appeared to be the power source.  I figured that the second one armed the detonator.  The third went to a timer trigger.  I was basically looking for a way to nullify it without setting it off.  I was looking for an out.  And it occurred to me that the proper person to help me was currently exiting on the upper level. All around me the battle raged. 



    We had momentum, but they had size, strength and…

    "For God's sake you imbeciles, pull your guns!" Allan yelled as he fiercely shoved African Ghost into a bookcase, then turned his rage on American Agent, who had fallen to the floor a few feet away.

     I was running out of time.  What would the Diamondback do?  I tried to scratch my head through the mask and speared my index finger with an aluminum wire.

     Meanwhile Allan was charging full speed at the star-spangled kid.  As he dove toward him, American Agent waited for the right split-second, then rolled up on his back from his butt to his shoulders, planted both feet into Ned Allan's crotch as he sailed over him.  Allan landed in a crumpled heap on the floor beyond his target, gasping for air.

     Speaking of the Heap, ours was happily bouncing atop one of the fallen foes.  I thought I heard him muttering "Heap, Heap, Heap!"  He seemed to have found his purpose.

     Then the gun went off.  The gun was in the hand of Lips, who was looking harried and disheveled.

      The shot had the expected result.  Everybody froze where they were, then Whitey pulled a revolver from his coat pocket.  The rest of Allan's men, animated by a newly gained confidence, began shoving our team around; grouping us in front of the long window that had ruined our first attack.  Allan himself took pleasure in yanking me away from the bomb and pushing me in with the rest of the gang. Along the way he seemed to be scanning the floor for something he had lost, then seemed to dismiss it as he returned to his fiendish device.

     Whitey dragged The Blue Wasp and Stinger by their collars and literally threw them into the rest of us.  He then took the Wasp's modified squirt gun from his pocket and crushed it beneath his heel.  Joining Lips, Whitey borrowed a handkerchief and used it to wipe his eyes.

     "What the heck have you been spraying at those guys?" I whispered to the Blue Wasp.

     He lifted his mask, thus clearing his mouth to speak. "I was gonna use dish soap but I forgot to load it before we left, so I had Stinger pee in it.  He had to go anyway."

     Despite the situation, I had trouble suppressing a giggle, and Stinger didn't even bother -- he started laughing out loud.  Some of the bad guys turned and glared at the group of us, but Stinger continued to laugh.

     I guess it must have been infectious, because African Ghost start chuckling, and was joined by Blue Wasp's mask-muffled laugh.  The sound of that got me going, and I was joined by the Spider (Steve the Sneeze) who began honking, and that was enough to start the rest of the Flannery mob, including The Lone Ranger (Gabey Wurtz), whose laugh was a high pitched squeak through his single nostril.  That sound finally made American Agent join in.

     The laughter seemed to confuse Allan's men.  In their minds, we should have been quaking in terror, or wetting our pants, but some of us were falling on the floor in tears of joy, not fear.  It could have been group hysteria, but speaking for myself, I just really thought it was funny.   And of course the expressions on the bad guys' faces, and the fact that some of them were checking their flies, just added to the hilarity.

     Ned Allan was not laughing, however, and once he had dusted himself off he went over to the device.
 
     I gritted my teeth.
 
     Allan clicked the power switch on
.
     Things got very quiet very quickly, except for the hum of the bomb.  Quiet enough so that the "whump" against the window at our backs got everyone's attention.

     A figure dressed all in black and holding a rope was flat against the window.  He placed his expensive shoes on the glass and pushed off, clearly intending to smash through the glass, but only ended up making a slightly quieter "whump" sound when he hit the second time.

    At that point, the stranger, who appeared to be wearing a custom set of holsters strapped around his waist, with a .45 snuggled in each, reared back for one more attempt.  He pulled his knees back to his ears while at the extreme arc of the swing and kicked hard when he made contact.
 
     This time the sheet of glass hit the floor as a unit, where it exploded into a million shards, still flying when the stranger landed awkwardly inside the room and seemed to be trying to cover his head.

     During all of this nobody moved.  It was as though we were hypnotized by the action.

     "Isn't that the Night Avenger?" African Ghost asked in a hushed tone, during the second attempt.

      "He certainly dresses like him," I replied.  And he did.  Another member of the Fedora Wearing Heroes Society, the Night Avenger also wore a hood, which covered his entire face, with dark glass where the eyes should be, and a small opening where only his chin and lower lip were visible.  The rest of the ensemble was inky black and included a floor length cape, gloves and the aforementioned twin .45 rig. The guns belonging to the holsters were now in the Night Avenger's gloved hands.



     I heard Midnight's voice mutter "Cool!"

     "Drop your weapons or face the Harsh Justice of the Night Avenger!" The hooded figure cried.

     "Oh my God," American Agent said under his breath, "It's Danton Freed."

     But he didn't have to tell me.  The booming voice was a dead giveaway. It was almost like being in a real radio show.

     Almost.

     Unlike his radio counterpart, this Night Avenger seemed ill at ease and confused instead of cold and frightening.  For instance, as he moved toward the interior of the room, he nearly tripped over his cape a number of times, and he seemed to be having a hard time seeing through the hood.

     "It must be a full moon," Ned Allan muttered, shaking his head in dismay.

     "Move away from the bomb!" The Night Avenger ordered.

     "And what if I don't?  What are you going to do, Danton?  What are you going to do then?  Shoot me?" Allan taunted. It was like being on the playground of PS 11, only the consequences were a lot more deadly than Izzy Himmelman's recess snack being stolen.

     "I might," The Night Avenger replied without much conviction.

     "You always were a lousy actor, Freed" Allan snorted.

     "Well if he doesn't shoot you, I will!" a voice called from the upper level.  It was Ezra Stoneman, and he was holding a Thompson Submachine gun.  Tiger Girl appeared from behind him and began coming down the stairs to join us.

     I think that was when I started breathing again.

     "Now if the gentlemen in the trench coats will place their weapons on the floor, the members of the Great Heroes League will gather them up," Stoneman strongly suggested.

      They did and we did, although The Blue Wasp wouldn't let Stinger near a weapon, much to the latter's chagrin. African Ghost took the guns to the far end of the room and placed them in a wastebasket
.
     "And now gentlemen, if you will kindly exit the way you came in, my security team is waiting for you on the other side."  Stoneman gestured with the gun toward the passageway where American Agent and I had entered.

     Agent crossed over to Midnight, suggesting, "Why don't you and your masked men make sure that these guys get where they're going."
"Anything you say, Chief!" Midnight replied, and went off to motivate his troops.  American Agent tried to stifle a grin and lost.

     Midnight's Masked Men proudly escorted Ned Allan's Communist horde out of the secret door.  Now they were no longer playground thugs. They were heroes.

     In the meantime The Night Avenger took the opportunity to cross over to Ned Allan. "I happen to be a great actor, you Bolsheviik Bastard!" he said, and clouted the sinister solicitor on the head with the butt of his pistol.  Allan landed unceremoniously on his rear end.
 
     Unfortunately the impact on Allan's skull was insufficient to render him unconscious, but it was enough to jar the gun from the Night Avenger's gloved hand and onto the floor within Ned Allan's reach.
At that moment Tiger Girl was crossing from the stairway towards our group.  In one fluid motion, Allan grabbed the weapon from the floor, jumped up and elbowed the Night Avenger in the jaw, then grabbed Tiger Girl around the waist.

     "Put the girl down, Allan!" Stoneman shouted from his perch.

     "Not until I finish my mission, Ezra," Allan growled. He swung Tiger Girl around and, using her as a shield made his way back to the card table.  Then he used the barrel of the gun to flip the remaining switches on the atomic device.

     "I wouldn't attempt to tamper with this little gizmo or the timer will automatically roll to zero, and the bomb will go off immediately.  As it stands now you have 15 minutes.  It might be a good idea to try to get as far away from here as possible," Allan smirked.  "See you in the next world, gentlemen, I have a ride to catch."

     With that he ran for the passageway, still carrying Tiger Girl, who struggled all the while to no avail. "Why am I always the hostage?" She complained.

     Suddenly the Night Avenger charged towards Allan, in an effort to stop him.

     Ned Allan fired, and the radio hero jerked backward and fell.

     We rushed to the Night Avenger's side, and Allan slid through the opening.  I helped American Agent turn him over.  The wound was just below his left shoulder, and was producing a lot of blood.  American Agent grabbed the Avenger's cape and pressed it tightly against the injury.  I removed his hat and mask.  Danton Freed was pale, sweating, and gasping for air.

     "I guess I am a lousy actor," he chuckled, and winced from the resulting pain.

     Ezra Stoneman had come down from the balcony, and knelt beside his friend.  "Shut up you ham, help will be here shortly."

     American Agent looked up at his team.  "Ghost, take Wasp and Stinger and follow Allan.  Take a transceiver and tell Diamondback when you find him.  We'll follow when help comes."

     The three of them stood frozen, staring at the scene, until Stinger nodded and said, "Come on guys, let's find that creep." African Ghost grabbed the transceiver from the desk where Allan had tossed it and I picked up another that had fallen nearby during the initial struggle.  After a quick test, they were off.

     "We should evacuate the building, but I don't think there's enough time…" Stoneman got to his feet and began to run for the passage.

     "Why?" I asked.

     "The bomb!" he called over his shoulder.

     "Oh, that!" I said, "Don't worry about that."  I walked over to the wall socket where the infernal machine was plugged in and reached for the wire.

     "No!" Stoneman, American Agent, and Danton Freed all screamed.

     "Why not?" I asked, and pulled the plug.

     All of them covered their heads.

     Nothing happened.

     The three seemed to be genuinely perplexed that they hadn't been reduced to atoms, so I explained.  "When I was looking at it earlier I noticed that it was on a timer trigger, so I just bypassed the clock with a loose wire from my mask."

     "But couldn't the spark from the wire have set the device off?" Danton Freed asked.

     I frowned. "I didn't think that was likely to happen from the way the casing was designed but, if it had, it would have happened when he threw the first switch, and when it didn't I knew we were okay."

     American Agent looked at Ezra Stoneman, who in turn looked at Danton Freed, who suddenly looked much better. They were smiling and shaking their collective heads. Frankly I didn't see what was so amazing.

     African Ghost's voice came over the headset. "He's in the lobby, headed for the elevator to the observation deck. We're going to try to get on with him. But if not this one then the next one."

     "Careful," I said, "we don't need three more hostages," then turned to American Agent. "He's headed for the observation deck."

     "We have to get down to the elevator," he replied.

     "Let the security people handle it," Stoneman said.  He was mopping Freed's brow with his sweatshirt.

     "He's got one of my team," American Agent said, and shot Stoneman one of his patented piercing stares, for emphasis. "And why didn't you shoot him when you had a chance?"

     Stoneman paused briefly then said, "It isn't actually a real machine gun. It only shoots ping-pong balls. Silly games. However, There is a faster way to the 86th floor."

     "Show me?" American Agent requested.

     After getting Danton Freed's assurance that he would be fine on his own, Ezra Stoneman gently lowered his friend's head and led us up the staircase to the balcony level. There he twisted a wall sconce counterclockwise, which caused a four-foot section of the wall to slide away.

     We stepped through the opening into what looked like another darkened tunnel.  Only this one ran vertically and seemed to go up forever.  Hanging over the platform from thin steel cables was a leather harness.  The cables themselves seemed to disappear up into the darkness.

     "Strap in," Stoneman told American Agent.

     The harness, which had to be lowered for the Agent, was a complex affair that went around his waist and between his thighs.  It had two large buttons at the belt line, one blue and one green.  Once he'd made sure his cape was hanging out the back, American Agent nodded to the grungy billionaire.

     "Whenever you're ready, hit the blue button.  Once you reach the top, hit the green button to send it back down here," Stoneman instructed, then simply added, "Good Luck."

     American Agent turned toward me and held up his right thumb, then turned and faced forward.  After taking a breath, he looked straight up and hit the blue button.

      Then American Agent took flight.

     He quickly zoomed up.  His cape flapped, he stuck his arms straight up, pointed his toes, and just as he vanished into the darkness, I heard him call, "Up, up, and away!" It was beautiful.

     Three minutes later it was my turn, and I was scared pink.  It looked so easy when the star-spangled spy did it, but he had the cape and the aviator goggles.  I was stuck with my mask and the conviction that if God had wanted Diamondbacks to fly he would have given them wings instead of rattles.  I was thinking this all the while Ezra Stoneman was helping me get set up.  Still he saw the anxiety in my eyes behind the mask.

     "You don't have to do this," he said.

     I shook my head. "You go back and help your friend. I'm going to help mine."

     He nodded and gave me the thumbs up signal, which I returned, trying to look more courageous than I felt.

     I pressed the blue button and suddenly the floor disappeared beneath my feet as the harness pulled me up.  As I accelerated up through the shaft, I felt a rush of fear, excitement, and joy all at the same time, like a warm fire in my normally uneasy stomach.  The air flowing past my face gave the illusion of wind.  I was exhilarated… and soon this feeling found vocal expression, although I wasn't quite as eloquent as American Agent was.

     "Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeehaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaawww!" is what I believe I said, but don't quote me.



     The ride slowed as I neared the top, and I could see another platform up ahead.  I stepped onto it and unfastened the harness.

     The space was about the size of a small shed, with the mechanism for the flying harness overhead at a tallish adult level.  I scanned the surrounding walls for the code key but could see nothing like any of the ordinary markers. Finally I backed into a wall at my left, and suddenly found myself outside, on the 86th floor observation deck.

     The sun was blinding after the darkness of the flying shaft, so it took me a moment to get my bearings.  Even when I could see, it was still new territory.  Like many native New Yorkers, I had dismissed a lot of the gifts of the city as being for tourists.  Consequently I had never been on the observation deck of the Empire State Building before.
The first thing I noticed was the view, beyond high hooked guardrails surrounding the deck.  The early morning overcast had given way to a blue sky and puffy white clouds that seemed to stretch on forever.  The cityscape below was something I could have stared at for hours if I hadn't had teammates in trouble.  

     Even though there was a wind and it was pretty chilly despite the sunshine, the place was crowded with people, most of whom were probably tourists.  As I tried to move I bumped into a large woman posing for a picture being taken by her even larger husband.  They cursed at me in German, and I cursed back in Yiddish.  They must have understood, because the woman put her hand over her mouth, and the man sputtered in righteous indignation.  I didn't wait for their reply.

      I made my way through the crowd looking for signs of Allan and Tiger Girl, American Agent or any the rest of the team, and scanning the skies for Allan's plane.  I looked at my watch, but Mickey had stopped gesturing a couple of hours earlier because I had forgotten to wind him the night before.  I estimated that there were maybe ten minutes left before Allan said the building would explode, give or take five or so.  I was always lousy at estimating.

     So I watched the skies, and it was while I was doing so that I crashed into The Blue Wasp and Stinger rounding a corner.  They appeared to be doing the same thing.

     "Watch where the heck you're go…Oh, sorry. DB…" Stinger picked himself up using his brother as a ladder.

    "See anything?"  I asked the Blue Wasp, but Stinger answered.
"We missed the first elevator, but African Ghost made it.  Now we can't find anybody."

     "Fnat hennogotter gebbin ful clove," The Wasp said, pointing over my shoulder. I turned quickly.

     He was right, the helicopter approaching from the north was getting awfully close.  In fact I was willing to bet that it was the closest that a flying machine had been to the Empire State Building since the B25 that had crashed into it in 1945.  Apparently Allan was going to get his lift right here and hadn't thought discretion would be very important at this stage of the operation.  I also noticed that there was only room for one or two more people other than the pilot, so it seemed most of his men were intended to be sacrificial lambs.
The chopper descended to just above the top of the radio tower and began making a slowly tightening circle around it.

     It was so close that it had managed to stop the milling crowds on the deck, who were now staring up at it in unison.

     But I wasn't looking at the helicopter anymore.  I was looking at the figures at the base of the radio tower.  They were Tiger Girl and Ned Allan.  How they got up there I didn't know, but he appeared to be trying to signal the copter, despite violent opposition.

     The feline female was still struggling with her captor, managing to land a few painful kicks here and there, but the rogue counsel held fast.

     I looked everywhere for American Agent, but the boy in red, white and blue wasn't in view.

      Meanwhile a rope ladder was lowering from the passenger side of the copter.  Some of the tourists, including the fat German and his Frau, began snapping pictures.

     At the same time, higher up on the tower, African Ghost appeared to be struggling with the wind and whatever he had in his hands.
The Blue Wasp, Stinger, and I were frantically looking for a way up.

      And then it happened.

     Allan had managed to grab the ladder with his free hand and hook his foot into the bottom rung, without releasing his iron grip on Tiger Girl, and then he stepped off of the tower.

     Just then a familiar voice called out, "Tiger Girl! Flip!"

     Without pausing to think about it, Tiger Girl sharply brought her head back, hitting Ned Allan in the jaw with a nasty crack, then flipped forward out of his grasp and into the empty air.

     At the same time American Agent, like the hero he was always meant to be, came swooping in from the opposite side of the tower, via a power cable wrapped around his waist that African Ghost had tied off on a higher level.

     Still, it was going to be close…

     Blue Wasp couldn't look, but Stinger and I were transfixed.  The crowd around us stared skyward in open mouthed silence.

     And just before the last possible second, American Agent whipped off his left-hand gauntlet and grabbed Tiger Girl by the ankle, above her boot, and swung them back to the tower base.  It wasn't a pretty rescue but, to give him credit, it was his first time.



    Still, the crowd around us cheered.

     We were pretty pleased too.  In fact Stinger and I jumped all over each other, whooping and hollering.  Then he started pummeling his brother, yelling, "You missed it, you big chicken!"

     Ned Allan wasn't so lucky.  He was still wrestling with unconsciousness, and when the chopper did a major dip, coupled with a sudden lurch, he lost his grip.

     He fell.

     Fortunately for him, depending on your perspective, the dip the helicopter made was significant enough so that he only ended up falling about twenty feet, onto the 86th floor observation deck.  It was enough knock the wind out of him but, since he didn't land on his head, little else. In fact, the jolt seemed to wake him up.

     He looked up at the staring crowd as he lay on the ground, confused but vaguely aware that there was something else awry other than his position.  Then he thought to look at his watch, and panic set in.

     "The Bomb! The Bomb is going to go off!!" he cried, scrambling to his feet.  There were a few startled gasps, and a couple of people began to run for the doors to the elevator, but for the most part people stared at him in curiosity.

     "You don't understand! An atomic bomb is going to blow up this building any second!! I've got to get out of here!!"

     "I beg your pardon, Mr. Allan.  What seems to be the problem?"
The voice belonged to Ezra Stoneman.  Several men in blue security uniforms flanked him.

     "You know what the problem is, Stoneman!!  There's an Atomic Bomb in the secret inner Empire State Building that's about to explode!"

     "Secret Inner Empire State Building?  I don't think I know what you're talking about," Stoneman said, with a face Buster Keaton would have envied.

     "You know!  You Know!  You're in it with The Night Avenger and those costumed midgets!! You know!!"

     When he had mentioned the Inner Empire State Building there were a few scattered chuckles, here and there among the crowd.  But when the words "costumed midgets" left his mouth, Ned Allan got more laughs than Uncle Miltie did on a Tuesday night.

     "I'm afraid all that work with the Committee has caused Mr. Allan to have a nervous breakdown.  Why, he even mistook me for a Communist Agent.  Gentlemen, please escort Mr. Allan from the observation deck.  We'll see that gets the help he so desperately needs."  Ezra Stoneman sounded as sincere as Red Skelton at the end of his program when he said "God bless."

     The Security team surrounded Ned Allan and escorted him to the elevator.  All the while he shouted "The Atomic bomb is going to blow up the Empire State Building!!  Ask the Night Avenger!  Ask the Costumed Midgets!!"

     ...But by this time, the daring deed was done, and nobody noticed the five boys and a girl dressed in ordinary street clothes, as they got off the elevator in the lobby of the Empire State Building, which they had just saved from obliteration, and disappeared into the crowds on Fifth Avenue.

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The Great Heroes League Chapter 14
Current mood: excited
Category: Writing and Poetry

…when I grabbed his wrist in time to stop him.  The light fixture in the middle of the ceiling had been deliberately broken, so that once somebody attempted to turn on the lights the resulting spark would blow up the room and take most of the building with it.  These guys were not only trying to cover their tracks, they were playing for keeps, too.

        The Blue Wasp and I turned off the gas jets, while African Ghost propped open the door to clear the air. Stinger, meanwhile, had wandered over to a far corner of the room.  He stood motionless for moment.  "Hey guys," he said finally, "It's Pamela's bike."

      He was right. The two-wheeled terror that had started this whole mess was propped against a blackboard.  At least part of it was.  The rest of it, in pieces, was scattered in the immediate vicinity.  The handlebars were on a lab counter while the grips were on the floor below.  The seat was on a classroom style desk nearby.

     American Agent and Tiger Girl finally joined us. "I thought they might take it apart," he commented.

    "Whumph?" Blue Wasp asked, which got him a loud "tsk" from his brother.

    "They were looking for whatever Professor Ashwood had hidden in it before it was shipped to his daughter."

    "How do you figure that?" African Ghost asked.

    "They had to make it seem like nothing was going on. It would have looked funny if Pamela's birthday had gone by without a gift to his daughter, so he told them he had promised her a bicycle, and probably slipped the plans or some sort of message inside when he put it together.  That would explain why they settled for the bicycle when they could have had Pamela.  See, they stopped taking the bike apart once they got the handle grips off… and there's some ash residue in the bottom of that wastebasket."

    "I see that," Tiger Girl said.  "But there's something else.  The seat is wrong.  It's up higher than it was.  I remember we had to adjust to the bottom because it was too tall for me otherwise.  But now it's up higher than when I got it."

    "Maybe your dad was trying to leave another message to whoever found it" American Agent suggested.

    I straddled the frame and pulled up the seat and post, which was pretty easy considering that it was near the top of its limit.  There was a thing – paper – that had been stuffed hastily inside of it, which took some finagling to get out.  Finally, after some choice curse words, it was in my hand. "Oh crap," is what I finally said once I saw what had been hidden inside.

    "What is it?" American Agent asked me.

    "It's a brochure for the Empire State Building."  I handed it to him.  "I gotta get out of here."

    I bolted out of the classroom and headed outdoors, suddenly feeling hot and flushed.  I took off my mask.

    Once I reached it, the cool night air felt good on my face, but my insides were still doing somersaults.  I headed for the subway.

    I reached the platform just as a train was pulling in. I got on and collapsed onto a bench beside a small dark man who smelled of motor oil and cigarettes. He had a green canvas knapsack on his lap, and sitting on that a large roll of paper, covered with typing. The man was unrolling it as he read, and the pile of paper at his feet grew. I had the image of a cat microscopically examining the toilet paper as it slowly unraveled. As the train pulled out, he turned to me.

    "You seem troubled, Mon frere?" he said, in an oddly accented drawl.

    "I am," I admitted.

    "Me too. I wrote this book on this big roll of paper. Only now when I submit it people act like I'm handing them used toilet paper," he said, as if he'd read my thoughts. He took a long drag of off his cigarette and blew a decorative white plume into the air.

    "Why did you write it on the big roll instead of regular paper?"

    "Seemed like a good idea at the time, you know, to preserve the stream of consciousness and keep the writing fresh. Also the paper was free, and I was a little... and by the time I realized I may have made an error in my choice of stationary it was too late to turn back."  He sent another plume into the atmosphere.

    "So what are you going to do now?"

    "I've been thinking about that. I guess I'll keep shopping it around 'til the karma is right," he said, rolling the paper back up.

    "Karma?"

    "Eastern Philosophy. It means you get what you deserve, good or bad, when you deserve it and not before. Sort of a cosmic entitlement system. So what are you running from?" He turned his piercing eyes toward me.

    "There's something I don't want to do."

    "But you feel like you have to?"

    "Yeah, but I'm afraid I can't."

    "Then you have to go back. You can't run away from your dharma, kid." He lit another cigarette, and headed for the doors as the train neared a stop.

    "More eastern philosophy?" I asked.

    "Uh huh. Dharma is your nature and sense of duty. It's who you are."  The train slowed and then stopped. "See ya, kid," he waved, and then he was gone.

    I got off at the next stop and waited for the League to arrive.

    When Brian and the rest caught up, back in street clothes, I was sitting on the platform staring off into the dark tunnel.  

    "Okay I'm still with you, but we're in over our heads here. We need to tell somebody," I said, looking Brian straight in the eye.

    "Who's going to believe us?" Brian asked calmly.

    "We've got to make them believe!!" I practically screamed at him.

    "I think Dave's right," Josh stated.

    "So do I" added Pamela.

    Brian stared at us as though we had collectively punched him in the stomach, then finally looked down at his boots and said, "I agree."

    Back up on the street the sound of Stretch, the four foot-tall, 75 year-old newsstand operator, assaulted our ears.  Stretch had a voice that could cut glass, a high nasal whine that was probably what an air-raid siren would sound like if it could talk.  In any case we would have heard this particular call, even if he had been whispering.

    "Extry! Extry! Ezra Stoneman arrested at Radio City Music Hall!! Charged as Commie Agent! Extry!"

    The story was essentially that. Even with nothing in the way of real details, Stoneman's status was enough to get the Herald-Tribune to rush out a special edition. Agents had arrested him in the Music Hall, which they had staked out for some time, knowing of his habit of sneaking in, or so the story went.  The picture on the front page filled in all the details: Ezra Stoneman grinning oddly, giving a sidelong glance to Ned Allan, with two anonymous feds as bookends.

    A smaller box on the same page let it be known that the charges against Danton Freed had been dropped and he was headed off to make a movie in Europe. Brian said nothing at that revelation.

    "We have to go to our homes and see that everything is okay," Brian said quietly.

    "I think it would be better if we all stuck together," Josh replied.

    "We can't.  We're late as it is, and our parents are waiting for us, not to mention that they're in danger.  Then we have to try to talk them into doing something."

    "My parents are out.  And anyway, they barely let us talk and when we do they don't listen, and if they do listen they think we're lying," Michael explained, and Butch nodded.

    "I can't tell my mother, she couldn't take it.  She's not strong like me," Pamela said.

    "We'll tell my Dad," I said, "but it'll have to be all of us.  The more witnesses the better.  Maybe he's still in touch with some army guys that'll know who to contact."

    "We'll have to meet back at the Sanctum after we get checked in at home," Brian ordered, on the move.

    "That might be tricky," commented Josh.

    Brian turned back to Josh and grimly replied, "Be tricky then, and if that fails, be sneaky."

    And so we separated.

    Suddenly detached from the rest of the team, I felt a vulnerability that I imagined Superman must feel when exposed to Kryptonite.  I wondered if the others were feeling the same way.  The phrase "Safety in Numbers" throbbed through my skull like a litany all the way home.

    After the relief of getting a proper bawling out for being late for dinner (it was almost half past seven by this point), I gratefully ate my reheated meatloaf.  Dad was futzing with the rabbit ears, and when he finally did succeed in getting a clear picture, it was an animated Eisenhower commercial. The resulting sigh went down to his non-existent toes.

    The week before, Dad had been laughing his head off when Ike's would-be Vice President Richard "Pinocchio" Nixon ("Look at his nose, it's growing," Dad would say) made a speech claiming that he had never taken a bribe more substantial than a cocker spaniel puppy named Checkers. Nixon had also claimed that his wife Pat wore nothing but a "Good Republican Cloth" coat, which prompted Mom to ask Dad if she could buy a new "Democratic Print" house dress.

    It wasn't so funny now, however.  The polls showed that the dodge had worked, and Checkers the Cocker Spaniel was now biting Adlai Stevenson in the rear end.  Dad was not happy, but Mom pointed out that it could be worse if Nixon were actually the candidate for President instead, and leading in the polls.

    "Like that would ever happen," Dad muttered.

    Given the pained look on his face, I didn't think that it was the best time to broach the subject of the impending destruction of the Empire State Building and a good chunk of the city.  I figured that I should wait for the others so I had corroboration.  The odds were pretty long against an adult believing us, but we had to make it happen.

    We thought we knew where and what was going to happen, but the questions of when and why remained.  When was probably very soon, if Ezra Stoneman told them what they wanted to know.  And what they no doubt wanted to know was how to plant an atomic weapon in a very public building without being seen.  
Allan somehow knew of the existence of the Secret New York but apparently didn't know how to access it without its architect.  But why would one of the chief counsels for the House Un-American Activities Committee be involved in such an Un-American Activity as blowing up the biggest landmark in the biggest city in the country he was supposedly protecting from Foreign Agents?

    My head hurt.

    I went down to the Sanctum to await the arrival of the others, still rolling the facts around in my brain and coming up snake eyes every time.

    First Josh slid in through the secret entrance, followed by Butch and Michael.  Pamela came through the back door.  We waited for Brian.

    And waited.

    And waited.

    Finally after a half an hour I buzzed him on his transceiver.  Five minutes later Brian's voice came over the Mother Box, hoarse and quiet.

    "It's over," he said.

    I looked at Pamela then at Josh, but both were staring at the speaker expecting it to explain.

    "What do you mean?" I asked the microphone.

    "I'll tell you when you get here.  In the meantime don't tell your father anything."

    "What about the rest of us?" Josh asked.

    "Just David. Please guys, I can't say any more," the voice of Brian replied through the Mother Box.

    "Where are you?"

    He gave me directions, then switched off. I was about to tell the others to wait when Pamela stopped me.

    "We're coming too," she said emphatically.

"He said he didn't want that," I countered.

    "Sorry Dave," Josh said, "We didn't hear that part. The machine malfunctioned.  Bad static."

    "Let's go!" Michael said, and they all headed for the door.  I stood frozen until Butch stopped and turned back to me.

    "You heard my brother. Let's go!"  Then he jerked his head towards the exit.
I fell in step with my team.

    The address Brian gave me was a couple of blocks south of the store.  It was a tiny two bedroom on the top floor of a walk-up.  The place looked as though it hadn't seen any maintenance in a very long time.  Several layers of paint were peeling off the walls simultaneously, and there were holes in the floor at intervals along the baseboard, where the smaller, non-rent-paying residents no doubt resided.  It was something of a shock that our leader lived here, but it shouldn't have been, considering how little time he spent at home.

    The hall light on the top floor was not functioning, but a crack of light from the door to Brian's apartment led us to our destination.  Brian was crouched in the window at the (not very) far end of the room, staring out into the night.

    "I told you to come alone, David.  Can't you guys get anything right?"  His voice was ragged, as though he had been crying, something that I would have thought impossible.

    It looked as though there had been a struggle in the small living area.  The radio had been knocked over, as well as an end table, a chair and a stand-up lamp.  The rest of the place looked fairly untouched, in fact, the kitchen was immaculate.  That was except for the American Flag on the small formica tabletop, with red writing on the white stripes.

    I picked it up.  It read, "We have your mother.  Bring your chubby friend and the girl to the 34th Street entrance to the Empire State Building at 9:30 a.m. tomorrow if you want to see her again."

    I looked over at Brian, who hadn't moved.  He said very quietly, "I screwed it all up.  I didn't protect her.  I let my dad down.  It was the one thing he told me to do and I blew it."

    "You didn't know…" Pamela began.

    "But I should have known!" he yelled. "I should have seen this coming down Broadway when they put a tail on us! But I was too busy playing superhero to pay attention to something that was right in front of my freaking face! I've been training for this since I was a kid and..."

    "You're still a kid," Josh interjected.

    "No I'm not. I haven't had time. I got promoted three  years ago when Dad left. I've been trying to learn what to do but the books only tell you so much.  He should have taught me."

    "He had to go to war…" I tried.

    "He didn't go to war!! He just went!!"

    "He's not in Korea?" I asked.

    "He could be in Korea and he could be in Brooklyn for all I know. He could have bought the helmet and goggles from a surplus store. I just know he just isn't here and I am and I screwed everything up."  Brian began to cry.

    Josh and Michael and I looked at each other, not knowing what to say or do.  Butch stood staring at Brian with his mouth gaping.  Only Pamela knew enough to go over to our leader and put her arms around him.  It was very quiet for a long time except for the occasional sniff, and Brian wasn't the only one doing it.



    "So… what do we do now?" Butch asked.  It snapped us back to the issue at hand.

    "Brian and I have to go," I heard myself saying, although I wished I had the courage to back those words up. I had been scared witless since the University, dharma or no dharma.  Only the prospect of bringing in potential adult aid had calmed me somewhat, but that prospect had just faded away.

    Brian looked at me and nodded.

    "That's it?!!" Michael exclaimed.

    "What did you have in mind?" I asked, somewhat acidly.

    "Well, why aren't we all going?" Michael countered.

    "They don't want all of us," Brian answered. "Just David and me.  We have to do what they ask."

    "I think we're overlooking something," Josh said, after a brief silence.

    "What's that?" Brian asked, but he didn't sound very interested in the reply.  In fact, he sounded very tired.

    "Maybe they don't want us to come because they don't know about the rest of us," Josh explained simply.

    That one sat in the air for a full minute before Pamela spoke. "Do you think that's true?"

    "Think about it.  Why are they only asking for you three?"  Josh walked over and picked up the flag. "I don't think they've ever seen Michael, Butch and me, or at least not since the truck thing at the school.  Even back at the University, they may not have seen us hide Pam.  I mean, why wouldn't they want us if they thought we knew anything?"

    "He's right," Michael said.  "They were too busy keeping track of you guys. But we've never been followed…as far as we know."

    "And we were hoping… I mean… looking…" Butch stammered.

    "So what?" Brian asked, a little too harshly.

    "So if they don't know about us, it means they won't be watching us which means we can potentially gum up the works." Josh was actually smiling as he explained. "And another thing I've been thinking, this Allan stuff has got to be a pretty limited operation, since you've only seen the same few guys over and over again."

    "It's too risky," Brian muttered.

    "You don't get it, do you Brian?  If they do what we think they're going to, do New York is not going to be a very nice place to live in for the next thousand or so years.  Those cities they dropped the A-bomb on in the last war were totally flattened.  They're still trying to rebuild them, seven years later.  That means all of our friends and families…  We're all involved."

    Brian looked at me as if asking for confirmation of what Josh was saying. "Even if it's a small atomic bomb the shock wave will do a lot of damage on its own.  Then there's the radiation, not to mention what the collapse of a building that size will do terms of damage and death. Yes, it's going to be a mess."

    "And we can stop it," Michael said.

    "We can?" Butch asked.  Michael swatted him across the top of the head.

                    *   *   *
    The morning was cloud covered and on the cold side. It didn't bother me much because I was wearing my Diamondback mask for what was probably going to be the last time, one way or another.  If American Agent was feeling the chill through his tights, the grim set of his jaw and the determination in his stride didn't show it.  The vulnerability of the previous evening was gone. The Leader of the Great Heroes League was back.

    It had been a long sleepless night, filled with activity, but neither of us was tired.  We couldn't afford to be.  We had a city to save.

    The conga line started in my stomach as the landmark came into view ahead.  If we were right in our thinking either Lips or Whitey would be waiting outside the 34th street entrance of the Empire State Building.  If it was someone else, then we had a problem.  The presence of an unknown thug, while not a complete disaster, meant that we were wrong about how limited their numbers were and the possibility that a large chunk of Manhattan would be vaporized increased dramatically.  No big deal.

    As we walked from the train in our costumes, we received the usual amount of attention paid to the out of the ordinary in New York City in broad daylight:  absolutely none.  People hustled about their business, ignoring American Agent in his red, white, and blue costume with the billowing red and white striped cape, and me in my gleaming silver mask, as we wove through their ranks.  As Brian had thought, we had the anonymity of the weird.  No one wanted to see us, therefore we weren't there.



    A block away from destiny, I noticed that American Agent had started to hum.  It took me a while to recognize the tune, but then I realized that it was the martial music from "The Bride of Frankenstein," which had later showed up in the Flash Gordon serials.  I began to worry that my friend was going off the deep end, and that he thought he was actually in a serial himself.  His turning to me and winking at that point did nothing to ease my mind.  And then he pointed directly ahead of us.

       Whitey was waiting outside the entrance, but somehow this wasn't the relief I thought it would be.  As we approached, the Big Man began chuckling.  He was dressed fancier than usual, as if he were going on a trip, which he probably was.  We had figured that Allan's plan didn't include hanging around for the big bang.

    "What are you two dressed for?  Halloween?" Whitey asked in his heavily Slavic accent

    "I was about to ask you the same question," Brian replied.  "Going somewhere, Comrade?"

    "You a smartazz, cape-boy.  Wait a minute…" He paused, looking around us and up and down the street. "Where is Girl?"

    "Sorry, we don't talk to flunkies," American Agent said, sounding as defiant as Jimmy Cagney ever had.  "We'll save that discussion for Allan, your boss."

    The big thug raised his hand as if to strike the boy in the flag suit, then, realizing it might not be the brightest thing to do on a public street, backed off. "Let's go," he muttered and opened the glass door for us.

    The path we took to the inner Empire State Building was similar to that in Radio City Music Hall, and in Loew's.  In this case the gateway was the back wall of a little used utility closet in the sub-basement.  From there a six-foot wide corkscrew walkway led to a larger open area, on what I estimated to be the third floor.  There the path ended abruptly at a wall.  

    A pinky sized perfect square, two feet up and three inches in from the corner marked the pressure panel.  Another secret entrance was revealed.  Whitey made us go through first.

    It looked as though we had walked into a bigger and far more elaborate version of Brian's Fortress of Solitude. The room was huge but oddly shaped, but what it lacked in width it more than made up for in height and length.  It was at least two stories high, and appeared to run the length of the building.   At our level the room was at most twenty feet from side to side, narrowing as it rose.  To the left there were stairways, leading to a balcony on the upper level at either end of the room.  At the back was an entire wall of televisions, all glowing different pictures.  Banking them were bookcases the size of which would put the New York Public Library's to shame.  There were sofas, a jukebox, a pool table and a soda fountain.  In the middle of an enormous mahogany poker table I saw what I'd been afraid of.  It was a device of about a foot and a half in height, the top of which was spherical.  An elaborate wiring scheme ran from the bottom of the sphere to a lunchbox-sized container at the base of the machine.  Two switches and a button were attached to the outside framework.

     It looked neat, compact and deadly.

    A Pint-sized Atomic Bomb.

    "Extras," American Agent said out loud.

    That was the other bad news.  There were at least a dozen men we had never seen before in the room and, at that moment, one we had seen was now approaching us in a relaxed but deliberate manner.  He was sipping coffee from a Little Orphan Annie Shake-up Mug.

    It was Ned Allan.

    He was taller than I thought.  Bigger too.  His hair was plastered to his scalp with enough oil to lube a fleet of taxis.  He had a narrow, pinched nose, which gave the impression that he was constantly sniffing something awful.  Maybe it was the foul smelling black cigarette I noticed hanging from the corner of his mouth as he came near us.

    "So, these are the two mosquitoes who have been so irritating.  Halloween isn't for another three weeks, boys," Ned Allan said, in a voice as greasy as his pate.

    "That's what I said, Boss," Whitey chimed in.  He was met with a glare that could have melted steel.

    "How witty of you, Ivan.  Now go and find Calpini.  We're behind schedule." I noticed that Allan never raised his voice above a conversational level, even when giving orders.  He then turned to us.

    "Where's Miss Ashwood?  Her father is anxious to see her."

    "Where's my mother?  I'm kind of anxious to see her," Brian replied, just as evenly.  This was going to be a staredown of the first order.

    "She's over there with the others in front of the monitors."  Allan indicated the sofas in front of the wall of televisions.  Three figures sat with their backs to us. Professor Ashwood and Ezra Stoneman were simply bound and gagged, but Mrs. Levitt had a dark hood over her head in addition to the restraints.

    "There, you've seen her.  Where is the girl?" Allan asked again.

    "When my mother is taken home and released unharmed, then Miss Ashwood has instructions to come in," Brian answered calmly. "Not before." Their eyes locked the same way Brian's and Ezra Stoneman's had a day earlier.

    "Why should I let her go?"  Allan took a long draw on the black cigarette, the smell of which was starting to irritate to me.

    "You have us, which is what you wanted.  She knows nothing about your operation, and she's only keeping you from getting Miss Pamela Ashwood, who's the missing piece"

    I held my breath. His reply to this bluff would tell us if they knew about the others.

    "Suppose I decide to keep her?"

    I breathed again.

    "If she's not released within thirty minutes Miss Ashwood has instructions to find the nearest policeman and say that a gang of teen punks dragged her into the utility closet in the sub-basement of the Empire State Building and tried to do nasty things to her.  Then she'll accidentally on purpose hit the panel beside the triangle on the back wall and lo and behold a secret passageway will open up… Like magic"

    "And how will she know to do all this?" Allan asked, as he ground out the butt with his perfectly polished shoe.

    "I just told her," American Agent replied, tapping the small microphone sticking out from the collar of his cape.

    Ned Allan stared the microphone, then back at Brian. "You're trying to bluff me with a toy?"

    Now it was my turn. "Actually, it's a one way transmitter tuned to a narrow FM frequency, and Miss Ashwood is wearing a headset that's picking up everything he says."

    "These walls are very thick…"

    "But I notice the televisions on the wall over there are picking up signals which are also transmitted by frequency modulation.  In addition, one of the most powerful transmitters in the world is sitting right on top of this building.  But you can certainly take a look, if you'd like."

    And with that, I removed the microphone and the box taped to American Agent's back and handed them to Allan, who gave the unit a cursory glance, muttered something, and handed it off to Whitey/Ivan.  He took it to another of the suited men, who was on the phone at a desk at the far end. Phone guy opened the box, squinted inside for a few seconds, then nodded to Allan.

    If this irritated Allan, he showed no sign of it. "And how do we know she received the message?"

    "Good question," The Agent responded.  "We don't.  But we can always wait and see.  Of course, I'm guessing that would spoil your surprise."

    Allan thought for a moment, then motioned for Whitey. The two conversed briefly in what sounded like Russian.  The pecking order progressed from Whitey to Lips, who grabbed another of the mystery men.  They, in turn, went to the sofa and fetched Mrs. Levitt.

    As they hustled her away, American Agent took off a glove and touched her hand as she passed.  She turned her head, but could see nothing through the hood.  And then she was gone.

    Allan sipped from his mug, then said, "And now we wait for your little friend."  
Underlings approached him, received orders and snapped into action, though it was hard for us to determine exactly what they were doing.  Then Allen turned to American Agent and said, "I must say for a child you've been quite clever in following our activities.  What got your attention?"

    "The truck at the school," The star-spangled spy answered simply.

    "And what made you notice the truck?"

    "The truth?"

    "Please."

    "I was playing."

    "Playing?"

    "The truck would show up every day and not do anything, so I pretended it was part of a Communist spy ring.  Who knew?" American Agent was looking him straight in the eye.

    Allan began to laugh.  It was a genuine, deep laugh from the gut which, given the situation, sickened me.  So it was something of a surprise when American Agent began laughing too, just as loudly and heartily.

    "It's a shame it has to end this way," Allan said, recovering from the mirth.

    "Why does it?" I asked.  "We can't do anything. We're kids."

    "Please," Allan turned to me, "I've done you the courtesy of not patronizing you, kindly return the compliment.  As it stands we've had to speed up the operation because of your interference.  The Greater Good must be served.  That's the theory, anyway."

    "The Greater Good?" American Agent asked.

    "The long term goal of rule by the masses…so to speak. Look, this plan has been in progress for seven years now. It was developed under Premier Stalin near the end of the last war.  Create an atmosphere of suspicion.  The bogeyman, if you will.  Start whispers, point fingers, spread rumors.  Magicians call it misdirection.  So while the population checks under their beds for 'Commies', the 'Commies' are quietly taking over right before their very eyes." There was no theatrical glee in his words, which made them even more terrifying.

    "Is Senator McCarthy one of you?" American Agent asked.

    "Senator McCarthy is a drunken puppet who plays the script as written.  And when we're finished with him, we'll get a new puppet."

    "If you're running the Committee why do you need the bomb?" I asked.

    "Well you can only go on charging people with manufactured evidence for so long.  Even the best magician eventually has to produce the rabbit …or at least the droppings.  So we give them the Rosenbergs and the Kupperbergs.  We prod the North Koreans and…"

    "You blow up the Empire State Building."  American Agent finished the litany.

    "Precisely. The cry goes out -- Who could have done such a thing?  We direct the investigation and we supply the answers and provide incontrovertible proof as to who is responsible.  In this case it's a rogue nuclear physicist with Communist leanings, in the pay of a foreign power who is aiding another foreign power in a place where the Good Old US of A is currently involved in a police action. Meanwhile, elections come and go…"

    "It might work," American Agent commented.

    "I assure you, child, it is working, and in the process we bring America's greatest city to its knees."

    "You're kidding, right?" American Agent asked.

    "You don't think so?"

    "No, I don't," American Agent began softly, "Oh I know if you succeed it'll be a big mess around here for a while, but that'll get cleaned up. You can't bring this city to its knees just by blowing up a building or even a whole block. That'll just make us mad and make you have to run faster, not that that'll help. You have no idea what you'll unleash if you do this. You don't screw around with us."

    "And why is that?" Allan smirked.

    "Because this is New York, and we'll kick your ass"

    "How intimidating. And now, my young friends, since your playmates have arrived, we will conclude our business."

    I turned quickly to see Tiger Girl being escorted by Lips.  But they were not alone.  The other Ned Allan minion who had left with them was escorting Mrs. Levitt back into the room.

    Only now she wasn't wearing the hood.

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The Great Heroes League Chapter 13
Current mood: adventurous
Category: Writing and Poetry

                                                                 (13)
                                           Higher Education


"What's the fastest way out of here?"  I yelled.

    "This way," Stoneman said, and began jogging forward, then turned and asked, "What's wrong, young man?"

    "One of our team is in trouble," I replied, running in step with the rest of the League behind the hairy billionaire.  Michael shot me a look, I nodded, and he sped up.  Apparently he didn't want his ass kicked to Secaucus.

    I lost contact with Butch after Stoneman led us back into the tunnel.  We jogged a short distance to a narrow hallway culminating in a circular stair, rising     a great distance above our little group.  As we climbed I noticed catwalks     shooting off, leading to individual doorways at staggered levels.  "Where the heck are we?"  I heard Pamela ask in a whisper.  I couldn't help her.  I was completely lost myself.

    Ahead of us Stoneman crossed one of the linking gangways to a narrow door about the size of a school locker, which he managed to squeeze through.  We followed.

    The other side opened into an elaborate boiler room that was larger and cleaner than any I'd ever seen before.  (Kids like me tend to check out boiler rooms, fuse boxes and the like, out of mechanical curiosity.)  The building this one serviced would have to be huge.  

Another hidden door, like the one in the Loew's basement, opened into a caretaker's closet which, in turn, led to what appeared to be the backstage area of a huge theater.  We negotiated past the tied off ropes and hanging canvas, and around a line of tall, gorgeous women in sparkling leotards, with legs up to their chins.  Michael had to go back to get Josh, then Pamela had to fetch the two of them.

    Once outside Radio City Music Hall, Butch's screaming resumed.  Brian went into a hushed whisper with Ezra Stoneman.  I handed the transceiver to Michael to see if he could calm his brother down long enough to tell us where he was.  Brian rejoined us, and the scruffy man started for the stage door, then paused.

    "Good luck, brave Leaguers.  The war you fight is a just one."  Then the Great Ezra Stoneman bowed to us mere kids, and disappeared through the metal stage door.

Michael was still pleading with his brother through the mike when Brian grabbed the headset from him.  "American Agent calling Stinger.  American Agent calling Stinger.  Come in Stinger, over," he said forcefully, then paused.  After a moment he continued, "I read you, Stinger… Give us your current location."

       By this time I had put on one of the other transceivers and could hear Butch.  He was much calmer now because Brian had reminded him that he was a hero on a mission.

    "That's just it, American Agent, I'm not sure where I am.  Ghost and my stupid brother left me alone in front of the courthouse, and then I saw that Allan guy and his goons leaving.  I followed them to that big black car of theirs and I didn't know what else to do so I hid in the trunk like I saw in the Batman serial, but the lid locked and I can't open it so I don't know where I am… Over."
 
    "Is the car moving?"  Brian asked.

    "No," Butch replied.  "It stopped a long time ago.  I have to pee, sir."  He sounded like he meant it.

    "Okay, listen to me, Stinger.  I want you to run your hand along the bottom of the trunk lid till you find a small opening."

    There was a silence, then, "Okay, I got it"

    "Feel inside of the opening for a metal thing that feels like part of a fence."  Brian instructed.  He was as cool as an Eskimo Pie.

    "I found it, chief"

    "Now listen before you do anything.  When I tell you to, you're going to pull that thing, slowly and quietly, and the lid should open, but you have to be careful and quiet because you don't know who might be around.  Do you understand me, Stinger?"

    "I understand, American Agent," Butch whispered.

    "Good.  Now, pull it." Brian said.

    For the next few seconds there was an unbearable silence, but for the city traffic.  We all held our breath.  It was like a really great episode of "Lights Out," only scarier.  A minute went by and we frowned at each other, all with the same thought.  It shouldn't be taking this long.

    Finally Brian could stand it no longer and whispered "Stinger?  Stinger, come in.  What's happening?"  More silence, then…

    "Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah…" A relieved Butch groaned, to the musical accompaniment of a stream of water hitting metal.  He was peeing on a hubcap.

     "Stupid car," he added, as punctuation.

     We did a group sigh of relief.

     "That's great, Stinger," Brian said, back to business as usual. "Do you have any idea where you are?"

     "How the heck should I know?  I just got out of a freaking trunk.  The car's in an alley behind some building," he griped.  The panic was gone and the old Butch was back.

     "Could you be a little more specific?"  Brian sighed.

     "Oh geez…Hang on."  Butch said, which was followed by another interminable silence.  The kid who had been screaming for help five minutes earlier was now finding the requested information that would lead to his rescue a gross imposition on his time and patience.  Finally Butch informed us, "It's a big building with a lot of windows, and a big round thing on the top of it and a sign in the front that says Pumpkin Hall. I guess they call it that because of the big round thing."

     Brian looked confused but Pamela brightened.  "I know where he is! That's the building my father used to work in.  And it's Pupin Hall, not Pumpkin.  He's at Columbia University!" she practically screamed.

     "Holy Crow! That's Harlem!" Michael exclaimed, only to be met with a glare from Josh.

     "It's Morningside Heights," Pamela interjected.

     "Which is surrounded by Harlem..." Michael muttered.

     "What's wrong with Harlem?  My dad used to take me to the jazz clubs up there when I was a kid,"  Brian said.  Coming from him, it didn't sound funny.

     "Yeah Michael, what's wrong with Harlem?"  Josh asked in an I-dare-you tone of voice.

     "Nothing… It's just that it'll be dark soon…" Michael trailed off.

     But Brian wasn't waiting for the argument to continue.  He was running out to the street and heading for Broadway.  Pamela followed immediately, then Michael and Josh, with me bringing up the rear.  I was trying to tell Butch to stay where he was and that we were coming for him, but his batteries were very weak.

     "Stay put!!" I yelled.

     A faint "What?!" was all I heard, and then nothing… Butch's headset was dead.I caught up to      Brian at the bus stop. "We've got to hurry."

     "I know," he replied. "But tell that to the transit authority."  Far down Broadway we could see something that might have been a bus, but could have been a truck, but at any rate was mired in the downtown traffic blocks away.
I found myself yelling "To the subway!" as if it were our special rocket-ship or the Batmobile.

      Brian said "Oh yeah," a little off-guard because he hadn't thought of it.
There were more of us in the subway this time but it was just as quiet.  There had been a lot to absorb in a short space of time and some of us were suffering from Too Much Information.  I ,for one, wanted to go home once we rescued Butch, crawl into bed, and forget about this whole thing.  I knew that wasn't going to happen, though.  One of the unspoken rules of being a hero was that you saw things through to the end no matter how hard they got.

      Surprisingly we didn't have to search for Butch when we got to the University.  He was curled up in the lap of the Alma Mater statue in front of the library.  He was taking a nap.



    "Awwwww! Ain't that cute?!!" Michael bellowed.

     "Shaddup," came the muttered reply.  Butch yawned and slid down the sculpture on to the library steps.  "What took you clowns so long?"

     "We went on a picnic.  Are you okay?"  I asked.

    "No thanks to you.  That cheesy transceiver doesn't work any more," he groused, practically throwing the headset at me.

       I gritted my teeth.  "That cheesy transceiver" had lasted an hour longer than I thought it would, given the abuse Butch was putting it through.  In fact I was rather proud of the performance of "That cheesy transceiver."

     "Where's the building where the car was parked?"  Brian asked, business as usual.         
     "Behind this big round building here, and off to that side in the corner there." Butch pointed vaguely left.

      "Let's go!" I said, and we started around the left side of the Low Library.

     "Wait!" Brian cried then ducked behind a large tree. We followed.

     "Okay, who's wearing their costume under their clothes?" Brian asked. 

     Nobody spoke at first, then Josh and Pamela sheepishly raised their hands and began removing their outer garments.  I always carried my cowl so I had my costume no matter what else I wore.  Michael and Butch pulled their masks from their windbreakers.  Their hats and coats would have been a little too bulky to conceal.

    Finally Brian allowed himself a rare wry grin, as he removed his jacket to reveal the top half of his uniform, his cape shoved down the back of his trousers.  He took his helmet and goggles from a slit in the lining of his coat. Pamela turned away as he took off his pants, even though there was nothing to see, since he was wearing his tights and boots. A couple of leg adjustments and the League was ready for action.

      "Split to either side of the walk," American Agent directed in a whisper. "Tiger Girl, Diamondback, and Blue Wasp take the left side.  Stinger, African Ghost, and I will take the right.  We'll meet on either side of this block in front of the walkway to Pupin Hall.  And remember, this isn't a parade, keep your eyes open, and stick to the shadows."  This was coming from the guy dressed in red, white, and blue, teamed with the guy in the purple tights. In my simple silver hood I felt positively underdressed.

     The combination of the classical architecture and the gathering darkness made creeping along in the shadows a distinctly eerie experience.  It was Saturday night, and the campus was pretty deserted.  Still, a couple of students walking by caused us to shrink against the walls and freeze until they were completely gone.

    The building was dark and somewhat foreboding when we first saw it.  There were a lot of windows, but there weren't many lights on within.  As it turned out the "round thing" on top of Pupin Hall was an observatory.
We combined into one team again in front of the building.  None of us seemed sure what to do next.  Finally Brian said, "Let's see if they're still here. Show me where the car's parked, Stinger."

     Butch led us around to the back of the building without comment, which made me wish that he were Stinger all the time.  By now it was as dark as midnight, even though it was still early evening according to my watch.

    The car was still there, as was the puddle that Butch had made below the right rear fender.  Brian was approaching the driver's side when a door slammed open around the corner of the building. He managed to make it into the shadows before our friend Whitey appeared, struggling under the weight of a medium sized but apparently heavy crate.

     He put it on the back seat of the car, from which he removed two large pillows.  He took these to the back of the car and opened the trunk.  He paused to shake some of the piddle puddle from his shoe, then positioned the pillows across the bottom of the compartment and returned around the corner.

    "I could have used those earlier" Stinger muttered, only to be swatted by his brother.

    "Fnan Nub!!" the Blue Wasp hissed.

    "You shut up!!" Stinger said in his normal eardrum piercing tone of voice.

    "Both of you shut up or you'll be pulling my foot outta your fanny," The African Ghost growled.

      The only hiding place the four of us had managed to find was behind a group of large garbage cans which, from the smell o