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

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