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Captain America
The Last Campaign
(This is a work of fan fiction, written solely for the pleasure of writing. Characters owned by Marvel Comics.)
Captain America created by Joe Simon and Jack Kirby
Author's Note
I was a comic book kid.
This may be hard to fathom to any younger readers – especially readers of fan fiction - but there was a time when liking comics was not a thing to admit to. In those Dark Ages of my childhood, nerds were not lovable, geeks did not have their own television shows, and owning a computer made you a weirdo…and far below the nerds, the geeks and the weirdo's, were the comic book kids.
We were strange creatures, identifiable in the school cafeteria by our distant refuge far from the cool kids table. We had a knack for ferreting out our own kind, able to spot a kindred soul by a kind of extra-sensory perception (Spidey sense?). We gathered in secret to trade our wears and discuss the latest stories, arguing which hero was the greatest, who could beat whom, and who had the best costumes. Tempers would flare when some fool would argue that Darkseid could defeat Galactus, or that the Hulk was stronger than Superman. These were matters of great controversy and endless speculation. And fun, always fun.
Some kids bought only DC, and some only Marvel, though most of us bought both. We also purchased Atlas comics (short lived though it was), Gold Key, and Dell. Archie and Disney weren't my cup of tea, but others enjoyed them and that was fine by me, for I did not discriminate against my own kind. In my hometown, the new comics arrived on Thursday. I would go to Reed's newsstand in my weekly ritual, waiting with all the patience I could muster as the delivery guy stocked the "serious" magazines, leaving me to wonder who in their right mind bought stuff like Newsweek, Ladies Home Journal, and Golf Digest. For God's sake, Spider-Man was battling the Green Goblin, who can think about golf at a time like this?
Finally, the comics were unpacked. Comics have a unique scent, a rich woody smell, or at least they do in my memory. I loved the glossy shine of the covers, the sound the pages made when you fanned them. I would watch the magazine guy slot the new issues one by one in the rack, so eager to get my hands on them that I could scarcely contain myself. I still remember the joy I felt spinning that old tin rack, snatching up my favorite titles, though really, I loved them all.
I doubt we ever love things quite as intensely as we did when we were kids. A child's heart is a little purer, a little less jaded, a little more willing to believe, and love needs all that to flourish. If I don't have the all-engulfing passion for comics I once had, I still love them. Comics are a glorious conundrum: sometimes silly, they can also be profound, possessing a flair and artfulness that literary snobs would find hard to believe. Within the borders of those pulpy four-color pages' lives wonder, where villains threaten and heroes arise; where worlds collide and universes are born. Top that, Golf Digest!
Which brings me to Captain America – The Last Campaign. I have long dabbled at writing, rarely finishing the stories I started, but always thinking one day I would. A while ago, I decided to get serious and find out if I had it in me to become a writer. I needed to tackle something big, with multiple plot-lines, characters, themes. I recalled the old maxim, Write What You Know, and that was when the comic book kid in me surfaced. I lost track of him over the years, but suddenly, there he was, piping up with enthusiasm.
"You know comic books, right?" he asked.
"But I want to write a serious book," I countered. "Something I'm passionate about."
"You're passionate about comic books, aren't you?"
I was still passionate about comic books. The kid was on to something, but I still needing convincing. "What character should I write about? Batman and Superman have been done to death."
"How about Captain America? You always say most people don't get Cap, and you have some cool ideas about him, right? You always say that everybody loves Doctor Doom and Magneto, but nobody knows how cool a villain the Red Skull could be."
"True," I said, warming up. "But what about the story? It has to be something exciting."
"What if Cap was dying? How would he deal with it? What does he mean to the country? Also, what if Cap has to battle the Skull while fighting to stay alive, and if he loses, the whole word will be destroyed? That'd be pretty cool, wouldn't it?"
By Jove, that would be cool! I got right to it, and it only took about eleven years to finish the damned thing! I started this novel prior to the Marvel movies hitting the screen, and finished after the release of the last Avengers and Captain America films. While I enjoyed those movies, I did not base my story on them – I went straight to the source, which means comic books. Jack Kirby and Joe Simon deserve primary mention, along with, Stan Lee, John Byrne, Roy Thomas, Mark Waid, to list but a few. I put my own spin on things, as all writers do when taking on legacy characters, walking the challenging line of being true to the character while bringing something fresh to the table. I hope I succeeded, and that the creators of these characters would approve.
The kid and I did our best to write with style, treating Cap the way great comic book characters deserve to be treated: with dignity, heart, and wonder, And fun, always with fun. Thanks for reading.
JD Finck
December 2020
Chapter 1
(The past is)
PROLOGUE
December 31, 1938
Office of Research and Development, United States Army
Washington DC
Across the country, Champagne corks were set to pop, streamers were ready to be thrown, and horns were laid out, all to welcome in the New Year…everywhere except in this office, Steve Rogers figured; here, time seemed to stand still. Einstein must have a theory to explain it, surely. A check of his wristwatch told him he had only been sitting in this lobby for ten minutes. It felt closer to an hour, the time being marked by the steady clack of the army secretary's typewriter. Steve considered reviewing his notes a final time, but decided against it. There was such a thing as beating a dead horse. He was as ready for this meeting as he could be.
Outside, a light snow was falling against the blush of the setting sun. The city streets were mostly deserted for the holidays, which was a Godsend. This little dusting wouldn't raise an eyebrow back in Oregon, but this far south it might as well be a blizzard. Making it to Gail's place in Arlington was going to be an adventure. They had reservations at the Baldwin tonight, the Dorsey Orchestra (Jimmy, not Tommy, but still good). Steve reached into his breast pocket and felt for the ring he had been carrying around for the past week. This might not be the night for it after all, with things so unsettled here at work. Being called in for an unscheduled meeting with General Rhodes seemed ominous. It had to be about Major Braxton. Steve could not seem to please the man, and lately had stopped trying. Braxton just couldn't accept pesky things like facts interfering with his cherished notions.
Casting another glance at his watch, Steve noticed the secretary staring at him, smiling slyly.
"The General won't be much longer," the attractive brunette said, gently tapping her wristwatch.
"He's a busy man, I realize."
She looked at the door to the General's office and whispered to Steve as a conspirator. "Even at five thirty on New Year's Eve…busy. I'm willing to bet this is the only office in the capitol with the lights still on."
"I think you'd win that bet. You know, this is my first meeting with the General. If you have any friendly advice?"
Just then, the intercom buzzed followed by a gruff voice calling for Steve Rogers. Steve smiled grimly and gathered his papers.
"Don't worry," the woman said, "the Old Man's not as bad as his reputation makes out. Besides, you're a civilian. Legally, he's not allowed to have you shot."
"Thanks for the pep talk, corporal...?"
"Carter," she answered. "Margaret Carter. My friends call me Peggy."
Steve thanked the woman, and got up, feeling conspicuous against the backdrop of these military surroundings. It wasn't his civilian attire. He was tall and thin, and younger looking than his twenty-two years, with blond hair, blue eyes, and features that might have risen to handsome had he put more effort into it. None of this made him self-conscious. Rather, it was the almost imperceptible limp in his left leg, even after all the years he had lived with it.
He made his way to the Generals office, and was greeted before he could even close the door.
"Take a seat, Rogers."
Behind a plain and rather small oak desk sat General Rhodes. Steve sat, noting the near total absence of ornamentation in the office, unusual for a decorated three star general. Rhodes had a crop of iron-gray hair and a deeply lined face, yet up close the 'Old Man' didn't actually look all that old. Setting aside his paperwork, Rhodes pressed the intercom button on his desk.
"Miss Carter, is the office staff gone for the day?"
"Yes sir, except for myself."
"Good, go ahead and finish up. And Corporal? Happy New Year."
Snapping the intercom off, Rhodes leaned back in his chair. "The best man on my entire staff," he mused, "and she wears a skirt. If my officers had even half her brains and competence, this would be the best unit in the army."
There did not seem to be an invitation for comment, so Steve kept quiet. Rhodes eyed him, like a commander reviewing his troops.
"Dressed for a night on the town, I see. I believe there are essentially two types of people in the world, Rogers: those who make New Year's resolutions, and those who do not. I'm curious, which type are you?"
Steve thought of the ring in his pocket. "I guess the first type, General."
"Interesting," Rhodes said. A beat of silence passed. "Well, you must be wondering why I called you here—"
"Is it Major Braxton?" Steve blurted, wincing at his blunder. The General pierced him with a steely glare.
"Here's how this works. I ask questions, you answer them, with a 'sir' or a 'general'. And you don't interrupt me in the process. Understood?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Major Braxton asked you to resubmit your recent reports, factoring in his recommendations. You refused. Why?"
"In all good conscience, sir, I couldn't do that. Research must be accurate and free of bias. If I tailor my reports to reflect other's opinions, I'll be of no value to you at all. I tried to explain this to the Major."
Rhodes snorted. "So he said. He's of the opinion you hold yourself in rather high regard."
"No, sir. Just the truth."
Rhodes considered that remark, and then he reached into his desk drawer, producing a stack of paperwork. On top was a copy of Steve's most recent report, a plausibility study of armed conflict between the United States and Germany. Rhodes began to read, scanning many pages with barely a glance. Occasionally he would linger for a moment, writing notes next to certain passages. Twice he made a deep-throated 'hrum'—though whether it indicated approval or displeasure, Steve could not tell.
Coming to the last page, the General paused, reading the summation in detail. He snapped the file shut and looked up, weighing the words he had just read against the man who wrote them. Steve had heard about Rhodes's formidable intellect. Now he was feeling it, bearing down like sunlight through a magnifying glass. It was less than pleasant.
"The Major calls your work highly flawed and full of alarmist conclusions."
"Not exactly, sir. He says my work contains flawed conclusions based on an alarmist premise."
"Are you being flip with me, mister?" Rhodes asked, with a look that could wither paint off a fence post.
"No sir…"
"I think perhaps you are."
Rhodes took a cigar from the humidor on his desk, lighting it. Clamping the cigar tightly in his teeth he leaned back in his chair. Outside, the snow had settled into a deep, noiseless downfall, and the glow of the street lamps became a frosted haze. The quiet hum of the office furnace made a pleasant drone, filling the office, until Rhodes spoke.
"Let's get down to brass tacks. The Major wants me to fire you. Convince me otherwise."
Steve shifted in his chair, taking a moment before he replied. "Sir…you graduated from West Point at the top of your class. In 1917, as a lieutenant colonel, you disobeyed a direct order, took charge of a disastrous retreat in the Somme, and turned it into a victory."
"And your point?"
"You didn't achieve those things without knowing your own mind. You've already decided if you intend to fire me."
Rhodes leaned back in his chair, the smallest of smiles on his face. "Then what, do you suppose, is the point of this meeting?"
"I think maybe you're…testing me, sir."
The room grew silent. Rhodes stared at Rogers, searching his face, for what his young guest could not fathom. He took a draw on his cigar, releasing a thick cloud of smoke, his eyes focused, and probing.
"So, war is coming?"
"I wish it weren't so, but yes. We're facing some hard choices, General."
"And Chamberlin's treaty with Hitler?" Rhodes pushed a newspaper clipping across his desk, one Steve recognized immediately; a photo of the British Prime Minister standing before a cheering crowd, waving a piece of paper. "Most of the world hails it as Peace in Our Times."
"Most of the world is wrong. It often is."
"You don't want for confidence, I'll give you that much. Tell me, Rogers, how do you account for your brilliant insight concerning the German Chancellor?"
Steve's features tightened. "I read his book, General."
Rhodes smiled. Something in his tone of voice shifted. "Good answer. Give me your assessment of German military capacity—never mind the numbers, sum it up."
"Alright, sir. Adolf Hitler has built the greatest war machine in history, and he won't waste it on any peace treaty. He intends to smash his enemies."
"And they are?"
"Everyone. Hitler wants the entire world, and the frightening thing is he might be able to achieve it. The Nazis have militarized German science and technology, the greatest threats being their advances in atomic research and biochemistry. I've read some troubling intelligence reports about a secret Nazi program to enhance their soldiers. They're close to a breakthrough."
"Ah yes, the Major took special exception with you there. What's your assessment of Major Braxton?"
"I…I'm not sure how to answer, sir. The Major is a good man, but—"
"But he is an idiot. Is that a fair statement?"
Steve groped for a reply.
"All right," Rhodes continued, "I'll answer my own question. The Major is an idiot. Braxton couldn't find his asshole if he had a map and a three-day head start. Unfortunately, he is the nephew of Senator William Braxton, chairman of the military appropriations committee, and so I am stuck with him. He has his uses though. If the Major is completely opposed to an idea, I can be fairly certain it has some merit. Your ideas, Steven, have a great deal of merit. May I call you Steven?"
Not waiting on a reply, General Rhodes produced another file and began reading.
"Steven Grant Rogers, born nineteen seventeen, New York City, only child of Joseph and Sarah, both deceased. A top athlete and scholar as a boy, some petty scrapes with the law as a juvenile. Upon the death of your parents, you went to live with your uncle in Oregon. Your studies improved, but, at age fifteen you contracted polio, leaving your body weak and ravaged." General Rhodes looked up from the file. "Am I accurate so far?"
"Yes," Steve managed.
"Received a scholarship to Notre Dame, from which you graduated last year, a double major in world history and political science. First in your class..."
"Yes."
"Attempted to join the ROTC, but was rejected due to physical infirmity. You were pursuing your master's degree when approached by my office. You accepted the position, seeing it as a chance to combat the threat of fascism. Fluent in French, Spanish and other romance languages, speak passable German…"
"Yes."
"With the death of your uncle, you have no immediate family. For the past eleven months, you've been romantically involved with a Miss Gail Anders of Arlington, Virginia…for whom you recently purchased a modest engagement ring. The one in your pocket, I imagine."
Steve's eyes went wide. "General, have you been spying on me?"
"Yes."
That answer shocked Steve into silence. Rhodes quietly got up and walked to the window, looking out at the snowfall as he spoke.
"The information I am about to share with you is classified, and I remind you of your oath of secrecy. I'm extending an offer to you, one you're free to reject with no dishonor, to take part in a secret army experiment. Tell me, in your research work, have you heard anything concerning a project Super Soldier?"
Steve's look betrayed him; he had heard something.
"Please," Rhodes said, "tell me what you know. I'd like to see how top-secret our top-secret actually is."
"Well, my security clearance is only 4-B, but the speculation is that the army is developing some new wonder drug. Like penicillin, only better, for treating battlefield injuries. I guess that's not it?" Steve said, seeing the pleased look on General Rhodes' face.
"No, it's not. It's good to know some things work the way they are supposed to. We've spent months flooding the system with false information leading down various dry holes: Project Rebirth, Achilles, Grandstand, among others. The real thing is Super Soldier—and even it has many covers. You were correct, the Germans have made some startling advances in biochemistry…but not all of their scientists believe in the Nazi ideology. Some have fled Germany, with a little help from our people in Europe. Now it's our turn. Incidentally, your security clearance is now 2-A. That's all I can tell you, unless you consent to participate."
"And if I don't?"
"Then you are free to go. As I said, the choice is yours. Your research position is gone whatever you decide. I'm sorry, but it's part of the cover we're preparing for you."
"And if I say yes?"
"Then things get interesting. I won't snow you, the risk to life and limb is substantial, and your personal life will be put on hold. You'll belong to the Army for the next four years. But if this project succeeds, you'll have done your country a great service."
"Serve my country, sacrifice my personal life. Quite a choice, sir."
"You said it yourself. The time for hard choices has come."
The General stepped forward, a pleased look creasing his broad features. "I've thrown a lot at you this evening. You haven't flinched once. That's good. I never trust a man who can't look me in the eye."
"I'm not as confident as I may seem. General, I have to ask…of all people, why me?"
"Not just you. You'll join nine other men as part of the initial test. As for why I've chosen you, let's just say you meet certain criteria I'm looking for, starting with how you think. As it happens, I agree with you about Hitler. Or rather, you agree with me. I've been warning about the Nazis for years now, not that the top brass has cared to listen. They decided the best way to shut me up was to bury me here, overseeing research and intelligence programs."
Rhodes took an enormous draw on his cigar, his eyes glinting with quiet pride.
"Well, I've managed to stay busy. I want you on my team, Rogers. You'll enter service a commissioned officer, the rank of Captain. America needs you, son. Will you answer the call?"
In the years to come, those words would often echo in Steve Rogers' mind: 'Captain America…will you answer the call?' but that was in the years to come. Today, he was still a young man, full of uncertainty.
"I'm honored by your faith in me," Steve answered, "but you just read my medical history. I'm physically unfit for army service."
Rhodes smiled. "Trust me. If this experiment delivers even half of what it promises, that won't be a problem."