Men of War
April 12, 1942
The toe of the boot sailed into Will Everett's ribs with enough force to convince him that his assailants had not lost their enthusiasm, nor their energy. Another landed on the opposite side, testing the solidity of his rib cage. Will kept his abdominal muscles tight, covered his head and did what little he could to weather the violence. The only good ache was in the knuckles on his right hand. Through the hail of limbs, Will could hear the recipient of his self-defense whine and curse. "My nose..."
The others were too caught up in their work to pay mind to their injured companion, offering up slurs with their stomping. Try as he might, enough blows got through his meager coverage that everything was getting fuzzy at the edges. Blood leaked from his own nose and split lip. He couldn't tell how many were against him. Four? Five? One by one his attackers ceased, out of exhaustion more than anything, giving way to panting and pacing nearby, till there was only one half-hearted foot striking him. Not that it changed anything. Light and sound were stretched out and distorted, his hold on wakefulness entirely compromised.
"I think he broke my nose," whined the injured man.
"Shut up about your nose. Not my fault you let that Negro get the better of you."
"We done softened him up. Not too pretty now eh?" said another. There was a chorus of approval.
"Time to wrap this up fellas. Get the rope."
It wasn't supposed to go this way, being dragged across the grass and mud in backwater on his way to a prompt execution. Will was from Mississippi, a child of sharecroppers. The Depression ate up his family's farm, along with everyone else around. It was the start of the lean years, the cruel years, a hardscrabble existence where each meal was its own blessing. "Last hired and first fired," was the curse of most black Americans. Many of them, including Will's aunts and uncles roamed north, hunting for what work remained in the industrial centers. Will's father, Jake Everett, refused, in spite of the protests of Will's mother, Lula May, and his sisters. He was not a man governed by pride, but he had made up his mind that Mississippi was where he would live and where he would die. So, the Everett's scraped by, taking whatever work they could find.
No black child in Mississippi had any illusions about the order that ruled America. Black and white, colored or not. For many, that clipped their wings before they ever had a chance to fly. Will would have been one of those many, if not for his uncommon athleticism. By the time he reached high school, he was turning in times on the track that outdid collegiate runners. He parlayed his talents, along with a studiousness instilled by his mother, into a place on the track and field team at Atlanta University, his first venture outside of his home state. The change in scenery did wonders for Will, an expanding of his world and the possibilities inherent to it. He broke school record after record, all while keeping abreast of the wider developments for black Americans, through groups like the NAACP and the National Negro Congress. The odds remained against him, but for the first time it seemed like he could beat them. In 1936, Berlin beckoned. Were it not for Jesse Owens, the papers back home would have been printing Will Everett's name as the preeminent American athlete, the refutation of Adolf Hitler's Aryan agenda.
It was in the wake of his brush with glory that what appeared to be a vigorous climb upwards altered its course. Late in his tenure at Atlanta University, Will received word that his father was ill, which prompted a return home, complete with a sudden halt to his education. The family came first, a tired mantra that got him through the drudgery required to keep his parents afloat in the face of his father's sickness. The only reprieve was the promise that this was a temporary stop on his road to success.
Then he crossed the line. On his way home from the movies with a group of his friends, Will bumped into a white man, with his own parallel posse. Or he looked at the man's girl funny. Or nothing at all. An all too common breed, it was enough that Will existed, that he demanded to be reminded of his place. The Will Everett of the Depression may have born the insults and threats that were hurled his way. The Will Everett of the Olympics did not. Words turned to blows. Will hit that first white man so hard he stumbled through a plate glass window. The fight became a retreat home. He had barely shut the front door when the police rolled up. For all Will's faith in progress, he knew in his bones that he was a dead man if they got his hands on him. So, he fled through the back door and hopped the fence, running to the nearest Army recruiter. He was on a train within the hour, bound for a training camp in Louisiana.
The Army was a slim reprieve. His fellow soldiers at Camp Claiborne were black. They represented a pool of earnest volunteers, draft recipients and folks that were simply out of other options, like Will. The officers were all white. Mostly from the South, fully primed to treat their trainees with the same respect they showed them in their civilian lives. All that kept Will going was the thought that one day this would be over. That maybe, just maybe, his service would prove something to America, the America that he hoped it could be.
Then he slipped up again. Leave wasn't plentiful, so when Will got a chance to stretch his legs he took it. The problem was that while the danger of being black in America was near universal, the particulars remained on a local scale. He had become so accustomed to the topography of Jackson, of Atlanta, that he assumed he could navigate his new surroundings. Will didn't know what he had done to insult the group that set upon him, only the ugly honesty of their intentions.
The men ceased dragging Will, dropping him to the ground.
"This'll do. Find a branch that can hold his weight," said one of the men.
Will urged his body to get up, but he wasn't really present anymore, only a dim observer of what was bout to happen. His limited effort to rise was met with another boot to his back.
"Stay put boy," said a tormentor.
"There we go," said another. "Hand me that noose."
Will was once again hauled to his feet. He squirmed in their grip, unable to break free, barely able to see through his puffy eyes. He felt the rope being placed around his head, catching painfully on one ear. As his soon-to-be killers tried to get it fully on, Will thought of someplace better. The podium in Berlin, his dorm room in Atlanta, sitting on the back porch with his parents.
There was a crack somewhere behind Will. One of the men inhaled sharply. There was the whistle of air moving out of the way, followed by a heavy thud. Someone began to scream.
"The hell?" shouted the man fumbling with the noose. He let go of Will, shouldering him as he moved, sending Will back to the ground. He grimaced as someone stepped on his ankle, tripping over him.
There was another shriek of pain. Will could hear rapid movements, as well as the frantic breathing of his assailants.
"Get that gun on him. Shoot dammit," shouted a man.
"He's too close to Rick."
"Shoot!"
There was the raucous discharge of a shotgun, a flash that blinked out what little vision Will had anymore. A second blast. Birds vacated the trees.
"You got the bastard!" said the first man.
"No..that's Rick.."
Footsteps, heavy and approaching fast.
"Shoot him again!"
"I'm reloading it," said a wavering voice.
Another thud, another scream. Someone fell within Will's narrow field of view, crawling backwards on their behind.
"Wait! Wait just a second here! I said wait!" the figure begged.
Something wet happened to the man's face. Will wasn't sad he missed out on the details. The head of a sledgehammer was wrenched from what was left of his assailant. A single strong arm lifted Will to his feet.
"Can you see?" said a dark, husky voice.
"Barely."
"How about walk?"
Will nodded.
"I'll keep close. Follow me exactly."
The rest of the night was a haze, a march through the backwoods. More than once Will tripped, betrayed by his lack of clear sight. Each time, his savior yanked him, up, urging the need to continue with that same growl. They stopped at a small cabin where he left Will on a ragged cot.
Will awoke with his sight restored. At least in his right eye. The left remained swollen shut. His whole face was tender, along with the bulk of his chest and stomach. A quick sweep of his mouth with his tongue revealed that miraculously his teeth remained intact.
The door of the cabin swung open, giving Will the first real look at his protector. The man was enormous, barely fitting through the opening. He wore a black hood, with a severed noose around his neck. A sledgehammer was propped against the wall, its head caked in dry blood. The hooded man carried a pail of water, which he brought to Will's cot. He poured some into a cup on an adjacent nightstand, before setting the rest in front of Will. He provided a cloth to dip in the pail.
"To clean yourself up."
Will did just that, gingerly running the wet cloth over his tender face.
"Thank you."
The man simply grunted, having sat down at the only chair in the cabin. He peered through the window out into the surrounding woods.
"Where are we?"
"Nowhere important."
"Your place?"
The hooded man didn't respond. The wind shuffled through the trees outside the cabin, pushing branches that clattered on the walls.
"Did you kill those men?"
"Not all of them."
"On purpose?"
"If that's how the fight goes."
Will put his feet on the ground, clutching at his side. He cleaned the rest of the blood from his skin.
"A few of the boys back at camp talked about you. They're calling you John Henry in the papers," said Will.
The hooded man didn't answer. He continued to stare out the window as if he was waiting for someone.
"What now?" said Will.
"You go back to your army."
"What about those men? Shouldn't I report them?"
"Young man at least one of those men was an officer at your camp. You ain't dumb. You know that won't do anyone any good."
"What about this?" said Will, pointing at the mess that was his face.
"Make somethin up. Or don't. I saved your life here. You wanna throw that away, be my guest. Already giving it away to Uncle Sam."
Will got up, wobbling with each step. "Some of us don't have a choice."
The hooded man finally looked back at him. Will finally noticed the burn scars on his arms. "Don't I know it."
April 13, 1942
Death flowed freely in Bataan. For the thousands of Filipinos and Americans staggering along the long road to San Fernando death could arrive at any moment. They were already ground down by disease and starvation, symptoms of their hopeless defense of the peninsula. Their Japanese captors saw no reason to alleviate such ills, suffering from their own deprivations and unwilling to view their captives as worthy of any respect. Pockets and pouches were emptied of valuables. The dead looted. Gold teeth pulled, sometimes from still living mouths. Those unfortunate souls in possession of Japanese trinkets were executed right away. Stragglers, those too infirm to continue, those who collapsed on the road were shot, stabbed, beaten and cut down. Trucks ran down prisoners too slow or weak to walk. Men were made to sit in the blazing sun, within sight of water. The only recourse was to persist.
Yet, the Japanese were not the only dealers of death along the march. Something haunted the trail, a presence that kept the Japanese up at night, huddled back to back, lest they vanish into the landscape. Still, they would awaken to bodies strung up, tents full of soldiers slain, trucks set ablaze. Though it was forbidden for the prisoners to speak their name, it escaped lips in near silence, a prayer to their avenging angel.
Wherever the enemy trod, the Manhunter followed.
April 18, 1942
"Doolittle's given the order Malone. Time to go," said Sergeant Mills.
The news came as no surprise to Mickey Malone. It hadn't been long since one of the carrier's escorts, the Nashville had unleashed its guns on a picket boat, one of the many ships that made up Japan's floating early warning network. Even with the picket boat out of action, there was no way the Japanese didn't know about the Hornet or the rest of the carrier group. They would come hunting with their own planes and ships soon.
"I'll be at my fighter within ten minutes," said Mickey. He jogged past the sergeant through the halls of the aircraft carrier, making a short stop at his bunk. He slid the loose wall panel out of place, so he could retrieve his bag full of gear. From there, it was a simple matter to accompany the flow of bodies headed for the flight deck.
Once there, he skirted around the rows of B-25 bombers, parked tight as could be on the deck. They buzzed with activity, as their mechanics and crews made the last minute preparations for takeoff. He caught a glimpse of Lieutenant Colonel Doolittle, their ringleader, by his own bomber. The short, stocky man was one of the best pilots Mickey had ever met, a pioneer in the field. It was a consolation to the men that Doolittle wasn't asking of them anything he couldn't pull off himself. Mickey reached his own plane, the lone fighter on the Hornet. He unzipped the bag, pulling out the mask and flight jacket of his other self: the Phantom Eagle. In ordinary times, he would have been concerned about being seen changing, but the nature of his mission here overruled such concerns. They were all sworn to secrecy.
Mickey never planned on being a part of such a monumental project. It was mere happenstance that he was posted at McClellan Field as a mechanic. For a fellow that had built his own airplane at the ripe old age of seventeen, working on the craft brought there was comparatively simple, almost boring. He wanted to be a pilot, but he had bungled the recruitment process. His only recourse were outings as the Phantom Eagle, a persona he had concocted after seeing all those masked heroes in the papers. His one big achievement as the Phantom Eagle was the defeat of the Sky Pirate, a villain that had plagued the West Coast. He had also foiled the theft of a flight of fighter planes from a base in Northern California.
It was late March when a squadron of bombers was brought to McClellan for a series of modifications, which were to be performed as quickly as possible. Radios were removed, additional fuel tanks installed, plate glass swapped for plexiglass. Doolittle oversaw the whole affair, lighting a fire underneath the field's mechanics. Mickey found it queer how the bombers had already been altered, with the lower turret removed, a different bomb sight in place and painted broomsticks that stuck out from the rear of the craft.
That might have been the end of Mickey's involvement, if not for Doolittle's discovery. Mickey had no clue how the man managed it, but Dolittle and a G-man going by the name Kilbride had Mickey brought in for a little chat about his after hours endeavors. He had been sure he was facing court martial, till they offered him a more extensive role in this endeavor, the magnitude of which was revealed to him at last. Nothing short of America's response to Pearl Harbor. A bombing run on Japan, with Tokyo, Yokohama, Yokosuka, Osaka, Nagoya and Kobe.
As the B-25s prepped for takeoff, Mickey did a final check on his own plane, the real Phantom Eagle. Some of the other pilots and mechanics mistook it for a Bell P-39 Airacobra, but it was one of a kind, a product of nearly a full year's work in his family's barn, with parts sourced from all over the country.
"You sure that thing can handle a Zero?" said someone approaching Mickey.
It was Captain Midnight, the other oddball on the job. He was a costumed type, in a red and blue costume, with yellow wings on his chest. His head was adorned with a flight helmet and goggles, though if had any worry about a secret identity, the man never showed it, walking around with his face fully exposed. He wore a belt ringed with what looked like thin black discs.
"She'll make those Zeros look like they're standing still," said Mickey, patting the wing of his craft.
Captain Midnight scratched his chin. "For our sake, I hope you're right. Don't discount their pilots."
It was difficult to separate rumor from truth with the man, but Mickey knew that Captain Midnight had seen action already. He was one of the only heroes operating in the Pacific.
"The real question is if we have enough fuel," said Mickey. They were lifting off hundreds of miles earlier than planned. Even if all went perfectly, reaching their end point in China was anything but guaranteed.
"Worry about that if we survive Tokyo," said Midnight.
"When we survive Tokyo," said Phantom Eagle, clapping the man on the shoulder.
The flight to Tokyo was long, long enough for Mickey to run all the versions of how this could go. His plane flew at wave top height, single file with the rest of the bombers. The bomber group was operating entirely according to the plan at this point. They had no radios, which were removed to improve fuel efficiency and negate any chance of breaking their silence. It maintained secrecy, but it only heightened the isolation. Phantom Eagle settled for periodic glimpses of his companion, as Captain Midnight skimmed the surface of the ocean, afforded the chance to do so since he flew under his power alone. Sheets of cloth extended between the man's torso and arms, but Mickey had little understanding of how his abilities functioned, settling for the simple fact that they did.
With only the thrum of his engine for company, Phantom Eagle rolled Doolitte's orders around in his mind again and again, as he had been doing for their entire voyage up until now. Mickey and Midnight weren't here for Zeros or AA fire. No, that was all part of the accepted risk of the mission. They were here to intercept targets of an uncommon variety, those men and women who could mold the elements to their will. The very same ones that had unleashed hell on the Philippines, the East Indies and Burma. Japanese superhumans were the Phantom Eagle's targets.
They reached land and kept low. The bombers going to different cities split off from the group. It was midday when Phantom Eagle soared over Tokyo. The city was gargantuan, sprawling out in every direction the eye could see. There were clusters of high rises in the commercial district mixed with low lying dwellings all around. Crowds flowed lazily, while cable cars rolled along.
There was no time to gawk at the sights. Mickey pulled back on his flight stick, urging his plane to climb, along with Doolittle's bomber. A dash of red told him that Captain Midnight was with his own set of planes. They had to reach the proper altitude to release their bombs. Puffs of black smoke and their accompanying rattle told Phantom Eagle that the Japanese remembered they had AA guns. It wouldn't be long before fighters joined the fray. He held steady, feeling out each adjustment in his plane's trajectory.
The bomb bay doors on Doolittle's bomber opened. Phantom Eagle scanned the air for oncoming danger. His instruments read twelve hundred feet when the first bomb dropped. Then the next and the one after that. Tight bundles of incendiary destruction. The targets were industrial and military, but with how dense Tokyo was, Mickey had no illusions about the potential for civilians getting killed.
It was on the descent that Mickey's plane hit a patch of turbulence. He thought it was flack, till he saw clouds race by, hastened on by the wind. That same wind caught the left wing of his plane, causing it to spin in an unplanned barrel roll. He spun with the force, afraid that resistance would rip them off.
Coming out of the roll, the winds continuing to pick up, Phantom Eagle spied the source. Barely a blip against the cityscape below, was a lone figure soaring upwards, towards his plane and the bombers.
"There you are," mumbled Mickey, as he pitched the plane around, ready to meet his foe. None of the dread that haunted the flight to Tokyo lingered now, replaced by the cold, taut focus of a job that needed doing.
Thunder rumbled through cloudless skies. The Japanese superhuman flew weightlessly, as if carried by the wind he conjured. Mickey could see Doolittle's bomber fight the gusts as he neared rooftop height, to avoid the anti-aircraft barrage. He let his own plane shift and wobble through the gale, his finger hovering over the trigger. Closer and closer the figure came, till he could see their blue and white costume.
Phantom Eagle lined up the superhuman in their sights, ignoring the groan of their plane's hull as it was whipped by the enraged wind. Even as a sheet of metal tore from the nose, bouncing off the canopy, Mickey waited till he had a direct shot, keeping his breath even and steady. He was within a few hundred yards, near enough to see them swivel their head his direction, when he squeezed the trigger. His plane spat its stream of bullets. The figure writhed in the air, a vibrant spray of red popping from them, before they dropped. The wind ceased at once.
Mickey peeled off of his current heading, looking to reorient himself to the bombers. A Zero flashed by, pursued by a red and blue shape. Captain Midnight flicked something at one of the planes, before darting away. A moment later the Zero exploded.
Phantom Eagle found the bombers' six, joining them at the low altitude as they raced south to the edge of Tokyo. Captain Midnight flew beside him, giving Mickey a curt wave. He eased his grip on the flight stick, wiping the sweat from his chin, still wary of other threats. All that had taken little more than a minute.
They were nearly past the city when Captain Midnight dropped. There was no clap of AA guns, no chatter of a Zero's cannons. Not even the unnatural phenomena of the superhuman. Mickey rotated his plane to better see what happened. All he was rewarded with was the sight of his companion plummeting to the ground below, limbs flailing madly, till his red shape vanished into the city. The loss hit Mickey like a kick to the gut, a continual throb that chased him all the way out of Tokyo, out of Japan, a throb that ailed him still as he bailed out in China, drifting down into a rice paddy.
April 20, 1942
Loose rocks and dirt slid way under Yorgos's feet as he and the rest of his squad scrambled up the steep slope. He caught Pavlina's arm as she slipped, her boots cleaving through the soil. Shadows stretched far down the hill, with any luck enough to cover their climb. He kept seeing the lithe form of an eagle overhead, scanning for prey. Yorgos had never felt so much kinship with the rodents and snakes that it hunted.
He resisted the urge to glance back at the village, the one from which they fled. Only last night it was their refuge, a place to recover after a raid on German trucks headed for Athens. This morning they were awakened to the sound of Germans searching the place. The squad slunk out the back of their dwelling, where they began the climb into the nearby hills. Yorgos never got to warn Spiros, who always got up earlier than the others. He was washing his clothes in the stream when they gunned him down.
"Someone talked," hissed Thalis.
Yorgos grunted in reply. There was nothing they could do about it now. Another village compromised, another safe haven lost. Pushed further into the wilds by the occupation forces.
"I bet it was Iliana and her wretched sister. They always gave me dirty looks," continued Thalis.
"Plot your revenge later," said Pavlina. "Watch those rocks."
It was getting steep enough that each step had to be carefully considered. There were herdsmen's trails up here, but they hadn't the chance to find one on their flight out of the village. A broken ankle could finish them off at this rate.
Yorgos clambered up a rock, his boots scraping on the stone. He helped Pavlina and Isidoros up, while Thalis and Despina climbed another one. Filippos was lagging, his face red, his chest heaving from the hike. They were nearly at the peak of the hill, where they could at least lose sight of the village and their foes. Yorgos strained to spot the Germans below, but their uniforms blended with the shade.
"Hurry," said Isodoros.
When Filippos reached the rock there was a jagged crackle of gunfire from below. Chips of rock blew off their platform. Other gunfire echoed out. Yorgos laid down on the rock, his head flat, his upper body in danger of sliding down. Pavlina yelped as shards of stone showered them, stinging Yorgos's neck.
Filippos coughed, stumbled and fell flat, his hefty frame sliding downwards as a number of bullets struck him. Thalis shot back, as did Isodoros, the only two that had managed to grab their guns before leaving. The Germans were close enough that Yorgos could see their faces as they shot at him.
Despina tried to keep climbing, only for a bullet to tear through her hand. She fell, crashing into Thalis, who tumbled with her down the hill. Their bodies rolled awkwardly past their pursuers, coming to a sudden stop below.
"We're stuck," said Yorogos.
"I'm nearly out," said Isodoros, firing off another shot.
A rock flew past Yorgos and his companions, smashing into the ranks of the Germans. Bodies were sent flying from the hillside. Another one took out another score. A gleam of gold dropped past them, landing near the stunned survivors of the opening salvo. A woman in golden armor tore through the Nazis, dropping men with a single blow. Bullets glanced off her body, no more troubling than a foul look. It was over within seconds.
"It's her," whispered Pavlina.
Yorgos, dabbed the back of his neck, feeling odribbles of blood from the hail of rocky shrapnel. The golden woman had descended the hill, to where Thalis and Despina lay in a tangle of limbs. She knelt and pulled Thalis out.
"Who?" said Isodoros.
"Fury. The Fury of Hellas."
Yorgos had thought her a story dreamed up by his fellow partisans. A way to cling to hope as the Axis stranglehold tightened on their homeland.
"Join me," shouted Fury. "I shall see that no harm befalls you."
They complied. Despina and Fillipos were dead. Thalis had a broken leg, which Fury had put into a brace. The woman was younger than Yorgos expected, young enough to be his daughter. Blood dripped from her fists.
"Tell me what happened," said Fury.
Pavlina and Isodoros explained their tale. A solemn expression overtook Fury's face.
"Some coward sold us out," groaned Thalis.
"Let us have words with them," said Fury, starting towards the village.
"Wait," said Yorgos. "We don't know who it was."
"We will find out," said Fury. "Collaborators are a scourge that must be dealt with."
Yorgos started to protest, but the look she gave him buried his words. Her eyes bled red, her features sharper. He could almost see a faint outline of a larger thing behind her, a phantasm leaking into the air around her. He had thought the name a theatrical choice, a gesture to their myths. Instead, he witnessed the divine.
What could a mortal do against the whims of that?
April 28, 1942
Flying Cloud angled his plane downwards, cutting through the cloud cover. He burst into the open air, the sandy plains laid out below him. A column of German soldiers and tanks was on the move. Flying Cloud pulled the trigger, strafing the column. He could see them dive for cover, hiding behind the armored vehicles or going prone in the sand. His wingmen performed their own runs. They circled around, hitting the column two more times, before they flew off, before the Luftwaffe could retaliate.
"That'll slow them down," said Captain Mueller. "Good shooting Johnny." His white name, the one that his fellow pilots used.
They were nearly back to base when the Messerschmitts caught up with them. They must have already been out on patrol, rerouted to hunt for Flying Cloud's squadron after the attack on the column. Ben Horton didn't get a chance to evade them, his plane perforated by their cannons the moment they caught sight of the squadron.
"Break formation. Make them work for it," said Captain Mueller.
"I'm low on ammo," said Hugh Green.
"We just need to get back to the landing field," said Muller, who was no doubt informing the people back at base to prep the AA guns for company.
Flying Cloud jerked the flight stick, twisting off from the squadron. A pair of Messerschmitts took the lure, following him as he climbed. He could see his fellow pilots doing the same. Tracers streamed past him, slicing into nearby clouds, as the German pilots opened fire. He spun his plane to make himself a harder target.
He took his plane on a swift loop, doubling back till he was behind one of the German planes. His target weaved back and forth, but it wasn't enough, as Flying Cloud wrecked his opponent's tail with a spray of bullets. The Messerschmitt fell, bleeding smoke all the way.
From above, he spied the other plane, about to do the same to him, when its cockpit shattered, sending it plummeting down. A black plane buzzed Flying Cloud's own, paired up with another of the same sort. It soon became clear that his squadron had been aided by another one, with each pilot flying a black vessel.
"I'll be damned," said Mueller. "The Blackhawks."
Flying Cloud had landed his plane and was on his way back to his tent when the Blackhawks touched down on the runway, one by one, in perfect sync with each other. A crowd gradually gathered, each pilot, mechanic and soldier wanting to catch a glimpse of the legends. Flying Cloud felt a bit left out that he didn't know who they were.
He sidled up to Hugh, who was staring slack jawed. "I'm feeling a bit slow on the uptake here. What's the big deal with these fellas?"
"Do they not have radio out on the reservation? That's the Blackhawks. They fought in the London Blitz. Brought down that Nazi flying fortress. England, Norway, Malta, they've been damn near everywhere."
Johnny Cloud shrugged. "Who do they fly for? The Brits? Us?"
"Way I hear it, they fly for everyone."
One of the higher ups came and cleared a path for the Blackhawks as they disembarked. Their leader was a stern looking man with black hair. From the other fans, he learned that they were made up of men from many of the occupied countries. Johnny noted that there was a black man among them, a rarity for pilots.
After night fell, as the desert air took on its chill, Johnny found the Blackhawks on their own, by the edge of the camp. No one seemed brave enough to approach them and they appeared to be content to keep to themselves. Johnny wasn't sure what compelled him to defy that.
It was the tall, brawny one with red hair that took note of him first. "It appears we have a visitor."
"One of your countrymen Chuck," said the mustached man with a French accent.
"So it is," said the black man, raising his cup of coffee. "Care to join us?"
Flying Cloud found a seat. The eldest member of their party passed him his own mug.
"How'd you get your hands on this?' said Flying Cloud.
"Ask Andre. The man is a roaming black market," said the red head.
"What my friend Olaf fails to understand is that life is to be enjoyed. I embody that principle," said Andre.
Introductions were made. Stanislaus and Janos were Polish, with the latter being their leader. The biggest surprise was the older fellow, Ritter, a German fighting his homeland.
"Your reputation precedes you," said Johnny.
"Don't believe everything you hear," said Stanislaus. "Some would have you believe we've been winning the war all on our own."
"You're not exactly an unknown either," said Janos. "We've all heard of the Navajo Ace."
Johnny gave a half-smile. It was a moniker he wasn't entirely comfortable with. He couldn't tell if it had been earned by his performance these past couple of months in North Africa or the novelty of having an Indian in a squadron.
"Ah. That is you?" said Ritter.
"Last I checked."
"Then we have nearly crossed paths before. You were in Libya, no?"
"For a time."
"I haven't seen many Americans here," said Chuck. "Seems like slow going bring them over."
Johnny sipped his coffee too fast, singing his tongue. "They've got a bunch of us in England. I passed some marks in my training that got me on a fast track here."
"Forgive us if we are not holding our breath for the Americans to do all the work," said Andre.
Johnny ignored him, asking Chuck, "How'd you end up with this outfit?"
"I came to England as a flight instructor. I wanted to help during the Blitz, but we weren't allowed to. Met Janos in early 41' and that was that. They hadn't let bureaucracy slow them down, so why should I. I had enough trouble with that back in the states."
Flying Cloud understood what Chuck meant with his tone, his expression. There were all kinds of impediments that arose when you possessed a skin color different from the norm.
The conversation continued late, with Flying Cloud mostly listening as the Blackhawks joked and argued and reminisced with one another. Gradually, they went to bed or in Andre's case, off to barter with the other soldiers. By the end, Johnny had outlasted all of them, save for Janos.
"Quite a squadron you've assembled," said Flying Cloud.
"It came together as much through happenstance as any of my doing," said Janos. Johnny didn't buy it. The man had a gravity to him, the kind that bound people together. He had seen it back in Arizona, back home, with some of the elders on the reservation. When Janos spoke, the others listened.
"You know John, if you're interested, there's always room for another," said Janos. "We're in the business of finding the best and from what I know of you, you fit the bill."
That path branched out before Flying Cloud, as they did when he visualized them. He imagined his own black plane, the jacket, the acclaim. A group to call his own. A group on their own.
He shook his head. "I appreciate it, but I can't. I've already got my squadron."
If Janos was disappointed he didn't show it. "I can't look down on a man with that kind of loyalty." He shook Johnny's hand. "We'll see you up there, where it matters."
Flying Cloud took the long way back to his tent, enjoying the night air. The desert here was different from home, enough so that it was uncanny to compare. He had traded one for another, leaving the reservation to serve his country. The same country that bound them to the reservation. The same one that told his family, his people, that there was a limit to how much livestock they could graze, that there was a limit on how they could live. Johnny had expected his parents to be disappointed in him when he left, to feel betrayed. Instead, he had scarcely seen them more proud.
"Carry us with honor," his mother had said. They had prayed for his safety, for his return to the Dine, the people.
He wasn't alone in joining the military. Dozens of men were signing up, most going to the Marines, to fight the Japanese. Flying Cloud needed a different path, to live up to his namesake. The heavens had called him from his birth and they would be his battleground. So he endured the doubt, the abuse, the jeers. Flying Cloud became Johnny Cloud. The Navajo Ace. An American, but a very particular kind of American.
This was why he couldn't join Janos and Chuck and the Blackhawks. To do so was to validate what the others saw in him, to legitimize his difference. Johnny wasn't like some of his peers, he carried his Navajo blood with pride. But, he could not embrace his outsider status, not fully. The Blackhawks were something different, a unique group, on their own. Johnny Cloud would fight as an American.
May 17, 1942
The skies fell upon the Soviet army. Hellfire rained down, destroying man and machine alike. German panzers advanced, their guns spitting smoke and death upon the unprepared Soviet army. The offensive for Kharkov was crumbling. The bridgehead over the Barvenkovo was being overrun. In times past, Red Lantern could have turned the tide all on his own, carving apart the fascist invaders. Some parasitic force had sapped his strength, dimming the power of the Crimson Flame. It took all his concentration to maintain a shield, as he guarded the retreating men. They made poor soldiers, few having been in the army longer than a handful of months.
A bomb landed near Vladimir, rending his shield. He fell on his ass, cape flying wildly about. Bodies collapsed beside him, felled by airstrikes and machine guns. The Germans had gotten good at killing Russians.
"Red Lantern! Comrade Lantern," shouted a shaking infantrymen with a cracked rifle.
Vladimir fought to his feet, the red fire re-enveloping him. "What?"
"One of their war machines..the terrible wheel. Across the bridgehead."
Standing tall on the horizon was the red wheel, its many guns unloading on the Soviet side of the river. They were the bane of the Soviet army, a behemoth that could win battles all on their own. It was only their scarcity that prevented a comprehensive rout. The few shots from Russian tanks that hit the wheel pinged off, unworthy of much concern.
"It will kill us all," said the soldier.
Vladimir shook his head. "Not today."
He ran forth, summoning all the vile flame, all the red hot anger that simmered within his ring. The Crimson Flame was no more happy to be doused than him and it welcomed the chance to rage against the force that would see it put out. Red Lantern became a great roiling ball of fire and malice, his direction locked on the war wheel. From within the inferno, he chuckled, the laughter of the damned. Stalin had declared a policy of scorched earth, to deny the fascists.
Vladimir Sokov would make it literal.
May 20, 1942
The Japanese soldier hit the muddy ground with a wet clap. He tried to get up, but his hands found no solid purchase in the muck. A kick to his back removed such intents. The remainder of the Japanese squad drew their guns. The Burmese villagers watched from their huts, save for the family that had been in the process of being dragged from their home.
Judomaster stood tall in spite of the multitude of firearms pointed his way.
"You have taken all you will from these people. Go on your way before it is too late," said Judomaster.
"Is he mad?" said one of the soldiers.
"Enough," barked their leader. "Kill him. Then the rest."
As the first finger tightened round a trigger, Judomaster spun low to the ground before skipping into a devastating kick to the lead soldier. The man's teeth were still falling to the mud when Judomaster wrapped his arms around the next man's neck, dragging him on a downwards trajectory. Bullets spat up the mud as Judomaster fought through the crowd. With a whistle, another form, that of Tiger, his companion, joined in the brawl. The soldiers slid and stumbled on the shaky ground, while the costumed fighters moved as though they were gliding on the surface of it.
The last soldier standing made a run for it, dropping his sidearm as he ran.
"Should we chase him?" said Tiger.
Judomaster picked up the pistol. He shot the fleeing man in the back. There was no point in risking him getting away. Their defense of the village would be pointless if the Japanese occupiers knew where this squad had met its end. Their vengeance could be most cruel.
Rain fell as they left, having turned down the hospitality of the villagers, settling for a meager helping of food and water. No reason to risk exposing them. The monsoon season had largely ended the large scale maneuvers of the Allies and the Japanese, but they continued to exert power over the locals, taking food, laborers and women. It pained Rip Jagger to see the Japanese in such a light. He had lived in Japan for nearly a decade and was taken by the country and its people. Yet, even he could see the tyranny that they imposed on those they conquered. Tiger was a survivor of one such massacre.
Judomaster and Tiger would not remove the Japanese from Burma, but they could make a difference to people like those villagers.. That was enough for now.
May 26, 1942
Mickey Malone sat up in bed when Agent Kilbride came through the door to his hospital room. He was back in California, recovering in San Diego from a case of dysentery. His escape through China had been a slow crawl to safety, aided on by the generosity of locals.
"You look good for a phantom Malone," said Kilbride.
Mickey didn't smile. He had lost nearly twenty pounds, his face a gaunt stranger in the mirror. And his own suffering was the least of his concern. Not after he learned of what the Japanese were doing to the Chinese that helped him and the other Doolittle Raiders as they were being called. President Roosevelt had said they were sent from "Shangri-la" to strike Japan.
"I'm here to check in with you, make sure you're recovering well enough," said Kilbride. The man sat down by the open window. "Mind if I smoke?"
Mickey shrugged.
"You'll be getting a Silver Star. At least, Phantom Eagle will. Maybe after the war we can make it public."
"Why?"
"You're the first American serviceman to kill a Jap superhuman. That's worth celebrating."
Mickey had no regrets about what he did, but there was an ugliness to the thought of being awarded specifically for the killing of a person. Kilbride was all smiles, yet he was not a warm man. There was no joy around the eyes.
"What's the real score?" said Mickey.
"Hm?"
"Why come now? To bribe me with a medal?"
"That's a rather dim view of service to your country."
"I love my country, but you're a phony if I've ever seen one. You're here cause I've been making a fuss about Captain Midnight."
The smile remained, but the temperature of the room dropped a few degrees as Kilbride stared him down. He took a long slow drag, examining Mickey as one would a particularly gruesome bit of roadkill.
"Aren't you a clever egg. Maybe you missed another calling."
"Well?"
"Midnight's death was a tragedy, but the man was a soldier. He knew what the stakes of the mission were."
Mickey leaned forward, clutching his bony knees.
"He didn't get shot. Didn't get hit at all. Just fell. Why?"
Kilbride sat in silence.
"You folks knew it would happen. Or that it was likely. All you G-men. All you lousy suits."
Kilbride flicked his cigarette out the window, stood up and buttoned his suit. He walked to Mickey's bed and slapped him hard enough that Mickey thought a tooth came loose.
"I've been very considerate up till now. You've exhausted my patience," said Kilbride.
"Admit it you crumb."
He leaned in close to Mickey.
"We suspected it would go that way. The Japs have a weapon that can muck with superpowers."
"You let Midnight fly right into that? He didn't stand a chance."
"He committed a valuable sacrifice for the American people. Now we know for sure."
"You rotten bas-"
Kilbride grabbed him by the back of the neck, nearly lifting Mickey from the bed.
"Listen here you scrawny rat. This goes beyond anything a hick like you could dream of. Don't act so high and mighty. You wanted a taste of the glory. Why else would you dress up and play soldier? We gave you the chance to be something real."
He threw Mickey back onto the bed. Kilbride ran a hand through his hair, fixing a few wild strands.
"Because I'm such a nice guy, I'm going to tell you how this'll go. You're going to relax here on Uncle Sam's dime till you're better. Then you're going to put that costume back on and go to all the parades and the air shows till its time to throw you back at the Japs. And if so much as a word of what we walked about comes through that rat mouth of your, we will bury you so deep your own mother's going to forget who you are.
Got it?"
Mickey grunted, turning away from him in his bed.
"Grand." He paused by the door. "Play your cards right kid and we could give you a Medal of Honor."
Mickey wanted to leap up and scream for the whole word to hear, till the nurses came and sedated him, consequences be damned. Another part of him wanted what Kilbride had to offer.
He was ashamed which side won out.