Heist at 20,000 Feet!
(Part 1 of 2)
The Fokker’s punctured fuselage burst into flames. Taking the triplane’s right wings with it, the explosion turned the aircraft into a meteoric ball of fire, the left wings spinning like a top as the spear of light and smoke punctuated the calm, tropical sea.
“Condor four! Condor four! Come in! Jesucristo”! Captain Temor yelled into his radio, the infamous ‘Blackbeard of the sky’ betraying the worry that now gripped him. He struggled to look over the edge of cockpit down into the water, only to see his fear confirmed by a long black column rising high into the air. He held back a lone tear, before returning to his feared tone. “Condors five and seven, about face. Find this filthy asesino! Blow him from the sky”! Without a word two more Fokkers peeled away from formation and back into the heavy Atlantic cloud. “The rest of you hold. Keep your eyes peeled”…
The aerial convoy now flying with all speed deep into the Lesser Antilles consisted of a half dozen fighters of Red Baron infamy. Their garish Flying Circus heraldry and Germanic crosses had been replaced by a uniform, pale blue paintjob. However along with the aircraft in general, the colour had become faded and tattered, giving the squadron a ragged, almost ghostlike quality. “Los Fantasmas” had long been the scourge of the Caribbean, robbing all who dared take to their sky. Today was no different in such respects. Surrounded by Temor’s spectral air fleet was a Pan-Am Clipper, loaded with over fifty wealthy tourists bound for Rio. Alongside a successful Rhode Island banker, a rising RKO starlet and a former New Jersey governor with mistress in-toe, the Clipper was carrying something far more valuable than vacation spends, and these aerial bandits knew it. However they weren’t the only ones.
“Condor one! Captain”! The voice of Condor seven’s pilot crackled over Temor’s radio “…e’s taken out Con…ive …dios! He’s com…back rou…aptain! Cap…. hel”- the transmission went dead. Suddenly the roar of pistons overwhelmed Temor’s senses as a silver streak shot overhead, before quickly disappearing into the cloud above.
“All Condors, 11 o’clock high, vaya vaya vaya”! The Captain barked, the whole squadron as one shooting into the air. High in the whisping cloud, turned orange and purple by the setting sun, the five Fokkers turned and weaved, like foxhounds on a scent, sniffing out their prey.
“Captain I think I saw him at ten o’clock”, informed Condor three “I’m going to investigate”. Temor watched as the triplane dipped to the left, descending slowly. Then like lightning the silver streak bolted past, appearing from the cloud above the Fokker. Before Condor three could even register its presence, the metallic flash opened fire, decapitating its prey, and disappearing once more into the vast, multicoloured fog.
“Qué el jode fue eso”! Swore Condor eight.
“Ah mi dios”! Shouted Condor six.
“Fue eso el as aéreo”? Called Condor two to the remainder of the squadron. They all were thinking it. Only one man could wipe out half of their unit in a matter of moments.
“Silence”, barked Temor “follow him”!
The four remaining triplanes dove into the clouds at maximum speed. Suddenly the mists cleared, and Los Fantasmas caught sight of their prey, banking a sharp right in the clear sky of ahead of them. As they closed, the saw it was a squat, chrome monoplane, consisting of little more than its massive engine. They also noticed it was coming straight for them.
“Condors open fire”! The Fokkers’ twin machineguns burst into life, saturating the air with hot lead. Their quarry ducked and bobbed, even barrel rolling to avoid their fire, all the while closing the distance. Then it was his turn, unleashing four wing-mounted autocannon onto the unsuspecting bandits. With unnerving accuracy and power, the guns obliterated Condor eight, allowing little more than splinters to fall into the sea. The remaining Fokkers, taken aback by the power, banked to avoid collision as the monoplane shot straight through. As he dived to avoid impact, Captain Temor caught sight of the insignia on the body of their assailant’s strange craft- the Ace of Spades- It was who they feared all right.
“What’s the matter Temor”, asked a cocky, American voice over the airwaves “getting too old for this malarkey”?
“I’ll see you burn for this you bastardo”! Cried the Captain “I wont rest until the fish pick your bones clean”!
“Please Temor, so harsh? Children might be listening”
“Condors”! Temor addressed his two remaining pilots “hold back, he’s mine”. Pulling back on the accelerator, Temor banked left, climbing as he did. He knew his opponent would be heading straight for the Clipper. Within thirty seconds he could see him dead ahead. Temor knew his Great War fighter could never catch up under normal speeds, but then what kind of villain would he be if he didn’t innovate? Pulling back a red lever, he shot forward, rudimentary rockets attached to his three wings upping his speed by almost a hundred miles an hour. Soon the gap began to close. Closer and closer. Temor ignored the tearing of cloth on his wings, the smell of bubbling paint on his fuselage. Oh so close. Finally he squeezed the trigger. A dozen or so tracer bullets spat out, curling over the monoplane’s right wing. It swerved, obviously now aware he had company. Temor fired another spray, this time hitting the tip of the right wing with a metallic thud. Suddenly his prey started to climb, and without thinking, guided by some primal urge, he followed.
“Some new toys Temor”? Asked the Yankee baritone, hiding his shock at seeing the ancient fighter keeping up. He was answered by another burst of bullets. Temor was obviously not thinking clearly. Shooting straight up had the draw back that the bullets would generally fall back down. No, this wasn’t a gun battle, this was an endurance contest. The first to lose air speed would be dead. If Temor fell first, the mysterious pilot would be right on top of him. If the monoplane went first, Temor would blast him out of the sky as he fell past. At first glance it seemed no contest. The modern, sleek monoplane would easily outperform the old triplane. However that was based on the engines, by now Temor was flying almost soley on his rockets.
As they climbed higher and higher, the sign of strain began to show. Temor could see his opponent’s wings shifting this way and that, he speed slowly dropping. Meanwhile his own aeroplane shuddered as it shot up at speeds and heights never envisioned by its designers. The rockets finally saw him catch up with the American at over 28,000 feet, the two craft flying side by side, clawing for the high ground. Then it happened.
The two planes slowed, seemingly suspended in mid-air. Temor looked over at his opponent, his face as ever hidden by a leather cap and stylised goggles. He looked back, and smiled. Suddenly the rockets stopped, leaving only a spluttering piston engine, unable to cope. The monoplane was little better. Both aircraft halted their ascent completely, before rolling backwards and falling back to earth. Ironically, due to the sheer weight of its engine, the monoplane dropped like a stone, quickly outpacing the Fokker. Even in his panic, Temor attempted several machinegun volleys, hoping to pick off his adversary before he hit the water. Meanwhile the mystery pilot gripped his joystick with all his might, desperately trying to right his plane.
5,000 feet: he pulled the emergency start cord but nothing. 3,000 feet: He pulled it a second time only for the engine to splutter. Much to his discomfort, his shadow on the water was racing towards him. Then, as he hit 800 feet, one final pull and a graphic curse saw the massive Wright-Cyclone engine roar into life. Pulling back, the aircraft skimmed across the water, before shooting once more up into the clouds, passing Condor two and six, who in their shock collided in a massive explosion. Levelling out, the pilot finally caught up with the Clipper. Now above the flying boat, the pilot turned on his radio, “Pan-Am Flight 56, come in please”. There was no response. He repeated the message, but no response. A strange noise suddenly filled the airwaves, sounding to him like artificial interference. The pilot yelped in pain as the sound cut out with an extremely high-pitch squawk, before Temor voice came on, short of breath, coughing heavily.
“I’ll kill… kill you! You will pay for… for what you have done”! The radio cut out once more. Slightly taken aback by the message, the pilot was oblivious as Temor’s Fokker plummeted from 1,000 feet above, heading straight for him. The triplane, running low on fuel, out of ammunition and its wings buckling now only had one offensive use in the Captain’s mind: battering ram. The Fokker crashed into the monoplane’s left wing, ripping it clean off, as the wreckage and Temor fell into the crystal waters below. The pilot immediately opened his cockpit and as the spinning chrome coffin tumbled towards the sea, he jumped.
He had no intention of parachuting to safety, however. As he fell at speed, the pilot pulled two small pickaxes, like those used by mountain climbers, from his belt. Bracing himself, he saw the Clipper below and with a bone crunching impact, hit the left wing. The pickaxes dug into the wood with ease, however his grip wasn’t so dependable. The flying boat dipped left, catching him off guard. He began to slide off the wing, unable to grip the smooth surface.
“Jesus Chri”- Luckily catching his arm around the pontoon attached to the wing as he fell, the pilot pulled himself carefully to his feet. Letting out a premature sigh of relief, he was quickly sent back down to clinging for dear life as Temor’s men onboard opened fire, shattering the Clipper’s windows. Having only the thin pontoon stilts for cover, the pilot pulled out his long, Webley Service revolver, however he realised he couldn’t open fire on a passenger-filled cabin. After several near misses, he braced himself once more, dragging himself back onto the wing. Rapping his legs around the narrow tip of the wing for grip, he was still far from his pickaxes as the Clipper began to bank side-to-side, trying to shake him off. Slowly loosening his grip, he waited for the aeroplane to bank right.
“Whoa”! Sliding face first down the length of the wing, the pilot barely had time to grasp the pickaxes. Luckily, they remained determinedly imbedded into the wooden surface. Then the bandits started firing through the roof.
Who is this mysterious daredevil of the air? What is it that Los Fantasmas, the most vicious pirate band to curse the Spanish Main in centuries want with Flight 56? Is Captain Temor perished? All this and more in the thrilling conclusion of- Heist at 20,000 Feet!
Amazing Aeroventures
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