TaleSpin and its characters are the property of Disney/Buena Vista and are used without permission. All other characters are mine and cannot be used without permission.

A drowsy, contented feeling mingled with the lingering aroma of the delicious Thanksgiving dinner that now reposed in the full tummies of Higher for Hire’s crew.

Kit, lounging on a crate by the sunny window, pored over a Flyboy Magazine article touting the latest exploits of one Colonel Conrad.

As the boy gazed at picture after glossy picture of the handsome hero, he read, “‘Between peacekeeping missions, Usland’s ambassador to Thembria still performs the fantastic flying feats that made him a household name.’ Stopped a forest fire by dumping water on it, flew through a blizzard to take medical supplies to a remote mountain hospital, and rescued a kitten from the top of a tree all in one day? Wow! That Col. Conrad must be the best pilot in the world...except for Baloo, that is.”

He was going to show Baloo the article about Usland’s most famous hero, but one glance at the big bear dozing in his easy chair told him that he would have a better chance of getting the last piece of pumpkin pie than waking his Papa Bear.

Instead, Kit turned his attention to Molly lounging on Baloo’s lap, reading a book aloud.

“Then the Papa Bear said, ‘Someone’s been eating my porridge’. And the Mama Bear said, ‘Someone’s been eating my porridge’. And the Baby Bear said...”

Indignantly, Molly cried, “That’s not what the Baby Bear said.” She turned to look up at the big bear. Seeing that he was asleep, she shouted, “Ba-LOO!”

Baloo murmured groggily, “The Three Billy Goats Gruff ate Cinderella’s shoe and they all lived happily...ever...after...snore.”

Molly frowned for a while, then a devious look crossed her face. She stood up on his lap, and, hands on her hips, said sternly á la her mother, “If you don’t get out of here with that cargo this second, buster, you’re fired!”

The big bear jerked awake, his heart pounding. “I’m goin’, Becky, I’m goin’!” After a moment, his blurry eyes focused on Molly’s smirking face. “That was a mean trick to play on ol’ Baloo, kiddo.”

“Well, you keep falling asleep.” She plumped back down on his ample lap and picked up her book. “That Goldilocks sure looks innocent, doesn’t she?”

“Who’d want to steal porridge anyway?” Kit wrinkled up his nose in distaste. “Yee-uck!”

“Baloo, what’s porridge?” Noticing that he was already asleep, Molly shouted, “Baloo!”

“That’s because Goldilocks and the Three Bears has no planes or adventure, Molly,” Kit explained as he jumped off the crate and walked across the room towards the easy chair where he perched on its arm. “If it had something more like: ‘The three brave bears had prevented the lying, thieving Goldilocks from stealing their stuff by death-defying aerial maneuvers’, he’d stay awake.”

“Just like when Baloo saved Cape Suzette from the Panda-La-zians!” Molly exclaimed.

Molly counted on her fingers. “Yeah, you got a parade and your picture in the paper and an award from the mayor.”

“And Mommy took up twelve whole pages in her scrapbook for it.” Hugging the big bear, Molly exclaimed, “You were a famous hero!”

“Aw, you kids don’t wanna hear about that again.” Baloo tried - and failed - to conceal a smile.

It didn’t take much prodding for Baloo to gloat over the glory days, even if the glory days were only a few months ago. “Let’s take a look-see at that scrapbook again, Cupcake. That’s my kind of reading.”

Just as Molly had run across the room to get the scrapbook from the desk, Rebecca came down the stairs with Wildcat right behind her. The lion mechanic was struggling with awkward camera equipment.

“No time for scrapbooks. We’re going to have our picture taken,” Rebecca informed them brightly.

“Now, wait just a prop-spinnin’ minute! That ain’t fair makin’ me get out of this chair on a holiday day.”

“It’s about as fair as me having to put up with a lazy bum of a pilot.” Rebecca pulled Baloo out of his chair and shooed him and the kids outside. “I’m going to include a photograph of all of us with each of our clients’ Christmas cards. It’ll be good for business.”

“It sure ain’t good for my nap time,” Baloo said through a yawn as he trudged to the end of the weatherbeaten dock. “‘Sides, today’s Thanksgiving, meaning Christmas is a whole month away.”

“I guess it takes some people longer than others.” Rebecca flitted about, retying Molly’s hair ribbons, straightening Kit’s cap, and brushing crumbs off Baloo’s shirt. After she had posed them, she asked, “Camera ready, Wildcat?”

“Roger Wilco, Miz Cunningham. Just gotta set the little timer.” When Wildcat pushed the wrong button, the flash went off right in his face. “Look at all the pretty stars! Maybe I can catch one.” He whipped a fishing net out of his back pocket and started waving it in front of his eyes.

“Wildcat, stop doing...whatever it is you’re doing...and take the picture!” Rebecca snapped.

“All right, Miz Cunningham. The little stars went away anyway,” Wildcat said sadly, untangling the net from around his head and returning it to his pocket. Quicker than a flash, he changed the bulb and flipped the timer switch on the camera. “Ten, nine, eight, seven...” he counted as he rushed to join Baloo, Rebecca, Kit, and Molly standing in front of the Sea Duck.

“Everyone say, ‘Turkey!’” Rebecca drew Baloo’s right arm around her shoulders while gesturing for him to put his other arm around Wildcat.

“That’s what I feel like,” Baloo muttered sullenly, slinging his arm around Wildcat’s wiry shoulders.

A small door opened in a large warehouse, letting a stream of warm light shoot out over the cold snowdrifts mounded on either side of the door. The warthog who had opened the door cast a long shadow on the snow. As he stepped into the warehouse, it was immediately apparent that he was much shorter than his shadow. However, his stature wasn’t as short as his temper. “Sergeant Dunder!” he barked.

Instantly, the faithful sergeant was at his side, clipboard at the ready. “Yes, Colonel Spigot?”

Spigot assumed an air of great importance, comical in one so short. “You have my instructions?”

“Yes, sir.” Dunder dutifully read from the clipboard: “One hundred percent of Thembrians are completely satisfied with the High Marshall.”

“Sorry, sir. I’ve been working on Pat’s report.” The mild-mannered sergeant flipped a page and read: “No one is to go in or out of this warehouse without clearance from you.”

“And no one can go behind the Iron Curtain that is located in this warehouse.”

“Or they will be shot.” With as much curiosity as a Thembrian dared, Dunder asked, “What is behind the Iron Curtain, sir?”

Spigot trotted over to the curtain of thick iron rings that partitioned off the majority of the warehouse, thus earning the nickname ‘The Iron Curtain’. He lisped, “Something so secret that only the top, top officials are allowed to know.”

“No! The High Marshall said I didn’t need to know.” Disgruntled, Spigot kicked the Iron Curtain. “Ow!” Clutching at his sore foot, he hopped around in pain.

“It’ll take more than salve if the thing behind the Iron Curtain gets stolen.”

“You mean like all the bologna and bathtubs and blindfolds that were stolen from the other warehouses recently?”

“Yes! And if what’s in this warehouse gets stolen the High Marshall said that,” Spigot gulped, “I would be shot.”

“Exactly!” As he paced, Spigot tapped his riding crop against the Iron Curtain, creating a rhythmic, metallic clank. “I want ten, no, twenty, no, a whole platoon of armed guards surrounding this place night and day!”

Sgt. Dunder consulted his clipboard. “All the platoons are patrolling the borders and the city, sir.”

Flipping through a few pages on the clipboard, Dunder said, “All the tanks are in for routine repairs, sir.”

“The parts were stolen, sir,” Dunder said apologetically. “There is one tank left, but it’s being used for the firing squad.”

“We definitely can’t use that one, not with the ratings for This Was Your Life going through the roof.” Spigot thoughtfully tapped at his temple with riding crop. Then he tapped too hard and winced. But all that tapping must have unleashed an idea, for he shouted, “I’ve got it!”

“You.” Spigot slowly, deliberately pointed his riding crop at Sgt. Dunder.

“And no peeking behind the Iron Curtain!” Col. Spigot snapped, punctuating his order with a door slam.

Wildcat perched on a crate beside Rebecca’s desk, liberally lubing a piece of machinery while listening to his boss woo a prospective client over the phone.

“Yes, I realize that, Mr. Bearenstein,” Rebecca said in the honeyed voice she reserved for potential clients. “We may be a small, family business, but I can give you my full assurance that Higher for Hire always acts in the most profitable...er, professional manner...You will?” she whooped. Embarrassed by her unprofessional outburst, she said staidly, “I mean, we’d be very happy to deliver your Sudsy-Wudsy Soap Flakes on December 24^th. Let me get all your information down in my appointment book.”

Looking like Christmas had come early, she unlocked her desk drawer and took out her Very-Private-Trespassers-Will-Be-Shot calendar just as the radio on her desk crackled to life.

“Not now, Baloo...” the petite bearess muttered under her breath. Covering the phone’s mouthpiece she pointed to the radio and hissed, “Wildcat, answer that!”

“Come in, Higher for Hire,” the voice on the radio said again, more urgently this time. “This is the Sea Duck.”

Wildcat plunked the oilcan and greasy part down on the desk, swiped his hands across his overalls to partially clean them, and picked up the microphone. “Gee, Sea Duck, you sound just like Baloo.”

“Hey, I’m real glad you called, ‘cause I got a question for you. What do flies eat? Because I need to get some bait for when you and me and Kit go fly-fishing this weekend.”

“Fly-fishin’ ain’t fishin’ for flies. It’s...aw!” Baloo let out a frustrated growl. “Just put Becky on, will ya? It’s an emergency!”

Rebecca hung up the phone, beaming about Higher for Hire’s latest client acquisition. She held out her hand for the microphone. “I can talk to him now, Wildcat. You go do...whatever it is you’re doing.” She was so happy even the parts dripping grease on her desk didn’t bother her.

“I’m trying to reattach the whatchamacallit to the whoosis on my washing machine, but they get along better if they’re real slippery.” He scooped up his equipment and gave her a cheerful wave good-bye as he headed for the door. “See you later, Miz Cunningham.”

“Now I know why they call mechanics ‘grease monkeys’.” She gave the filthy mike a swipe with her handkerchief before pushing the transmit button. “Rebecca here.”

“Flamingos?” Rebecca’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. Between the grease on her hands and this conversation, her mood was quickly taking a nosedive. “Baloo, if this is another one of your lame excuses I’m going to strangle you then revive you so I can strangle you again.”

“It ain’t a lame excuse. Remember those stupid pink flamingo lawn ornaments you used to have me deliver to Thembria over and over so’s they could paint ‘em blue and sell ‘em back to Cape Suzette?”

“Until Khan Industries undercut us on the contract. Don’t remind me. Three hundred dollars a month, a sure thing, down the drain!” she lamented.

“Yeah, well, the head guy at the Ministry of Lawn Ornaments let a plane full of ‘em barge in front of me at the unloading dock and that’s why I’m...”

“Late,” Rebecca concluded with the longsuffering sigh of one who had heard it all before. Feeling a headache coming on, she put a hand to her forehead. “Oh...” She groaned in annoyance as she wiped the smudge off her face with her grease-spotted handkerchief.

“And you said if I was late with any of this week’s shipments, you wouldn’t buy me burgers on Friday night. You know ol’ Baloo never passes up a chance for a free meal.”

“You certainly do, flyboy.” Her smirk gave way to seriousness. “Are you sure you’re telling the truth about the flamingos?”

“Fine. I’ll call Honcho’s and explain why their ponchos are being delivered a couple of hours late.”

“I know.” Her eyes fell on her calendar. The last appointment for Friday was: ‘Date with Baloo’ encircled by red heart. Ruefully, she added, “That’s all I’ll ever be.”

Rebecca could have kicked herself over that little slipup. She had tried so hard to hide her feelings for Baloo, and she had almost blown it in a few careless words. To cover her embarrassment, she upped her prickly, picky supervisor act. “I said, no more late shipments! If Higher for Hire is going to take full advantage of the Christmas rush, you’re going to have to do a little rushing yourself, buster!”

“Hey, I won’t disappoint you, boss lady. I’ll deliver everythin’ else on time, down to the last partridge in a pear tree. Sea Duck out.”

Addressing the framed picture of the Higher for Hire gang on the corner of her desk, she said wistfully, “I sure hope you do, Baloo.”

Baloo staggered into Louie’s nightclub under the weight of variously sized crates and packages. He precariously picked a path through the maze of tables, narrowly avoiding collision with a simian waiter with a tray full of drinks, a dancing couple, and a pyramid built out of glasses.

“Shh!” the pilot patrons admonished from where they were clustered around the radio on the bar.

Baloo pushed his way through the crowd and plunked his load down, making the frothy fruit drinks and ice cream concoctions on the bar jump. “What gives?”

Over the radio came: “This is Dog Rather reporting from Mustgo. Just a few moments ago, Thembrian officials announced that they have executed and tried one Uslandian implicated in the recent rash of thefts from Thembrian warehouses, increasing that country’s supply shortage.”

“Was that a short joke?” came Col. Spigot’s irritated voice. There was scuffling and feedback as he grabbed the microphone. “This is Col. Spigot. Perhaps you’ve heard of me? If the Glorious People’s supplies from the Glorious People’s warehouses aren’t returned to us in 24 hours, it will mean war with Usland. War!”

Dog Rather continued, “Remember, you heard it here first. And now we go to Cape Suzette where Colonel Conrad, Usland’s ambassador to Thembria, is standing by. Any comments, Col. Conrad?”

In a reassuringly calm voice, Col. Conrad drawled, “I declare I am going to Thembria today to speak with the High Marshall and, rest assured, I will do everything in my power to resolve and de-solve this crisis.”

Dog Rather said, “Thank you, Col. Conrad. Now back to your local programming.”

The sultry voice of Broadcast Sally, one of K-CAPE’s radio personalities, came over the air: “Today in Cape Suzette, Khan Industries stock was down three points...”

Louie turned off the radio. The pilots, murmuring to each other and to themselves, dispersed.

“Everything will be fine. We can always count on Col. Conrad. Remember when he...?”

Baloo wearily plunked himself down on a barstool. “What’s Col. Conrad talkin’ about, Louie? Why would Thembria declare war on us?”

Louie deftly flipped scoops of ice cream into a half coconut shell. “‘Cause, cuz, someone’s been swipin’ their stuff. Ever since they caught that guy red-handed earlier this week, relations with Thembria have been as hot as bacon on a griddle and twice as poppin’. It’s been all over the news all week.”

He gestured to a newspaper on the counter. Splashed across the front page was ‘Can Colonel Conrad Curb Conflict?’ with a large picture of a handsome military man waving from the cockpit of his plane.

“Aw, Rebecca’s had me globetrottin’ all week, delivering everything from avocados to xylophones. What I wouldn’t give for fifty thousand shaboozies to buy back the Sea Duck. Then I’d have nuthin’ but flyin’, fun, and freedom.” Almost too tired to eat, Baloo slowly slurped a spoonful of the sundae Louie had placed in front of him.

“Uh-huh,” Louie murmured. He had heard Baloo say that a million times over the past year, but knew his friend too well to believe it.

“Get this, innkeeper, she’s even got me playin’ postman, deliverin’ Christmas cards to our clients to save on a couple of measly ol’ stamps. Here’s yours.” He tossed a slightly crumpled envelope on the bar.

Louie opened the envelope and extracted the photograph. “Rebecca’s in fi-hine form, as usual.” Then, he teasingly tacked on, “The rest of the family ain’t bad neither.”

“Hey, slow down there, fuzzy. You’re liable to get a speeding ticket, feedin’ your face that fast.” The orangutan picked up a glass with his foot, blew on it, and began vigorously polishing it with a white towel.

As Baloo stared at the picture, his sleep-deprived mind conjured up an image of himself, happy and carefree, bounding towards the Sea Duck. Just as he reached the cockpit door...

Clang! Clang! Clang! Three more manacles appeared around his left wrist and both ankles.

Looking back, he saw that the manacles’ chains were attached not to cannonballs, but to Rebecca, Kit, Molly, and Wildcat, who were all tugging backwards, pulling him away from the seaplane, the beckoning blue sky, and freedom.

Baloo was jerked out of his nightmarish daydream when Louie said, “Who’d wanna steal from them Thembrians anyhow? They ain’t got nuthin’ for crooks to rook.”

Vaguely, as if far-away Thembrian was the furthest thing from his mind, Baloo said, “Uh, yeah, I hear that, man. Just a vast frozen wasteland with ice, snow, and the occasional firing squad. Speaking of firing squads, I’m gonna face my own if I don’t skedaddle back home.” He rose, his barstool scraping against the bare wooden floor.

“Gimme that!” Baloo angrily snatched up the picture and crammed it into his shirt pocket. As he stomped towards the door, he threw over his shoulder, “I’m gone. Solid gone!”

Louie shook his head as he cleared away Baloo’s untouched sundae. It was unlike the overweight bear to pass up food, a sure sign that he was agitated. And he doubted that the impending war was the cause. “The only place he’s going is down De Nile.”

The Sea Duck sped through the narrow opening in the cliffs that enfolded the tropical city of Cape Suzette in their protective arms.

The entire flight from Louie’s Place had barely registered with Baloo, who had been puzzling over something that, frankly, scared the ailerons off him.

“Fam...family?” The big bear’s lips stumbled over the panic-provoking word as he extracted the black-and-white photograph from his pocket. When the previous image of the Higher for Higher gang shackled to him tried to force his way into his mind again, he gulped and willed his stomach to stop barrel rolling.

He laughed shakily, then shook his head to clear the image from it and laughed again, scoffingly. “Ha! Louie don’t know what he’s talkin’ about. Me and Kit could leave Higher for Hire anytime we wanted. Just like that,” he said, snapping his fingers for emphasis. “All it would take is fifty thousand buckeroos for the Duck and we would be adios, bye-bye. Higher for Hire don’t mean a thing, not one single, soli-toot-tinary thing. It’s just a job like any other job, and Becky’s just a boss like any other boss. After all, I can’t be tied down or nuthin’, right? Right!”

Satisfied that he finally convinced himself of those facts, he shoved the picture back in his pocket.

The weariness that had weighed on him for the last thousand miles lifted a little as he began the plane’s descent towards the placid blue harbor in front of the plain wooden building he called home. After a week of being away, he didn’t know what excited him more - the prospect of sleeping in his own bed, eating a big lunch with a side of dinner, or regaling wide-eyed Molly, cheering Kit, and slightly skeptical Rebecca with his most recent adventures.

Before he could decide, he noticed that a late model, navy-and-white seaplane with a large government seal on the cockpit door and twin booms was moored in front of Higher for Hire.

“Hey, someone’s been parkin’ in my spot!” he exclaimed with an annoyed frown.

After Baloo had taxied the Sea Duck up to the dock, he hastily jumped out and hurried to the office where he flung open the door. The first thing that caught his eye was the bowl Rebecca usually kept on her desk, stocked with fruit to appease her pilot’s voracious appetite.

He spun around and saw Rebecca, Kit, and Molly gathered around a uniformed man sitting in the easy chair. He knew he’d been gone a week, but to have some interloper sitting in his chair was really the last straw.

Clenching his fists, he growled, “Someone’s been sittin’ in my chair...and there he is!”

“Zip it, Baloo!” Rebecca whispered, rushing over to grab his arm and give it a fierce warning squeeze. “Don’t you know who this is?”

When the man in the chair stood, Baloo’s frown turned upside-down. “You better believe I do! You’re Col. Conrad, the Uslandian ambassador to Thembria and a bone-y fide-y hero to boot! Man, oh, man, you can park in my space, eat my fruit, and sit in my chair all you want to!”

“Oh, Baloo! Mind your manners,” Rebecca snapped, plucking her pilot’s cap off his head.

Even in person, the ursine Colonel Conrad seemed larger than life. Perhaps it was the accumulation of his past heroic deeds that hung on him like the many medals on his uniform. Perhaps it was his square, broad shoulders that seemed to be able to carry the weight of the world. Or perhaps it the handsomely charming effect of his frank, lopsided grin coupled with an unruly mop of curly blond hair. Whatever it was, Col. Conrad had it, and had it in abundance.

Baloo fidgeted a little, not knowing whether to salute, bow, or shake this great man’s hand. Col. Conrad resolved that by grabbing his paw and pumping it as if they were old friends. With a smile that crinkled the corners of his twinkling brown eyes, he drawled in a southern accent, “It shore is a decided delight to meet a fellow flyboy.”

“Did ya hear that, Becky?” Baloo said, nearly dancing with joy. “Col. Conrad’s delighted to meet me!”

Molly tugged on the hem of Baloo’s shirt, saying, “Did you know that Col. Conrad got all those pretty medals for bravery?”

From Baloo’s other side, Kit chimed in: “And Col. Conrad’s flown everything from an Aironca P-39 Thunderbuster, a Douglas Dolphinfin, and that Martinique PB&J Seafarer sitting out there is the very first of its kind.”

“Brand-new too,” Conrad added. “Though I prefer the classics like your Conwing L-16, Mr. Baloo. I’m sure the MovieToon clips and newspaper pictures didn’t do it justice. I’d be delighted if you would let me take a little look-see. Maybe take her out for a spin sometime, just the two of us?”

Baloo beamed. Nothing made him happier than talking about ‘his baby’. “Well, sure, Connie!”

“He’s been telling us about all his parades. He’s had fourteen!” Molly exclaimed.

“Thirteen-and-a-half,” Conrad corrected modestly. “Hero work waits for no parade.”

“You ought to see him fly. He’s...he’s...wow!” Kit said, gazing up at the ambassador with hero-worship. “Can we go for a ride in your plane, Col. Conrad?”

Rebecca explained, “Col. Conrad has more important things to do now. He’s here because Baloo’s being honored with a position on his staff.”

“You, sir. Your exploits are quite well-known, ya know,” Col. Conrad said, causing Baloo to blush. “My next mission requires someone with your skills, your expertise, your...”

“Precisely! This mission calls for a huge hero. Someone able to attract all the attention of the Gle-orious Thembrian People.”

“I reckon ya are. That’s why I’ve chosen ya’ll to be my official chauffeur,” Conrad said with the air of a man conferring a great favor.

“Chauffeur?” Baloo’s chest - and ego - deflated. “Wait a prop-spinnin’ minute! If you’re such a hotshot pilot why don’t you fly yourself to Thembria?”

Indignantly, Rebecca said, “Whoever heard of a very important ambassador flying himself to a very important peacekeeping mission?”

“I guess ya got a point there, Becky. What happened to your last chauffeur?”

“I reckon he’s not longer, er...available.” Conrad’s famous smile flickered, but only for a moment. “I promise ya’ll be fairly recompensed.” He pulled a big wad of cash out of his pocket and offered it to Baloo.

Snatching the money greedily, Rebecca said, “You’ve got yourself a pilot.”

“Now that that’s settled, I reckon we’d better hit the sky,” Col. Conrad said, giving Baloo a friendly whack on the shoulder.

“What? Now?” Baloo exclaimed, his face falling. “B-b-b-b-b-but I just got home and...”

“The countdown’s on. No time to lose. Besides, we’ve got to settle this little old Thembrian fracas so Ms. Rebecca and I can make our date tonight at my regular table at the Carousel Club.”

“Date? Tonight?” Baloo’s gaze went from Rebecca to Col. Conrad, then back again. He didn’t like the way they were looking at each other. In fact, he had the strange urge to rearrange the ambassador’s gleaming teeth. “But, Becky, I’ve been lookin’ forward to you and me gettin’ burgers all week.”

“We can get hamburgers anytime,” Rebecca replied. She shoved Baloo’s hat in his hands and pushed him out the door and down the dock towards the Seafarer while everyone else followed them. “Besides, if you don’t fly Col. Conrad to Thembria, hamburgers will be the least of your worries.”

Rebecca gave him a rough shove that propelled him through the open cockpit door of the ambassador’s plane. “Go!”

“Whatever you say, Ms. Rebecca,” Baloo said grumpily, slinging his hat on his head.

“I bet you’ll get the biggest and bestest parade ever after you stop this war, Col. Conrad,” Molly said brightly.

“I’m not stopping this war just for me, little lady. I’m stopping it for you,” he patted her head, “and you,” he patted Kit’s head, “and especially you.”

Rebecca tittered like a schoolgirl when the colonel bent to plant a gallant kiss on the back of her hand.

“Somethin’ ain’t fair here,” Baloo muttered under his breath as he sank into the pilot’s seat, a scowl etched on his face.

Baloo had cooled his engines and warmed up to the mission after a few hours in the sky. He decided that chauffeuring Usland’s biggest hero to a summit to stop a war was, in fact, a very important job. Besides, it wasn’t every day that he got to fly in a brand-new Martinique Seafarer. It was no Conwing L-16, but he grudgingly admitted to himself that it had its merits.

“Say, this is some fancy-pants plane ya got here, Connie,” Baloo said, glancing over at the ambassador lounging in the plush co-pilot’s seat.

Not even the prospect of spending hours negotiating with the austere High Marshall seemed to shake the cool Colonel’s nerves.

“It’s got all the bells and whistles and then some,” Baloo continued. “But what’s this picture that’s stamped all over everything?”

Col. Conrad proudly display the seal that was emblazoned on the sleeve of his navy blue uniform - a blue silhouette of two men shaking hands superimposed against a white shield. Across the bottom of the seal was ‘Uslandian Ambassador’ in red lettering. “That is the official ambassador seal. It means I have diplomatic ee-mmunity.”

“Is it catching?” an apprehensive Baloo asked. “I’ve never come down with that illness. Diplomatic, I mean. When I was a boy, I got lots of immunity to measles and mumps and chicken pox and...”

“It’s not a dee-sease,” the ambassador chuckled good-naturedly. “What it boils down to is that it’s a passport to go an-y-where and do pretty much an-y-thing I want to in a foreign country.”

“You mean you can break all the cockamamie Thembrian laws and not be shot or anything?”

“I’ve gotta get me some of that diplomatic immunity for Christmas!” Baloo chuckled. “Speakin’ of Christmas, here we are in Thembria - the land that’s colder than Santa’s jolly red nose.”

After landing the plane on the snow-packed runway, Baloo flung open the door. A frigid gust of wind smacked him in the face and instantly chilled him right down to the bone. “Baby, it’s cold outside!” he cried as they jumped down to the ground. “What, no red carpet or welcoming committee?”

“Here he comes,” Conrad replied, pointing to a small figure moving towards them.

Col. Spigot was hurrying across the frozen tarmac to greet them as fast as his short legs could go. When he reached them, he peered at both Uslandians suspiciously. Frostily, he said, “Mr. Ambassador, I’m Colonel Spigot. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”

“Shore have. Why, you’re that fella who commanded the battle of Tiny Tundra in the Great War, right?”

Spigot looked very pleased and a little surprised. There weren’t too many people who knew his name, let alone his claims to fame. “Why, yes! That’s where I earned the nickname ‘The Terror’, because everyone was terrified of me. Have you heard the whole story? I’ll start at the beginning. It was a dark and snowy night, and the enemy had us surrounded!”

Col. Conrad took a more diplomatic approach. “I’m so sorry we don’t have the time to hear all of your simply fascinatin’ story, sir, but I do believe that the High Marshall is expecting me.” He pointed at his solid gold wristwatch.

At the mere mention of Thembria’s glorious leader, Col. Spigot snapped to attention. “Of course. Can’t keep the High Marshall waiting.” Almost graciously, he said, “I would offer you a ride, Mr. Ambassador, but...”

“Hmm...” After giving the overweight bear a look that clearly said, ‘I’m watching you’, Spigot abruptly turned on his heel and led Conrad and Baloo on a one-block trek to the long government building that ominously overshadowed the entire city.

Their footsteps echoed as they climbed innumerable stone steps up to the top floor where the High Marshall’s offices were.

Before Baloo could follow, the door was slammed in his face. “I’ll wait out here,” he muttered nasally, rubbing his stinging nose.

As he waited, Baloo nervously shifted from one foot to the other. He looked up the silent corridor, then down the silent corridor. There didn’t seem to be anyone around except the formidable-looking man standing guard in front of the High Marshall’s office. He stood so still that Baloo had an urge to pinch him to see if he was real. But he refrained because pinching a Thembrian guard would probably result in a trip to the firing squad. Instead, he tentatively struck up a conversation. “So, uh, how’s the weather been?”

“Cold,” the muscular warthog replied curtly without taking his eyes off the drab grey wall opposite him.

“So’s the reception,” Baloo muttered under his breath. “Say, is there a little pilot’s room around here?”

The guard pointed to the left with the barrel of his rifle. “Two doors down.”

“Thanks, and I mean it, bud.” All those Orange Fizzies he had drank to keep awake on his long cargo run earlier that day were catching up with him.

A few minutes later, Baloo was washing his hands in the ice-cold trickle coming out of the bathroom sink’s tap when a lanky man ambled in without knocking.

“Hey!” Baloo exclaimed, recognizing the man as the High Marshall’s personal assistant. “That door should have a lock on it.”

“Other than the gulag, there are no locks in Thembria,” the assistant stated languidly. He carried a stack of grey towels monogrammed with H.M. Atop the towels was a bar of soap and a rubber ducky. “Everything belongs to the Glorious People, but the Glorious People know that if they take anything not given to them by the State, they will be shot.”

He drew back a grey curtain that partitioned off the majority of the room, revealing a large, claw-footed bathtub that could have easily accommodated five people or one stout High Marshall.

“Does that belong to the People?” Baloo asked, drying his hands on his shirt.

“This is the High Marshall’s.” The assistant set the towels on a nearby chair and turned on the tap.

Seeing steam rise from the bathtub, Baloo exclaimed, “Hey, that’s hot water! I thought the Thembrian people only had the cold and frozen varieties.”

“The People, yes. The High Marshall, no. Immediately remove yourself from the State’s estate or be shot.”

Once again, Baloo found himself pushed into the hallway and the door slammed in his face.

“It was sure nice of the High Marshall to let you have all this stuff as a peace offering.” Baloo’s voice emerged from behind a bulging burlap bag. “But there’s one thing I don’t get, Connie. If he gave it to you, why do we hafta go from warehouse to warehouse, pickin’ it up?”

Conrad chuckled quietly, derisively, as he stuffed handful after handful of chinchilla earmuffs into the sack. “That’s Thembrians for ya’ll. Ornery as all get-out.”

The ambassador cracked open the creaky, cold metal door and peered outside. Sergeant Dunder was pacing around the perimeter of the warehouse across the street. As in everything he did, the sergeant looked very focused on his task. His face was grim and his rifle was perfectly poised on his shoulder as he marched in a never-varying step.

“Piece o’ carrot cake,” Baloo said jauntily. “This is nuthin’ compared to what Becky makes me haul around when she goes shoppin’. That gal must think I got the cargo capacity of the Spruce Moose. Oh, man! That reminds me. She’ll wanna go Christmas shoppin’ sometime. I wish there really was a Santa so’s he could handle the present part of it. Speaking of Santa, Molly’s already wrote him a letter tellin’ him what she wants. She’s sure excited about Christmas. Kit too. He wants to get the biggest Christmas tree he can find and decorate it all up. I don’t think that kid’s had many real Christmases, maybe not any. Neither have I, I guess. That’s why this Christmas is gonna be real special. We’re...”

Conrad, intent on Sgt. Dunder, didn’t hear a word Baloo said. “Follow me,” he instructed as the sergeant disappeared around the corner.

“Right behind ya, Connie.” Baloo flung the bag over his shoulder and hurried after the colonel, the contents of the sack clinking.

On the other side of the snowy street, Conrad opened the door of the warehouse Dunder was guarding and slipped inside with Baloo right behind. The colonel carefully closed the door.

“What’s that?” Baloo asked, nodding towards the curtain of thick metal rings that stretched across the length of the warehouse.

“The Iron Curtain. Only the top, top Thembrian officials know what’s behind it, and the High Marshall said I could have a little look-see.” The ambassador pushed the metal rings aside and quickly disappeared behind them.

“That High Marshall must be a real generous guy.” Baloo set the heavy sack down. “Hey, Connie. What’s the world’s greatest ambassador want for Christmas?”

“Just a little ol’ piece of history,” Col. Conrad replied, emerging from behind the Iron Curtain. “How ‘bout you? What do you want for Christmas?”

“I don’t rightly know,” Baloo said, rubbing the back of his neck thoughtfully.

“How ‘bout having the fate of the entire world in your hands?” Smiling, he dropped a screw into Baloo’s palm. On one end of the screw was a red knob labeled: ‘Temperature Control’.

Baloo chuckled. “What are we gonna do with it, Connie? Control the weather?”

Col. Conrad wasn’t smiling when he said, “I reckon that little screw will screw up Thembrian-Uslandian relations as we know it. It will start the Cold Water War.”

“Cold Water War?” Baloo echoed, shocked. “B-b-b-b-but you’re the peace ambassador. You said you fixed everythin’ with the High Marshall. And what about the High Marshall’s peace offerin’?” He gestured to the burlap sack at his feet.

Before Baloo could react, the heavy sack smacked him full in the face, knocking him out.

A few moments later, Baloo, stretched out on the cold floor, murmured, “You’re right, Louie. That four-alarm chili sure packs a wallop.”

The big bear opened his eyes. It took a second for them to focus on the little red knob lying right in front of his nose. Scooping it up, he ran outside just in time to see the ambassador’s plane roar overhead. As he watched the plane become a smaller and smaller blue dot against the grey sky, feelings of helplessness and hopelessness crushed his spirit like a ton of bricks. “Swell. Stuck without my Duck. What else can go wrong?”

Dunder’s rifle trembled almost as much as his voice as he commanded, “Turn around slowly, you trespassing trespasser.” When he saw who his prisoner was, he immediately shouldered his weapon. “Mr. Baloo?”

“Dunder, ol’ pal!” Baloo exclaimed in relief, lowering his arms. “Man, am I glad to see you. For minute there, I thought I was in hot water.”

“Only the High Marshall has hot water. His hot water heater is behind the Iron Curtain.” Sergeant Dunder pointed through the open warehouse door to the curtain of iron rings.

“Listen, Dundee, I think it’s missin’ this doohickey.” Baloo showed him the little temperature control knob. “If we don’t put it back pronto, I’m bettin’ more people than me will be in hot water.”

The High Marshall, who was soaking in his steaming hot bath, sighed the sigh of the extremely exasperated. “I need a lock on that door. What are you doing here, Nozzle?”

“Spigot, O Mighty Mucky-Muck,” the diminutive colonel corrected with a deferential bow. “Spigot.”

“Yah, yah, yah.” Thembria’s behemoth leader emphasized each ‘yah’ with a quack from his rubber duck. “I thought I told you never to interrupt me when I’m taking a bath.” He leaned forward so his assistant could scrub his back with a brush.

Col. Spigot spun around to discreetly face the door. “But, sir, this is important! Tomorrow, we will be at war with Usland. We need to discuss battle strategies.”

“The only thing I’m interested in is having you shot.” From under heavily lidded eyes, the High Marshall cast a baleful look at the back of Spigot’s head.

“The way I see it, we should attack the Uslandian military from all directions. Completely surround them, especially in the air, of which I, as Head of the Glorious People’s Air Force, will be personally in charge. As a matter of fact, we can use my secret weapon: Hanging a Spigot. Those Uslandian swine will be left in the cold!”

Suddenly, the hot water coming out of the tap turned cold and in a matter of seconds the High Marshall became a warthog ice cube in his own bathtub.

“Spigot!” the High Marshall shouted, trying to wrench himself out of the bathtub with hands that were bluer than normal. “My water is cold! Do you know what this means?”

Peeking over his shoulder, Spigot said shakily, “It-it turned to ice, s-sir?” He would have been furious at Sgt. Dunder for deserting his post if he wasn’t so afraid for his own life.

As if this was an ordinary, everyday occurrence, the High Marshall’s assistant leisurely traded the back brush for an ice pick and began chipping at the ice.

Over the steady blows of the ice pick, Spigot pleaded, “But your High Marshall-ness, who will run the Air Force if you have me shot?”

The High Marshall roughly grabbed the ice pick from his assistant and tossed it aside. He was getting annoyed with the ice chips pelting his face. “Anyone can fly better than you, Schnozzle.”

Unexpectedly, the pipes popped and cracked to life. Hot water spewed out of the tap, the bathtub thawed, and so did the High Marshall’s temper.

“Thank you! Oh, thank you, your High Marshall-ness.” Spigot picked up a towel from a nearby chair and wiped the cold sweat off his brow. He hadn’t been so close to being executed since he had lost the Golden Sprocket of Friendship.

Spigot put the towel down reverently and fled from the room as if his life depended on it – which it did.

Baloo blew out the match he had used to relight the water heater’s pilot light. “That oughta do it, Dundee. But there’s one thing I don’t get. Why have a hot water heater big enough to supply the whole city when only the High Marshall uses it?”

“Only enough pipes to route it to the High Marshall’s bathroom,” Dunder replied matter-of-factly. “I wish there was something I could do to thank you from keeping Col. Spigot and me from getting shot.”

Baloo, standing in a cone of light emanating from the fixture above the warehouse door, flipped through the official papers that declared him to be a Glorious Thembrian citizen. It wasn’t exactly what he had in mind when he had asked Dunder to save him from being shot, but when the sergeant had pointed out that it was the only way, he had reluctantly agreed.

“You know, Mr. Baloo, you’re the first immigrant we’ve ever had in Thembria.”

“And I’m probably the last,” Baloo muttered as he carefully stowed the papers in his pocket.

“I’ve enrolled you in the Glorious People’s Air Force. We can always use a great pilot like you, especially with the war starting tomorrow.”

“But for now, you can help me with guard duty.” Sgt. Dunder handed him a rifle.

“Swell.” Baloo looked at the gun with distaste. He tugged at the collar of the itchy woolen uniform that Dunder had lent him, slumped against the warehouse, and peered through the gathering gloom at the city. The prospect wasn’t pretty - poverty and persecution in perpetuity. It was evident from the rows of dilapidated houses to the defeated-looking people queued in front of the State-owned store to the many military men milling around. Even the large snowflakes that were softly falling failed to cover the bleakness.

As Baloo stood there, it slowly sank in. He had escaped the shackles of family, but, surprisingly, he didn’t have fun or freedom in return. He didn’t even have his Sea Duck to fly. He shivered, not necessarily from the cold. Now, he almost wished that he had just let them shoot him.

“First shift dinner break for military personnel.” Dunder pulled a paper sack from his pocket. “I’ll share my roast turnips with you.”

“Say, that’s real swell of ya, Dundee.” Baloo grateful smile faded when he accepted the turnip. “They’re cold. Ice cold.” He thumped it against the metal warehouse wall. It clanged loudly.

Dunder carefully looked around. Seeing that no one but Baloo was within earshot, he took a small radio out of his pocket and began turning the knobs. “If the atmosphere is just right, we should be able to get K-CAPE. But don’t tell anyone, especially Col. Spigot. He’ll have me shot...or worse.”

A gruff, bored voice pushed its way through the radio’s static: “...Sunday - cold, cloudy, chance of snow. Monday - cold, cloudy, chance of snow. Tuesday...”

“... the latest mass trials were a huge success,” a second announcer said briskly. “There will be fewer but better Thembrians...”

“...on This Was Your Life,” said the game show host cheerfully, “a jaywalker will be tried to the fullest extent of the law and then shot...”

A voice, akin to the weatherman droned: “...in 17 hours 12 minutes and 37 seconds. The High Marshall will declare war on Usland in 17 hours 12 minutes and 35 seconds. The High Marshall will declare war on Usland in…”

Baloo blankly stared at the snowflakes falling at his feet. “I bet back home Broadcast Sally is servin’ up all the Christmas platters.”

“Is she as beautiful as she sounds?” Dunder said between crunches of slightly icy turnip.

Despite his despondent mood, Baloo smiled wanly as he remembered the big-boned hippo who had a big crush on him. “Well, let’s just say she can serve up the platters, but she’s no dish.”

“Yeah,” Baloo sighed and removed the snapshot of the Higher for Hire gang from his pocket. “This is what I really miss.”

“That’s more’n nice. That’s home.” Baloo studied the photograph for a long time, a sad smile on his face. “Hey, can I ask your opinion?”

Upon hearing that word ‘opinion’, Sergeant Dunder was so afraid that his turnip toppled out of his hands and sank in the snow. He murmured just loud enough for Baloo to hear: “Opinions aren’t allowed in Thembria, sir. They lead to ideas and the State doesn’t like that.”

“This ain’t even about Thembria. It’s just one little ol’ opinion about this little ol’ picture.”

Dunder seriously considered the question for a moment, furtively looked around to make sure no one was listening, then nodded slightly.

As if fearful of the answer he might receive, Baloo couldn’t look at Dunder while he stammered: “Do we...? I mean, do the people in the picture look...?”

“Warm? Yes, sir. You must miss being warm as much as you miss your comrades.”

“Your social equals,” Dunder explained. “Everyone’s a comrade in Thembria except the High Marshall. Or any of the top, top officials. And I wouldn’t dare call Col. Spigot a comrade. He’d have me shot.”

“Well, these are real special comrades. My comrade Louie calls ‘em...um, fam...family.” Baloo quickly brushed off a teardrop that had fallen on the photograph and glanced over at Dunder.

However, the sergeant hadn’t noticed the teardrop, because he was intently folding his empty paper sack. “We have families in Thembria, too.”

Dunder looked even more solemn than usual as he stowed the neatly folded sack in his pocket. “Oh, they were shot a long time ago.”

“Oh, yeah.” Following Sergeant Dunder’s lead, he put the photograph back in his pocket and shouldered his rifle in preparation of pacing around the warehouse.

As they stood there, waiting for the bell denoting the end of dinner break, Baloo said, “Kit, Wildcat and me were supposed to go fly-fishin’ Sunday, and I promised Molly we’d finish reading her fairytale book. And what’s Becky gonna do about the lemons that are comin’ Monday? If I’m not there to deliver ‘em, the whole deal will go sour, just like this ambassador gig.” He laughed bitterly. “Some ambassador! I’m down and out, while at this very minute Col. Fakeroo is livin’ it up with Becky, eatin’ horse doovers and swillin’ champagne...”

“Defected? No one defects to Thembria!” Rebecca’s voice rang shrilly throughout the very posh, very pastel nightclub.

Everyone, from the people seated at the tables to the couples on the dance floor, turned to look at her in disgust and impatience. The band that slowly spun around on the giant carousel in the middle of the club began “Begin the Beguine” again.

“I know it’s hard to believe, but I saw it myself.” Conrad drawled, dabbing at his face with a napkin. He took the empty champagne glass from her, wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and flashed his world-famous smile as the paparazzi snapped picture after picture.

The glamor and excitement of being on a date with Usland’s most famous hero was quickly fading. She wished that she was in a quiet corner café eating hamburgers with Baloo, far away from the media circus and the fans that had constantly buzzed around them like a swarm of bees. Spots danced before her eyes from all the flashbulbs and her head reeled from the noise of the jabbering, fawning fans.

She murmured to herself, “I just wanted to make him a little jealous, not defect to Thembria.”

Conrad signed a simpering vixen’s napkin, handed it back to her with a wink that caused her to swoon, then turned to Rebecca. “Let’s not dwell on the past. I reckon it’s better to think about the future. Our future.” With a flourish, he took a black velvet box out of his uniform pocket and opened it, revealing a very, very large diamond ring. “Will you marry me?”

“I-I...uh...” Rebecca stammered. She didn’t know what stunned her most - Baloo’s defecting, the fact that Usland’s most famous hero was asking her to be Mrs. Col. Conrad, or the blinding gem that was staring her in the face. She put up a hand to shield her eyes from the glare.

Col. Conrad gave the people pressing around the table his most charming smile. “Can Ms. Rebecca and I have a little ol’ moment alone, please?”

After the crowd had scattered, Conrad scootched closer to Rebecca on the semi-circle bench they shared. As he advanced, she retreated. “I reckon I’m just the most eligible bachelor in the entire country. I have three estates, fifteen vee-hicles, a collection of airplanes, my own personal runway, a 30-foot yacht, my own pier, not to mention oodles of money. This ring alone cost fifty grand.”

“Fifty...thousand...dollars?” Rebecca gasped. She was so shocked by the exorbitant price that she paused for a moment in her escape towards the end of the plush peach-colored bench.

Conrad mistook her shock for awe at his greatness. Unlike every other woman he’d ever know, Rebecca wasn’t completely mesmerized by him. In fact, she had been playing hard-to-get all night, but it looked like she was finally ready to be caught. He knew that the ring would do it. That, and his magnetic personality.

Smiling triumphantly, he cozied up to her and slipped a possessive arm around her shoulders. “Ya’ll have everything you ever wanted. Most importantly, you, Kurt, and Holly...”

He continued as if he hadn’t heard her. “…will add to my perfect image.” He grinned at their reflections in the mirror on the wall opposite their booth. He was really attracted to this sweet, yet sassy, brown-eyed bearess. Most importantly, her appearance complimented his perfectly, she with her sleek brown hair and him with his golden curls. As an added bonus, she was the mother of two adorable cubs who adored him. “Yessirie, we’ll look delightful in the papers and the movies. Don’t you think I’ll look good as the head of a family? All the presidents have ‘em and the way things are going, I’m gonna be president someday.”

“But we barely know each other,” Rebecca protested as she struggled to pry his fingers from her arm.

“I reckon that’s because I’m just a little ol’ shy boy from the south, sugar.”

“You’ll be shy one arm if you don’t stop doing that!” She finally succeeded in shrugging him off and promptly tumbled off the edge of the bench with an “Ah!” When she landed on the lavender carpet with a jarring thump, her hairpins jolted loose, letting her S-shaped up-do fall down.

“You’ll get to know me,” he said as he slipped the ring on her finger. “Look me up in Who’s Who, The Ambassador’s Quarterly, read about me in any Uslandian newspaper, or listen about me on the news. Whattaya’ll say?”

“I say I’ve really got to go.” Rebecca scrambled to her feet and scooped up her handbag.

“Why, of course you do! The sooner you look up my credentials, the sooner ya’ll love me. I reckon everybody does!” Conrad yelled after her as she rushed towards the exit amid a blaze of flashbulbs.

Rebecca sprang from a checkered cab, threw a fistful of bills at the driver, and ran into her office.

Kit, Molly, and Wildcat were sitting cross-legged on the rug in front of Rebecca’s desk. They looked up from the card game they were playing when she entered.

Rebecca was a pink blur as she sprinted across the room, grabbed the Sea Duck’s spare set of keys from her desk drawer and headed for the door, saying quickly, “I’m flying to Thembria to get Baloo because I know he wouldn’t defect in...in a prop-spinnin’ minute. Kit, you take care of Molly. Molly, you be good for Kit, and, Wildcat, you do...whatever it is you do. Okay? Bye!”

As quickly as she had come in, Rebecca left, slamming the door behind her. A moment later the Sea Duck started up and roared away.

“Wait.” Confusion crossed Kit’s face as he chose a card from the pile on the floor in front of him. “Did she just say Baloo defected to Thembria, or did I misunderstand her?”

“That’s okay, Kit. I misunderstand people all the time,” Wildcat replied with a bright smile. He looked at his cards and scratched his head. “Are we playing Old Maid or Crazy Eights?”

“Go Fish,” Molly answered, trying to decide what card she should ask for next.

“Okay.” Without further ado, Wildcat put down his cards, got to his feet, and started for the door.

Shere Khan, the world’s richest and most powerful man, stood in front of his very large window, gazing down at the misty reflection of the city lights far, far below in the harbor.

The radio on his desk was on and Dog Rather was reporting: “According to the President, Col. Conrad was unable to resolve matters with the High Marshall earlier today due to the Thembrian leader’s refusal to negotiate...”

His reverie was cut short by the nasal voice of his faithful secretary paging him over the intercom.

With the purposeful, unhurried strides of a man who knew exactly where he was going in life, Khan crossed the room and seated himself behind his desk. He switched off the radio and pressed the ‘transmit’ button on the intercom. “Show him in, Mrs. Snarly.”

A moment later, Conrad exited the elevator. Most people crept timidly into the imposing office occupied by the equally imposing Shere Khan. Not Col. Conrad. He strutted past the snapping man-eating Venus flytraps with all the arrogance and self-assurance in the world. When he reached the desk, he slapped one hand on its polished surface and offered the other to the businessman. “As always, a delight to be here, Mr. Khan. Mighty ‘bliged that you’d see me so late in the P.M.”

Khan ignored the proffered hand and got straight down to business. “I trust that you were successful.”

“Yes, sir.” Col. Conrad took a seat in the chair opposite the desk and straightened a few of the medals on his uniform. “The goods are en route to Thembria.”

Conrad peeked at the cash in the envelope and smiled with satisfaction as he tucked it into his pocket. “When the war begins tomorrow, I’ll get to bomb those idiotic Thembrians. How they ever got to be a world power is beyond me. Yessiree, I’ll probably be promoted to general and, I reckon,” he chuckled, “your pocketbook won’t be hurtin’ with all those military contracts.”

“No war? No general?” Crestfallen, Conrad fingered his lapel where he had longed to see a general’s star.

“Anyone can be a general. Not everyone can be president.” Khan fixed Col. Conrad with a cool stare. “You do want to be president, don’t you?”

Khan explained calmly, “Because you must inform the High Marshall of the location of their stolen goods. Once they are in possession of those, the war will be cancelled at the very last minute, and you will be a bigger hero than ever. In gratitude, the Uslandian people will choose you to be their president in the next election.”

“You can’t expect me to go back there!” The fearless hero was on the verge of a panic attack. “Those Thembrians are so all-fired mad at us that any and all Uslandians they see will be shot on sight!”

In response, Shere Khan stood, towering over the colonel. He had no patience for people who questioned his absolute wisdom and authority. He snarled menacingly, “Let me remind you, Col. Conrad, you’re an image. An image I made through years of careful planning and connections. I made sure that you were there to be the hero in all the right places and at all the right times. I made you and, just as easily, I can un-make you.” One of his razor-sharp claws shot out and sliced a row of medals from the colonel’s uniform; they clattered onto the desk. “Do you understand?”

Several Hours Later…
The Glorious People’s Government Building
Radar Room

Col. Spigot was seated in front of the radar screen, but he wasn’t paying attention to it. He was much too busy polishing his helmet, topped with a garish brass flounder. He sang happily as he rubbed one of the flounder’s bug eyes with a cloth. “War, war, war, in a few hours we’re going to war.”

Hearing an extra ‘blip’ on the radar, he glanced up. An unidentified dot was rapidly moving towards Mustgo. He reached for the microphone and demanded, “Who flies there?”

"Oh, dear." Rebecca fumbled for the mike in the dark cockpit and tried to reply, but found that her tongue was frozen with fear. She had left Cape Suzette in such a hurry that she had forgotten to apply for an entry passport. But normally that took weeks, and knowing the Thembrian penchant for shooting first and asking questions later, she was afraid that Baloo didn't have weeks. Her mind desperately raced to think up a plausible reason for why an Uslandian plane was flying over Thembrian airspace, but she couldn't come up with anything.

Over the radio, Spigot’s accusing voice barked: “Speak up! Don’t keep me guessing. You’re an Uslandian spy trying to get a jump start on the war, aren’t you? Aren’t you?”

“No! My name is Rebecca Cunningham, owner of Higher for Hire air cargo service,” she blurted out nervously. “I just need to make a quick stop.”

A few minutes later, the Sea Duck was surrounded by five sturdy Thembrian fighter planes. Their popping machine guns lit up the night sky.

Clang went a bathtub as it landed on top of the yellow seaplane, jarring it and the bearess piloting it.

Rebecca’s heart sank as she shrank in her seat. So much for her daring rescue. She knew that she couldn’t out-fly the fighters, so she began her descent. “Where’s Baloo when I need him?”

Baloo was pacing around the warehouse in the rut that he and Sergeant Dunder had worn in the snow. Above the grooved snowbank only the top of his head was visible. He couldn’t see Dunder, who was half a building ahead of him, but he could hear his steady, “Left, right, left, right,” urging him on.

The big bear mechanically marched, muttering under his breath, “Think of somethin’ warm. The inside of a volcano, the desert sand singeing my tootsies, Louie’s piping-hot pizza. Oh, baby, I sure could go for one of those right now. With pepperoni, extra cheese…”

Dreams of pizza were interrupted by Col. Spigot shouting, “You! Guard! Come with me.”

“Aw, man, two more seconds, and I could have tasted it.” Baloo climbed over the snowbank and trotted after the colonel. “Where’re we goin’, Spiggy?”

“Spiggy?” The colonel stopped in his tracks, spun around, and glared up at Baloo, bristling like an undersized rooster.

“Twiggy,” Baloo amended quickly. “I said ‘twiggy’. Have you lost weight? Because you look really, uh…glorious today.” For good measure, he tacked on “Sir.”

Spigot chuckled as he struck a pose, showing off his ‘fine figure’. “I do, don’t I? It must be the helmet.”

“Well, ya know what they say, sir. The helmet makes the man.” To himself, Baloo added silently, “Look like an idjit.”

“I should wear it more often. Perhaps it will impress the ladies.” Spigot tipped the helmet at a rakish angle and wriggled his eyebrows. The oversized helmet promptly plopped flounder-first into the snow.

Baloo had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. “Oh, yeah, that’ll do it all right.”

With a grunt of frustration, Spigot picked up the helmet and plunked it back on his head. “Enough chitchat. Let’s go.”

“We found an intruder encroaching on Thembrian airspace. As the head officer of the Glorious People’s Air Force, it is my duty to deal with said intruder in order to discourage this from happening again. Otherwise, our Glorious Mommyland will be overrun with pushy, presumptuous, capitalistic swine.”

Spigot pointed to a person in a pink dress standing against a concrete wall marred with more than a few cannonball craters. The prisoner’s hands were tied to a post. Her head hung down, her thick brown hair concealing her face. Casually, he commanded, “Shoot her.”

All’s Bear in Love and War
Part 3

Thembria

“What are you waiting for? Shoot her!” Col. Spigot shouted. He emphasized his command by frantically waggling his riding crop at Rebecca standing in front of the cratered concrete wall.

“B-b-b-b-but...!” Baloo’s eyes darted around, searching for a way to get Rebecca out of the line of fire. Not only was there a shortage of material goods to use as escape tools, he was experiencing a rare shortage of ideas.

Before he could devise a plan involving the lone light bulb affixed to the top of the wall, his rifle, and the overabundance of snow, Spigot barked out, “No ‘buts’! She’s a dangerous criminal!”

The petite bearess, near tears and shaking with cold and fear, looked anything but dangerous.

Baloo was sweating profusely despite the frigid wind that made Rebecca’s skirt flap like a swallow in flight. He tried stalling for time by pointing out, “I’m bettin’ she hasn’t even had a trial yet. It’s against the law to shoot someone before they have a trial. Can’t she just get off with a warning?”

“I’m warning you. Shoot her, or as your commanding colonel, I’ll shoot you!” Like a toddler throwing a tantrum, Col. Spigot jumped up and down. The flounder helmet bobbed comically on his head.

Baloo’s eyes lit up with a sudden idea. He shouldered his weapon and surreptitiously winked at Rebecca. “Ya know, it’s too bad that all your potential has to end this way, boss lady. Remember all the potential that I said you had back at Lake Flaccid? With the guacamole…?

Catching onto his train thought, Rebecca added with a slight smile, “And the flesh-melting ooze guns?”

Baloo nodded, almost imperceptibly. “Pre-zactly.”

“Silence!” A very annoyed Spigot shouted. “Prisoners are to be shot, not heard. You’re taking too long. Give me that gun!”

“Whatever ya say, your colonelness.” Baloo was all graciousness as he handed over the weapon.

“Watch how a pro does it,” Spigot said, pushing Baloo aside.

Because the gun was a lot taller than Spigot was, it was difficult for him to raise it to his shoulder, yet maintain his balance. Warthog and gun swung wildly in a circle. The diminutive colonel staggered backwards, then forwards, backwards, forwards, on his toes, his heels, his toes, his heels. The barrel of the gun was aimed at the sky, the ground, the sky, and then...

Bang!

Baloo cracked open an eye when a triumph Col. Spigot dropped the weapon in the snow and crowed, “You’ve still got it, Ivanov. The Crack-Shot of Coldstream Canyon.” The short warthog strutted away, chuckling to himself.

When the colonel was out of earshot, Baloo said, “Don’t know what he’s so all-fired happy about. Spiggy couldn’t hit the broad side of a fuselage, right, Becky?”

No response.

“Becky?”

Baloo hurried towards the wall. Rebecca was lying in a crumpled heap, looking like a pathetic pink flower trampled in the snow.

And she wasn’t moving.

His heart jumped into his throat as he dropped to his knees and started untying her hands. “I don’t believe it. He really did shoot her! Where’s a paramedic when you need ‘em? Heck, I’d even go for a single medic.” However, since there wasn’t another soul in sight and he didn’t know where the Glorious People’s Hospital was, all he could do was cradle her limp form in his arms. Tears pricked his eyes. “Oh, man, Beckers, just say one word and tell me if you’re dead!”

It seemed like an age passed until Rebecca’s eyes fluttered open. She smiled dreamily at up him.

A second later, Baloo was almost sorry that she was alive. Rebecca had grabbed him by the lapels and was shaking him. “I’m not dead, but you are, buster! How dare you defect without asking me, your boss, first?”

“But I-I don’t understand.” Rebecca stammered, releasing him. “Your uniform…the gun…and Col. Conrad told me you did.”

“The only thing defective around here is that Conrad,” Baloo growled, helping her to her feet. “Yeowch! Sliced my hand on your…” When she turned her hand over, he was momentarily blinded by the light reflecting off the enormous diamond. “Becky, where’d you get that rock?”

For some reason, Baloo felt that his world was in a tailspin; his boss lady must have shaken him harder than usual. He leaned heavily against the cold wall to steady himself, turning his back towards her. He couldn’t bear the sight of that huge diamond that glinted mockingly at him. Angrily, he spat, “You’re engaged to that liar, that fake, that…that phony baloney?”

“That looks pretty ‘exactly’ to me, lady. Well, you can just fly right back to your rich, famous colonel and live happily ever after!”

Rebecca put a gentle paw on his arm and waited until he had turned his sad, weary eyes towards her before saying, “But there won’t be any ‘happily ever after’, Baloo, not without....what’s that?” Her ears had detected the rhythmic tramping of many, many boots; it was growing louder.

Baloo protectively pushed Rebecca behind him as a troop of soldiers marched past.

When the soldiers were out of sight, Rebecca said, “In a few hours, Usland and Thembria will be at war with each other. Let’s get out of this place!” She grabbed his hand and tugged on it.

“But,” she grunted through gritted teeth, now trying to push the big bear, “the Sea Duck’s…that way.”

Amused at the petite bearesses’ futile efforts, Baloo said, “I’m still stayin’.”

Finally, Rebecca realized that she couldn’t win. With her hands on her hips, she asked, “Why?” She thought that he would have jumped at the chance to leave the slush pit that was Thembria.

“Papa Bear’s gonna catch Goldilocks,” Baloo said, his spirits lifting. He had just realized something. A mental comparison of the current time with the time that it took to fly from Cape Suzette to Thembria told him that Rebecca must have cut her date with Col. Conrad short. She had walked out on the glitz and glamor of the world’s biggest hero to fly to this forbidding, forbidden country and risk a firing squad to rescue him. It warmed the cockpit of his heart.

Rebecca scoffed, “Oh, Baloo! I think your brain’s frozen, because you’re making less sense than usual. Okay, so Col. Conrad might not be the shining paragon that the press makes him out to be, but he’s still our peacekeeping ambassador. It’s not his fault the High Marshall didn’t want to negotiate with him and that they’re going to declare war on us.”

“Does it make sense that the so-called peacekeeping ambassador was swipin’ stuff from Thembrian warehouses to jump-start the war?”

“He did?” She balled her fists, looking as if she would like to punch the peacekeeping ambassador.

“Yup, just like he framed that other chauffeur of his, poor stiff.” Baloo thoughtfully rubbed the back of his neck. “Call it a hunch, honeybunch, but something as fishy as the Great Patriotic Flounder is goin’ on here and I think that that Col. Conrad is just the tip of the iceberg. Yessiree, he’ll be back. I just know it.”

“Okay, I’ll stay too,” Rebecca replied reluctantly. She had known Baloo long enough to respect his hunches; they were usually right. Besides, she knew she would follow him anywhere and go along with almost any of his screwball schemes, especially if he called her endearing names like ‘honeybunch’.

Grinning, he grabbed her hand. “C’mon, comrade, we gotta see a sergeant about some supplies.”

Baloo squinted through the darkness at the snow-blanketed building that loomed before them. “The Ministry of Lawn Ornaments?” he whispered just loud enough to be heard over the waves of hot-spring-fed Mustgo Lake that were lapping against the nearby docks. “What are we doin’ here, Dundee?”

“You said you needed supplies, sir,” Dunder replied, pushing open the heavy metal door. “This is where the supplies are.”

As Dunder, Baloo, and Rebecca entered, a frightened woman sidled past, furtively tucking a package wrapped in brown paper into the pocket of her faded dress.

The sergeant led them through the dark, empty room, around the counter and lifted up on a ring connected to a trap door, revealing steps leading down. The light got brighter as they descended. At the bottom of the stairs, they found themselves in what looked like a large underground warehouse stocked to the rafters with every kind of item imaginable.

Dunder replied, “It was built as a bomb shelter during the Great War, but now it’s the Black Jack Market.”

“Does everyone in Thembria know about this?” Rebecca asked, glancing at the rows of canned food on the shelf next to her. The prices stamped on the cans were ten times more than what she usually saw at her local grocery store in Cape Suzette.

“Everyone but the top, top officials. If they knew, they’d take all the best stuff for themselves.”

Just then, a warthog with one tusk that pointed up and one tusk that pointed down approached them. In a thick Thembrian accent, he said, “Ah, more customers.”

“Black Jack is the name,” he said proudly, rubbing his hands together. He knew suckers when he saw them, and everyone who came to the Black Jack Market was a sucker.

“Fleecing is your game,” Rebecca concluded. “These prices are outrageous! Two dollars for a can of beans?”

“For you, special price of $3,” Black Jack said, slapping a label with $3 on the can.

“Haven’t you heard? There’s a shortage on,” Black Jack replied with a smug smirk. Due to the lack of goods in the Thembrian warehouses and the government-owned Storesky above ground, he could charge the paltry peasants whatever he wanted and none would dare complain. Illegally obtaining things from anyone other than the State was a capital offense.

“Wait a prop-spinnin’ minute!” Baloo interjected. “If there’s a shortage, how’d all this stuff get here?”

At that moment, seven very short Thembrians in matching jackets and stocking caps raced down the stairs. They all wore black sashes, indicating that they were security guards. The grumpiest-looking one, aptly named Sgt. Grumpy, said, “The Flamingo’s here, boss.”

Baloo, Rebecca, and Dunder ran upstairs after Black Jack and the seven security guards. From behind the counter they saw the tail section of a large pink plane protruding into the room.

Black Jack’s midget cohorts had formed an assembly line. Some were unloading plastic pink flamingo lawn ornaments from the plane onto a conveyer belt. Some were taking the flamingos apart. Some were boxing up the goods that fell out of the flamingos. Some were snapping the birds back together and painting them blue. Meanwhile, Sgt. Grumpy spray-painted the plane blue.

Dunder murmured, “That’s the biggest flamingo I’ve ever seen,” meaning the cargo plane.

“Hey, I recognize that guy,” Baloo said. He was looking at the panther pilot talking to Black Jack. “He’s one of Khan’s men, but what’s he doing jockeying that pink jalopy?”

Seeing Black Jack slip the panther pilot a wad of cash, Rebecca replied, “Making a profit from that merchandise for his boss.”

Baloo had turned his attention to the assembly line where he saw pair after pair of chinchilla earmuffs drop out of the opened flamingoes. “It’s not just any merchandise, Beckers. That’s the stuff that Connie shoplifted from the storehouses.” Thumping the counter with one of his massive fists, he growled, “Why that dirty so-and-so! He’s stealin’ from the poor so’s Khan can sell it back for more.”

“And making a tidy profit in the meantime.” Realizing how Col. Conrad had obtained part of his millions, Rebecca glanced guiltily at the gem glittering on her finger.

After the newly painted blue cargo plane had left, Black Jack turned to Baloo, Rebecca, and Dunder, an oily smile on his face. “Now, how can I be of assistance to you comrades?”

“Supplies I’ve got,” Black Jack said wryly as he leaned against the counter. “What I need is payment, either money or something that I can re-sell to the peasants.”

“I do.” Dunder rifled through his pockets, then helpfully held out a handful of leaves. “I have some turnip greens leftover from lunch.”

Black Jack snatched them and promptly shoved them into his mouth. Gulp. “No sale.”

Rebecca piped up, “This diamond ring will more than pay for whatever we need.”

“What would the peasants want with a diamond ring,” Black Jack laughed scornfully as he handed the ring back to her, “even if they could afford it?”

The grey dawn was beginning to lighten the oppressive blackness of a Thembrian night as Baloo, Rebecca, and Dunder hurried across Mustgo, through the snowy streets, with their arms full of the precious supplies.

However, Rebecca would have preferred the cover of darkness. “I can’t believe I let you talk me into doing that, Baloo.”

“It was either that or no supplies. ‘Sides, what’s wrong with the dress you got on now?” Baloo cast an admiring sidelong glance at her. He had liked that pretty pink dress, but what she was currently wearing was revving his engines.

“It’s not a dress, it’s a slip! And the next time you sell someone’s clothes, they’d better be your own, buster!”

“Hey, the guy said there wasn’t any demand for Thembrian uniforms, but pink, frilly dresses were hot stuff.”

“Hot? No thanks to you, I’m freezing!” Rebecca hugged the knobby bundle closer to her and trotted a little faster.

“I’m sorry, Becky, but it was the only way.” His solemn tone belied the mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

“Hm!” Rebecca said with an angry toss of her brown hair as she slipped into the safety of the warehouse containing the hot water heater.

“Is Miss Becky’s tongue frozen?” Dunder asked concernedly. “I had that happen to me once. It hurts.”

As he entered the warehouse a step behind Baloo, Dunder said, “Don’t worry, Miss Becky. I’ll get some clothes for you so your shoulders won’t be cold. All I have to do is fill out a few dozen forms...”

The Balcony of the Glorious People’s Government Building
Several Hours Later…

This was the moment that Col. Spigot had been awaiting for nearly two decades. In a few minutes, the High Marshall would declare war on that soft underbelly of the western world – Usland. And he, Col. Ivanov Spigot, would once again have a chance to shine in battle as he had done so many times in the Great War.

He rocked expectantly on his heels and peered between the stone balcony posts down at the large crowd of peasants assembled in the square. A few half-heartedly waved Thembrian flags. Most just huddled together and shivered. Like the High Marshall, Madame High Marshall, and all of the top, top officials who were gathered on the balcony, they weren’t smiling.

Proudly adjusting his helmet, Spigot looked up at the uniformed, bespectacled man next to him. “I’m Col. Spigot, Head of the Glorious People’s Air Force. Perhaps you’ve heard of me? The Terror of Tiny Tundra? Beast of the Battle of Buldoon? Death Dealing Demon of Dinswipe?”

The man, who happened to be the Head of the Ministry of Music and who had gotten stuck listening to that Col. Draindrip’s boring drivel on numerous occasions, leaned over the balcony and frantically signaled for the start of the Thembrian national anthem. The full orchestra and booming choir on the stage below the balcony drowned out Spigot’s reminisces.

It also drowned out the sound of a navy-and-white seaplane that circled overhead.

Col. Conrad pushed through the heavy rings of the Iron Curtain, muttering to himself. “Shere Khan can’t tell me what to do. No one can tell me what to do. I’m Col. Conrad and if I say that there’s gonna be a Cold Water War, then I reckon there’s gonna be a Cold Water War. And the first casualty is gonna be the one thing that the High Marshall values most.”

He drew a hand grenade out of his pocket and was about to pull the pin and heave it at the hot water heater when…

Momentarily distracted, Col. Conrad turned around. “What in the name of my Aunt Fanny’s corsets…?”

It was Rebecca, dressed in a man’s suit and a grey trench coat. Completing her ensemble was a tattered fedora with a press card shoved in the hatband; it was pulled down to shade her face. “Fritz Kaddlehopper,” she said in a mannish voice. “Reporter for the Glorious People’s Press.” She snapped another picture with her camera. Flash!

Without answering, she put the camera a mere inch from his nose and took a close up shot to blind him. While he was rubbing the spots out of his eyes, she touched the false grey mustache she wore to make sure it was still on. “I’m here for an exclusive interview on the man who started the war. The who’s.” Flash! “The why’s.” Flash! “And the how’s.” Flash! “Complete with pictures.”

Blinded by all the flashes, Conrad stumbled backwards, tripped over his own feet, and went sprawling. The grenade flew from his hand and went skittering across the tile floor where it stopped near the Iron Curtain. “Ya’ll can say that again,” he said with a pained moan.

When she was helping him up, Rebecca took off her engagement ring and slipped it into his pocket. Then, camera clicking away at the Colonel, she backed towards the Iron Curtain and the grenade, but he was too fast for her.

He dove for the grenade and tackled it like it was a football. Scrambling to his feet, he demanded to know: “Hey, what in tarnation are you doing?”

“Just getting a close up of the famous weapon that started it all,” Rebecca replied, taking a picture of the grenade that he was tossing up and down. Flash! “The Glorious People love it when I dish the dirt.” Flash!

“Sorry, sir, did I get your bad side?” Flash! Flash! Flash! Flash! As she snapped a series of blinding pictures of his other side, she slipped her hand through the Iron Curtain and waved.

On cue, Sgt. Dunder crashed through Iron Curtain. “What’s going on…?” There was a pause as he untangled the barrel of his rifle from the iron rings. “Sorry about that.” Shouldering his weapon, he cleared his throat self-consciously, and said his line again. “What’s going on in here?”

Briskly, Rebecca said, “Fritz Kaddlehopper, reporter for the Glorious People’s Press interviewing this Uslandian.” Flash!

When Sgt. Dunder didn’t say anything, Rebecca repeated pointedly: “Interviewing this Uslandian.” Flash!

Woodenly, Dunder said, “Uslandians aren’t allowed in here. I’m gonna have to take you to Col. Spigot.” Per Baloo’s instructions, the normally gentle sergeant roughly seized Col. Conrad by the arm, dragged him through the Iron Curtain, and towards the warehouse door.

“See this, you clodhopper?” Conrad tugged at the patch with the ambassador’s seal on his sleeve. “I have diplomatic immunity, meaning I can do whatever I want, whenever I want. And what I want to do right now is…” He sank his perfect teeth into Dunder’s snout.

“Ouch!” Dunder cried, releasing the colonel, who flung open the door and escaped outside.

“I don’t remember that being part of the plan, Miss Becky.” As he stood in the open doorway, Dunder touched his sore snout and winced. “But at least we kept him from blowing up the you-know-what behind the Iron Curtain and kept Col. Spigot from the firing squad.”

Rebecca removed her moustache and nodded. She said softly, “It’s all up to Baloo now.”

Col. Conrad’s plane sprayed them with snow blown from the warehouse roof as it soared overhead.

The navy-and-white seaplane circled like a vulture several thousand feet over Mustgo Square. Col. Conrad stuck his head out the open window; the freezing wind stung his eyes and ruffled his golden curls. A devious grin marred his handsome features. He knew that far below, on the balcony of the government building, were all the Heads of State, waiting for the High Marshall to declare war. He drew the grenade out of his pocket and dangled it out the window. “This’ll start the war off with a bang.”

“It can’t be! He’s supposed to be dead.” With trembling fingers, Col. Conrad picked up the microphone. “Baloo?”

A Thembrian plane, plated like an armored car and armed like a small tank, fell in line with his starboard wing.

“Comrade Baloo to you,” the big bear said, touching his fingers to the brim of his hat in a salute.

“Takes one ta know one.” As if speaking to a small child, Baloo said very patiently, “Now, why don’t you put that nasty old grenade away before ya hurt someone, Connie.”

“Ya know what really hurts? Bein’ ambassador to this stinking country! Have you ever been forced to listen to hours of the High Marshall’s ice fishing stories? But the kicker is he never catches anything, but ice! Ice! He keeps his biggest ‘catches’ in a cupboard at his summer home right next to the figurines he’s whittled out of ice. And he’s the most interestin’ person in Thembria! The rest of ‘em are all alike as peas in a pod and as blah as the gruel they eat, especially that Col. Nozzle. Who cares what he did in the Great War twenty years ago? He’ll never make General, but I will. And no one can stop me from getting there, not the Thembrian Air Force or Shere Khan or you.”

He suddenly jerked the Seafarer to the right, thereby slamming his starboard wing down on the port wing of the Thembrian plane, sending it spiraling away.

“So long, sucker!” Conrad said, waving at the departing Thembrian plane. “Where was I? Oh, yeah, starting this shindig with a bang,” he chuckled.

The colonel jumped, banging his head on the top of the window frame, when Baloo’s voice once again came over the radio.

“But what about all those lives, all those families, this war’s gonna wreck just so’s you can have one more medal?”

Looking up, Col. Conrad could see the grey underbelly of the hulking Thembrian craft, flying parallel with his own plane.

“So a few nobodies kick the bucket,” Conrad said with an unconcerned shrug of his broad shoulders. “Big deal. That’s what war’s all about. Besides, my family, Rebecca, Kurt, and Holly…“

Col. Conrad continued as if he hadn’t heard him. “…will bask in my shared glory when I’m elected President, and it’ll all happen because I kept the world safe for truth, justice, and the capitalistic way. That’s my job as Usland’s biggest hero and the world’s best pilot.”

“We’ll just see about that.” Baloo’s jaw was set in a grim line as he pushed the stick forward, putting the flying fortress into a sharp dive. In the process, his plane purposely clipped the nose of the much lighter Seafarer, thus making it spin forward on its lateral axis, tumbling tail section over nose.

Baloo thrust the throttle up as high as it would go and muttered to himself, “This is co-co-nuts, but I gotta catch that live pineapple if it’s the last thing I do.” As the airplane started to shake violently under the strain and a few loose bolts rattled past his feet, he gulped. “What if it is the last thing I do?”

The grenade whistled through the air, gaining momentum as it fell towards the crowd gathered on the balcony.

According to the High Marshall’s assistant’s very accurate pocket watch, the 24-hour grace period that they had given Usland to return their stolen goods had expired. The High Marshall rose from his throne-like chair, roughly shoved both the assistant and his pocket watch aside, and slowly lumbered to the microphone. In his deep gravelly voice, he began, “Glorious People of Thembria…”

All over the world, people were glued to their radios, nervously awaiting the announcement. Including…

All the military personnel – both Uslandian and Thembrian – at their respective military outposts…

In fact, he was so absorbed in the High Marshall’s speech that he didn’t notice the airplane bearing down on him until the propwash sent his helmet sailing over the balcony.

Baloo could hear the screams of the terrified Thembrians as his outstretched fingers finally folded over the grenade. He yanked back on the stick with all his might, missing the panicking people, but carving a few holes in the top of the long government building as the potbellied plane skipped across it.

“Spectacular stunt, my friend,” Col. Conrad sneered over the radio, “but you’re too late! The High Marshall’s already declared war, and since you’re a Thembrian and I’m an Uslandian…” With an evil grin, he pulled in behind the flying fortress and opened fire.

“I ain’t got no time for your half-baked ideas, Connie.” Frowning, Baloo flipped off the radio. “I’ve gotta ditch this hot potato!”

Mindless of the flak that harmlessly bounced off of the back of the solidly-built bomber, Baloo made a beeline for the only place safe enough to drop the grenade – Mustgo Lake.

“It’s the wind up, and the pitch…” As Baloo soared over the half-icy waters, he threw the grenade as hard as he could, pulled back the stick, and climbed straight towards the clouds.

Like a powerful geyser, water sprayed upward, coating the Seafarer. Immediately, the white-trimmed navy plane iced over, its engines and propellers becoming scarily silent.

“Ahhhh!” Col. Conrad screamed as his plane dropped like a rock, plowing into the nearby Ministry of Lawn Ornaments building. All sorts of goods flew in the air, unearthed by the crash.

A moment later, Conrad dizzily stuck his head out of the mound consisting of everything from canned food to kitchen sinks. He sneezed a pair of chinchilla earmuffs off of his nose.

“Looks like your diplomatic immunity just caught a cold, Connie.” Baloo chuckled derisively as he pulled the ambassador out of the pile by the scruff of his neck.

“Why, what can this be?” Baloo said innocently. “The Glorious People’s stolen goods! It looks like they’re all here, but they have been damaged by this Uslandian swine.” He gave Conrad a little shake.

Then, the crowd cleared a path for their Fearless Leader, followed closely by his faithful assistant. The High Marshall calmly surveyed the situation from beneath his heavily-lidded eyes. Apathetically, he said, “If the goods have been found, the war is cancelled. I’m going ice fishing.”

En masse, the Thembrian people droned, “Yay.” A few waved their flags half-heartedly. Immediately, the crowd dispersed as the Glorious People went back to their homes and places of work before they were shot for loitering.

Rebecca jogged over, followed by Sgt. Dunder, who had a bandage wrapped around his nose. “Here’s your helmet, Col. Spigot, sir.”

Spigot seized his slightly dented helmet and plunked it on his head. Furious that there wasn’t going to be a war and he wasn’t going to get the chance to be a war hero again, he ordered, “Seize this man and confiscate his property!”

Immediately, two burly guards were on either side of Col. Conrad, who pointed to the ambassador’s seal on his sleeve. Confidently, he said, “I have diplomatic immunity, so you can’t touch me!”

Baloo ripped the seal off Conrad’s sleeve. “Oops,” he said with a saccharine-sweet smile.

With one snap of Spigot’s fingers, the guards picked the former ambassador up, flipped him upside down, and shook him. When his pockets were empty they dropped him on his curly blond head.

“Ouch! You can’t do this to me! How dare ya’ll treat me like this! I’m Col. Conrad.”

“Everyone’s heard of me!” As Col. Conrad was hauled away to jail, with Col. Spigot leading the way, all his dignity and charm disappeared. Instead, the ‘world’s biggest hero’ blubbered like a baby. “It ain’t fair! It ain’t fair!”

Baloo called after him, “If you’re a good boy, Connie, your prison cell won’t be too big or too small, but just right.”

“No sweat, Dundee. It wasn’t a total loss.” The big bear tossed the diamond ring up in the air and caught it.

“What are you going to do with that?” Rebecca asked anxiously. “It’s worth $50,000.” She clapped a hand over her mouth, immediately sorry that she had mentioned its worth.

“Fifty grand, huh?” Baloo turned the ring over in his fingers for a while as if considering something. Then, he smiled to himself and gave it to the sergeant. “Here, Dundee, get some locks for those warehouses and hot water pipes for all the Glorious People.”

“Gee, thanks, Mr. Baloo. You’re a good comrade and the best fake Thembrian there ever was.”

Shyly, Dunder admitted, “I accidentally on purpose made a clerical error on line 35 on page 26 of form TI-204. I figured you didn’t really want to immigrate to Thembria. No one does.”

“Thanks, pal!” Baloo slapped Dunder on the back. “Let’s go home, Becky.”

A half an hour later, they were in the Sea Duck, thanks to Sgt. Dunder and his myriad of forms. Baloo sighed with contentment as he sank into the pilot’s seat. He was back where he belonged. He flipped the familiar switches and pushed the familiar buttons in the start-up sequence, causing the familiar-sounding Superflight-100 engines to roar to life.

Baloo pulled the picture of the Higher for Hire gang out of his pocket and clipped it to the control panel. He smiled at it, then at the bearess sitting in the navigator’s seat, and taxied the plane towards the runway.

A few minutes later, they were airborne and were leaving the snowbound country of Thembria behind.

As Baloo turned the Sea Duck towards tropical Cape Suzette, he said, “Ya know something, Becky? I just stopped a war and no one knows.”

“I know,” Rebecca said quietly. She rushed over to throw her arms around his neck and kiss him tenderly on the cheek.

For some strange reason, Baloo, who was blushing up to his red cap, felt as if that was the only reward he needed. That, and maybe a couple dozen hamburgers.

A roguish gleam sprang to her eyes as she regained her place in the navigator’s seat and buckled her seatbelt. “And so will Kit and Molly and Wildcat and Louie and whoever else you tell the story to over and over and over.”

Baloo’s goofy grin was quickly replaced by a scowl. “I could tell you a thing or three, Ms. Rebecca. Fallin’ for a schmuck like that Col. Conrad.”

“Ha!” Rebecca retorted. “You can’t say anything, Mr. I-Fall-For-Every-Pretty-Face-and-Great-Set-of-Legs-I-See.”