Summary: Lt. Dick Grayson is shot down while flying a fighter escort mission over Germany. It's up Hogan's Heroes to get the young flyer back to Allied Lines.
Disclaimer: Comic characters belong to DC/Vertigo and Time/Warner, while Hogan's Heroes is owned by Paramount, Viacom and others; this is an original story that doesn't intend to infringe on their copyright. Feedback is welcome.
Copyright January 2004
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Nightwing/Hogan's Heroes: Blackhawk Down!
By Syl Francis
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Monday, May 29, 1944 (1400hrs, local)
Somewhere over Nazi Germany
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"Blackhawk one to Blackhawk two! Come in! Dick! Come in!" Col. Bruce Wayne, Blackhawk Squadron Leader, watched in horror as his son's P-51 Mustang spiraled out of sight, a black, oily plume of smoke trailing behind him. He'd always known it was a mistake to allow his adopted son to serve under him. But how could he ever have stopped him?
A second black plume marked the enemy plane that Dick had managed to take out just seconds before his own plane took a direct hit. Wayne didn't have time to follow the plumes to their inevitable fate. His squadron was flying fighter escort, protecting a large formation of B-17s, and had its hands full.
"He's gone, sir!" 1Lt. Wally West's quiet voice broke through the blackness that had descended. "I didn't see a 'chute."
"Man, oh man..." Wayne heard 1Lt. Roy Harper's voice repeating over and over in shocked monotone. "Man, oh man...not Dick."
"Can the chatter, Blackhawks!" Wayne bit out angrily. He felt the pain dangerously close to overwhelming him. "And keep your eyes peeled for bogies!"
"Blackhawk five to Blackhawk one! Sir, request permission to fly a recon mission!" 2Lt. Tim Drake's still boyish voice broke in. "I can do a quick flyby and search for survivors!"
"Hey, I'm with you Timmy!" Roy called. "Sir, request permission to accompany Blackhawk five--"
Blinking rapidly, Wayne hoarsely gave the order they knew he had to give. "Negative, Blackhawk five. We have a mission to accomplish, and I can't spare any of you. Fall back into escort formation."
"Blackhawk three, roger!" Harper replied stonily.
"Blackhawk four, copy!" West choked on his words.
"Blackhawk five...I copy, sir." Drake's young voice finally acknowledged Wayne's order. Dick had taken the youngster under his wing from the beginning, showing him the ropes, and making him his wingman. The junior Mustang pilot worshiped the ground Dick walked on; therefore, Wayne knew that the boy would take Dick's loss badly.
As will I, Wayne admitted silently. As will I.
With a roar of their powerful Merlin engines, the four remaining Mustangs banked gracefully, and once again took up their watchful positions around the larger, lumbering Flying Fortresses.
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Fighting his controls, Lt. Grayson attempted to fly the crippled Mustang. He knew that he'd have to bail sooner rather than later. Looking up, he saw the B-17 formation continue on its bombing mission. The black smoke from anti-aircraft fire was so thick, he wondered how anything in the air could possibly survive its deadly onslaught.
Grayson was momentarily overcome with guilt at the thought of what Bruce's reaction to his 'loss' would be. "I'm sorry, Big Guy," he said apologetically. He thought about the great losses that his stepfather had already suffered in his life and hated being responsible for bringing him any further pain.
But orders were orders.
The treetops were swiftly increasing in size, and Grayson realized that it was time. Quickly, he undid his safety straps and opened the plane's clear canopy. Hastily muttering a brief prayer, Grayson steeled himself and jumped. Spread-eagled, he delighted in the temporary feeling of free fall--bringing back memories of his boyhood days in the circus. Just for fun of it, he somersaulted a few times, enjoying the sudden rush of adrenaline. Waiting until the last possible moment, Grayson released his main chute.
Instantly, he felt his shoulders being pulled painfully back, and his rapid descent was abruptly checked. Moments later, Grayson was safely on the ground. Working quickly, he gathered his parachute and hid it in the underbrush as best he could.
Taking out his pistol, he gave it a cursory check. Satisfied, he replaced it in his holster. "Guess I'm as ready as I'm going to be." With those words, Grayson hurried off in an approximately north by northeast direction.
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Monday, May 29, 1944 (1800hrs, local)
Stalag 13, Hammelburg, Germany
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Staff Sergeant James Kinchloe, radioman and prisoner of war, concentrated on the series of dots and dashes that were coming over his headset. As he listened, he wrote the corresponding letters onto his notepad in his neat shorthand. At the end of the message, he tapped out an acknowledgement and removed the headsets.
Opening the codebook, Kinchloe quickly decoded the message. A single, raised eyebrow was the only sign of concern over the contents. Finished, he tore out the communiqué and hurried upstairs to his commanding officer's quarters.
Ignoring the curious looks from the other Allied POWs, Kinchloe knocked briefly and entered without waiting for permission. Kinchloe immediately noted Col. Robert E. Hogan's look of surprise at his entrance. He knew that his CO had been studying a map of an underground munitions plant for an upcoming mission. Furthermore, Kinchloe also knew that because of surprise inspections in the past few weeks, coupled with a series of unannounced roll calls in the middle of the night, Hogan's usually meticulous planning had suffered a number of setbacks.
Kinchloe wasn't happy that he was about to hand his CO and best friend yet another such setback.
Sighing, Hogan carelessly tossed his pencil and calipers aside; he was not surprised by the interruption, just resigned to it. Lately, nothing seemed to be going right. The Germans had been jumping at shadows since the Italy landings earlier that year. And now with the Germans' recent withdrawal at Anzio, talk of invasion of the European mainland was on everyone's lips--both friend and foe alike.
Unfortunately, Hogan who was usually privy to so many Allied secrets had been deliberately left out of the loop this time. If there were an Allied invasion planned for the near future, he for one didn't have any of the details. Of course, he had his own sources--recently downed Allied flyers that consistently reported on an unprecedented build-up of men and materiel in England--but as yet, nothing definite.
But Allied invasion or no, Hogan had an ongoing mission to harass, disrupt, and otherwise keep the Germans occupied with his own unique blend of sabotage, subterfuge, and sleight of hand. In keeping with his mission, for the past six weeks he'd been planning the destruction of a munitions factory in time for the next full moon--June 6, 1944. Although only a week away, at his current rate, Hogan and his men would probably have to delay the mission yet another month.
This would be a major setback, especially since he'd already coordinated with two local resistance groups to assist, as well as his favorite standby--the US Army Air Force. "You can take the flyboy out of the air corps, but you can't take the air corps out of the flyboy," he'd quipped to his men. But that was weeks ago, when he'd still thought he could pull the mission off as he had so many before.
Now, Hogan only felt tired.
"Just received a coded message from London, sir," Kinchloe said, handing Hogan the small piece of paper. As he read the 'Most Secret' contents, Hogan's exhausted eyes became flint-hard, a familiar, determined light shining from within.
"Get the others," he ordered. Nodding, Kinchloe stuck his head out the door and called the rest of their team.
"Carter! LeBeau! Newkirk!" he barked. "Get the lead out, guys. The colonel wants to talk to us."
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Two months earlier...
Friday, March 24, 1944 (2200hrs local)
The Knights' Pub, London, England
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There was no moon out that Friday night, and the streets of London were largely deserted. The long years of war were finally beginning to take their toll on the city's residents. Up ahead, Grayson spotted the dark silhouette of the Knights' Pub, its blackened windows staring sightlessly out onto the empty streets. Standing outside the heavy oak door of the covered side entrance, Grayson could just make out the scratchy sound of a tinny voice produced by a worn-out phonograph player coming from inside.
Stepping inside, he barely recognized the voice of Bing Crosby, crooning the latest sentimental lyrics. Making his way to a secluded corner booth, Grayson slid in and immediately ordered two pints. He wasn't crazy about warm English beer, but it was the only thing available. By the same token, he wasn't crazy about this particular meeting, but Maj. Boston Brand had insisted. Like Grayson, Brand was a former circus performer. And the reason he's now going to attempt to recruit me, Grayson thought.
As soon as the beers arrived, Grayson spotted Brand walking towards him. Sliding into the seat immediately across from Grayson, Brand accepted the pint offered, and took a long draught without speaking. Finally, coming up for air, Brand let out a satisfied sigh and got down to business.
"Okay, Lieutenant, this is the deal. I never knew your parents personally, but everyone in the business knows about the Flying Graysons. They were two of the best, and their deaths were a great loss to the world of the circus." He paused and held up his beer mug. "A toast! To the Flying Graysons! The best-damned aerialists--with the possible exception of yours truly--" he added, pointed immodestly at himself. "--in the whole world." Not waiting for Grayson's response, Brand tossed his head back and chugged the rest of his beer. Putting his mug down, Brand leaned in closer, and then to Grayson's surprise added, "But kid, their loss was also a great blow to the government of the United States."
"What? I don't understand--" Grayson protested.
Brand held his hands up for quiet, and then proceeded to fill Grayson in on his parents' work for the US Secret Service. "Grayson, in the early 1930s, while wowing audiences across Europe--under their guise as world-renowned aerialists on tour with The Haly Circus--John and Mary Grayson provided the Secret Service with vital information on the growing power of the German Nazi Party."
Grayson shook his head. "Major, this is ridiculous. My parents were performers. They'd both grown up in the circus, just like their parents before them. I don't know where you got your information, but I assure you--"
"Grayson, your parents were professional agents working for the US government, but they were also your parents. Of course, they never told you. How old were you when they died? Six? Seven?"
"I was eight," Grayson said softly.
"Okay, eight," Brand nodded. "You were just a kid, in other words. Your parents wouldn't have told you in order to protect you."
Grayson shook his head, still unable to accept the fact that his parents had held secrets from him. Keeping his dark blue eyes on Brand's, he finally said, "Okay, suppose it's all true. What does that have to do with me?"
"Before your parents were killed," Brand said carefully, "they reported on some new aeronautics research that the Germans were just beginning."
"Like what?"
"Like long-range bombers with the capability of reaching the US mainland. Bombers so fast, they could outrun anything that we have currently in our inventory...."
"What, *bombers* faster than the Mustang?" Grayson said, his expression showing his disbelief.
"Not just faster, son," Brand said. "Ten times faster." Gauging the effect his words were having on the younger officer, Brand continued. "And let's not forget about their size...We're talking about planes so vast in size that they could dwarf some of our navy transports. Think of it son...a single payload on one of these monsters could be enough to wipe out an entire city--*several* cities!"
"But that's impossible!" Grayson snorted. "Why, there's nothing bigger than that new super-fortress that Boeing's just developed." This last was added in a very low voice.
"Really?" Brand asked. "Your parents died twelve years ago, shortly after sending HQ this report. Since then, we've lost a total of twelve agents whose sole mission was to find out more about these so-called 'Amerika Bombers'--one agent for each year since your parents' accidental deaths." He paused, studying the younger man. Finally, he added, "And we've never really been able to pinpoint just how 'accidental' their deaths *really* were."
Grayson went completely still. Mom and dad murdered? he wondered. Could it be true? After a long minute, Grayson finally looked up at Brand and steadily held his eyes.
"There's one other thing...before our last agent, codenamed Green Arrow, was lost, we received a report that there had been a sudden advancement in the development of the project." Brand shook his head. "Most of his message was garbled, but we did manage to decode two words--Project Themyscira." At Grayson's look of incomprehension, Brand shrugged. "We don't know what it means."
"Okay, Major. I'm ready to listen..."
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End of Part 1