Chapter 49

It was not the result of too much drink, Air Chief Marshal Ballory quickly decided when he finally caught up with Major Jack Finlayson; the raccoon was merely in a sullen mood.

He found the Major seated in the Colonial Bar, a smallish establishment tucked away on a Casino Island side street, nowhere near the water but with an excellent view of Luakinikania Park with it’s groves of carefully tended ming and monkeypod trees.  

In appearance and decor, the Colonial was almost the very antithesis of the prototypical Polynesian watering hole.  To be sure, there were ceiling fans, potted palms, and rattan chairs, but there was no thatched canopy over the bar, no glasses shaped like Tiki gods, and absolutely NO tiny umbrellas in the drinks.  As for the barkeep, instead of the per usual Spontoonie native with a wide grin and a loud shirt, this one was an East Indian; a blackbuck clad in starched, white livery with a high collar.  Ditto for the wait-staff, a male mongoose, rather than the standard-issue native girl in a high-cut sarong.

The bar itself, except for the wall-length mirror mounted behind the rows of bottles, resembled nothing so much as a truncated version of the one in Rangoon’s Silver Grill – a fact that had prompting one local wag to bestow upon the Colonial the nickname by which it was more popularly known, the Pewter.

Removing his cap as he entered, the Air Chief Marshall, took note of the wall decorations; they seemed to have been transported not merely from another place, but from another era as well.  Here was a portrait of Queen Victoria, there was one of the late American President, Theodore ‘Teddy’ Roosevelt, and...  Good Lord, what the deuce were Otto Von Bismarck and Napoleon III doing posted beside one another?   Interspersed between these portraits were fading photographs of the glory days of the colonial period; the heady time when a mel of limited means, but good schooling could still make a name and a fortune for himself ‘out east’.  There were pictures of a premiere at the Hanoi Opera House, there were photographs of a cricket match in progress with the Federal Secretariat Building in Kuala Lumpur in the background, and still others of a lavish banquet taking place at the Hotel Oranje in Batavia.

In short, the Colonial Bar was geared not toward the trade of tourists, aviators, or the occasional transient sailor, but towards another, very singular clientele; Casino Island’s small but dedicated colony of retired foreign service officers.  (In fact, the Colonial was OWNED by a retired diplomat, a one-legged wildcat named Sir Henry ‘Arry’ DeLong.)  

Small wonder that even this close to Speed-Week, the place was most likely the only bar in the Spontoons where a mel could drink in solitude...at least for now.  (As a rule, most foreign service offices spent their afternoons enjoying a siesta.)   And so, except for an elderly muskrat and tayra playing cribbage at a corner table, he and the Major were the Colonial’s only two occupants at the moment.

Bass Drum Ballory stepped up to the bar and rapped lightly with his knuckles for service.  In response the barkeep practically snapped to attention.

“Yes sah?” he said, taken slightly aback at the customer standing before him in a perfectly tailored RAF Air Chief Marshal’s uniform.

“Pink gin please,” said the bear, “Delhi Blue Diamond.”

“Right away, sah,” said the blackbuck, reaching backwards for a bottle that was at best only a third full -- while the bottle of the considerably less smart Delhi Silver Gin beside it appeared never to have been opened at all.  At this, Ballory allowed him self a small, wry smile.  Oh yes, the Short Bar was a haven for retired diplomats all right; that lot only drank the best.

It was here that Jack Finlayson seemed to first become aware of Lord Ballory’s presence, though his acknowledgment began and ended with nothing more than a sidelong glance, which the bear returned   Accepting his drink with a nod of thanks, the Air Chief Marshal seated himself on the stool beside the raccoon and took a sip.   Immediately, his throat was constricted by a choking cough; his pink gin was nearly strong enough to get up and walk away -- exactly the sort of libation an ex-foreign service officer would favour.  Well, never mind, he more important matters to deal with, just at the moment.

“If you’ll pardon my being rather forward, Major,” he said, without looking at Jack Finlayson, “You’re looking rather blue in the mouth for someone who’s just had a rather remarkable flying experience.”

Jack Finlayson turned and was about to respond when someone else came into the bar, a wildebeest in a wilted gray suit with a floppy hat, bow tie, and teakwood walking stick.

At once, both Ballory and Finlayson silenced themselves...until the wildebeest sat down at the bar.  When he did, and the barkeep came over, no words were exchanged between them.  Instead the blackbuck greeted the new arrival with a smile and a small bow, while the newcomer responded with a smile and a small nod.  The barkeep then turned and pulled two bottles from the rack, one of Hulstkamp Dutch Gin, and the other of Bols blue Curacao liqueur.  The wildebeest nodded and pointed at the second bottle.  The barkeep nodded back and returned the gin to it’s proper place with one hoof while reaching with the other for a seltzer bottle.  A moment later, the wildebeest was sitting quietly over his drink and a copy of De Telegraaf, thoroughly engrossed in a crossword puzzle.

Meanwhile Ballory and Finlayson, taking no chances, had retired to one of the high-backed booths opposite the bar.  The wildebeest might be deaf, but the bartender certainly wasn’t.

“So how did you know where to find me?” the raccoon asked when they had taken their seats.

Ballory smiled and raised a finger.  “Have you so soon forgotten dear boy, WHO lent you your boat and boat pilot?”

Jack Finlayson only grunted, “Do me a favor and don’t call me ‘dear boy’, okay?”
 
“Sorry,” said the bear without a trace of contrition in his voice, “But as I was saying a moment ago Major, for someone who seemed more than a bit impressed with Her Grace’s pursuit plane prototype only a short while ago, I daresay you’re looking rather the gloomy fellow, yes?”

Finalyson took a sip of his Scotch and soda, then set the glass down very slowly.

“Impressed?” he said, raising an eyebrow and folding his arms against the dark, mahogany table-top, “Air Chief Marshall Ballory, when I put the proposal to Miss MacArran...”

“Her Grace, if you please...” the bear interrupted in his trademark basso-profundo.  Unlike Katie, he WAS stickler for proper titles.  For one, horrified second, he wondered if that was such a wise attitude, given the present circumstances.  The Major stiffened and appeared to be preparing to rise rapidly out of his seat.

Then he sat back down again and continued.

“Okay...when I put the proposal for the Diva project to Her Grace, I specified a pursuit plane prototype that was,” he began to tick off the desired qualities on his fingers, “A, fast...B, maneuverable...C, quick and responsive...D, a good climber....E, steady in flight....F, had good range...and G, was capable of mounting either six Browning 50s or eight Vickers 303s in the wings.”

“And is that what she gave you, then?” Ballory asked, unable to deduce the verdict from the raccoon’s tone of voice.

Finlayson looked at the bear as if he had asked, “Who is buried in Grant’s Tomb?”  Then he picked up his glass again.

“DID she?  Air Chief Marshal Ballory, before I took the Little Engine up, Her Grace told me that she had the potential to develop into the best all around pursuit plane in the world.  I almost laughed out loud when she said that...but I’m not laughing now.”  He drained his glass and looked Ballory straight in the eye, “Because she’s right, Air Chief Marshal...the Little Engine really does perform that well.” His voice lowered by two octaves, and he seemed to be talking almost to himself.  “When I retired from air-racing six years ago, I made a promise to myself never to race again, not even make a practice run for old time’s sake.  And up until now, I’ve been able to keep that promise.”  He looked directly at the RAF ursine once again, “But that was before I flew the Little Engine.  That plane is such fantastic a performer, she made me WANT to race again.  And not only that...she’s not just easy to fly, she’s incredibly easy to fly.  Hell, I’ve piloted TRAINERS that were tougher to handle than the Little Engine.  Build a pursuit plane out of her and it’ll be the kind of aircraft that makes a fair pilot good and a good pilot a great.”

By rights, Bass-Drum  Ballory should have raised an eyebrow about now and said ‘but...?’ except at the moment he had something more important to impart to the raccoon.

“Yes, well...there’s one other rather interesting thing I noticed about the Little Engine, now I’ve seen her for meself -- something I daresay none of us thought to specify while working out the requirements for the Diva plane, present company included.”

In spite of himself, Jack Finlayson raised a curious ear.

“What’s that?” he asked.

Before Ballory could reply the waiter appeared at their booth, broad grin and clasped paws, head bobbing at their empty glasses “Same again, sahs?”

“Yes, please.” said Ballory.

“Same here,” said Finlayson
  
It was only after the mongoose had brought them their drinks and departed that the Air Chief Marshal resumed speaking.

“Yes, now where was I?  Oh yes, well have you ever wondered Major, why Britain continues to build the Hawker Hurricane in larger numbers than the Supermarine Spitfire, even in light of  Spit’s obvious superiority as a pursuit aircraft?”

The Major looked thoughtful for a second.

“Because the Spit requires more aluminum ?” he ventured. ( The Hurricane was partially covered in fabric, while the Spitfire was an all metal plane. )

“Rather a good guess, that.” said Ballory, raising his glass as though in salute,  “but’s it’s actually all in the wing you see.  While the Hurricane’s wings are rather straight in configuration, the Spitfire’s are ovular, as you know.” To illustrate this, he drew a semicircle in the air with a finger, a dreadful mistake, though he could not possibly realize it.  It drew the immediate attention of the wildebeest at the bar...and now, he began to concentrate less and less on his crossword puzzle and more an more upon the interlopers’ reflections in the mirror

“That ovular shape doesn’t lend itself to assembly line production you see..” the bear was saying,  “And so much as we’d prefer not to, we’ve still got to assemble some of the Spit’s wing sections by paw.  It’s all dreadfully time-consuming and the prime reason why the Hurricane is still our principal pursuit aircraft.”

“Hmmm, I see.” said Finlayson, taking a sip of his own drink.  Bass-Drum Ballory was a little disappointed that the raccoon hadn’t realized it for himself....or maybe he had but just wasn’t showing it.

“But the Little Engine’s wings are even more straight and angular than the Hurricane’s are,” the ursine prodded, “So...?”

“So it would be very easy to produce in quantity,” said the raccoon, nodding, “yes I know.” Without warning, he slid his drink to one side and leaned forward, “If you really want the truth Air Chief Marshal, we wouldn’t even bother with this race if it were up to me; the Little Engine would go into development as a our front-line pursuit plane right TODAY.  Right now, we have the prototype for an aircraft that can beat the tar out of not only anything the Luftwaffe has right now, but out of anything they’re likely to have in the next three years.”  He sat back again seeming to shrink as his shoulders slumped.

“But....it’s not up to me.  It’s up to the Army Air Corps brass, furs who don’t like liquid cooled engines and who don’t trust the British, please no offense, any further than they can they can throw a fit.”

“No offense taken, Major.” said George Gordon Ballory, very quickly.

Jack Finlayson just nodded and went on.

“And even then, I’d have to get this plane past the likes of General Clayton Bissell and General Oscar Westover, guys who think we don’t even NEED pursuit planes in light of the new generation of bombers -- much less a pursuit plane with a liquid-cooled, British made engine, they’d laugh it right out of the War Department.”

“Not even if this plane has the backing of President Roosevelt?” queried the Air Chief Marshal, playing the devil’s advocate. “As your commander in Chief, I believe he’s got the prerogative to overrule your so-called ‘bomber generals’, yes?” 

The raccoon sadly shook his head.  

“He won’t do that, Air Chief Marshal...not in an election year, with the isolationists breathing down his neck.  And you can bet that if the Republicans DO take back the Congress in November, the Little Engine will have about the same chance of developing into America’s next front line pursuit plane as Una O’Connor has of being cast as Scarlett O’Hara.”

George Gordon Ballory felt a growl rising in his throat.  The Major was right and he knew it;  there was at least as much mistrust of Washington in Whitehall as there was of London on Capitol Hill.  Look at the way the PM had snubbed President Roosevelt’s offer to mediate the Czech crisis.  If Chamberlain were to ever to get wind of the Diva project, he wouldn’t just kill it, he’d drive a stake through it’s heart.  About that, the Air Chief Marshal had few if any illusions.

“But it’s not as if America’s incapable of developing some new aircraft engines of her own.” he said, sounding much more hopeful than he wanted to.

“Not liquid-cooled engines.” said the raccoon, looking down at the table as if a losing poker hand were laying on it’s surface. “The Allison is pretty much the end of the line in that regard.  The War Department considers liquid-cooled engines to be too vulnerable to enemy fire to bother with any longer.” Seeing Ballory about to raise his paw in protest, he added quickly, “I know, I KNOW...but like I said, I’m not the one who makes those decisions.”

George Ballory’s shoulders suddenly felt as if they had acquired several stone of extra weight.

“So I supposed there’s no chance, then?” he inquired, morosely.

Jack Finlayson sniffed, then raised his glass as if inspecting the contents for impurities.  Then he took a long, slow sip and looked directly at his tablemate.

“There is one small chance; if, and I do mean IF the Little Engine wins the Schneider Cup.  And even then it can’t a lackluster win.  Miss..I mean Her Grace has to either run away with the race or win it in such spectacular fashion that folks will be talking about it for years to come.  Then maybe...just maybe I’ll be able to sell it as a pursuit plane to the War Department and the Air Corps.  But that’s definitely a long shot, given the competition.”

George Ballory allowed himself a small rumble.

“You refer, I assume, to the German Mystery Plane?”

“Yeah,” said Finalyson, almost taking another drink, and then stopping at the last second, “Even if the Germans were entering the Bugmann und Dross Blitzen again, I’d be leery of Her Grace’s  chances of a dramatic victory...and the Mystery Plane is at least superior to the Bd. 232.  She wouldn’t be entered if she weren’t.”  He chewed on his lip for a second and leaned close, “And that brings up something else, Air Chief Marshal...something I didn’t mention to the Duchess.  I think the Luftwaffe Mystery Plane is also a pursuit plane prototype.” 

He stopped for a second, as if waiting for Ballory to choke on his drink.  But the ursine simply set his glass down.

“Yes?  Hmmmm, how did you come to that conclusion if I may so inquire?”

Finlayson responded to this line of inquiry with a question of his own, “Tell me something, Air Chief Marshal; in your opinion, what is the combat potential of the Bugmann Und Dross Bd.232.”

Now George Ballory DID make a face.

”Didn’t we already have this discussion, a year ago in Berlin?” he said, regarding the Major as though he were a child who had wandered into the bar. “Somewhere between null and void, I shouldn’t wonder.  It requires a full engine overhaul after almost every flight, it’s got a range of just under 50 miles, and fast though that aircraft may be, it climbs like a blasted sloth.”

“Right,” said the raccoon, nodding.  “And as you ALSO pointed out to me back then, the Germans were being anything but secretive about that plane when they unveiled her at the Berlin Air Show the year before last..  In fact, I found out later that it was with the most fanfare anyone’s ever seen for the introduction of a new race-plane.  Every aviation writer and his uncle was invited to come see the Blitzen for the first time.”  He paused, taking another sip of his Scotch and soda, “According to an aviation writer friend of mine, the Nazis not only allowed the press full access to the Blitzen, they insisted upon it; you could examine the engine, the wings, anything you wanted...as long as you didn’t touch anything.  And nor only that, every reporter there was given a three page flyer with color pictures of the Blitzen under construction, AND a detailed set of blueprints, with a full  list of her technical specifications.” 

He started to push his glass aside, but stopped, apparently realizing it would bring the waiter over.

“So I had to ask myself Air Chief Marshal, why would the Luftwaffe be practically crowing from the rooftops about the Bd. 232, but then be tight-lipped almost to the point of paranoia about her successor?  And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that there could only be one answer.”

Air Chief Marshal Ballory did not respond to this; he didn’t have to.  ‘Gad, sir!’ as cartoonist David Low’s inimitable Colonel Blimp might have observed, ‘Major Finlayson is right.’ 

Why would the German Mystery Plane BE a mystery plane in the first place...unless was also a pursuit plane prototype?’

Especially since the Luftwaffe had been equally close-mouthed about the Messerschmitt Me-110 before it’s debut at the 1935 Circuit of the Alps Air Race...and Ballory wondered now if his table-mate was aware of that.

Just then, the wildebeest at the bar stood up, folding his newspaper as though preparing it for a newsboy to deliver and beckoning to the barkeep with his free hoof.  Laying two bills on the bar, he waved to indicated that the blackbuck should keep the change and strolled easily out the door.

When he was gone, George Ballory turned to the Major once more, “If you’ll forgive me for saying so, Major, your lot are bit obsessed in your aversion to liquid cooled engines.  More vulnerable to enemy fire than radial engines, I’ll grant you, but what’s the difference if you’ve got a pursuit plane that performs well enough to avoid enemy fire altogether?  And don’t forget, the Me.109 is also powered by a liquid cooled engine, and she was rather the starting point for this venture, yes?”

“It has to do with something I learned during my consultations, Air Chief Marshal.” Finlayson responded, with a bitter sigh, “Even those Americans who feel we SHOULD rearm in the face of Hitler insist that we should arm in such away so as not to appear provocative...in other words strictly with a defensive posture in mind.  It’s a such pervasive mentality, it’s managed to work it’s way into practically ever aspect of US military thinking...and that’s why the War Department and the Air Corps don’t like liquid cooled engines.   The first order of business for pursuit planes where they’re concerned, is building an aircraft that can absorb rather than deliver firepower.   Because under no circumstances will Uncle Sam ever be the one to fire the first shot.”

At this Air Chief Marshal Ballory just grunted and picked up his glass, mouth tilted sideways in a half sardonic smile.

“Well, if it’s any consolation to you Major, I daresay there’s no small amount of that sort of thinking on our side of the pond.  Have you heard about the Air Ministry’s latest brainchild, the Boulton-Paul Defiant?”

A small, derisive chuckle escaped from Jack Finlayson, and he picked up his glass again.

“I have,” he said, “Brilliant idea; take a perfectly good pursuit plane and mount a gun turret behind the cockpit.  Why not build the damfool thing out of lead while you’re at it?”

George Ballory’s snicker of response was even more scornful than his tablemate’s.

“Oh, but that’s not the half of it Major; were you aware that the Boulton-Paul Defiant carries NO forward firing machine guns?”

It was something Jack Finlayson obviously DIDN’T know.  His glass, and his jaw, dropped swiftly to the table.

“WHAT?!” he said, staring dumbfounded, as if the bear had just sprouted a third eye.

The Air Chief Marshal nodded and raised his glass as if proposing a toast.

“Oh yes.  To emphasize, don’t you see, that the Defiant is a DEFENSIVE rather than an offensive weapon.”  At once his mocking facade fell away, and his grip tightened around his glass to the tune of a low, frustrated growl.

“We’re building THAT and the Germans are building...”  He looked at Finlayson again, “You’re familiar with their experiments with jet propelled aircraft, I take it?”  The raccoon just nodded, grimly.

The two of them fell into the same moody stillness in which the Air Chief Marshal had found Finlayson when he’d arrived.  For a long time neither one spoke.   When the silence was finally breached it was the Major who broke it.

“Do you think there’ll be a war?” he asked.

George Gordon Ballory leaned back in his seat, rubbing his lips with a finger and looking pensive.

“Will there be a war?  Well now, were I gifted with that sort of prescience, I daresay that I should a much more wealthy and powerful ursine than I am today.” he sat up rapidly and his glass banged down on the tabletop, “Do I think Herr Hitler WANTS war?  No doubt in my mind, Major.  Not the slightest, bloody bit of doubt in my mind!”


At the same time this exchange was taking place, Katie MacArran was back in the tower on Eastern Island -- and this time she was inside the control tower itself, not just building that housed it.  She and Jack Finlayson had been just about to board the launch to take them back to South Island, when a message had been brought to her;  The Republic had just cleared the outer islands, ETA to Spontoon, 75 minutes.. 

At this, the pinto mare had nickered irritably.   That would not leave her enough time to get back to the Blue Pearl cottage and change before the airship docked.  Oh well, she would just have to wing it, she’d decided.  And so, she had waved the Major off and set about helping Drake Hackett make the final arrangements for her race-crew’s arrival.  There would be baggage to unload, water taxis to secure...and of course the inevitable slew of questions from reporters, most of which would now center on the ad-hoc race that had just taken place between the Major and Jean-Guy Perreaux.  Finlayson had known that too, and had not been the least bit disappointed by Katie’s decision to stay behind; let HER handle the press.

In a way, the pinto mare was grateful for this turn of events.  In the wake of his flight aboard The Little Engine, Jack Finlayson had been so quiet, he’d made Daffyd McCradden look like a used-car salesfur.  She could literally count on one hoof the number of words he’d spoken while they had been getting the race-plane stowed back in her hangar.

Wellll, she HAD given him a lot to chew on after all; in terms of performance, the Little Engine had been everything he’d specified and more...only how was he supposed to make the War Department and the Army Air Corps see it that way?

Best let him go off and think on it for a while.

For her part, Katie MacArran had no regrets about the decision to fit her race-plane with a Merlin.   She had known always known it would make the Little Engine a nearly impossible pitch...but she had also remembered something Reginald Mitchell had told her about the Spitfire.  “My first rule was always very clear, Your Grace: better to design a superior plane and have it rejected than a mediocre plane and have it accepted.”

Wherever it went from here, she would never apologize for having followed the silver fox’s lead.  If the Little Engine was ultimately rejected as a pursuit-plane design...well, as far as she was concerned,  that was Uncle Sam’s problem, not hers.

She knew what she had.

And with one exception, she was the only member of her team who did; as far as Drake Hackett and most of her crew were aware, the Little Engine was a strictly a race-plane.  Only Zeke Bronstiel knew that she was in actuality a pursuit-plane prototype.  And Zeke, being a Jew of Polish descent, had few if any qualms about building the prototype of an aircraft that might one day fly against the Nazis.

Now, with the arrangements and accommodations for her crew finally in place, she had come to the tower to help guide the Republic into her berth.  Not that Captain Speake really needed any assistance in that regard, but this was one place she knew the press wouldn’t bother her for a while.

On her left, of the controllers, a wombat, lifted a mike and pressed the key, “Silver Birch One, Silver Birch One...you’ve got an open lagoon and are cleared for take off, please acknowledge. Over.”

The speakers responded with a half second of static and then a distinctly female voice.

“Silver Birch Three to Spontoon tower, Roger that.  Out.” 

Katie MacArran was half delighted, half nettled.  Of all the world’s navies, only the Rain Island Naval Syndicate regularly employed females as front-line pilots.  Even the Soviet Navy balked at putting femmes in the cockpit, this despite the fact that the Red Air Force had a great many female pilots under it’s command...including, not incidentally, the officer chosen to pilot their Schneider-Cup entry.

She stepped to the window for a better look, wishing he she had held onto the binoculars Cedric McCradden had lent her.  Far below, a flight of five Rain Island KV-3s floatplane bombers was lining up for take-off -- their mission, to fly escort for the Republic as she made her final approach to the Spontoon atoll.

As they began taking off one by one, the pinto mare studied them closely.  In her time she had seen more than her share of planes taking off in military formation; she had even taught the technique herself.  (Or more precisely, drilled it into certain heads.)  Thus it was that she was not easily impressed by this particular exercise...but she WAS impressed this time and thoroughly so.  The bombers were rising off the water only seconds apart...and with a precision that would have made a Swiss watchmaker green with envy.   When they joined up in formation, Katie was even more impressed.  The KV-3s were flying two below, two above and one in the center, spaced 20 yards apart, forward and back.  To the untrained eye, this might have looked the world’s sloppiest flight pattern...but the pinto mare knew better; flying in this formation, the bombers were spaced far enough apart so as not to offer individual targets to an approaching pursuit plane, but would be able to bring to bear at least three of their own guns against a prospective attacker.

She turned, looking at the controller, who was in the process of lighting a cigarette.

“Scuse me....you know who’s leading that flight?”

The wombat reached for a clipboard, moving it lazily up and down before his eyes as though attempting to mesmerize himself.

“Mmmm, yesssss....that’d beeeee Lieutenant Halli Amura, RINS.”

“Any way, I can talk to her?” Katie asked.  The wombat blew two long jets of smoke through his nose before responding..

“Don’t see why not.” he said, reaching down below the console and coming up with a headset considerably more battered than his own.  It turned out to be configured for either a big feline or small ursine and the pinto mare had to practically bend her ears into pretzels to make it fit so she could hear.

Wellllll, she’d been in more painful positions than this. She picked up the microphone...and then realized she didn’t have a call sign.  She was about to mention this to the wombat, when she remembered something and with a mischievous smile, keyed the mike.

“Firebird One to Silver Birch One.  Firebird One calling Silver Birch One, over.”

The voice that answered was both hesitant and disjointed, as if the pilot were attempting to speak while performing an especially tricky maneuver.

“Uhhh...Silver Birch...One...to...Phoenix One?  Uh...Who is this?   Oops...over.”

Katie sniggered to herself before replying.

“This is former Major Catherine MacArran, late of the China Air Force Auxiliary.  'Firebird One' was my call sign when I led the Iron Phoenix Squadron.  Just wanted to say that was one helluva nice take off and form-up, Lieutenant.  We could have used you and your boys in the battle of Nanking...over.”

Lieutenant Amura’s answer came in almost the dead opposite rhythm of the earlier one; her words practically gushed out of the speaker.

“Silver Birch One to Phoenix One, this is really Katie MacArran?  Oh my G...I-I mean thanks, thanks loads.  Coming from you that means lot, I mean a whole lot.  Over.”

Katie laughed again, silently this time.

“There goes me, first time I met Jack Finlayson.” she said to herself.  Good God, but that seemed like half a lifetime ago.

“You’re welcome Lieutenant,” she said, “Rain Island gonna enter your squadron in the dive-bombing competition?  They should...over.”

An audible sigh came over the speaker.

“We want to enter, believe me...but Patrol Command is being really lukewarm about it.  I dunno why, but they are.  Over.”

Katie thought for a second, then chuckled again, this time wickedly.

“Tell you what you do.  According to what I heard, the Hiryu’s dive bomber squadron likes to drink at the Outrigger, over on Casino Island.  You know what place I’m talking about?  Over.” 

“Uh, I should.” said Halli Amura, whose accent Katie now recognized as Spontoonie, “It’s my squadron’s favorite watering hole, too...or it was before Speed-Week started getting close.  You can’t find half a foot of space in there right now.  Over.”

“Good,” Said Katie, ignoring the second comment, “Go there tonight, get a few stiff ones down, then walk up to the highest ranking Japanese Navy officer you can find and say that the Hiryu’s dive-bomber pilots are all yowamushi, that means weak worms...and accuse them of trying to keep you out of the contest because they’re afraid of getting beaten by a female.   Then, and this is very important, before he can say or do anything, have your boys haul you out of there...and I mean really quick.   If a brawl starts, it’s game over.  But if it doesn’t, by tomorrow morning the IJN will be DEMANDING that the Syndicate enter you in the competition.  Over.”

Halli Amura’s screech of laughter sounded almost like feedback, it was so loud.

Loud enough, Katie realized to draw the attention of the wombat.  It occurred to her then that her suggestion to Lt. Amura was not going sit well with Japanese Consulate if the word got out...not exactly an impossible scenario, given the fact that she had just made said suggestion right in front of a Spontoon Island Air Control Officer! 

She could have kicked herself out of the tower.

Crossing her fingers, she glanced sideways at the wombat, releasing a long, relieved breath when she saw that he was in the midst of a conversation of his own.

“Airship Republic, please be advised...escort flight from RINS is now en route your position.  Six aircraft, ETA 20 minutes.  Acknowledge...over.”

No, he hadn’t heard her, but still....

“Nice going, Katie...Pee-yurrre brilliance!   While you’re at it, why don’t you put a flashing neon sign on the side of the Republic, ‘THE LITTLE ENGINE IS A PURSUIT-PLANE PROTOTYPE!  THE LITTLE ENGINE IS A PURSUIT-PLANE PROTOTYPE!’”

At least, she consoled herself, she still knew how to keep THAT secret under wraps.



Meanwhile, 20 yards off Casino Island’s Dock #3, the wildebeest who had been sitting at the bar in the Colonial was now seating himself on the ferry to South Island.  Although deaf since the age of twenty five, Jan DeLaaren was actually quite capable of speech, but preferred not talk to unless pressed.  The reason for this had to do with a phenomenon well known to anyone incapable of hearing; to the uninitiated, the speech of a deaf individual is all but indistinguishable from that of someone afflicted with mental retardation...with the inevitable result that the speaker is treated at best with condescension, and at worst with contempt.

That was why Jan DeLaaren made it a point not to speak unless it became absolutely necessary; he had better things to do than be regarded as an idiot.  It was especially galling to the wildebeest in light of the fact that he was actually quite intelligent.  He could read, write, and after a fashion speak in Dutch, English, French, German, Swedish, and Flemish...and even a few of the native Indonesian dialects.  Before retiring to Spontoon Island three years previously, he had worked as a documents translator in Batavia and later the Hague, never failing to impress his superiors with his ability to transcribe almost any document into his native tongue at nearly blinding speed.  

These superiors would have been considerably less favorable in their opinions had they been aware that in last two years of his service, DeLaaren had been doing much more than simply translate the documents that had found their way to his desk from Berlin.  

He had also been taking them very much to heart.

That was why, when the ferry reached the midpoint of the lagoon, the wildebeest rose and made his way to the head...and immediately wished he had gone earlier; there were three other mels lined up at the whitewashed door.  Damt!  Of course there would be a queue, it was almost SPEED WEEK after all.  Without realizing what he was doing, he began to shift his weight from one hoof to the other.

The door opened and a cougar emerged, wearing a tropical shirt so loud even that even De Laaren could almost hear it.  He immediately called down a silent curse upon all tourists everywhere.  For the first time ever he had picked up something of real import, and now...  Ahhgg, please...just a minute before we dock, that’s all I need, just a minute before we dock.

The woodchuck who had been next in line emerged from the head.  Now there was only one fur ahead of him, a badger, but the wildebeest could see the South Island pier now...too close, they would be tying up before it was his turn.  He would have to either pretend to have forgotten something, and take the ferry back to Casino or wait until...

The badger abruptly got out of line, stalking towards a pair of young kits with his lips moving angrily, “Didn’t I tell...NOT to play... life preserver?!”

“But daddy...DIFFERENT life preserver!” one of them mouthed, hurriedly pushing the ring in his father’s direction.

Ignoring the rest of this melodrama, the wildebeest stepped swiftly into the head.  Inside, next to the toilet was an empty towel rack.  He pulled on it, twisting it slightly upwards. (You had to do it just right or it wouldn’t work.)  At once, a section of the wall paneling peeled back, revealing  little less than an inch of space; more than enough for him to slip the two sheets of paper inside, before pushing it closed again.  Allowing himself a snuffle of satisfaction, DeLaaren made sure to flush the toilet and run the sink for a minute.  In this sort of business, one could never be too thorough.

There was no one there when he exited....and the ferry ramp was just lowering onto the South Island dock.

A moment later, Jan DeLaaren was humming a silent tune to himself, and strolling jauntily onto the pier.  He did not know who would come to claim what he had left and frankly, he didn’t care.  What mattered to the wildebeest was that hopefully what he had seen Major Finlayson and Air Chief Marshal Ballory saying to one another would be good for a few extra guilders in his next envelope.

Life in the Spontoons was good, but it wasn’t cheap.


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Aircraft reference:
Boulton-Paul Defiant
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Boulton_Paul_Defiant