Operation Airfoiled Again
Part 1
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Higher for Hire
November 1942
Late Evening
Baloo, his pilot's cap pulled down over his eyes, reclined in his favorite easy chair after a long day of hauling cargo. His fingers tapped the arm of the chair, keeping time to the slow dance favorite that floated from the radio on Rebecca's desk. When it ended, K-CAPE radio announcer Broadcast Sally purred, "That was this month's most requested song: 'I've Heard That Tune Before'. And now, the eleven o'clock news."
"The Worldwide News, Wednesday, November 11th." Dog Rather's no-nonsense voice pushed its way through the crackling static. "Once again, this station prepares to call on its correspondents in various world capitals by short-wave radio to bring you up-to-the-minute reports on the war. But first, here is the situation in brief. On the eastern front, Thembrians continue their efforts to drive back Hounslandian troops at Stallingout. Allied convoys from Aridia have relieved the besieged island of Malto. In the Pacific theater, the Zapanese have created a jungle fortress on the island of New Guinea Pig…"
"Turn it off, Becky," Baloo growled, pushing back his cap and squinting at the lamplight. "Why don't those reporters give us some good news for a change? Like 'The war's over. Go on back to your lives?' That sorta thing."
Rebecca paused in adding up numbers in a ledger to flip off the radio. "A lot can happen in a year."
"A lot better happen in a year. If not…"
"We promised we wouldn't worry about that until the time came, remember?" She gave her husband an encouraging smile that attempted to conceal her own anxiety about the future.
"Yeah, but the time's comin' awful fast." With a sigh that came from his toes, Baloo glanced up towards Kit's bedroom.
Upstairs, seventeen-year-old Kit was trying to do homework, but his mind kept wandering. For the third time in as many minutes, he erased the sentence he had just written. He threw his pencil down on the desk with a growl of frustration. How could he be expected to write a history paper when young men barely older than himself were currently making history?
That old familiar restlessness possessed him. He wanted to see new places, do new things, but most of all, he wanted to fly. He knew the Sea Duck was tied up at the dock, but he also knew his parents wouldn't allow him to take it joyriding this late at night.
What he needed was his own plane. He had his pilot's license and thanks to the wages he'd earned as a navigator, he had a tidy sum saved up. He just couldn't understand his parents' reluctance. Their reasoning seemed, well, unreasonable. Time and again he had proven that he was responsible and level-headed when it came to flying.
Of course, there had been that one little incident…
Three Weeks Before
The Sea Duck
Kit and Baloo were flying up the coast to New Fedora to deliver a shipment of pinball machines for the Patriotic Pinball Playoffs and war bond rally. Or rather, Kit was flying while Baloo snoozed in the navigator's seat.
They were ahead of schedule, the weather was beautiful, and there wasn't anything around for miles. In other words, it was a boring flight. Kit, tired of listening to the mesmerizing hum of the Superflight 100s, flipped on his portable pocket radio.
Amid the airplane sound effects, a male actor shouted, "We're surrounded by Swatzi planes, Captain Gumption! Which ones should I take?"
A very confidant, very masculine voice answered, "You take the second from the left. I'll handle the rest, lieutenant."
"But, captain, that's got to be ten-to-one odds. You'll never make it, not with a broken arm."
The captain laughed heartily. "It's just a scratch. Set the bone myself. No, it'll be those dirty Swatzis who won't make it."
"Watch it now. Here they come!"
"Let 'em have it, Lieutenant Dan."
The announcer said, "Captain Gumption, the bravest flyer in the Usland Army Air Force, clenched his teeth and broke through the Swatzi line, barrel rolling and spraying bullets all the way. Before he was done, half of the Swatzi fighters were going down in fiery nosedives and the others were fleeing for their lives."
Turning off the radio, Kit said to himself, "Barrel roll? Piece of cake for the guy who aced his flying exams." He slowly revved up the throttle, pulled back on the stick, then nudged it to the left at precisely the right moment.
It looked to be a textbook perfect barrel roll until the aircraft was upside down.
That's when a plane-shaking thunk followed by ding, ding, ding, ding, ding came from the cargo hold as twenty crated pinball machines crashed against the ceiling at the same time.
"Whoa! What's goin' on?" Baloo exclaimed, jolting awake. He took the situation in at a glance – the plunging altimeter, the rising ocean, the wide-eyed young pilot – and grabbed the control yoke in front of him. "Leggo the stick, Li'l Britches!"
"No!" Kit stubbornly tightened his grip. "I'm a pilot now, and I don't need your help!"
Hours Later
At Higher for Hire
The sun was sinking behind the cliffs surrounding Cape Suzette when Baloo, Rebecca, and Kit stood on the dock beside the soggy crates containing the busted pinball machines. There was a strained silence between father and son as they watched Wildcat hooking up the crane to the upside-down Sea Duck.
"Oh, Kit, how could you?" Rebecca said quietly, her voice heavy with disappointment.
That comment hurt the teenager more than the loud, long lecture he'd endured from his father on the tugboat ride as it towed the Sea Duck all the way home.
"All set, Mollycat!" The mechanic hopped off the seaplane's belly onto the dock. "Push the green button."
"Can I push the button? I wanna push the button!" Cassie implored. Her purple hair ribbons bobbed up and down as she tugged on the older girl's pink grease-stained overalls.
Molly lifted her three-year-old sister up to the crane's control panel so she could punch the green button, causing the plane, metal protesting under the tension, to start to flip wing-over-wing.
Kit cringed guiltily when the Sea Duck splashed back onto its pontoons, spraying the dock and its occupants with salt water mist. "I'm sorry, Mom."
"Sorry?" Baloo scoffed. "Sorry? Flying's a dangerous business! You can't pull those kinda stunts, 'specially with a full load of cargo!"
Fed up with the lectures, Kit snapped, "You do it all the time!"
"That's 'cause I know my plane inside-out an' upside-down, which is where we were today no thanks to you, kid."
"I'm not a kid anymore. I'm a pilot, and I need my own plane!"
Baloo and Rebecca simultaneously shouted, "No!"
Present Day
Kit's Bedroom
But that was ancient history. Nearly three weeks ago! Besides, Wildcat could fix anything. The repaired pinball machines had been delivered the next day in plenty of time for the Patriotic Pinball Playoffs and war bond rally, and the Sea Duck's dents barely showed now.
Kit propped his chin in his hand and gazed longingly at a picture of a P-51 Stallion tacked to the wall above his desk like it was a pin-up girl. The sleek, single-seat fighter, equipped with a powerful propeller-driven engine, was an important tool in the Allies' arsenal. He let his imagination soar as he asked the question: "What would it be like to fly one of those babies?"
Meanwhile...
Halfway Around the World
A squadron of red-and-blue trimmed silver P-51 Stallions sliced through the skies over Hounsland. Their job was to distract enemy planes, giving the heavy bombers they were escorting a chance to drop their payloads on key Swatzi targets.
Flying one of those planes was young panther pilot on his first mission. He squinted into the rising sun, his hands sweating on the stick, his ears filled with the drone of planes, his eyes peeled for enemy fighters.
Suddenly, his entire body tensed when he heard a burst of gunfire followed by a large greenish-grey blur that looked vaguely like an oversized boomerang hurtling across the horizon.
In his earpiece, the squadron leader commanded, "Incoming! Incoming! All fire! All fire!" just as the plane off his port wing went down in a blazing ball.
A split second later, the blur was back, sending two bombers spiraling into the clouds below, the white parachutes of the crews billowing in its wake.
The novice pilot, frantically turning his head this way and that in an effort to spot the adversary, stuttered, "C-can you see 'em, sir?"
"Them?" The seasoned squadron leader sounded shaken as well. "More like him. I think there's only one."
Whoosh! The mystery aircraft streaked past the window again, then boom! It seemed as if the entire sky exploded in front of the young man's eyes. His plane shuddered violently and started to nosedive.
Sky melded into ground as the wingless P-51 Stallion went into a tailspin. "I've been hit! Mayday! Mayday!" he cried, fumbling with the latch on the cockpit canopy.
A Week Later
Khan Towers
High above the bustling streets of Cape Suzette, Shere Khan studied the black-and-white photographs spread across the surface of his shining desk. The stoic businessman, who was rarely impressed by anything, murmured, "Most impressive." Addressing the brawny lion sitting across from him, he asked, "You say these photographs were smuggled out of Hounsland, general?"
General "Lots-of-Guts" Stately was a dead ringer for the famous western movie star John Mane, even down to the drawl. Only the cowboy outfit had been replaced by an Usland Army Air Force uniform, the six-shooter by an automatic pistol.
"Yes, sir. We lost one of our best men getting this information."
Peering through a gold-rimmed magnifying glass at a photograph, Khan said,"What else can you tell me about this aircraft?"
While the businessman studied the photographs, General Stately studied the vegetation that lined the office. He was tempted to use those lip-smacking Venus fly traps for target practice. Instead, he drummed his fingers on the crown of the cap that rested on his knee. "One of 'em took out three entire squadrons of fighters and flying fortresses by itself in the same day."
"Indeed?"
Obviously impatient to get back to his military base, the general unfolded his tall frame from the chair. "I came to you, Mr. Khan, because your company has the reputation of being the best and, at this point in the war, we need the best. If your men can't do it, tell me now and I'll go elsewhere."
"It would be easier for my engineers to construct a similar aircraft if I had blueprints or perhaps even a prototype."
General Stately considered the possibilities for a moment, none of which seemed too promising. "It won't be easy, but I'll see what I can do."
Shere Khan rose and stretched out a hand. "I'll have my top men working on it right away."
Shaking hands, the general said gravely, "I don't need to tell you that with this technology, this war has just moved to a whole new level."
After the elevator doors closed behind the general, Shere Khan, a satisfied glint in his eye, said, "Mm…yes. A very profitable one."
An Hour Later
The Iron Vulture
A Few Miles from Cape Suzette
"This war stinks," Mad Dog whined as he and the other air pirates rummaged through a pile of loot they had recently captured.
"Yeah," Dumptruck agreed. "All da cargo planes haul these days are weapons, weapons, and more weapons." He casually tossed a heavy crate aside as if it contained feathers instead of hand grenades.
Letting a fistful of bullets filter through his fingers, Mad Dog said, "I miss the good old days when cargo pilots shipped jewels."
Hacksaw, prying the lid off a crate containing machine guns, added, "Gold bars."
"Citrus fruit," Hal mentioned, peering through a rifle sight.
"Citrus fruit?" the other pirates echoed, staring at him in amazement.
"I need vitamin C. I think I'm getting scurvy." The feline wiggled a loose canine tooth.
"This war stinks," Mad Dog repeated.
"Yeah," all the pirates droned sadly.
Just then, Don Karnage, their cunning commander, entered the room. "What are you fooligans doing lollipop-gagging around? Do not you know that there is a future victim-type plane out there ripe for the attacking?"
Cheering, the pirates dropped the weapons and headed for their planes.
Meanwhile...
The Sea Duck
"But, Papa Bear," Kit implored from the navigator's seat, "I'm telling you I have enough money to buy that plane."
Baloo scrutinized the photograph in the Flyboy Magazine ad. "Yeah, but why would ya want to? It looks like if ya breathed on it wrong, it'd fall apart."
"Aw, Wildcat and Molly can fix it up."
"Not if Cassie swipes their tools again," Baloo chuckled. He handed the magazine back to his son. "Clever the way she used 'em to grab the cookie jar outta the filing cabinet."
Crossing his arms across his chest, Kit frowned down at the magazine on his lap, his hopes fizzling. "You told me that your first plane wasn't always what it was cracked up to be."
Baloo smiled to himself. Some things never changed. No matter what age he was, Kit was still the same impatient, impetuous boy when it came to flying. In that way, they were a lot alike. However, thanks to this impatient, impetuous boy, the big bear had learned that there was more to life than flying. "I just don't want you crackin' up in that old jalopy. It don't look safe."
"I'll be safe," Kit assured him quickly.
"Safe like we were a month ago with the Duck nose down in the drink?"
"Jeepers, am I ever gonna live that down?"
"You're a good pilot, kid, but you gotta log more flight time before I let ya go solo in your own plane."
"But I'm the only one in the history of F.L.A.P. to ace both the written exam and the flight test with Ralph 'Love-to-Flunk-'Em' Throgmorton plus I have way more hours than what the flight manual requires."
"I couldn't be prouder of ya, but there's a lot about flying that the..."
"...manual don't teach," Kit recited along. If he had a dollar for every time he'd heard Baloo say that, he could afford to buy the Spruce Moose.
"Exactly."
In desperation, Kit threw out his last, and perhaps best, argument. "But if I have a plane of my own, Higher for Hire will be able to deliver twice the cargo."
Pushing the boy's new navy blue pilot's cap down over his eyes, Baloo said, "Better save that speech for your mama."
Kit scowled as he adjusted his cap. Once again the score was parent one, teenager zip. "What's the good of having a pilot's license if you don't have your own...pirates!"
"Pirates?"
Off to their left, a swarm of the air pirates' CT-37s were herding an Uslandian army transport plane towards the Iron Vulture.
"We gotta save them," Kit said as he ran to the cargo hold, unfolding his airfoil with the push of a button.
Baloo turned the Sea Duck towards the battle's fray. "On our way, Li'l Britches."
In one fluid motion, Kit pulled the lever to open the back hatch, grabbed a dubious-looking weapon from a hook on the wall, and slung its strap over his shoulder. Snatching the end of the towrope, he bounced off the hatch like it was a diving board and slipped his airfoil under his feet.
When he got close to the CT-37 manned by Hal, he pulled the trigger of the gun that had been cobbled together from some of Wildcat's spare parts. Fruit of all kinds came flying out the barrel, pummeling the pirates.
A mango sailed right into Hal's wide-open mouth. Gulp! "Mmm! Vitamin C!"
Meanwhile...
The Army Transport Cockpit
"What are you doing, Grogg?" General Stately growled angrily. He thought it absurd that a mighty Uslandian Army Air Force plane was being bested by the local riff-raff. "I order you to get away from these pirates!"
"I'd be able to, sir!" The jittery cocker spaniel snapped a salute. "If there were guns on this plane, sir!" He saluted again. "But for some reason, my uncle won't let me have guns, sir!"
Splat! Something green smeared the windshield.
"Crafty devils," Grogg cried, a crazed look in his eyes. "Those pirates have been consorting with the martians and have flesh-melting ooze guns. Well, I'm too smart for them!" He turned on the windshield wiper, shouting, "You'll have to try harder than that to shake Captain Grogg!"
"Get ahold of yourself, soldier. It's just a melon." The general muttered to himself, "Now I know why your uncle wanted you transferred to the air force."
Just when General Stately thought they were at the air pirates' mercy, he saw something he'd never seen before: a young man on a metal board of some kind being towed behind a seaplane. The cloudsurfer, who was easily dodging bullets, laughed triumphantly when he plastered a pirate plane propeller with pineapples, causing it to go down.
The general picked up the microphone.
A Little While Later
On a Small Island
The Sea Duck floated on the ocean, moored beside the army air transport plane parked on the small island, which was uninhabited except for a few seagulls.
"Now wait just a prop-spinnin' minute!" Baloo interrupted the general so loudly that he caused the seagulls to take to the air. "My boy ain't eighteen 'til next year."
"Eight months." Kit corrected him.
Shooting a frown at his son, Baloo said emphatically, "Next...year."
General Stately looked Baloo directly in the eye. "A year or eight months will be too late. We need someone with his special talent now. This is serious business, Mr. von Bruinwald. Thousands of lives are at stake, maybe even the outcome of the entire war."
"What about all them parachuters ya got?"
"Parachutes can be seen and heard, making them an easy target, but with this...this..."
"Airfoil," Kit supplied enthusiastically.
"Airfoil you're virtually silent. You got your pilot's license?"
Proudly, Kit said, "Yes, sir." Here was someone who treated him like the adult pilot he was. He dug his license out of his pocket to show to the general.
Baloo was wishing that he'd left this uppity general to the pirates. "He may have a license, but he's still got a lot to learn. 'Sides, you haven't even told us what he's gonna be doin'!"
Ignoring Baloo's protests, General Stately said, "Perfect. Welcome to the Army Air Force, von Bruinwald."
Kit was more than eager to shake the general's proffered hand and get a chance to fly a P-51 Stallion, but something in Baloo's expression made him hold back. "What do you say, Papa Bear?"
Baloo uneasily rubbed the back of his neck. In thirty seconds, he felt like he'd aged thirty years. Half of him wanted to drag his underaged kid's tail section back home, but the other half thought of all those other men's sons whose lives were on the line. The fate of the war, not to mention the world, was a lot to put on a seventeen-year-old's shoulders, but he knew better than anyone that Kit was no ordinary seventeen-year-old. Feeling he had no choice, he engulfed the boy in a tight embrace. "I say Becky's gonna give me an earful."
Hours Later
Aboard the Army Air Transport Plane
Kit, standing between the pilot's and copilot's seats, adjusted the uncomfortable flight helmet that left only his eyes exposed and wondered how much longer it would be to their destination. The navigator-turned-pilot glanced at his pocketwatch then out the window, immediately deducing from the position of the stars, airspeed, compass position, and the time that they were somewhere over Hounsland. As luck would have it, his nose started to itch, but he knew it was dangerous to remove his oxygen mask at these high altitudes.
Wriggling his nose in a futile attempt to alleviate the itching, Kit listened as General Stately informed him about his mission. "We brought you on board for this." The lion held out a photograph.
"Whoa!" Kit couldn't believe his eyes. In the glow of the instruments' lights, the airplane in the photo looked eerily like something straight out of his old Space Riders comics. It was basically the same shape as his airfoil complete with cockpit and engines. Jet engines at that. Squinting, he could make out machine gun turrets sticking out beneath each wing. "Is this real?" he asked into the oxygen mask microphone.
Stately nodded. "That's the fastest, most sophisticated plane on the face of this earth."
"I'll say!"
"We need you to steal it and bring it to us."
Kit gulped, his confidence taking a slight nosedive. There was definitely nothing in the flyer's ed manual about jet planes. Gathering his courage, he said, "Yes, sir."
"Allied intelligence has sighted the jet on the ground here, here, and here." Stately pointed to places on a map. "We're going to drop you here," he tapped the map twice, "near the last known location, but since it's deep within enemy territory, landing is out of the question. So you'll be jumping and gliding down with that...that…"
"Airfoil," Kit said thoughtfully.
"Take us down to 10,000 feet, Captain, and take evasive action."
"Yes, sir!" With every punctuated 'sir', Grogg snapped a salute. "I'll keep my eyes peeled for martians too, sir!"
General Stately sighed and shook his head. "I've got to have a talk with his uncle."
When they decreased their altitude, anti-aircraft guns began firing on them, giving the plane's occupants a very bumpy ride. Kit redoubled his hold on the seatbacks in an attempt to stay upright.
"One last thing, von Bruinwald," the general said, pitching his voice over the bombs bursting all around them. "Don't get caught and don't get shot."
Removing his flight helmet, Kit muttered, "Technically, that's two things." With a determined expression, he staggered back to the cargo hold and opened the side door, letting in a gust of cold wind laced with the acrid stench of gunpowder. He pulled his airfoil from underneath his air force-provided insulated flight suit.
The teenager, clutching the door frame in one hand and his airfoil in the other, looked out at the night sky being punctured by intermittent flak, trying to ascertain the right time to jump. This was the craziest thing he'd ever attempted in his life. Surfing through bombs, infiltrating enemy territory, stealing a jet plane he didn't know how to fly. Baloo would never let him do any of those things, but Baloo wasn't here now. He hadn't known danger - or freedom - like this for a long, long time. Adrenaline coursed through his veins as he jumped out of the plane, sliding his trusty airfoil beneath him.
"Wahoo," he said quietly, grinning from ear to ear.
Kit made a tight circle in an attempt to slow his descent. All around him, the sky was lit up by artillery, the echoes of which mingled with the fading hum of the transport plane's twin engines.
He was enjoying the light show until the blast of a nearby bomb blew him off his airfoil.
Freefalling!
Forcing himself to stay calm as the wind roared in his ears, Kit saw a flash of silver silhouetted against the sky. His airfoil! With herculean effort, he lunged for it. As his fingers closed around the cold metal, he found himself bouncing once...
"Ouch!"
Twice…
"Oof!"
Three times down a steeply sloped roof.
"Yeowch!"
Then…
"Aaah!"
He had crashed through a weak point in the shingles.
But his fall was cut short. Kit found himself tangled in wire, dangling upside-down, far above the floor of what appeared to be a barn.
For a brief moment, he was aware of a kerosene lamp in the corner giving off a dim light, the smell of warm hay, the frightened clucking of chickens, a cow placidly chewing her cud. Then the thin wire snapped, sending him hurtling head-first to the ground.
Moments before Kit blacked out, he heard someone emit a sharp cry.
End of part 1