STRIKE WITCHES: (Wicked?) Witch In The Tower

"We had an engine fail on short final, after we came back to base with a hydro failure. So no landing gear. We uprooted two stop-nets and only survived because we landed into the wind."

Gertrude blinks. "So?"

"We walked away like nothing fucking happened. Then we thought about it and were like, so, lets get so drunk we can't see straight. And we did. We woke up two miles away in the cellar of a house of ill repute."

"Ill... repute..." Gertrude says, wrinkling her nose.

"Yeah, we all hate the fucker, the cops like to hide behind it since it's right next to the road from base to town."

"Oh."

Having forcibly demonstrated why she should leggo your arm, you're able to proceed up the winding staircases of Castle Barin's old turret towers unmolested. You reach the top of the first one, and lean out the window. It affords a fantastic view of the Channel, the waters sparkling in the early morning sun.

"There." You point. "The window." You step back from the window yourself, before you're spotted. "She's in that other tower turret."

"I'll go fetch her-"

"We should both go," you say, sighing. "If this is because of something I did... I should go."

"What *did* you say to her last night, in the cellar?"

You avoid Gertrude's eyes. "Ask her yourself. I'd rather not be telling tales."

You start down the steps when Gertrude stops you. "We found her. We don't really need to fetch her. A Wing Commander doesn't get much time alone... she should have one morning, at least."

You glance over your shoulder at Gertrude. "So we just report her position and get on with it?"

Gertrude shrugs. "Yeah. I guess we just... get on with it." She doesn't move, however.

Go talk to Minna

Talk to Gertrude

You pause. Gertrude has a very good point. You've no idea what you would've said to Minna that you haven't said already, anyways.

"Lieutenant, did you want to ask me something?"

"What gives you that idea?"

"You're apparently friends with Min- Commander Wilke, so you probably knew where she was. So you must've brought me up here alone to ask me something." You glance at the window. "Or defenestrate me."

She finally smiles. "No, just talk."

"Shoot."

"Why... why *did* you save me?" she asks. "I mean, not, not *why,* but... why?"

You just tilt your head, too weary to try much on that one.

"I mean, why take the risk? You're just a ma- ah, I, I'm sorry, I didn't-"

"Just go on."

"Ah. I mean. You don't have magic. You don't have a shield. It was almost suicide, doing what you did. Why?"

You sigh and lean against the wall. "I.. Gertrude, I... I try not to think about it too much, you know?"

She nods a little. "Before you get any deeper into this unit, don't you think you should?"

"... no?"

Gertrude gives you this serious, soulful look. A very soulful look. You recognize this instantly as a guilt tactic she probably uses on Minna all the time.

And god damn it, it works. You surrender with a sigh. "There's a whole ton of reasons, but, mostly... I love it. You know what it's like, flying, you know?" Gertrude nods. "But I also love the challenge. There's no fight purer. Every gallon of gas you burn, the lighter your ship, ... and the closer you are to running out. To death. The tighter you cut the turn, the closer you are to stalling and falling out of the sky. It's so paradoxical. You're the closest to perfection when you're the closest to being dead. Just like a plane, it defies physical laws. You can't cheat gravity forever. Or death."

"You're not scared?"

You snort. "Fuck no. But if I could have a long life, or fly for ten years before dying in a crash, I'd take the ten years."

"What about the Martians?"

You feel the growl creep into your voice without meaning to. "They just piss me off. If they want our planet, they're going to have to earn it. Be as good as the people who built it and defend it. Be as good as me."

"I see," Gertrude says thoughtfully. She smiles at you, a little warmer this time. "You know, my friends call me Trude."

Freshly re-introduced, you and "Trude" descend the stairs once again.

"Shouldn't we let Mi- Commander Wilke know the brass wants her?"

"Oh, she knows," Trude says. "She probably knows where every brass hat on the island is without having to strain herself. It's part of her unique talent. And you're pronouncing her surname wrong. 'Wilcke,' not 'Wilke."

At the foot of the stairs, you find Sean, freshly shaved and dressed. He's working on a truly massive sammich, his trademark style.

"Shuff," he says. "So Charlotte is looking for you, Luke just landed in a -61 and he says he's going to rip your balls off and stuff one in each ear if you don't report to him..." he checks his watch - "five minutes ago, and Perrine is stalking Ian."

"And Ian is...?"

"Trying to get Sakamoto to let me keep that sword I borrowed."

"About that. Why the hell were they there, anyways? That's almost as bad as suits of armor with real swords standing in every hallway, I thought that was Hollywood bullshit."

"It is. It's a display case for weapons used by Witches in ancient times. They're all expensive antiques."

"Why do you want the sword, anyway?"

"That bastard Churchill was wearing his when he got his medal, I want to be wearing mine when they give us the DFC. Oh, did I tell you about that?"

your face

wat do?

"What we huh what."

"Might get the DSC from our own people too, if we get lucky. But none of us were grievously wounded and we were fighting with Sp- Witches, so who knows, they might gyp us. HEY!" he exclaims, and waves to somebody behind you before running past you. Turns out it's Sakamoto, holding the claymore in one hand, with a big bow tied on it. She laughs that boisterous laugh of hers, and you decide it's time to get on with things.

Turning the first corner, you nearly run over Perrine. Her head was at skulking height, so it hits you in the chest.

"Just can't keep off me, can you?"

She yells, punches you in the arm, and storms past.

Figuring Major Luke came in via aircraft, you stroll on down to the hangar, where you find a shiny new P-61A sitting next to your poor, shot-up bird. Luke is standing near it, looking at the damage, poking his fingers in the bullet holes.

You stroll on up. "Sup, Major?"

He turns, and you see he's got a cigar in his mouth. You both stand there, puffing your cigars at each other, for several seconds.

"Give it up, son. I'll always be cooler."

You shrug, conceding the point. "So, how are we going to get this beast fixed?"

"I'm not. Your crew chief is."

Your body suddenly goes cold.

Your crew chief emerges from behind your Widow. His eyes are dark pools of cold, chilly hate, and his look promises vengeance. He slinks back behind the Widow, but the ambient air temperature remains depressed.

"Anyways. I'll ferry that shitbucket back to our strip. That-" he thrusts his cigar at the other 'Widow, looking much like Patton as he does - "will be yours."

You whistle. "Brand-new."

Luke gives you a shit-eating grin around his expensive cigar. "Prototype."

"You lousy rotten bastard-"

"Turbo-supercharged.

"-KISS ME."

"Base fulla half-naked girls and he wants to kiss *me,*" Luke says. "I'm just that damn good looking."

You sprint to the new aircraft, ducking under the wing to inspect the engine nacelles. "It hardly looks like it's turbo-supercharged."

"They had a hell of a time cutting down on the bulk of the ducting. They actually had a Witch help with the parts fabrication so we could a few prototypes modified; so everything will be sorted out by the time the assembly lines can crank out the bits."

Your Officer-Sense spikes. "Sorted out? Sort out what?"

Luke waggles his hand in the air. "Some of the ducting doesn't seem quite right; manifold pressure likes to wobble at inconvenient times; especially when you change supercharger gears. You're our new ace-in-a-day and point-man on Witch Island, though, and you've got damn funny luck with machines, so this fucking deathtrap is all yours, son!"

Sometimes, you wish a certain Jerry machine-gunner had had better luck in 1915.

There is only one thing to do.

"TEEEEEST FLIIIIIIIGHT," you whoop, skidding on the rugs as you come sailing into the lounge area. Ian looks up from the coffee table, where he's casually cleaning his M1917 revolver.

"Oh?"

"WE GOT A NEW PLANE," you gibber.

Sean wolfs down the last of his sammich. "So what? It's just a loaner."

You bound over to his couch, drape yourself over the back of it, and croon to him: "Turrrrrrbooooooo chaarrrrrrrgeed."

"Sucks."

"Why?"

"Superchargers are better. Any asshole knows that."

"But what if you had... BOTH?"

Sean's head slooowly rotates to fixate on you.

"You lie."

"Nope."

"Lying fucker."

"NOOOPE."

"HELL YES," he howls, and he's off to the hangars at a dead run, with Ian hot on his heels. You get there last, and buckle in.

"Same shit, different day, so far," Sean says with the intercom. "Fire it up."

The engines rattle and snarl when you hit the magnetos, not wanting to start even though they're still warm from Luke's ferry flight. You sigh, and close your eyes, listening to their oscillations and rumbles as you finesse the mixture controls and radiator flap toggle. A few minutes later, one engine catches, and with a little clever controls work, the other follows soon after.

"They're just cranky getting started," you say on the intercom. "Don't like each other much."

"Oh. Yes. Hell yes," Ian is saying, and you hear the top turret panning about. "Looks like an upgraded control computer."

"How good?"

"Incremental. Same shit, mostly. But it tracks a lot smoother then the normal one."

You bounce the throttles forward to get the Widow moving, and taxi out into the courtyard. General Patton twirls, his coat flying out behind him from the propwash, and draws his revolver, pointing at your cockpit. He apparently doesn't appreciate you interrupting whatever discussion he was having with the other gentlemen standing around.

Fuck him, the plane doesn't have your name on it yet. You open the cowling flaps, floor the throttles brace yourself to see what the turbo-superchargers can do.

And you do. Jesus Christ, you do.

The P-61 SCREAMS down the runway like a black bat out of hell, the airframe trembling with the power. The heavy fighter autorotates a good hundred feet earlier then usual, and the handling feels a little lighter, just from the extra power. You check the gauges and see a good two inches more manifold pressure then you usually have. The normal P-61 is already supercharged, so you assume the superchargers on this new ride are of better-quality. Superchargers are expensive gear-orgies, and cost-efficient production of high-quality ones is an ongoing science.

Ten minutes later you've reached 15,000 feet, and the engine performance is starting to taper off. You turn a dial and put the superchargers in their second gear-speed, and to your satisfaction the manifold pressure and other gauges perk up a bit.

"She's got constant-speed airscrews now, too," you marvel. "Three-stage supercharger, not two. And the turbos... god damn, this bitch is gorgeous."

"If we get fifty more MPH then the old one, I'll eat my hat," Sean says from the back. "It's still a Widow. Speed demon, she ain't."

You eye your instrument panel, and lovingly rub your finger over the red light labeled "WEP." You haven't told Sean about that, and you don't plan to, either - let the spoilsport find out for himself.

"Redhead, three-O'clock," Ian calls out, and you squint to the right, towards Castle Barin. Sure enough, there's a little dot approaching rapidly.

"Hello, boys. Having fun with your new toy?" Charlotte manages to make it sound quite obscene, the way she flavors the words.

"Yes ma'am. This baby, she be smoking hot."

"I thought as much. I was going to ask you for a ride, but since all the seats are filled I guess I'll have to enjoy that new piece of engineering in another way."

"There's no way you're humping the exhaust ports. Not before I do, at any rate." You watch as Charlotte approaches rapidly, grumpily begrudging her amazing climb rate. The power/weight ratio of Striker units is amazing, and that's before you consider the radios. The magically-integrated earbuds the Witches use are lightyears away from the hundred-fifty pound vaccum tube set you're lugging around in your own aircraft. If you could ditch that fucking thing, your new fighter's performance would be even more spectacular.

"You won't be humping anything. Some people might get jealous, and you wouldn't like them when they're jealous," Charlotte says wryly. You're about to ask what the hell she means when she interrupts.

"Anyways, flyboy - I challenge you to a race."