Operation Airfoiled Again
Part 1
TaleSpin and its characters are the property of Disney/Buena Vista and are used without permission.
Happy 25th birthday, TaleSpin!
Higher for Hire
November 1942
Late Evening
Baloo, his pilot’s cap pulled down over his eyes, reclined in his favorite easy chair after a long day of hauling cargo. His fingers tapped the arm of the chair, keeping time to the slow dance favorite that floated from the radio on Rebecca’s desk. When it ended, K-CAPE radio announcer Broadcast Sally purred, “That was this month’s most requested song: ‘I’ve Heard That Tune Before’. And now, the eleven o’clock news.”
“The Worldwide News, Wednesday, November 11th.” Dog Rather’s no-nonsense voice pushed its way through the crackling static. “Once again, this station prepares to call on its correspondents in various world capitals by short-wave radio to bring you up-to-the-minute reports on the war. But first, here is the situation in brief. On the eastern front, Thembrians continue their efforts to drive back Hounslandian troops at Stallingout. Allied convoys from Aridia have relieved the besieged island of Malto. In the Pacific theater, the Zapanese have created a jungle fortress on the island of New Guinea Pig…”
“Turn it off, Becky,” Baloo growled, pushing back his cap and squinting at the lamplight. “Why don’t those reporters give us some good news for a change? Like ‘The war’s over. Go on back to your lives?’ That sorta thing.”
Rebecca paused in adding up numbers in a ledger to flip off the radio. “A lot can happen in a year.”
“A lot better happen in a year. If not…”
“We promised we wouldn’t worry about that until the time came, remember?” She gave her husband an encouraging smile that attempted to conceal her own anxiety about the future.
“Yeah, but the time’s comin’ awful fast.” With a sigh that came from his toes, Baloo glanced up towards Kit’s bedroom.
Upstairs, seventeen-year-old Kit was trying to do homework, but his mind kept wandering. For the third time in as many minutes, he erased the sentence he had just written. He threw his pencil down on the desk with a growl of frustration. How could he be expected to write a history paper when young men barely older than himself were currently making history?
That old familiar restlessness possessed him. He wanted to see new places, do new things, but most of all, he wanted to fly. He knew the Sea Duck was tied up at the dock, but he also knew his parents wouldn’t allow him to take it joyriding this late at night.
What he needed was his own plane. He had his pilot’s license and thanks to the wages he’d earned as a navigator, he had a tidy sum saved up. He just couldn’t understand his parents’ reluctance. Their reasoning seemed, well, unreasonable. Time and again he had proven that he was responsible and level-headed when it came to flying.
Of course, there had been that one little incident…
Three Weeks Before
The Sea Duck
Kit and Baloo were flying up the coast to New Fedora to deliver a shipment of pinball machines for the Patriotic Pinball Playoffs and war bond rally. Or rather, Kit was flying while Baloo snoozed in the navigator’s seat.
They were ahead of schedule, the weather was beautiful, and there wasn’t anything around for miles. In other words, it was a boring flight. Kit, tired of listening to the mesmerizing hum of the Superflight 100s, flipped on his portable pocket radio.
Amid the airplane sound effects, a male actor shouted, “We're surrounded by Swatzi planes, Captain Gumption! Which ones should I take?"
A very confidant, very masculine voice answered, "You take the second from the left. I'll handle the rest, lieutenant."
"But, captain, that's got to be ten-to-one odds. You'll never make it, not with a broken arm."
The captain laughed heartily. "It's just a scratch. Set the bone myself. No, it'll be those dirty Swatzis who won't make it."
“Watch it now. Here they come!”
"Let ‘em have it, Lieutenant Dan."
The announcer said, "Captain Gumption, the bravest flyer in the Usland Army Air Force, clenched his teeth and broke through the Swatzi line, barrel rolling and spraying bullets all the way. Before he was done, half of the Swatzi fighters were going down in fiery nosedives and the others were fleeing for their lives."
Turning off the radio, Kit said to himself, “Barrel roll? Piece of cake for the guy who aced his flying exams.” He slowly revved up the throttle, pulled back on the stick, then nudged it to the left at precisely the right moment.
It looked to be a textbook perfect barrel roll until the aircraft was upside down.
That’s when a plane-shaking thunk followed by ding, ding, ding, ding, ding came from the cargo hold as twenty crated pinball machines crashed against the ceiling at the same time.
“Whoa! What’s goin’ on?” Baloo exclaimed, jolting awake. He took the situation in at a glance – the plunging altimeter, the rising ocean, the wide-eyed young pilot – and grabbed the control yoke in front of him. “Leggo of the stick, Li’l Britches!”
“No!” Kit stubbornly tightened his grip. “I’m a pilot now, and I don’t need your help!”
Hours Later
At Higher for Hire
The sun was sinking behind the cliffs surrounding Cape Suzette when Baloo, Rebecca, and Kit stood on the dock beside the soggy crates containing the busted pinball machines. There was a strained silence between father and son as they watched Wildcat hooking up the crane to the upside-down Sea Duck.
“Oh, Kit, how could you?” Rebecca said quietly, her voice heavy with disappointment.
That comment hurt the teenager more than the loud, long lecture he’d endured from his father on the tugboat ride as it towed the Sea Duck all the way home.
“All set, Mollycat!” The mechanic hopped off the seaplane’s belly onto the dock. “Push the green button.”
“Can I push the button? I wanna push the button!” Cassie implored. Her purple hair ribbons bobbed up and down as she tugged on the older girl’s pink grease-stained overalls.
Molly lifted her three-year-old sister up to the crane’s control panel so she could punch the green button, causing the plane, metal protesting under the tension, to start to flip wing-over-wing.
Kit cringed guiltily when the Sea Duck splashed back onto its pontoons, spraying the dock and its occupants with salt water mist. “I’m sorry, Mom.”
“Sorry?” Baloo scoffed. “Sorry? Flying’s a dangerous business! You can’t pull those kinda stunts, ‘specially with a full load of cargo!”
Fed up with the lectures, Kit snapped, “You do it all the time!”
“That’s ‘cause I know my plane inside-out an’ upside-down, which is where we were today no thanks to you, kid.”
“I’m not a kid anymore. I’m a pilot, and I need my own plane!”
Baloo and Rebecca simultaneously shouted, “No!”
Present Day
Kit’s Bedroom
But that was ancient history. Nearly three weeks ago! Besides, Wildcat could fix anything. The repaired pinball machines had been delivered the next day in plenty of time for the Patriotic Pinball Playoffs and war bond rally, and the Sea Duck’s dents barely showed now.
Kit propped his chin in his hand and gazed longingly at a picture of a P-51 Stallion tacked to the wall above his desk like it was a pin-up girl. The sleek, single-seat fighter, equipped with a powerful propeller-driven engine, was an important tool in the Allies’ arsenal. He let his imagination soar as he asked the question: “What would it be like to fly one of those babies?”
Meanwhile...
Halfway Around the World
A squadron of red-and-blue trimmed silver P-51 Stallions sliced through the skies over Hounsland. Their job was to distract enemy planes, giving the heavy bombers they were escorting a chance to drop their payloads on key Swatzi targets.
Flying one of those planes was young panther pilot on his first mission. He squinted into the rising sun, his hands sweating on the stick, his ears filled with the drone of planes, his eyes peeled for enemy fighters.
Suddenly, his entire body tensed when he heard a burst of gunfire followed by a large greenish-grey blur that looked vaguely like an oversized boomerang hurtling across the horizon.
In his earpiece, the squadron leader commanded, “Incoming! Incoming! All fire! All fire!” just as the plane off his port wing went down in a blazing ball.
A split second later, the blur was back, sending two bombers spiraling into the clouds below, the white parachutes of the crews billowing in its wake.
The novice pilot, frantically turning his head this way and that in an effort to spot the adversary, stuttered, “C-can you see 'em, sir?”
“Them?” The seasoned squadron leader sounded shaken as well. “More like him. I think there’s only one.”
Whoosh! The mystery aircraft streaked past the window again, then boom! It seemed as if the entire sky exploded in front of the young man's eyes. His plane shuddered violently and started to nosedive.
Sky melded into ground as the wingless P-51 Stallion went into a tailspin. “I've been hit! Mayday! Mayday!” he cried, fumbling with the latch on the cockpit canopy.
A Week Later
Khan Towers
High above the bustling streets of Cape Suzette, Shere Khan studied the black-and-white photographs spread across the surface of his shining desk. The stoic businessman, who was rarely impressed by anything, murmured, “Most impressive.” Addressing the brawny lion sitting across from him, he asked, “You say these photographs were smuggled out of Hounsland, general?”
General “Lots-of-Guts” Stately was a dead ringer for the famous western movie star John Mane, even down to the drawl. Only the cowboy outfit had been replaced by an Usland Army Air Force uniform, the six-shooter by an automatic pistol.
“Yes, sir. We lost one of our best men getting this information.”
Peering through a gold-rimmed magnifying glass at a photograph, Khan said,“What else can you tell me about this aircraft?”
While the businessman studied the photographs, General Stately studied the vegetation that lined the office. He was tempted to use those lip-smacking Venus fly traps for target practice. Instead, he drummed his fingers on the crown of the cap that rested on his knee. “One of ‘em took out three entire squadrons of fighters and flying fortresses by itself in the same day.”
“Indeed?”
Obviously impatient to get back to his military base, the general unfolded his tall frame from the chair. “I came to you, Mr. Khan, because your company has the reputation of being the best and, at this point in the war, we need the best. If your men can’t do it, tell me now and I’ll go elsewhere.”
“It would be easier for my engineers to construct a similar aircraft if I had blueprints or perhaps even a prototype.”
General Stately considered the possibilities for a moment, none of which seemed too promising. “It won’t be easy, but I’ll see what I can do.”
Shere Khan rose and stretched out a hand. “I’ll have my top men working on it right away.”
Shaking hands, the general said gravely, “I don’t need to tell you that with this technology, this war has just moved to a whole new level.”
After the elevator doors closed behind the general, Shere Khan, a satisfied glint in his eye, said, “Mm…yes. A very profitable one.”
An Hour Later
The Iron Vulture
A Few Miles from Cape Suzette
“This war stinks,” Mad Dog whined as he and the other air pirates rummaged through a pile of loot they had recently captured.
“Yeah,” Dumptruck agreed. “All da cargo planes haul these days are weapons, weapons, and more weapons.” He casually tossed a heavy crate aside as if it contained feathers instead of hand grenades.
Letting a fistful of bullets filter through his fingers, Mad Dog said, “I miss the good old days when cargo pilots shipped jewels.”
Hacksaw, prying the lid off a crate containing machine guns, added, “Gold bars.”
“Citrus fruit,” Hal mentioned, peering through a rifle sight.
“Citrus fruit?” the other pirates echoed, staring at him in amazement.
“I need vitamin C. I think I'm getting scurvy.” The feline wiggled a loose canine tooth.
“This war stinks,” Mad Dog repeated.
“Yeah,” all the pirates droned sadly.
Just then, Don Karnage, their cunning commander, entered the room. “What are you fooligans doing lollipop-gagging around? Do not you know that there is a future victim-type plane out there ripe for the attacking?"
Cheering, the pirates dropped the weapons and headed for their planes.
Meanwhile...
The Sea Duck
“But, Papa Bear,” Kit implored from the navigator's seat, “I'm telling you I have enough money to buy that plane.”
Baloo scrutinized the photograph in the Flyboy Magazine ad. “Yeah, but why would ya want to? It looks like if ya breathed on it wrong, it'd fall apart.”
“Aw, Wildcat and Molly can fix it up.”
“Not if Cassie swipes their tools again,” Baloo chuckled. He handed the magazine back to his son. “Clever the way she used ‘em to grab the cookie jar outta the filing cabinet.”
Crossing his arms across his chest, Kit frowned down at the magazine on his lap, his hopes fizzling. “You told me that your first plane wasn't always what it was cracked up to be.”
Baloo smiled to himself. Some things never changed. No matter what age he was, Kit was still the same impatient, impetuous boy when it came to flying. In that way, they were a lot alike. However, thanks to this impatient, impetuous boy, the big bear had learned that flying wasn’t what life was all about. "I just don't want you crackin' up in that old jalopy. It don't look safe.”
“I'll be safe,” Kit assured him quickly.
“Safe like we were three weeks ago with the Duck nose down in the drink?”
"Jeepers, am I ever gonna live that down?"
“You’re a good pilot, kid, but you gotta log more flight time before I let ya go solo in your own plane.”
"But I'm the only one in the history of F.L.A.P. to ace both the written exam and the flight test with Ralph 'Love-to-Flunk-'Em' Throgmorton plus I have way more hours than what the flight manual requires."
"I couldn't be prouder of ya, but there's a lot about flying that the..."
"...manual don't teach," Kit recited along. If he had a dollar for every time he'd heard Baloo say that, he could afford to buy the Spruce Moose.
"Exactly."
In desperation, Kit threw out his last, and perhaps best, argument. “But if I have a plane of my own, Higher for Hire will be able to deliver twice the cargo.”
Pushing the boy's new navy blue pilot's cap down over his eyes, Baloo said, “Better save that speech for your mama.”
Kit scowled as he adjusted his cap. Once again the score was parent one, teenager zip. “What's the good of having a pilot's license if you don't have your own....pirates!”
“Pirates?”
Off to their left, a swarm of the air pirates’ CT-37s were herding an Uslandian army transport plane towards the Iron Vulture.
“We've gottta save them,” Kit said as he ran to the cargo hold, unfolding his airfoil with the push of a button.
Baloo turned the Sea Duck towards the battle’s fray. “On our way, Li'l Britches.”
In one fluid motion, Kit pulled the lever to open the back hatch, grabbed a dubious-looking weapon from a hook on the wall, and slung its strap over his shoulder. Snatching the end of the towrope, he bounced off the hatch like it was a diving board and slipped his airfoil under his feet.
When he got close to the CT-37 manned by Hal, he pulled the trigger of the gun that had been cobbled together from some of Wildcat's spare parts. Fruit of all kinds came flying out the barrel, pummeling the pirates.
A mango sailed right into Hal’s wide-open mouth. Gulp! “Mmm! Vitamin C!”
Meanwhile...
The Army Transport Cockpit
“What are you doing, Grogg?” General Stately growled angrily. He thought it absurd that a mighty Uslandian Army Air Force plane was being bested by the local riff-raff. “I order you to get away from these pirates!”
“I’d be able to, sir!” The jittery cocker spaniel snapped a salute. “If there were guns on this plane, sir!” He saluted again. “But for some reason, my uncle won’t let me have guns, sir!”
Splat! Something green smeared the windshield.
“Crafty devils,” Grogg cried, a crazed look in his eyes. “Those pirates have been consorting with the martians and have flesh-melting ooze guns. Well, I’m too smart for them!” He turned on the windshield wiper, shouting, “You'll have to try harder than that to shake Captain Grogg!”
“Get ahold of yourself, soldier. It’s just a melon.” The general muttered to himself, “Now I know why your uncle wanted you transferred to the air force.”
Just when General Stately thought they were at the air pirates’ mercy, he saw something he’d never seen before: a young man on a metal board of some kind being towed behind a seaplane. The cloudsurfer, who was easily dodging bullets, laughed triumphantly when he plastered a pirate plane propeller with pineapples, causing it to go down.
The general picked up the microphone.
A Little While Later
On a Small Island
The Sea Duck floated on the ocean, moored beside the army air transport plane parked on the small island, which was uninhabited except for a few seagulls.
“Now wait just a prop-spinnin' minute!” Baloo interrupted the general so loudly that he caused the seagulls to take to the air. “My boy ain't eighteen 'til next year.”
“Eight months.” Kit corrected him.
Shooting a frown at his son, Baloo said emphatically, “Next...year.”
General Stately looked Baloo directly in the eye. “A year or eight months will be too late. We need someone with his special talent now. This is serious business, Mr. von Bruinwald. Thousands of lives are at stake, maybe even the outcome of the entire war.”
"What about all them parachuters ya got?”
“Parachutes can be seen and heard, making them an easy target, but with this...this...”
“Airfoil,” Kit supplied enthusiastically.
“Airfoil you're virtually silent. You got your pilot's license?”
Proudly, Kit said, “Yes, sir.” Here was someone who treated him like the adult pilot he was. He dug his license out of his pocket to show to the general.
Baloo was wishing that he’d left this uppity general to the pirates. “He may have a license, but he's still got a lot to learn. ‘Sides, you haven’t even told us what he’s gonna be doin’!”
Ignoring Baloo’s protests, General Stately said, “Perfect. Welcome to the Army Air Force, von Bruinwald.”
Kit was more than eager to shake the general's proffered hand and get a chance to fly a P-51 Stallion, but something in Baloo's expression made him hold back. “What do you say, Papa Bear?”
Baloo uneasily rubbed the back of his neck. In thirty seconds, he felt like he’d aged thirty years. Half of him wanted to drag his underaged kid's tail section back home, but the other half thought of all those other men’s sons whose lives were on the line. The fate of the war, not to mention the world, was a lot to put on a seventeen-year-old's shoulders, but he knew better than anyone that Kit was no ordinary seventeen-year-old. Feeling he had no choice, he engulfed the boy in a tight embrace. “I say Becky's gonna give me an earful.”
Hours Later
Aboard the Army Air Transport Plane
Kit, standing between the pilot’s and copilot’s seats, adjusted the uncomfortable flight helmet that left only his eyes exposed and wondered how much longer it would be to their destination. The navigator-turned-pilot glanced at his pocketwatch then out the window, immediately deducing from the position of the stars, airspeed, compass position, and the time that they were somewhere over Hounsland. As luck would have it, his nose started to itch, but he knew it was dangerous to remove his oxygen mask at these high altitudes.
Wriggling his nose in a futile attempt to alleviate the itching, Kit listened as General Stately informed him about his mission. “We brought you on board for this.” The lion held out a photograph.
“Whoa!” Kit couldn’t believe his eyes. In the glow of the instruments’ lights, the airplane in the photo looked eerily like something straight out of his old Space Riders comics. It was basically the same shape as his airfoil complete with cockpit and engines. Jet engines at that. Squinting, he could make out machine gun turrets sticking out beneath each wing. “Is this real?” he asked into the oxygen mask microphone.
Stately nodded. “That’s the fastest, most sophisticated plane on the face of this earth.”
“I’ll say!”
“We need you to steal it and bring it to us.”
Kit gulped, his confidence taking a slight nosedive. There was definitely nothing in the flyer’s ed manual about jet planes. Gathering his courage, he said, “Yes, sir.”
“Allied intelligence has sighted the jet on the ground here, here, and here.” Stately pointed to places on a map. “We’re going to drop you here,” he tapped the map twice, “near the last known location, but since it’s deep within enemy territory, landing is out of the question. So you’ll be jumping and gliding down with that...that…”
“Airfoil,” Kit said thoughtfully.
“Take us down to 10,000 feet, Captain, and take evasive action.”
“Yes, sir!" With every punctuated 'sir', Grogg snapped a salute. "I’ll keep my eyes peeled for martians too, sir!”
General Stately sighed and shook his head. “I’ve got to have a talk with his uncle.”
When they decreased their altitude, anti-aircraft guns began firing on them, giving the plane’s occupants a very bumpy ride. Kit redoubled his hold on the seatbacks in an attempt to stay upright.
“One last thing, von Bruinwald,” the general said, pitching his voice over the bombs bursting all around them. “Don’t get caught and don’t get shot.”
Removing his flight helmet, Kit muttered, “Technically, that’s two things.” With a determined expression, he staggered back to the cargo hold and opened the side door, letting in a gust of cold wind laced with the acrid stench of gunpowder. He pulled his airfoil from underneath his air force-provided insulated flight suit.
The teenager, clutching the door frame in one hand and his airfoil in the other, looked out at the night sky being punctured by intermittent flak, trying to ascertain the right time to jump. This was the craziest thing he’d ever attempted in his life. Surfing through bombs, infiltrating enemy territory, stealing a jet plane he didn’t know how to fly. Baloo would never let him do any of those things, but Baloo wasn’t here now. He hadn’t known danger - or freedom - like this for a long, long time. Adrenaline coursed through his veins as he jumped out of the plane, sliding his trusty airfoil beneath him.
“Wahoo,” he said quietly, grinning from ear to ear.
Kit made a tight circle in an attempt to slow his descent. All around him, the sky was lit up by artillery, the echoes of which mingled with the fading hum of the transport plane’s twin engines.
He was enjoying the light show until the blast of a nearby bomb blew him off his airfoil.
Freefalling!
Forcing himself to stay calm as the wind roared in his ears, Kit saw a flash of silver silhouetted against the sky. His airfoil! With herculean effort, he lunged for it. As his fingers closed around the cold metal, he found himself bouncing once...
“Ouch!”
Twice…
“Oof!”
Three times down a steeply sloped roof.
“Yeowch!”
Then…
“Aaah!”
He had crashed through a weak point in the shingles.
But his fall was cut short. Kit found himself tangled in wire, dangling upside-down, far above the floor of what appeared to be a barn.
For a brief moment, he was aware of a kerosene lamp in the corner giving off a dim light, the smell of warm hay, the frightened clucking of chickens, a cow placidly chewing her cud. Then the thin wire snapped, sending him hurtling head-first to the ground.
Moments before Kit blacked out, he heard someone emit a sharp cry.
End of part 1
Operation Airfoiled Again
Part 2
TaleSpin and its characters are the property of Disney / Buena Vista and are used without permission.
Somewhere in Hounsland
Kit was jerked into heart-pounding consciousness by an angry Hounslandian voice demanding, “Vhat did you do?”
The teenager swiftly took in his surroundings. At first he thought he had been blinded by the fall, but then he realized that he was concealed beneath a pile of dirty clothes, the smell of which reminded him of gym class. When his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could see that his airfoil lay beside him, broken in two.
He sadly gathered up the pieces of his board, tucked them under his flight suit, then carefully made a peephole in the clothes to get a better look. As he recalled, he was in a barn which was apparently doubling as a laundry. There were two wringer washers nearby as well as veritable mountains of apparel in various states of cleanliness.
The man who had spoken was a doberman in full Swatzi military garb. From his arrogant bearing and the gold insignia on his blue uniform and cap, it was obvious that he was an officer. Flanking the officer like matching bookends were two canine heavies packing rifles.
With her back to Kit was a woman in peasant clothes, her head hanging penitently. Grey braids protruded from beneath a handkerchief faded with many washings. “I’ll clean it up right avay, Major Heartvorm," she mumbled in a thick Hounslandian accent.
The major peered suspiciously at her through his monocle. “See dat you do. Never have I known such a klutzy voman. Putting a hole in the roof by just doing laundry! If you weren’t such a good cook, you would have been shot long ago. Und make sure you get my collars completely clean next time. I can’t rule dis base with rings around der collar.”
“Jawohl, Major Heartvorm.”
In unison, the military men clicked their heels, spun around precisely 180 degrees, and marched out.
Kit held his breath and was very still. Maybe when the little old lady leaves, I can make a break for it, he thought.
Suddenly, the clothes were plucked from him and he was nose-to-nose with her.
Maybe not, Kit thought ruefully.
He prepared to bolt as they stared silently at each other. He noticed that even though the bearess was well advanced in years, her eyes were as bright as a young girl's.
Finally, she broke the silence. “Oh, praise be to glory! You’re alive!” she exclaimed in a hushed tone. Her voice held a melodious lilt associated with leprechauns, four leaf clovers and the verdant hills of Greenomoora.
"And you're not Hounslandian.” Kit realized in a flash of insight that she must have concealed him under the clothes.
“Aye, lad.” The woman gave a brief glance around. "Looks like there ain't nobody here but us chickens."
The cow mooed in her stall.
"Present company excepted." Satisfied that there weren’t any Swatzis nearby, she dug a portable radio transmitter/telegraph machine out from underneath a roosting chicken. From beneath another chicken, she grabbed a pair of headphones. She concealed both of them in a laundry basket and piled clean clothes over them.
“Funny eggs they’re laying over here,” Kit observed wryly.
“I laid an egg last night when I was sending a message to my superiors. Someone got tangled in my antenna.” She held up a mangled piece of wire.
“Sorry, ma’am.” Remembering his manners, he held out a hand. “I’m Kit.”
She shook his hand with a firm grip. "Clara’s the name. Spying’s my game.”
“In a barn?” Kit wondered if she was as crazy as that Captain Grogg.
“I’ll explain later." Clara looked at Kit’s attire and clicked her tongue. “It won’t do to go traipsing ‘round with that Uslandian uniform.” She reached into the basket and pulled out some clothes. “Put these on.”
He donned the threadbare gingham dress and knotted a handkerchief over his head, thinking it wasn’t the weirdest disguise he’d ever worn. While he was rolling up his pant legs, he mumbled, “I’m just glad Ernie and the guys aren’t here to see this.”
Clara’s brown eyes twinkled as she handed a basket of eggs to Kit. Then she picked up the one containing the hidden transmitter. “Sure’n you could pass for a girl if no one looks too closely. Just keep your head down and let me do the talkin’.”
The sun was peeking over the countryside when they left the barn. Kit trotted to keep up with the surprisingly spry woman as she crossed the farmyard. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed that there were guards stationed inside the old windmill house, in the tree beside the silo, and on the top floor of the two-story house they were approaching.
Clara’s knock on the farmhouse door was answered by a flabby-faced bulldog.
The guard pointed his gun at Kit. “Who’s dat? I don’t recognize her.”
Kit, who was finding it difficult to think of a female Hounslandian name with the barrel of a rifle buried in his chest, stammered, “Oh...my...er…”
“Etta,” Clara concluded quickly. “Her name is Omyeretta, Sergeant Vedge. From der farm down der road. She came to help me.”
Kit tittered and fluttered his eyelashes. “Takes a lot of verk to do laundry und make bratvurst,” he said in a falsetto voice, not forgetting the Hounslandian accent.
“Mit extra sauerkraut?” Wedge asked, nearly salivating.
“Yuck,” Kit spat. Getting an elbow nudge from Clara, he smiled brightly. “I mean, ja.”
The two ‘women’ bustled through the farmhouse, past rooms filled with Swatzis typing, Swatzis telegraphing, and Swatzis moving figures around on maps.
Finally, they came to a large pantry. To Kit’s surprise, Clara slid the door and a metal gate shut behind them and pushed a button on the wall. The elevator began its descent with a jolt.
When they were alone, Clara quickly explained, “This is the Swatzi’s largest experimental base. Hundreds of scientists are kept prisoner here, forced to create horrible weapons. Sure’n you didn't drop in to pay a social call?”
“I was sent here to steal a jet plane.”
“Which one?”
“There’s more than one?”
The elevator door opened, and Kit choked back a gasp.
They were in a place more massive than Carlsbear Cavern and packed with objects he was sure were beyond even Buzz’s wildest dreams.
As they traversed the twisting tunnel, Kit marveled at the things he glimpsed in each of the rooms they passed. Gigantic rockets that reached to the roof. Scientists blasting boulders with lasers. A tank bigger than his high school. A small wingless airplane with a propeller rotating around the fuselage. And, oddest of all, something that looked like a flying saucer.
Wordlessly, Clara motioned towards other passageways, indicating that there were many more weapons just as fantastic and futuristic as those in sight.
Not only were there countless tunnels, but armed guards were as numerous as ants at a picnic.
Kit could feel their suspicious eyes boring into him. This isn’t going to be easy, he thought.
Higher for Hire
The grandfather clock was striking midnight as Rebecca tucked the covers around Cassie. She turned to the next bed and gently took a Sheerpluck Holmes book out of sleeping Molly’s hands, placed it on the nightstand, and pulled a blanket around her.
It was then that she noticed that Molly had taken Lucy to bed with her. The eleven-year-old hadn’t slept with a doll for a long time, but apparently she felt the need for a comforting companion. Kit suddenly joining the Air Force had been hard on all of them.
After exiting the girls’ room, leaving the door open a crack, Rebecca went upstairs where she knew Baloo would be keeping a vigil out on the catwalk. She joined him.
The peaceful scene - the Sea Duck bobbing on the waves, the cool ocean breeze, the stars splayed across the sky - failed to calm her nerves. In fact, she could have cheerfully throttled the clanging harbor buoy.
“You were right, Becky. Savin’ the world or no savin’ the world, I shouldn't have let him go." Baloo’s hands clenched and unclenched the rail convulsively.
Rebecca wrapped her arms around one of his. She regretted the hot, hasty words she’d shouted at him earlier. "You were right, too, Baloo. Kit's smart and chock full of moxie and the best navigator in the world.”
“Yeah, give that kid a compass and a map, and I could fly the Yalps in a plane with no windows.”
“He's a good pilot, too, despite his awful flight instructor,” she teased.
It took Baloo a while to register that she was talking about himself. “Hey!"
Rebecca giggled mischievously.
She had gotten him to smile, but his smile quickly faded into a sigh. “I’m just worried about him without his ol’ Papa Bear for a wingman. Right now, he could be facin’ guns, tanks, bombs..."
Meanwhile…
The Swatzi Secret Facility’s Galley
Kit was surrounded by stacks and stacks of dirty dishes.
“Hundreds of scientists and none of them can invent an automatic dishwasher?” he grumbled to himself. “I’ve never heard of a spy with dishpan hands.”
“Patience lad,” Clara murmured as she brought in another stack of breakfast dishes from the scientists’ cells.
Scowling, Kit rinsed his umpteenth plate.“That’s all my parents ever say. ‘Be patient; someday you’ll have your own plane.’ I bet my real parents would’ve let me have my own set of wings by now.”
The old woman picked up a towel. While she dried dishes, she gazed at him thoughtfully as if she was trying to decide something. Finally, she murmured, “I once knew a young fella a lot like you. A natural at flying and so brave and adventurous that the whole world would’ve eventually known his name.”
“What happened to him?”
Sadly, Clara admitted, “I haven’t heard from him in a donkey’s age. He was just a wee bit older than yourself when he took off with nary a word to me or his father.” She dabbed at her eyes with the rough towel. “The world is a harsh place, and it’s hard to let your bairns go out into it alone.”
Kit gazed at his reflection in the bottom of a copper pot pensively. He’d never thought of it from his parents’ point of view before. Maybe what he saw as unreasonable they saw as protecting him. Still…
As if Clara could read his thoughts, she whispered, “Don’t fret, lad. You’ll get that plane someday.”
“Yeah, when I’m fifty,” he said sarcastically, prompting a low chuckle from Clara. “But maybe I’ll have a better chance of getting my own plane if I can steal the one I was sent to steal.”
“I can help with that.” She glanced around to make sure that there were no guards hiding anywhere, including in the flour barrel, then whispered, “While I was delivering breakfast, I got a chance to talk to some of the scientists. The plane you described is…”
Hearing approaching boots clomping on the cavern floor, she broke off. Both silently washed and dried dishes as a guard tramped past the galley door.
“...the Hoot E-2. No one knows where it is, but Horten Hootenski, the man who built it is imprisoned in...”
The guard marched by again.
“Corridor C, room Z. Sure’n he’s the one to teach you to fly it.”
“Check.” Kit plopped the dishcloth in the dishwater, swiped his soapy hands on his skirt, and headed for the door.
“Wait.” Clara detained him with a gentle hand on his arm. She nodded toward the canine goose stepping past the galley, clearly asking, What about the guards?
“Hmm…” Kit glanced around the kitchen, then turned to the refrigerator where he found a large bowl of sauerkraut. He held it at arm's length, eyes watering. “Whew! This smells worse than the leftovers from Louie’s All-You-Can-Stand-For-A-Dollar Special.” When the guard came by again, he poked the bowl out the door, warbling a la Omyeretta, “Yoo-hoo! I have someting for you.”
The guard followed him into the galley, unable to take his eyes off the seemingly mesmerizing sauerkraut. He didn't see Kit’s fist until it slammed into his face.
Kit caught the guard’s cap and had it on his own head before the guard hit the ground “Now which way is corridor C?”
A Little While Later
Clad in a Swatzi uniform and carrying a rifle, Kit marched down the corridor Clara had pointed out. He didn’t know which would wear out first. His legs because of goose stepping or his arm for saluting every guard he met.
What’s with these Swatzis and saluting?
As he marched and saluted, he surreptitiously glanced at the letters etched into the steel doors he passed. The Swatzis were cruel and sadistic, but they were also very organized. It made navigating his way around the maze-like cavern easier.
L...M...N...O...G? he thought, confused. That can’t be right.
He was wondering about the odd succession of letters when, suddenly, the other guards plastered their backs against the tunnel wall, shouldered their rifles, clicked their heels in unison, and saluted.
Finding himself the only one in the middle of the hallway, Kit thought, Oh, gee! and scrambled to join them.
He had just squeezed in between two other guards and assumed the same position they had when Major Heartworm came into view preceded by a diminutive beagle with a incongruously booming voice.
“Der vorld needs more order, Major Heartvorm. Und dat is precisely vhat ve Swatzis vill impose upon der vorld. Order.”
The major saluted his superior several times. “Jawohl, Admiral Hounkoff.”
“I schtopped by to tell you dat Der Furor vill be here today to make sure Hounsland vill be able to enforce dis order.”
I’d like to bring a little disorder to Hounsland, Kit thought from his statue-like stance against the wall.
“Ve von’t let Der Furor down, Admiral Hounkoff.” Major Heartworm’s words were accompanied by more saluting.
“I vant demonstrations of all der veapons,” the Admiral commanded as he and the major moved down the hallway. “Und Der Furor vants to meet the pilot of der Hoot E-2 to give him der Liftwoof Flying Cross. Thanks to him, der Allies don’t schtand a chance against us in der air.”
“Jawohl, Admiral.”
When the officers had passed, the guards resumed patrolling the hallway and Kit returned to looking for door ‘Z’. Finally, he found it at the darkest, most remote part of the tunnel.
The door was flanked by two heavily armed, serious-looking sentinels. They were Major Heartworm’s most trusted guards.
In an attempt to lure them away from the door, Kit marched up to them, saluted, and said, “Major Heartvorm sent me to tell you dat you have been chosen to be Der Furor’s personal bodyguards vhen he comes. I vill take your post.”
The men didn’t move.
“Der Furor vill give you his autograph.”
The men still didn’t move.
“Und you’ll get an extra helping of sauerkraut at schupper.”
The guards pushed past him and ran down the tunnel.
“Hounlandians. Go fig.” Kit slipped through the heavy steel door.
Inside the cramped quarters, there was a middle-aged owl hunched over a large drafting table covered with airplane sketches. At his elbow was a model of the jet Kit had seen in General Stately’s photograph.
“Who’re you? Who’re you?” He adjusted the thick glasses that made his eyes look abnormally large. Trembling, he stared at the gun Kit held.
"Clara sent me.” Those three words made the airplane designer visibly relax. Propping the rifle against the wall, the teenager said, “I’m Kit from Usland. Are you Horten Hootenski, creator of the Hoot-E2?"
“Too true. Too true," he replied sorrowfully. He picked up the model and turned it over in his hands. “All the destruction it has caused. All the lives it has ended.”
“Maybe I can end the destruction.”
A Little While Later...
"Thank you. Thank you." Hope now shone in Horten Hootenski’s eyes.
"Thank you for telling me about your plane.” Kit flipped through the small black notebook that was filled with hastily scrawled instructions. “I can't wait to fly it.”
"I can’t wait until it is finally in good hands, away from these Swatis.”
“Now all I have to do is find it.”
“There is a hangar at the end of corridor H. Good luck to you.” Horten Hootenski shook Kit’s hand.
“And I’m gonna need it.”
With a friendly wave, Kit left the room only to hear the sound of rifles being cocked. The guards he had tricked had returned. “Oh, shoot…” he muttered to himself. To make matters worse, he realized that he had left his own gun behind. He had to stall while he thought of a plan.
Plastering a smile on his face, Kit said with a Hounslandian accent, “How vas dat sauerkraut? Goot, huh?”
The first large angry guard growled, “Major Heartvorm said ve get no sauerkraut ever again for deserting our post.”
The second large angry guard added, “So now ve’re turning you into sauerkraut.”
When they took a step towards him, Kit did the only thing he could think of. Pulling out the pieces of his airfoil, he hurled one at each Swatzi, smacking them on the head. They slumped to the ground in unison.
Grinning, Kit said, “Rest well and dream of sauerkraut and large women.”
Impatient to get the Hoot E-2 and himself out of enemy territory as soon as possible, Kit jumped over them and made a goose stepping beeline for corridor H, weaving his way through the sentries.
In his impatience, he forgot one very important thing.
“He didn’t salute me, Otto,” one guard said to another, saluting his compatriot.
Returning the salute, Otto said, “He didn’t salute me, either, Verner. Must be an intruder!”
Otto blew his whistle and pointed at Kit’s retreating figure. “After him, men!”
Hearing the whistle, Kit glanced over his shoulder. Now it seemed like every guard from corridor C was thundering after him. “Time to pull chocks!” he said, breaking into a run.
Kit ducked as one bullet, then another, then a third and fourth pinged off the rocky wall near his head. He half hopped, half skidded around the corner on one foot and out into the main tunnel. “Corridor H. Corridor H. Where are you?” he panted, keeping up a pace that would shame an Olympic sprinter.
“Ah-ha!” He had spied a large steel ‘H’ nailed to the rock above the tunnel he was approaching.
Unfortunately, it was completely blocked by a row of armed guards the size of Uslandian football linebackers.
He had to get past them somehow, and he was afraid the old sauerkraut gag wouldn’t work this time.
Grabbing a rifle from a passing guard, spinning him around like a record in the process, Kit used it to pole vault over the line of befuddled Swatzis in front of corridor H.
“Schtop him!” Otto shouted, blowing his whistle loud and long.
As if on cue, all the linebacker-like guards turned inward towards the tunnel and began firing at Kit.
“I didn’t sign up for dance lessons!” he cried, alternately ducking and hopping like a Mexican jumping bear to avoid the bullets.
Fortunately, further up the tunnel, there was a 90 degree turn, taking Kit briefly out of the line of fire. At the end of the short, steeply inclined passageway was the large, high-ceilinged hangar. It was full of different types of planes - big, small, propeller-driven, jet-powered. And right in front of him was the plane he’d been looking for.
The Hoot E-2.
“Wow!” Kit panted. “That picture did not do it justice.”
Ecstatic that his mission was almost at an end, Kit ran to the jet and pulled himself up on one of the broad wings. But before he could climb into the cockpit, beefy hands dragged him down and tossed him on the floor like a sack of 18th class mail.
“Vhere do you tink you’re going?” Otto sneered, leaning over him.
Kit scrambled to his feet, closely surrounded by approximately fifty unsmiling guards. All of them had their weapons pointed at him. Then someone snapped their fingers and the sentries snapped to attention, saluting.
They allowed a man to pass between their ranks. A world-famous man. A man whose image appeared countless times in the newspapers and movie newsreels.
Kit was face-to-face with Der Furor.
End of part 2
Operation Airfoiled Again
Part 3
TaleSpin and its characters are the property of Disney/Buena Vista and are used without permission.
The Swatzi Secret Facility’s Holding Cell
Clang! The prison door slammed behind Kit, its ominous echo seeming to reverberate forever.
“Enjoy your accommodations mit Der Furor’s compliments.”
Kit scowled at the Swatzi who had locked him in the bare, rock floor cell, wishing he hadn’t been so stupid in the hangar as to run blindly into danger, wishing Baloo was there, and wishing he could wipe the smug grin off the guard’s face.
“Don’t vorry. You von’t be schtaying here for long.” The Doberman guard laughed raucously.
He was still laughing when something came flashing through the air, bounced off his head - rendering him unconscious - and passed through the cell bars. Reflexively, Kit caught it.
It was an airfoil.
Kit stared at it in disbelief. His was broken and lying at the end of corridor C... wasn’t it?
Then he noticed ‘Flying Cloudkickers’ etched along one edge and he knew it wasn’t his. Ten thousand questions flooded his mind. Where’d it come from? Whose was it? Flying Cloudkickers? But that would mean...
A voice spoke from the shadows. "Looks like I got the last laugh, eh, lad?”
"Clara?” Kit yelped. The little old lady was the last person he’d expect to have an airfoil. “But…but..."
"No time for explanations." She took a key from the wall and unlocked the cell door. "They're transferring the Hoot E-2 to a production facility today. Der Furor is so pleased with its performance, they're going to mass produce it. If they do, it’s all over for the Allies. You have to steal it now.”
Flying was usually foremost in Kit's mind. But not now. Here was someone who could possibly provide some answers about his real family, something he'd been wondering about his entire life, and all she could talk about was stealing a plane? He cried petulantly, "Who gives a hoot about the Hoot E-2! Who are you?"
You...you...you… The question echoed throughout the tunnel, attracting the attention of the guards stationed at the far end.
When an incoming bullet knocked the cap off Kit's head, he gulped. “Run?”
“Run," Clara replied with a solemn nod.
They took off down the twisting tunnel with the guards, shooting and shouting, on their tails.
Both bears paused when they came to a fork in the road.
“Which way?” Kit asked, glancing from one identical tunnel to the other.
“You go left, I’ll go right. I’ll distract ‘em while you double back to that hangar.”
“No! If they catch you, they'll...they'll…” For a millisecond, Kit recalled every atrocity he’d ever witnessed on the streets as a boy, heard every tortured scream of the air pirates’ victims.
"Don’t worry about me, lad,” she said quickly, glancing over her shoulder. They didn’t have much time. The tramping of a multitude of boots on rock was getting louder. “Old Clara still has a few tricks up her sleeve. Besides, there's only room for one in that plane. Go kick the tires and light the fires as they say."
"Thanks...for everything," he said, returning her airfoil.
"Keep it. I've got another,” Clara said with a wink and a smile. “First rule of cloudsurfing: When in the air, carry a spare. Now, go!”
Kit folded the airfoil, tucked it under his shirt, and rushed into the left-hand tunnel.
“Clear skies, lad,” she whispered. Tears clouded her eyes as she watched him disappear from sight. Then she cleared her throat and it was back to business. Cupping her hands around her mouth like a megaphone, she called in her thickest Greenomoora brogue, “Come and get me, you sauerkraut-breath Swatzi swine!”
Kit had only gone a few yards when he heard a barrage of gunfire followed by a horrible silence.
“Oh, my gosh! Clara!” he gasped, turning back. But after a few steps, he spun around again. The canine guards were now dogging him.
In desperation, Kit pushed through a set of double doors and found himself in the guards’ barracks, which happened to be populated with off-duty guards. They seemed surprised to see him.
Kit wasn’t exactly thrilled to see them. “Jeepers, why are there so many guards?” he muttered.
Taking a deep breath, Kit bolted across the room. His objective: to get to the set of double doors on the far side. On the way, he hurdled over a card-playing foursome, knocking over the table in the process, causing cards and poker chips to scatter. Without breaking his stride, he grabbed a bottle of root beer from another guard, took a gulp and tossed it down, smashing it to sticky shards on the floor. Finally, he stole a sheet off a guard snoring in his bunk.
He pushed his way through the doors and tied the door handles together with the sheet. “There. That should hold ‘em.”
The doors bowed out with each forceful blow from the Swatzis on the other side.
“For about two seconds.”
Kit looked left, then right, getting his bearings and wondering which way he should go. He needed time to think of a plan. Seeing another door nearby, he pushed it open cautiously. It was a bathroom. A man behind a curtain was taking a shower and belting out a lusty, slightly off-key, aria from a Wagger opera.
Kit tiptoed into the bathroom and hid in the stall farthest from the door moments before the guards barged in. He tried to calm his breathing and his temper. Guilt washed over him. If he hadn't shouted back by the holding cell, he wouldn't be crouching in a bathroom stall and Clara wouldn't be... Kit pushed that thought out of his mind. He wanted nothing more than to jump out and pound all of the Swatzis for what they did to her. But he had to be patient. Clara would want him to be patient. Besides, common sense told him that he couldn’t take on that many men by himself, and he had to steal that jet.
I just wanna go home, Kit thought, reaching for the airfoil as spit-shined Swatzi boots crowded around his stall’s door.
Just when he thought he would never see home again, a staccato voice from the shower barked, “Can you not see I am getting ready to be decorated mit der Liftwoof Flying Cross by Der Furor himself? If you do not get out dis instant, I vill personally make sure you are all shot!”
“Jawohl, Captain von Fleanitz. Our most humble apologies, Captain von Fleanitz.”
That must be the pilot of the Hoot E-2, Kit thought.
The guards filed out with their tails between their legs, and the captain resumed singing in the shower.
A few minutes later, the bathroom door closed quietly. Captain von Fleanitz’s uniform, which had been hanging on a hook beside the shower, had mysteriously disappeared.
A Little While Later
Back in the Hangar
The Swatzi band was playing the Hounsland national anthem. Kit stood at attention on a makeshift stage near the Hoot E-2, hoping that no one would notice that it wasn’t Captain Fleanitz behind the flight goggles, helmet and scarf. On one side was Admiral Hounkoff. On the other side was Major Heartworm. Standing in front was Der Furor, a canine of indeterminate breed, intense bearing, and shrewd eyes. He stroked his signature mustache as he surveyed the rows of guards surrounding the stage.
When the anthem came to an end, all the Swatzis clicked their heels and saluted simultaneously.
The Swatzi leader’s voice rang throughout the hangar. “For his meritorious service in defeating the Allies und forwarding the Schwatzi cause to impose order on der world, Captain von Fleanitz is revarded the Liftwoof Flying Cross.”
Der Furor snapped his fingers. Admiral Hounkoff took one step forward and presented a black jewelry case with the Swatzi insignia - a flyswatter poised over the earth - on the cover.
The Swatzi leader removed the shiny medallion from the case and snapped his fingers. Kit, believing that was his cue, stepped forward. Unfortunately, when he bent over to allow Der Furor to drape the medallion around his neck, the little black instruction book fell out of his pocket.
Kit's heart leapt into his throat when Der Furor picked up the book and opened it. He then gave Kit a piercing look.
The teenager gulped and stood up straighter, trying to exude confidence.
Der Furor snapped his fingers.
All the Swatzis reached into their inner jacket pockets simultaneously to pull out...
Kit cringed.
A pen. Taking the pen from Major Heartworm, Der Furor signed the book and handed it back to Kit.
Relieved, Kit tucked the book back into his pocket and saluted Der Furor. Then, for good measure, he saluted Admiral Hounkoff and Major Heartworm.
Admiral Hounkoff declared, “In honor of Der Furor’s presence, a demonstration of the Hoot E-2 is in order. Captain Fleanitz.”
After another round of serious saluting, Kit climbed into the cockpit.
Kit pulled the cockpit canopy into place and fitted the oxygen mask over his face while surreptitiously flitting his eyes over the controls. It had a lot more dials and buttons than the Sea Duck, and, unfortunately, he had about two seconds to master them. He didn’t dare look at the instruction book, not with hundreds of armed Swatzis watching him. In fact, he was so nervous that he couldn’t recall what Horten Hootenski had said about the startup procedure until two men of the ground crew pulled the ripcords in the center of the jet engines. The twin turbines belched fire out of their exhausts for a few seconds then the flames abated as they picked up speed.
“Awesome,” Kit squeaked, biting his lip to suppress his smile. This was the fastest jet in the world, and he got to fly it.
With one last jaunty salute, Kit began to taxi the Hoot E-2 out of the hangar and towards the freedom of the open sky. As he approached the open hangar doors, he thought, That was too easy.
Just then, Captain von Fleanitz, dripping wet and wrapped in a towel, slipped and slid into the hangar. Kit couldn’t hear what the captain was shouting, but from the gestures he was making, he seemed furious.
As bullets from the multitudes of Swatzi guards began to rain around him, Kit thought, Oops. Spoke too soon.
In Kit’s earpiece, a voice commanded, “Schtop the plane! You cannot eschape!”
“You wanna bet?” Now outside on the runway, Kit pushed the throttle forward and pulled back on the stick, climbing into the sky. “Whoooooooa!” he shouted, being pushed back in his seat with more g-force than he’d ever experienced.
“All right. You asked for it,” the earpiece voice sneered.
The Swatzis unleashed all their firepower. Anti-aircraft guns bombarded him. Planes poured out of the hangar. A gigantic guided missile was launched from the grain silo beside the barn.
Kit, trying to avoid everything the enemy was throwing at him while maneuvering an unfamiliar airplane, cried, “This was definitely not in the flight manual!”
Meanwhile…
Higher for Hire
Baloo paced the length of the office with Cassie trailing behind him. The little girl was mimicking her father from the furrowed brow to the wringing hands to the muttering under the breath. The only difference was that Baloo was muttering about Kit; Cassie was muttering about pickles.
Rebecca, leaning against her desk, thought, What is there about pacing back and forth like a caged lion that makes a man feel better? Hearing a truck pull up outside, she thought, Maybe this will help. “Cargo's here, Baloo."
Apathetically, Baloo took the clipboard from his wife. His eyes lit up when he saw the destination - the air force base.
“I undercut everyone to get this contract. We’ll lose money, but it’s worth it.” Rebecca picked up Cassie and settled her on her hip. “Go find out what happened to Kit and bring him home if you can.”
“Will do, boss lady.” He took off for the Sea Duck with renewed vigor. When he reached the door, he paused and doubled back, kissing Rebecca and tweaking Cassie’s nose gently. “Thanks, honey.”
After Baloo left, Rebecca and Cassie grinned at each other.
Two Hours Later...
At the Air Force Base
“Object is acquired,” Kit’s voice said over the radio. “I repeat, object is acquired and I have shaken off all bogeys. Over.”
Of the three men in the room - General Stately, Shere Khan, and Baloo - Baloo was the happiest. “That’s my boy!” he exclaimed, pounding an extremely unamused Shere Khan on the back.
General Stately said into the microphone, “What are your coordinates and airspeed? Over?”
Kit briefly told him.
The general turned to a map hanging on the wall. “At your present position and speed, you should arrive at the air force base before nightfall. Over.”
“Uh, negative. Shrapnel from anti-aircraft artillery blew a hole in my starboard fuel tank. It’s reading less than 200 gallons and the needle’s dropping like a rock. Over.”
“Oh, man…” Baloo’s stomach knotted. He sank into the nearest chair.
Shere Khan, who had come to the air force base to personally find out the status of the purloined plane, offered, “My aircraft carrier could be in position within a few hours.”
“No good. He’s running out of fuel fast.” The general circled an area on the wall map. “After this point, he’ll have to ditch in the ocean, and we’ll lose all hope of recovery. If only there was a flying airstrip available.”
“There is, Stately.” Baloo muttered under his breath, “I can’t believe I’m doin’ this,” as he picked up the microphone.
Meanwhile…
The Iron Vulture
Karnage lounged in his captain’s seat and gazed out into the wild blue yonder. “Most, most interesting, Baloo, you asking my wonderful self for help. Tell me. What could you possibly give me that would make me agree?”
Gibber muttered something in the pirate captain’s ear.
Mad Dog said, “Ask for gold.”
“Jewels,” Dumptruck added.
“Oo! Oo! I got it. Citrus fruit,” Hal suggested with a grin that revealed a missing tooth.
“Again with the citrus fruit?” Mad Dog scoffed. A scuffle ensued, which turned into a full blown fight involving most of the pirates.
As always, Karnage ignored his minions’ suggestions and the melee behind him. “All right. I am feeling generous today. A million dollars.”
“A million bucks just to let Kit land a plane on the Iron Vulture?”
“You are right. That is much too generous. Two million.”
Baloo, who had no idea how he was going to get two million dollars, said, “Fine, fine, whatever ya want, Karny.”
“Ah, ah, ah,” the pirate captain said disapprovingly.
Frowning, Baloo reluctantly corrected himself. “Karnage.”
“Much better. But next time, roll the ‘r’.”
Baloo, knowing that his son’s life was at stake, bit back a retort. “Just be at those coordinates.”
A Little While Later...
In the Hoot E-2
Over the radio, Baloo said, “All right. Karny’s gonna meet you there.” Under his breath, he added, “I hope. How’s it goin’? Over.”
“Fuel’s low, but I should make it. You won’t believe how fast this thing is. I bet nothing can catch up with it."
Suddenly, there was a flash of light that rocked the Hoot E-2. “Whoa!”
“Kit?”
Kit craned his neck around only to spot another jet similar to the Hoot E-2 zooming up fast on his tail.“Things are heating up, Papa Bear. Gotta go.”
A Hounslandian voice hissed into Kit’s earpiece, “You schtole my uniform.” A burst of gunfire. “You schtole my plane.” Another burst of gunfire. “But, vorst of all, you schtole my Liftwoof Flying Cross!” A longer burst of gunfire.
As he dodged, and weaved, and dove in order to avoid getting shot, Kit couldn’t resist saying, “You want it, Captain von Fleanitz? Come and get it.”
“Oh, I vill. The Hoot E-3 is faster, more maneuverable, and is armed with guided missiles. You don’t schtand a chance.”
Kit gulped. “When will I ever learn to keep my big mouth shut?”
“Missiles away,” Captain von Fleanitz announced triumphantly.
“Barrel roll, don’t fail me now,” Kit said between clenched teeth. He performed a perfect barrel roll, but the missiles were still following him.
“Did I forget to mention that those are heat-seeking missiles?” the Swatzi laughed.
“Oh, man, what am I going to do?” His eyes frantically scanned the controls. He didn’t know what half of them did and now he desperately needed to if he was going to escape.
The instruction book had become wedged between the windshield during Kit’s aerial maneuvers. He slid as far forward in his seat and reached for it, but his fingertips barely brushed against it. “I...need...that...book!” Leaning forward just a little more, he accidentally slammed against the stick, flipping the plane upside-down. Now it and the missiles were on a collision course with the Hoot E-3.
A split-second before he pushed up on the throttle, pulled up on the stick, and headed straight for the stratosphere, Kit saw Captain von Fleanitz’s frightened face as the missiles barrelled towards him.
“Wahoo!” Kit shouted as the Hoot E-3 exploded. The Swatzi’s white parachute billowed out against the rolling expanse of the ocean.
But Kit’s elation was short-lived. The fuel alarm blared.
“Oh, bad. Oh, bad. Oh, bad, bad, bad.” Panic welled up inside him as the plane began to yaw dangerously. He was out in the middle of the ocean with a plane he barely knew how to fly with no land in sight, no help in sight.
And then, emerging from a cloudbank a few miles ahead, was the Iron Vulture.
Kit said something he thought he’d never say in a million years. “Oh, thank you, Don Karnage.” He pushed the button to engage the tricycle landing gear.
A Little While Later...
On the Iron Vulture’s Desk
Don Karnage whooped with delight as he circled the Hoot E-2. “From now on, I am thieving on a jet plane!”
Suddenly, the Iron Vulture was surrounded by Shere Khan’s elite fighter force and Usland army planes.
Karnage laughed nervously. “Maybe not.”
That Night…
Outside Higher for Hire
A seagull sleepily cawed from atop the Higher for Hire sign as General Stately said, “So we gave Don Karnage his freedom, one hundred thousand dollars, and, of all things, fifty crates of assorted citrus fruit in exchange for the jet. He’s a shrewd bargainer, that pirate. I gotta be heading back to the base now. You coming with me, von Bruinwald?”
Kit had been very quiet since he had returned home. He looked up from the spot on the dock he had been studying to say, “No, sir. I think I want to be a kid a little longer. After all, I’m not eighteen until next year.”
Baloo and Rebecca shared relieved smiles.
“Well, you’re the bravest kid I ever met. When you’re ready to sign up, we’ll get you set up in one of those P-51s.” Stately snapped Kit a salute, which the teenager returned like a seasoned professional. “Almost forgot. Telegram for you, von Bruinwald.”
“General Stately, sir!” Captain Grogg yelled out the open window of the waiting taxi. He was pointing and saluting like a mad man. “Those people! Those people were in cahoots with the Martians at Lake Placid, sir!”
Stately sighed as he got into the cab. “Whatever you say, Grogg. Let’s go talk it over with your uncle.”
Kit opened the telegram and stepped closer to the light fixture hanging above the door. It read: NEVER GOT TO TELL YOU THAT YOU LOOK LIKE MY LOST SON. PROUD OF YOU LAD. OFF TO ANOTHER MISSION. ENJOY THE AIRFOIL. CLARA
Molly, who had been reading the telegram over his shoulder, asked, “Who’s Clara?”
Kit’s face brightened as he re-read the telegram. Slowly, he said, “Um, I think she might be my grandmother, Molly.”
“What?” Baloo, Rebecca, and Molly exclaimed.
Proudly, he declared, “She’s a real hero.” He made a silent promise to himself to find her and the other Flying Cloudkickers someday.
“It runs in the family.” Baloo clapped Kit on the shoulder. “Well, hero, bein’ back home’ll seem tame now.”
“After everything I went through, tame is good. At least for a while.” Kit knew that he had only succeeded thanks to the kindness of strangers and sheer dumb luck. “You’re right, Papa Bear, there’s a lot about flying that the manual don’t teach.”
Baloo probably never would know all the details, but it sounded like Kit had done some growing up in the past couple of days. “Sounds like he’s ready, Becky.”
“If you think so, Baloo.”
Kit couldn’t understand why his parents and sisters were grinning at him like that. “Ready for what?”
Baloo answered simply, “Your own plane."
Rebecca nodded. “We’ll even help you with the down payment.”
“Wha…really? WAHOO!” Kit threw his pilot’s hat in the air where it was silhouetted against the full moon.
The End