6

only four

Dex abandoned his usual post inside the aerodrome and joined Polly, the mechanics and some of the lagging pilots out on the open airfield. Angry clouds were gathering into what threatened to be a storm, but something else dampened the Legion's spirits. As Sky Captain's squadron came into view, the men focused their binoculars anxiously on the returning heroes and gravely murmured to each other. Usually there was cheering and smiling, along with several appropriate, praising oaths in Sky Captain's favor, the commander being, though recklessly independent, well liked and respected. Even Polly, who was mostly ignorant of the aerial world and failed to pick up any knowledge despite her time with Joe, noticed the grimness of the pilots as they watched the approaching formation, taking long, sullen draughts from their cigarettes or brandy glasses, fidgeting and chuckling nervously.

"What's wrong?" she asked quietly, not wanting to disturb the solemn talk. Dex lowered his binoculars, masticating his chewing gum with alarming gravity.

"Five pilots went out," he said, displaying his hand with five fingers up as if Polly was a poorly informed child—which indeed she was on the topic of pilots and planes and warfare. He handed her the binoculars, his eyes fixed on the approaching Warhawks. "Only four are coming back." Before he could hold up his hand with four fingers up, Polly drew in a sharp breath, seizing the binoculars from Dex's hand and pressing them to her eyes. He was right—four Warhawks in a rather loose formation were making their way back.

"Joe…?" she questioned, unable to recognize the markings on each plane. Dex shook his head, smiled ruefully and said, "No, not Joe." Polly breathed a deep sigh of relief, but she still felt the oppressive atmosphere that pervaded the airbase. It seemed like an eternity before the Warhawks touched down and taxied into the hangar, and when they did Joe climbed slowly out of his cockpit without so much as a glance at the apprehensive Polly, let alone the pilots that had gathered around. They already knew, knew what faces had returned and the one that had not, but it seemed blasphemous to not hear the name from Joe's lips. With expectant faces they watched their captain, waiting for the foregone news to break.

"Randy Moore," he said, calm and stone-like. His voice echoed in the usually bustling hangar, echoing strangely in the large, cold space. "Randy Moore went down." He didn't say anything else—indeed, didn't need to—and simply walked away. The crowd began to disperse, some muttering quietly, others silent, all wearing long faces. A death, though not unexpected, as always a nasty, somber shock and Randy Moore was a valued lieutenant who had showed extraordinary potential.

Charlie climbed slowly from the cockpit, clumsily finding the ground. Ben joined him and they began to the long trek back to the bar form whence they had originally come, not bothering to remove their flight gear except for their flight caps, which Charlie tore off with tired vehemence.

"I need a coffee," he sighed. Ben studiously examined his flight goggles, but his eyes were distant and faraway.

"I need one of your drinks," he said after a moment. And both of them indulged in their own different ways late into the night.

In his dark office, Joe sat numbly at his desk. He stayed that way for at least half an hour, motionless but thoughtful. Almost as an afterthought, he slid open a drawer and retrieved the familiar Milk of Magnesia as well as a glass, pouring the milk-white liquid in one smooth move achieved after years of custom. Even then, he was distant and absent-minded. It had been a long time since the Legion had lost a pilot, perhaps too long. They had become complacent, forgotten about the risk of war. Did they think that only infantrymen suffered? It was easy to forget that a pilot was, in many ways, just as vulnerable as a grounded soldier. Many were taking it too lightly, pulling off tricks and capers as if they were invincible, the free air intoxicating their senses. But no one was, no one—he was roused out of his reverie by a knock on the door, called, "Come in." The door swung open and Dex appeared in the threshold.

"What news, Dex?" Joe asked briskly, shaking off any signs of his recent trance-like state. "Did you identify the plane we shot down?" He took a sip from his glass, pulled a wry face.

"Sorry, Cap," Dex replied. "It had a tidy self-destruct mechanism. Sergeant Henderson went in to take a look as soon as you got back, but it went up in flames before he could see anything important and exploded into smithereens." Joe was quiet for a moment, and then: "And Moore?"

"Gone, Cap," Dex answered softly. "Almost nothing left. Fire took care of that." He didn't need to elaborate, but even so Joe secretly shivered in his thick flight jacket. He couldn't imagine what it would be like to end in such a way, such agony.

"I want those planes tracked, Dex, and I want their whereabouts known immediately."

"I'm on it. I'll have every station reporting in and if there's so much as a duck landing somewhere in Tokyo you'll know."

"Thanks, Dex," Joe said. Dex left, closing the door quietly behind him. As soon as Joe heard his footsteps fade down the hallway, he opened his drawer again, pulling out a clean sheet of paper and a fountain pen. He hated this business, but it was his duty. He wouldn't have an untimely newspaper article or radio newscast delivering the news. With infinite care, he began his letter: To the parents of Lieutenant Randall Moore; I have the greatest and most sincere regret to inform you…

Despite Dex's claim, a week passed without so much as a word on the mysterious, unregistered planes. Dex and Polly worked fervently on the case, calling numerous contacts but turning up with nothing. Britain and the United States were clueless, France snapped that it had far more important matters at hand, and Germany denied any attacks on the mercenary base. Joe was getting frustrated enough to comb the skies himself, and he often went out on early patrols before anyone else was up, circling the aerodrome knowing perfectly well that the enemy would be long gone but vengeful anyway. Yet all of Dex and Polly's digging paid off at the end of the second week.

"Cap!" Dex barked, bent over a chart with Polly. They had drawn all sorts of incomprehensible symbols and notes on it, and the original map was almost concealed by their doodles. Joe joined them, all geared up as he had just returned from an early patrol.

"What is it?"

"Shanghai station called in just now. Said they had gotten reports of some unidentified Warhawks around northern China, around…here." Dex pointed at the map to a boldly penned symbol, and Joe's eyes followed his finger.

"Beijing?" Joe's voice faltered for a moment with doubt. "How can you be sure they're the ones we're looking for?"

"They have the bear emblem," Polly said, a subtle smirk curving her lip. Joe saw it and let out an exasperated sigh, "Oh, no, Polly…please don't gloat—"

"It looks like we're going to China after all," she said, brushing away his comment. "Come on, we haven't a moment to lose."

Charlie set his coffee down, scowling at the newspaper that was spread before him. Though it was nine in the morning, the bar was full of pilots exchanging rumors, jokes, and witticisms. Ben was gently coaxing a radio he had repaired, refusing to allow Dex to tamper with it. It did not, however, appear to work very well yet, and Ben decided he would take a quick break before making a fresh attempt at persuading it to tune into anything but static. Instead he joined Charlie at his table, saw his friend's face, and gave him a simple questioning look.

"Take a look," Charlie said, tapping the print. There, in bold letters, the headlines read: MYSTERY PLANES CLAIM LIFE OF LEGION PILOT; IS SKY CAPTAIN AND CO. LOSING THEIR TOUCH?

"Took a while, didn't it?" Ben said grimly. Polly had exerted all her effort to prevent any falsities and exaggerations from creeping into the story, but in two weeks reporters had snatched up the crumbs of what little information they could find and turned it into a highly decorated tale. Polly had written her own account, extricating the accurate version from the pilots who had followed Sky Captain in the battle, but the Chronicle's sales were sadly outstripped by the Independent's; its thrilling if exceedingly distorted description was more appealing to excited readers.

"'Sky Captain immediately took to the skies with five of his pilots, engaging the unknown planes in a head-on encounter…six Legion planes pitted against six mystery…a heated duel…Lieutenant Randall Moore shot down while the Legion scored no kills—' Spelled your name wrong, Charlie, right here. 'Charles Loveberry among those involved in the conflict.' What the hell is this?" Ben yanked the paper up, scanning the lines.

"The Independent," Charlie replied, taking a gulp of coffee and setting the cup down with unnecessary violence. Ben continued to read aloud, and the bar was suddenly hushed as they listened in seething rage: "'Can Sky Captain be trusted to guard the skies? Can the Legion compare to this latest menace?' I'll be damned."

"I'll be damned too," chimed in another. "The Independent's all over and blew Polly out of the picture, the bastards." Though Polly had achieved little, the pilots still valued her efforts and loyally scorned all other newspapers and their outrageous stories.

"Quiet!" bellowed a pilot who had taken Ben's place. He had successfully tuned into something, and now the words came through well enough in the familiar stimulated tone of a newscast: "Lieutenant Randall Moore was shoot down in gallant defense of the Legion's airbase and the mystery planes escaped unscathed except for a few minor damages. Sky Captain is beginning to come under fire from various military commanders who claim his conduct fails to equate to his past accomplishments—"

"I'll break that damn radio again if we keep getting that bogus," muttered Albert Rogers at the piano in the corner. "Newspapers love a tragedy, you know. Good news means no news for them." He caressed a light tune from the keys, but, as spirits took a downward turn, eventually fell into stroking out one of Beethoven's sonata that, even then, seemed too optimistic for the circumstances. Charlie swirled the last of his coffee around the bottom of his cup, feeling despondent and helpless. He and the other pilots in the skirmish had been accused, too, of inadequate endeavors to bring down the "mystery planes," but that had been mere schoolboys' name-calling in comparison to what abuseSky Captain endured. Joe took it with indifference, seemed to deflect it without any trouble, but most of the guilt fell on the devoted Legion pilots. They just needed one chance, one opportunity, and they would snap it up in a moment to redeem the Legion's tarnishing reputation, however realistically little that tarnish was.

Charlie lifted his coffee to his lips and was about to finish it when the door slammed open. Dex stood there beaming, chewing furiously on his ever-present chewing gum.

"Boys, pack up. Some of you are headed for China."