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  Only the cowboy outfit had been replaced by an Usland Army Air Force uniform, the six-shooter by an automatic pistol.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.

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