Chapter 43

Katie MacArran should have known the principle by now; what goes around, comes around.  With one word, she had made Jack Finlayson’s drink come sputtering out his nostrils, and now the raccoon was returning the favor.

“Bugatti?!” The pinto mare almost choked on the word, “What the heck is the French team doing with an ITALIAN-built race-plane?”

“As a a matter of fact,” the raccoon replied, clearly enjoying his measure of revenge. “The Bugatti 120.S is Italian in name only, conceived by Monsieur Louis Dambry, formerly of Breguet, and designed and built on the rue de Debarcadere in Paris.  And don’t forget, the French have used Bugatti engines in their aircraft before; the Breguet type 20 and 21 for example.” A puff of breeze blew his napkin from his lap.  He retrieved it, and then went on.  “The French originally planned to run the 120.S in the Coupe Deustch de Meurthe, but then changed their minds and decided to go for the Schneider Cup instead.  Next to the Piaggio-Pegna PC.9, the Bugatti 120.S is paws down, the most radical plane in the race.”

When started to tell her why, Katie’s ear lifted up and pointed at each other.

“Uhhhh, twin engines, driving contra-rotating propellors?” she said, “What’s so eccentric about that?  That arrangement’s been around since 1931 and the Macchi-Castoldi MC.72.”

Finlayson smiled and delivered his punchline.

“What if I told you the 120.S has those engines mounted BEHIND the cockpit, same as in the Bell Airacobra?”  
 
Katie almost choked on her drink again.

“I’d say that’s sending Monsieur Trouble an engraved invitation,” she responded, “via Deliverie Especialle.”

What might almost have passed for a frown appeared on Jack Finlayson’s features.

“Actually, that engine configuration has worked pretty well for the French team so far.  In fact, Bell Aircraft could probably take a few lessons from the Bugatti 100 series.” 

“When Hell freezes.” said Katie, reaching for the pitcher with a frown of her own, but this one belied by a sardonic tone of voice. “Those boys over at Bell would sooner burn their own plant down than take any advice from another aircraft builder...especially a foreign one.” Her opinions regarding some of the other US pursuit plane builders were already a matter of record...and not a matter for delicate ears.  That was why Major Finlayson chose to speak his next words quickly, before she could proceed on this tangent

“What isn’t working for Bugatti, is that the air intake for those engines enters at the leading edge of the wings and flows FORWARD through the radiators.”

Katie blinked at her guest and her head pulled back two inches.

“Uhhhh, Major?  The Little Engine also has forward airflow.  So does the Heston-Napier 6.”

Jack Finlayson raised a finger, relieved that his word ploy had succeeded.

“Not quite, Miss MacArran.  Both your plane and the British entry have their air-intakes set under the fuselage.  In that location, it’s possible to mount a scoop large enough provide adequate air-flow for the radiator.  Can’t do that on the leading edge of the wing and have a reverse flow of air, not without seriously compromising the aerodynamics.”

“What about the new design Vought’s working on, the Corsair?” Katie countered, “It’s got wing-mounted air-intakes, and forward air-flow -- and so far, it’s been one heckuva successful design.”  Of all the American pursuit planes currently in development or production, the Vought Corsair was the one she admired most.

“Yes, but that isn’t the Corsair’s ONLY source of air,” the Major reminded her, “It’s also got an open fronted cowling.  And it runs with only a single, air-cooled engine, don’t forget.  The 120.S is powered by not one, but TWO liquid-cooled Bugatti S.50s.”

“Hmmm, I see what you mean,” said Katie, sinking thoughtfully back in her chair.

“Mind you,” Finlayson cautioned, “if the French team ever gets that problem solved, they’ll have a damn good racer in their hangar.  They’ve made one hell of a lot of improvements in their design since the first variant, Bugatti100.P was introduced.  That plane was built out of balsa-wood; this one’s all metal, except for the wing flaps.  AND they’ve got Jean-Guy Perreaux to fly her.  You know what that means.”

Oh yes.  If Enzo Murmi was the antithesis of the devil-may-care air-race pilot, Jean-Guy Perreaux, a fox with fur like a newly minted penny, was the epitome.  Two years previously, he had become the first, and only foreigner ever to win the Thompson Trophy, setting a new course record into the bargain, one which had yet to be broken.  Monsieur Perreaux was also probably the most happy-go-lucky air-race pilot in the game, Roscoe Turner notwithstanding; he literally lived for his next competition.  The red fox was also a true gentlefur, the first to congratulate the winner whenever he failed to take the checkered pylon himself.  In fact, J.G. Perreaux didn’t seem to care a whit whether he won or lost, as long as he ‘had the good race’ as he liked to put it.  With him in the cockpit and the near legendary Claude Venzine as his crew-chief, Katie had better NOT count the French team out of the Schneider.

Not hardly.

But then again, as Finlayson reminded her with his next words, France’s Schneider Cup team also had a serious liability to go with those assets.

“On the other paw, some imbecile in Paris saw fit to make Countess Henriette de Vitrines an honorary member of the their race team.  If you know anything about her...Hmmm, judging by that look on your face, I’d say you do.”

Katie grinned sheepishly and told the raccoon about her dispute with La Comtesse over the water-taxi...and how it had led, indirectly, to the absence of Air Chief Marshal Ballory at their table this afternoon.  To her small surprise, Finlayson just shrugged this off, as if it were ancient history.

“Not your fault, Miss MacArran.” he said, “But if you know that much about her, then you also know that Madame Le Comtesse isn’t going to just let that incident slide.”

Now it was Katie who looked unconcerned.

“She will if she knows what’s good for her.” she said, swatting with her hoof at an invisible mosquito, “or I’ll squash her like the bug she is.” She took a final forkful of her Key-Lime pie, and added.  “Anyway, if I know her type, and you better believe I do, Countess de Vitrines will have found herself a new bete noir to play with by now.  She’s one of those femmes who takes anything but fawning and groveling as a fursonal insult.  Ask anyone in Lords, and they’ll tell you the same thing; it’s what happens when you’re born into money, marry for a title, and seduce to accumulate fursonal power.”  

Jack Finlayson looked mildly scandalized.  Even from Katie MacArran, that last statement had been more than little indelicate.  A lady didn’t SPEAK like that in public about another femme’s adultery...especially not in such earthy language, and certainly not if she were titled.

“So that just leaves the Soviet entry, right?” said the pinto mare, and Finlayson was only too happy to accept the opening.

“Yes,” he said, “The VeT 3.R Red Comet, and to borrow a line from your friend, Mr. Churchill, it’s a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma.”

“What, ANOTHER mystery plane?” Katie queried, punctuating the question with a small snort.  This was getting downright ridiculous.

“Yes and no,” the raccoon told her, “The Soviets are being close-mouthed in some areas, and downright blabbermouths in others.  For example, the Russians still haven’t released any details about the Red Comet’s engine, but ask them about the new alloy they used to build her, and they won’t shut up about it.  That’s what I meant when I paraphrased Churchill.  There seems to be no rhyme or reason regarding what the Soviets will or won’t say about their Schneider-Cup racer.”

“Hmmm, that is odd,” said Katie, stroking her nose, equally puzzled, “but anyway, tell me about this new alloy of theirs, Major.”

“It’s called Scandalumin,” he responded, “an amalgam of aluminum and one of the rare earth metals, Scandium.  It’s more or less the same weight and tensile strength as T-6, 7000 series aircraft-grade aluminum, but with two critical differences; number one, a much greater fatigue-life.  Number two, you can WELD Scandalumin.”

“Oooo,” said Katie, leaning forward and almost shivering with excitement, “A no-rivet-required, aircraft-grade, aluminum alloy?  Is it just me, or does anyone else at this table feel like drooling?”

“Yep,” said Finlayson, “Weldable aircraft-grade aluminum....the thing every airplane builder would give their eyeteeth for.” He reached up and scratched at the back of his head, “Which makes it all the odder that the Soviets are talking so freely about it.”

“Oh I can tell you why that is, Major,” the pinto mare responded with a sly smirk, “It’s because there’s exactly ONE mine in the world that produces Scandium in any appreciable quantity.  Guess where it’s located.”

Jack Finlayson propped an elbow on the table, laying his cheek against one paw, looking not surprised in the least that the heir to Combs Mining Machinery would know this.

“Would that be the Soviet Union, by any chance?” he asked, regarding Katie with a wry expression.

“The Ukraine to be precise, but close enough.” the pinto mare told him.

“Uh-huh.” said the raccoon, nodding slowly, “And I suppose you know this because the mine in question utilizes equipment manufactured by the Combs Company?”

“Purchased through Rumania but yes, that’s right,” said Katie, and then the corners of her mouth turned in two opposite directions, “What I DIDN’T know was that the Russians had finally found a practical use for Scandium.”

“Well now everyone knows they have.” said Finlayson, sitting up again, “And now I understand why the Russians aren’t keeping it under their hats.  Damn, but I’d love to have been a fly on the wall when Hermann Goering first found out about Scandalumin’s properties.” 

“You and me both, brother.” said Katie, grinning, “The Soviets could publish the exact formula for Scandalumin in Pravda and it still wouldn’t do the Nazis any good.  'Der Dicke'  must have been ready to bust a nugget when he heard.”  She snapped her fingers, remembering something, “Oh...and before I forget, is there any truth to the rumor that the Italians and the Soviets got into a rhubarb over which team has the right to paint their race-plane red?”

“Yeah, it’s true, they did.” said Finlayson, grinning and corking a thumb at where the PC.9 race had been a moment ago, “And as you already saw for yourself, the Italians won that one.”

“No surprise.” said Katie, nodding.  Red had been the official Italian racing color since before there WAS a Soviet Union. “So, who’s flying the Soviet entry?” she asked.

Major Finlayson closed his eyes and tapped a finger against his forehead, muttering.  “Damn Russian names...I can never get them right.  It’s another female pilot, I know that much.  But what was her naaaaame?  Nuh...Nuh...Naaaaaa...Nadi...Nadya something.”

“Lieutenant Nadiya Zhorkin?” asked Katie, taking a chance

Finlayson clapped his paws together, “Yes, that’s it.  Nadiya Zhorkin....except she’s a captain now.”  His head angled slightly to one side, “But how do you know her, Miss MacArran?”

“How could I NOT know her?” she responded, lifting her hooves in an upturned gesture.  “There are exactly two, count ‘em, two female pilots in the world that have been designated as combat aces.  I know, because I’m one of them.”

Finlayson’s brows shot upwards again, exposing the whiteness of his eyes

“Ohhh, and she’s the other?”

Katie shifted in her seat before answering.

“Well, yes... and uh, in case you’re wondering, she has a higher score than me...but she’s also flown a lot more combat sorties than I have.”

Jack Finlayson sniggered at her qualification of Captain Zhorkin’s combat record, managing just barely to turn it into feigned cough.  Katie caught it, but didn’t react.  There were more important things to discuss.

“But that’s pretty much ALL I know about her.” she said.  “Nadiya Zhorkin arrived in Spain about the time I left, and in China we were flying on two completely different fronts.  So we’ve never met, and I know exactly zero about her abilities as a pilot...or about her, for that matter.”

“Ah yes,” said raccoon, nodding in satisfaction.  For once, his host hadn’t scooped him,  “Well, first of all, she’s got something of a reputation as either an eccentric genius or a loose cannon, depending on who you talk to.  She’s rude, contentious, foul-mouthed, and known to strike subordinates who displease her.  To show her contempt for the Soviet bureaucracy, she wears dirty, grease-stained uniforms whenever she meets with Red Air Force political commissars, whom she likes to refer to as ‘military dinosaurs’.  She’s had numerous affairs, none of which she keeps a secret, and can supposedly drink anyone under the table.  And very often, she does.”

Katie shook her head.

“Christmas, how the Hell has Comrade Nadiya managed to avoid being sent to a prison camp, with a mouth and rep like that?”

Finlayson responded to her rhetorical question with non-rhetorical query of his own:

“How do THINK she has, Miss MacArran?”

Katie dropped her head into deep thought.  Yes, how indeed had she done it?   Then a light began to glow somewhere, and she looked directly into Finlayson’s eyes, “She’s...THAT good a pilot?”

“Bingo.” said Finlayson aiming a cocked finger at her. “Hero of the Soviet Union and Order of Lenin...twice.  And Captain Zhorkin never pushes the rules TOO far.  You’ll never see her in a greasy tunic when meeting with anyone of real importance; only low-level officials get that treatment.  As for using her paws when her someone gets her dander up, a lot of the time that’s been in response to a real or imagined slight against comrade Stalin.  She literally worships Uncle Joe.”

“Hmmm, cunning little sable, isn’t she?” Katie observed. 

“Yep,” said Finlayson, “And there’s another reason she gets so much leeway.  Russians are willing to let almost anything slide for someone who’s aggressive to the point of craziness.  And Captain Zhorkin is known throughout the Red Air Force as 'Mad Nadiya'...but always out of earshot.”

Katie let out a small horse-chuckle.

“Well if ever there was a pilot with a well-deserved nickname...” she said. “Anyone who’d be willing to fly nonstop over the arctic from Moscow to the Spontoons, and THEN compete in the Schneider-Cup less than a week later has gotta be at least a little nuts."



At that moment, in fact, Captain Nadiya Zhorkin would have agreed wholeheartedly with Katie’s assessment of her.  How the yiff had she ever gotten herself into this?  The Stalinskiy Marshrut had only reached Leningrad, and already the flight was turning into a farce; a farce that could very quickly turn to tragedy, thanks to some stupid gavnuki in pince-nez somewhere.

It was cramped inside the dull, gray confines of the ANT.25's cockpit; the plane had been built for distance, not comfort.  The pilot’s and copilot’s seats were so closely spaced that the instant  Nadiya had taken hers, she had found that she and Captain Nikolai Petranko were constantly knocking elbows.

The sun was bright on this early Soviet morning...this VERY early Soviet morning; it was just after 4:30 AM.  However, being as Leningrad was not all that far from the arctic circle, and being as it WAS high summer, the fact that they were flying in full daylight at such an early hour was no surprise to any of the crew.  Below, they could see meandering course of the Neva River, and  the latticework of canals that had once given central Leningrad the nickname, the 'Venice of the North'   So many red banners were hanging from the buildings, that even at an altitude of 5000 feet, it was impossible to miss them.

What was of greater concern that at the moment however, was the possibility of someone else NOT missing something.

“Comrade Lieutenant Meldenny?” said Nadiya, leaning bared teeth over one shoulder, “I require radio contact with our yiffing escorts this instant!”

The Siberian Husky just looked her with helpless, liquid eyes, as another of the stubby biplanes came wheeling past the ANT. 25's left wingtip, “I do not believe they are equipped with radios, Comrade Captain.”

Nadiya Zhorkin swore viciously under her breath, then turned to look out the window at the aircraft flying in circles around the Stalin’s Route.  It reminded her of sharks circling a swimmer.  And the loops seemed to be tightening with every circuit they made. Nadiya tried to snarl, but ended up sighing instead.  The Lieutenant was probably right; more often than not, the Polikarpov I.15 pursuit plane was not equipped with a radio...and she should know, she had flown the I.15 in Spain.  Although a biplane, it had been one of the most effective fighters over the Iberian peninsula, at least until the Fascist Heinkels and Messerschmitts had arrived.  Not that fast, but very responsive and highly maneuverable.

Which, unfortunately, could not be said of the Stalinskiy Marshrut.  With it’s albatross wingspan and lone engine, the ANT.25  not suited to quick maneuvers.  If either of the two pilots now flying in circles around the enormous Soviet bomber were to make a miscalculation...

Years ago, there had been another plane designed and built by Andrei Tupolov, the truly colossal ANT 20 Maxim Gorky, then the largest airplane in the world, larger even than the Dornier Do.X... and known to sensible fliers as the Maximum Gawky.

Kept aloft, briefly, by six engines mounted on the wings and two more, mounted above the fuselage in a push-pull configuration, the Maxim Gorky had been used strictly for propaganda purposes, appearing only at air-shows and military parades.  Three years previously, on May 18th 1935, accompanied by a trio of pursuit-plane escorts, the flying colossus had lifted off for a demonstration flight over Moscow.  In the course of that flight, one of the pursuit pilots, a Russian-blue cat named Nikolai Blagin had attempted a loop around one the Gorky’s wings, and instead smashed into the bomber, sending it plunging to the city below.  In the resulting crash, 45 furs had lost their lives, including the Maxim Gorky’s entire crew.

Almost immediately, Captain Blagin was made a scapegoat for the incident.  “An unplanned maneuver by a reckless pilot,” Pravda had called it.  Moscow State Radio had gone even further, hinting that the feline had been flying while intoxicated.

Nadiya Zhorkin had known better.  Blagin had been her lover at the time, and he had not only been ordered to perform that loop, he’d be threatened with having his wings clipped if he DIDN’T perform it.
 
Only later did Nadiya learn the rest of the story -- the arsehole of a commissar who had given Nikolai that order had been bluffing; he hadn’t possessed the power to ground Nikolai for even a day, much less permanently.  And what had happened to that sookin sin?  He had earned a promotion, while Nikolai Blagin’s name had relegated to the cuspidor of Soviet history.  A new word had even entered the Russian lexicon, Blaginism...a cocky disrespect for authority. 

On that day, Nadiya Zhorkin had sworn that she would never let what had happened to Nikolai happen to her.  Let them send her to Siberia, and shoot her; no low-level party drone was ever going to tell HER how to fly.

And so she had begun to hone both her flying skills and her political wiles, never hesitating to sleep with anyone who might be able to further her career, and never hesitating to show her disrespect for party apparatchniks who were long on communist ideology, but short on flying skills.  (Ironically, this habit had caused her fellow officers to frequently apply the word blaginism to HER.)  It was a dangerous game Nadiya was playing.  She knew that, and accepted it.   If she ended up with a bullet in her head on some nameless Siberian steppe because of it... well, that was still better than the way poor Nikolai had gone out.

So far, she’d had a damned good run.  True, she was still only a captain when by now she should be a Colonel, or at the very least a Major, but here she was, still in the ranks and still flying.  And now, at last, here was the chance that Nadiya had dreamed about ever since the day she had first soloed; she had been fursonally chosen by Comrade Stalin to fly not only the long distance plane bearing his name, but also the Soviet Union’s very first entry in the Schneider-Cup competition.

And now, here was her golden opportunity in serious jeopardy all because of some stupid, self important Party hack.  Grrrr, if she EVER met the sookin sin...!

Another one of the biplanes wheeled past the ANT’s vermilion wingtip again, coming dangerously close this time.  If the Stalin’s Route had been armed, Nadiya would have given the order to open fire.

She turned to her navigator/radio-operator again, eyes blazing that familiar way all who knew her had come to dread.

“Then get me yiffing Red Air Force command, Leningrad, or the yiffing Leningrad Airport, or I don’t care who, but get me SOMEBODY on that yiffing radio!”

“Da, comrade Captain.” said the husky, frantically twisting dials.

“Bogemoi!” said her co-pilot, Georgy Petranko, leaning sideways and looking down through the cockpit, “It looks like the whole yiffing city of Leningrad has turned out to greet us.  Don’t those arseholes in those pursuit planes realize what they risking?”

“Oh, they realize what they are risking, Comrade Captain Petranko,” said Nadiya, her voice dripping with sarcasm, “They risk offending some gavnuki commissar if they do NOT fly circles around us.”

“Yiffing apparatchniks!” The flying squirrel agreed. “Anything to put a feather in their cap,” His voice became high and simpering, “‘Look Comrade Stalin, see the wonderful greeting that I, Ivan Toadyivovich Asskissov arranged for the Stalinskiy Marshrut when she arrived in Leningrad?’”

“As if the great Comrade Stalin would be taken in by anything so crude.” Nadiya snorted, amused in spite of herself.  This was why she was so glad Georgy Petranko had been selected as her co-pilot.  The rodent might not be QUITE as outspoken as she was, but he certainly had a way with the words.  That, and he was as tough as railway spikes.

“Da.” said Petranko, “But I fear that doesn’t help us at the moment, Comrade Captain Zhorkin.”  He looked over his shoulder.  “Comrade Lieutenant?” he demanded, his voice almost as sharp as his commander’s.

“I have raised the Leningrad Aerodrome.” the Siberian Husky answered immediately, “What should I say to them?”

Nadiya Zhorkin almost came out of her fur.

“What do you THINK you should say to them, you yiffing idiot?!” Her voice was a shrill musteline shriek, “Tell that stupid yubna mat on the other end to get those yiffing seagulls away from the Stalin’s Route before they take one of our yiffing wings off!”

The canine didn’t put it quite like that.

“Comrade Captain Zhorkin says that our escort is flying dangerously close to the Stalin’s Route, and she respectfully requests that they pull back to a safer distance.”

There was silence in the cabin as the reply came in, Dimitri Meldenny pressing the earphones close against his head as he listened.  Georgy Petranko meanwhile, was scornfully shaking his head.   He had served with Nadiya Zhorkin in Spain, and he knew what the Lieutenant had waiting for him later.

After a moment of listening, the husky looked at her.

“They say ‘Nyet’...that it is important to demonstrate for the masses of Leningrad how well our pilots have mastered the art of...”

That was the spark that set off the powderkeg.

“RAZEBI EGO DUSHU!” Nadiya screamed, so loudly that Georgy Petranko would later swear it caused a rivet to pop loose from the control panel housing.  She immediately hauled pulled back on the controls and pushed forward on the throttle.

At once, the ANT.25 began to rise quickly into the pale Russian sky.  Outside the windscreen, Georgy Petranko could see the Polikarpovs gamely trying to keep pace with the rapidly ascending bomber.  For a while, they seemed to be holding their own, but then at 10,000 feet the pursuit biplanes began to falter and drop away.  Radios were not the only thing they lacked.

For many long moments, nobody said anything...but then Dmitri clapped his paws against his earphones and his face became a mask of consternation.

“Leningrad aerodrome is demanding to know what we are doing, Comrade Captain.  They are ordering us to cease....”

That was all he managed before Nadiya reached over her shoulder and snatched the earphones from his head.  She then tore them out of the radio console and threw them towards the rear of the plane.

Then a beatific smile suffused her face, and her voice became as sweet as sugar lumps with honey.

“Comrade Lieutenant?” she purred to Dimitri Meldenny, “The NEXT time you rewrite something I give to you for radio transmission, I shall pass over the controls to Comrade Captain Petranko, and throw your yiffing ass off this plane.”

She paused for effect, still smiling that magnanimous smile.

“Am I well understood, Comrade Lieutenant?”

The canine swallowed hard before replying, in a near-whimper.

“Perfectly understood, Comrade Captain...perfectly understood.”

It was something another fur was about to find out as well; femmes are never more formidable than when their voices are at their most melodious.


 

Though when Katie MacArran next spoke to Jack Finlayson, her voice was anything but silvery.

“What?  NOW?” she asked, her lower jaw dropping like a trap-door.

“Yes, now Miss MacArran.” the raccoon replied, his index and middle fingers drumming impatiently on the table-top, “It’s been more than three months since I last had a look The Little Engine... and may I say, the last few reports you submitted on her progress have been sketchy at best.  In fact, if I didn’t know better, I’d swear you’ve been holding out on me.”

Katie would later want to kick herself around the bungalow for not bluffing it out.  What she should have done, she would tell herself, was rise to her hooves in a state of high indignation, give the raccoon a dose of her one blue eye, and demand to know how dare, how DARE Major Finlayson say such a thing?  She had yet to receive so much as a plug nickel in compensation for the all the work she had done, this despite repeated inquiries not only from her, but also from her attorneys.  “If you want me to be more open with my information, then how about YOU being a little more open with your purse strings, huh?”

That was what the pinto mare would WISH she had said.

It wasn’t what she DID say.

“Major,” she told him, trying to keep her voice steady, “I sent my boat away for the rest of the day.  I won’t have any way to get back to Eastern Island until the Republic get here.  And you know how hard water taxis are to come by...”

“I have the use of the British Consulate’s motor launch for the afternoon.” the raccoon responded, cutting her off. “And I have every right to see the progress you’ve made with the Little Engine since I last viewed her.”

Katie MacArran suppressed a wince.  Yes, he did have that prerogative, damn her for agreeing to it when the arrangement had been formalized.  Of course, who could have known back then how things would eventually turn out, but still...

She looked out over the harbor, and over peaks of Main Island to the north.  The sky, she noted with disappointment, was almost completely cloudless.  Wasn’t that just like the rain?  Never around when you NEEDED it!

Bowing to the inevitable, Katie sighed and rose from the table, not giving the Major time to take her chair.  Dammit, if he could only see the Little Engine in FLIGHT first...just once before studying her up close.  Then, Katie knew, she might get away with it.  But now...?

Now, she would just have to muddle through.  Stiff upper lip, and all that

“All right Major.” she said, “You win...and you’re right.  Only I’m NOT wearing this outfit to Eastern Island.  Give me a minute to change first.  I promise I won’t take long.”

Much as Katie would rather not have done in this instance, she was, as always, good as her word. Only five minutes later, she reappeared in the bungalow’s drawing room, dressed in a pair of long, black Tonkinese pajama-pants, a pair of raffia sandals with rubber soles from the Philippines, an off-white safari-shirt from Thos. Pink, London, and a wide-brimmed Panama hat of the type favored by painter Paul Gaugin.  It was Katie’s outfit of choice for casual wear in the tropics, a mixed ensemble, developed through trial and error.  It might represent a hideous clash of differing styles, but it was the absolute of comfort in this clime.  Besides that, it looked good on her.

As she entered the room, Major Finlayson jumped up with a start...not because of her, but because of the loud, piercing shriek, coming from the cottage’s front parlor.

“What the Hell...?” he asked, staring at the door.

“Oh that’s just Lonnie, my pet parrot.” the pinto mare told him, smiling, “He does a great police whistle.  Picked it up from listening to Gangbusters.”

“Oh...so your parrot likes the radio, does he?” Finlayson asked, attempting to mask his chagrin by way of a question.

“Yeah,” said Katie, “In fact, that’s the ONLY thing he’ll imitate.  You can say ‘hello’ to him until you’re blue in the face, and he won’t even squawk...but turn on Flipper McGee while he’s in the room, and the next thing you know, you’ve got Glidersleeve as a dinner guest.  Hmmm, as a matter of fact, that gives me an idea.”

Katie disappeared into the bathroom, returning a moment later with paw-towel draped over one shoulder.

“Um, what?” asked the Major.

“You’ll see.”

Finlayson didn’t see until Katie opened the double doors to parlor, and whistled loudly through her teeth.  Immediately, a pair of bright, green wings came flapping through the door, wheeled over the pinto mare’s head and then alighted neatly on the towel she had placed on her shoulder.

“The Shadowww knowwwws...” he squawked, in a remarkably good approximation of Orson Whales.

“Nice bird.” said Katie, winking at the Major. “But he does have claws.”

“You’re going to take Lonnie with us?” he asked, incredulous, “aren’t you afraid he’ll fly away?”

“Not really.” said Katie, shrugging, “He always comes back.”

“Oh...I’m a baaaaaad boy.” said the parrot, then proceeded to whistle the opening bars from St, Saen’s Danse Macabre.

“Hmm, that’s new,” said Katie, “I wonder where he picked that up?”

Just then, Hsing shuffled into the room, bearing a folded piece of paper. “Pardon, Grace.” said the Chinese pony, “But reply for you message just arrive.  You say bring right away when it come.”

“Yes, I did, thank you Hsing.” said Katie in Mandarin, holding out a hoof.  She read the message, then crumpled the paper, a long smile unzipping it’s way around her muzzle.

“Uhhh, do you mind if I ask...?” Finlayson started to say.

“Yes, I do.” said Katie MacArran, her voice resolved once more, “Except to say that it has nothing to do with the either the race, or with The Little Engine.”

Finlayson wisely dropped the subject.

When they came back onto the porch, Shang and Raibassu were still there, and rose immediately upon their appearance.  Lonnie responded by greeting them with,”I likes cocoanuts!” and Katie frowned again.  Hmmm, that was another new one.

“Shang?” she said, addressing the red panda, “The Major and I will be going back to Eastern Island to view the Little Engine, and I would like you to follow us.  Can you ring up for a couple of rickshaws?”

“I’ll see to it immediately.” he said, and disappeared through the front door.  Katie watched him go, and then turned to her bodyguard.

“Rabaissu?  I won’t need you for this, so why don’t you head back to your hotel for the rest of the afternoon?  I’ll be safe enough with Shang, and I don’t want to attract too much attention at the moment.  When I’ll really need you is this evening, when the Republic arrives.”

“As you say mistress,” said the lion, bowing slightly.  Then, to Major Finlayson’s considerable surprise, he jumped off the porch and began running up the road at a brisk pace.

“He always does that.” said a voice from behind, and the two of them turned to see Shang Li-Sung emerging from the front door, “Runs everywhere.  Says it’s to keep his stamina up.  He’ll probably get back to the Tapotabo long before we do.  And speaking of that, there’s a pair of rickshaws on the way.  Should be here short...”

He stopped, blinking in confusion at Katie, who was watching Rabaissu vanish up the road, while whistling softly to herself. 

Jack Finlayson heard it too, only unlike the red panda, he didn’t quite recognize the melody

“What’s that you’re whistling Miss MacArran?” he asked her, “It sounds vaguely familiar.”

“Ohhhh, just a little something by Gilbert and Sullivan,” she answered, her voice like a sugar-loaf, dipped in treacle.



One thing Rabaissu Baktela had to admit about working for Her Grace, the Duchess of Strathdern, she certainly treated you well enough.  For example, she had secure a very nice room for the lion and his family at the Tapotabo hotel, or rather Drake Hackett had, but still...

Rabaissu didn’t feel bad about having left the Mistress with Major Finlayson and Shang Li-Sung.  With the red panda keeping an eye on things, she would be safe, and who would be foolish enough to make an attempt on her life while she was in company with Jack Finlayson?  One flawed shot, and the killers would have an outraged America on their hands...and right now, neither the Fascists, the Nazis, nor the Japanese wanted to do anything that would upset the American isolationists’ apple-cart.  

That was exactly what they would get if a genuine American hero were killed in an attempt on Her Grace’s life... to say nothing of the reaction in certain quarters if Katie MacArran herself were assassinated.   One such abomination, they might get away with...but not two.

So the lion felt no guilt about taking some time off to spend with his wife and cub.  And God knew he would be getting little more of it as they entered Speed-Week.

When he entered the hotel room, the first thing he saw was the crib where little Akele was sleeping.  He went over and spread his arms on the hardwood rim, gazing down at his son.  Thank heavens he was asleep; awake, Akele could be a two-year-old hellion, but when the cub laid down and closed his eyes, he could slumber straight through an avalanche.

Rabaissu watched the young cat for a moment, then took hold of the silver-gilt Coptic cross that he always wore around his neck.  It was crude looking thing, resembling a doily cut in the shape of a crucifix...but, except for his wife and cub, no treasure was more sacred to Rabaissu Baktela.  His Coptic cross had been given to him by his father, who had been given it by his father, who had been given it by his father, and his father, and his father...all the way back to the time of the Byzantine emperor Justinian, so the family legend went.

Putting the cross to his lips, Rabaissu kissed it softly, then leaned forward to kiss his sleeping child on the forehead.  “Thank you dear God, may your name ever be praised, for giving him to us.” the big lion whispered.  His eyes moistened as he thought of how close he had come to never meeting Akele.  And he wouldn’t have had it not been for Her Grace, damn that mare and bless her.  (“Go on, stupid.  Go ahead and shoot.  Who’s gonna fly the plane then, YOU?”)

But in the end, of course, it had been Kela who had persuaded him to get on board...just as she could always...

“Raibassu, is that you?” came her soft, lilting voice from the direction of the bathroom, “Come her for a moment, husband?  I need you for something.”

The big lion heard himself emitting a low, hungry growl.  Whenever Kela called to him in THAT tone of voice, it meant she wanted only one thing.

He found her seated in the bathtub, soaping her arms with a giant sponge.  Like her husband, she was tall for an Abyssinian, furres of generally short stature, with large, black eyes, fine ebony hair, and a lithe, willowy figure that would have been more appropriate to a cheetah than a lioness.  Or rather, she would have possessed such a figure were it not for her huge belly, now swollen with their second child.

Mrowr.... did Kela have any idea how beautiful she looked in her pregnancy, Raibassu wondered?  She appeared more enticing now than since... honestly, since the big lion couldn’t remember when. Raibassu growled again, and started to move forward.  At once, his wife turned to face him, smiling sweetly, but with a severity in her eyes that was also more than a little familiar. 

“Ah, there you are, husband.” she said, still speaking in that soft, candied tone. “Good, now I need you watch over me while I bathe myself.  In the bath, as you know, a female is especially vulnerable.”  Her smile widened, exposing her fangs, “especially if she is expecting her HUSBAND’S child.”

Raibassu’s ears pulled back and he began to tremble all over as if the temperature in the room had suddenly dropped below freezing.  That vengeful horse-harpy!  That equine witch!  That ungrateful...!  That conniving....! That...that...that...!

Kela meanwhile, had begun to slowly soap her breasts, still turned to face him so that he was getting the full view.

“And if you are going to properly protect me, Rabaissu,” she said, “ it would be wise, I think. to have your weapon at the ready.  No, not that weapon...the OTHER one.”

Here, Rabaissu’s claws also began to unsheath, and his tail began to swish back and forth across the tiled floor.

“Kela!  Stop this at once!  As your husband and the head of this house, I am ordering you to...”

“You are ordering ME?” said Kela, one ear lifting higher than the other, “Have you so soon forgotten, dear husband, what happened the last time you tried to give me an order?” Rabaissu, who remembered all too well, immediately stopped his tirade.  In response, Kela dropped the honeyed voice. “Serves you right,” she growled, almost under her breath, “Speaking to Her Grace that way...and you, a married lion.”  She turned around again, sliding down in the water until it was all the way up to her chin, then lifted one leg out of the water and began to wash her inner thigh.

Raibassu said nothing to this...at least not to her, and not really loud enough for her to make any sense of it.

“Should have stayed with the emperor... after all I’ve done... interfering mare... Have I ever...? ...HER private life...?   Behind my back... should have resigned when... only thinking... best interests... but does she EVER...?”

Kela looked over her shoulder again.

“Rabaissu?  Stop that mumbling, please.  If you have something you want to say... just come right out and shut your mouth.”

The next thing she said, (in the same sweet voice with which she had greeted him,) was, “Mrowr, husband.   Ohhhh, but you still have the most beautiful roar I have ever heard.  And you are still going to do nothing more than stand there and WATCH!”


next

Aircraft references:

Bugatti 100/110. P ( Forerunner of the 120.S )
http://www.bugattirevue.com/revue3/rev3-2.htm