SKY WOLF OF AMAZONAS

AUTHOR’S NOTE

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While Louis L’Amour is most famous for his extensive Western bibliography, he actually began his fiction career writing for Adventure Pulps. One of his long running and most popular characters was Turk Madden, a freelance pilot with a modified Grummond Goose amphibious plane. The following story was initially inspired by these tales.

Flying stories were hugely popular during the Pulp heyday. Numerous magazines, many long-running, were entirely dedicated to this genre of fiction. “Aces”, “Air Stories”, “American Sky Devils”, and many others brought hungry readers stories of aerial combat on a recurring basis. It’s actually surprising just how many pages were dedicated to such a narrow field. The interest can be chalked up to the burgeoning role of aviation in the military, as seen in WWI and later WWII.

Post-WWI, access to aircraft spread throughout the public sector. Pilots with or without combat experience took jobs as mail carriers, freighters, and even performers. Flying Circuses, also known as Barnstorming Troupes, spread across the United States and attracted the attention of thousands. Barnstorming was a surprisingly diverse field, hiring both women and minorities as performers. Katherine Stinson was the first woman to perform an aerial loop maneuver and Bessie Coleman, an African American woman, was seen as a role model for young girls. One of the most famous troupes was led by a woman named Marie Meyer who boasted a young Charles Lindbergh among her stable of top-notch performers.ers.

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SKY WOLF OF AMAZONAS

by L.D. Whitney

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FAWCETT VANISHED IN ’25. How many others had done the same before or since? Mitch Faraday hoped to high heaven he wouldn’t be among them.

The Lockheed Vega was trailing smoke over an endless emerald canopy. In a flash, Mitch cycled through all the things that could have gone wrong. Had an oil line cracked? It didn’t matter. Whatever it was, he had only minutes to make a landing. Otherwise, the Pratt & Whitney radial would seize. He’d fall from the sky like a stone.

Mitch scanned the undulating carpet of emerald green for any sign of somewhere he might land.

The smoke grew darker, thicker too. It was almost impossible to see.

Even a water landing was preferable to hitting all those trees. The branches would tear away his wings. The fuselage would become a rocket. He liked scrambled eggs well enough, but he’d no desire to be one.

Narrow tributaries of the world’s greatest river, the Amazon, webbed through the forest below. They were winding and rail thin. Too hard to hit at a cruising speed of 115 miles per hour.

Then, unexpectedly, Mitch spied something remarkable.

“By Jove!” he laughed out loud. It was a desperate, hysterical sound.

Incongruous amongst the jungle, he saw a long strip of naked earth. It seemed to be carved forcefully from its surroundings—a heinous scar. But Mitch Faraday knew a runway when he saw one.

It was empty, barren dirt. There were no outbuildings that he could see. It must be some supply strip for the rubber plantations or the gold mines that peppered the wilderness here. He’d not seen it on his charts. Maybe it was abandoned? No sense in over thinking it. It was land or die—or maybe die trying.

Mitch aimed the Vega toward that strip. The engine sputtered and coughed. Dials on the console began to warn him urgently that death was imminent. The pressure gauge dropped fast to zero. Smoke filled the cabin now. The engine was only moments away from seizing completely. Banking sharply, he cut the engine hoping to prevent a fire.  

Mitch placed the runway in his sights.

Gliding now, and fast, Mitch held tight the yoke. His knuckles were ghost white.

He came in like a bullet. The jungle canopy nipped at the Vega’s underbelly. The plane’s wheels struck hard against packed earth. It bounced once, twice, before settling into a bone-jarring roll.

Mitch stood on the brakes.

A fortress of towering trees rushed like a wall toward his propeller.

Then, the plane began to slow.

Mitch sighed, finally allowing himself a breath. The Vega coasted to a halt a mere dozen yards from the tree line. He could hear the steady tick of the engine as it cooled. In the sudden silence, the pounding of his own heart was loud as jungle drums. Outside, the world screamed with a riot of life. Birds called and monkeys howled; their daily routines interrupted rudely by his unannounced visit.

Climbing from the cockpit, Mitch rushed to inspect the damage. Oil dripped steadily from the cowling, staining the red dirt black. He cursed and kicked the ground.

“Just my kind of luck.”

Kneeling to get a better look, Mitch noticed something off about the runway. Even at a glance he could tell this was no abandoned airstrip. Someone had been maintaining it. Whoever it was, they could probably be found by following the fresh tire tracks pressed there into the bare earth.

From behind, there came a distinctive chorus. Rifles snapped coldly as bullets were chambered.

Mitch spun around. He was the fighting sort and never one to turn down a scrap. This time though, the odds were against him. These toughs, whoever they were, had him dead to rights. By their look, neither did they mind a killing. Better to give up now than inspect the innards of a pine box. He’d find a way out of this mess later. And if he didn’t, well, there was always the grave.

*****

MITCH HAD TO hand it to them, whoever they were. It was quite the operation. From the air, the whole thing had been invisible. From ground level though, there was a city hidden beneath the dense jungle canopy.

“Where are you taking me?” asked Mitch, not hiding his anger. He tugged at the ropes that bound his hands. They were tight and had no give. He was gifted a gun barrel jabbing at his spine for asking the question.

“Herr Handschuh would like to see you,” said one. His accent was thick and the tone was dangerous. These were German men, but this was a strange place to find them. Handschuh, he thought. It had a familiar ring. Where had he heard that name before?

The captors rushed him between a pair of buildings Mitch immediately recognized. To the left was very obviously an aircraft hangar. What was inside, he wished dearly to see. The other building could be none other than a radio bunker. Sticking up from the top was the trestle of slim tower, the crown of which just barely peeked above the high branches. He saw other structures too, hiding in the jungle. Perhaps they were living quarters, barracks even. Throughout the compound moved some native people, an Amazon tribe clearly pressed into service.

“What is this place?”

Mitch received no answer. He winced from another stab.

Pushed forward between the outbuildings, he spied his destination.

“Well, I’ll be damned—,” he whispered. Mitch braced for a third poke. It never came.

He felt like he had stepped from the jungle and suddenly into the European countryside, all the trees and vines aside. The manor house was two storied, quaint and opulent all at once. It had a peaked roof, and the outside walls were white as could be. They were lined in dark, half-timber framework that gave the whole thing an old-world feel. On one side was built a round tower, like a castle parapet, capped in a steeple cone. From a window there, some dark shadow looked down on him. Mitch could feel its gaze.

He knew it must be this ‘Handschuh’ he was supposed to see.

“Man alive, what is this place?”

His escort marched him rudely up the front steps. One of the men rapped the door. Then, for the third time that day, Mitch Faraday was shocked by what he saw.

Standing in the threshold was a dark-haired beauty the likes of which he’d never seen. She was short and thin, but shapely. She had wide dark eyes and long black hair that swished loosely about the small of her back. There was no question this girl was from native stock. She wore not western-style clothing but a knee-length grass skirt. Strand after strand of multi-colored beads hung from her slender neck. The outfit left little to the imagination.

Mitch couldn’t help but blush at the sight.

“Welcome,” she said. Her voice was like bird song. Mitch had not expected her to speak English.

“Where the devil am I?” Mitch was quick to ask. “And what’s going on here?”

“Herr Handschuh will explain all. Please, this way.”

*****

A SET TABLE separated Mitch from the human hawk.

There was fresh bread and the roasted meat of some jungle beast. A variety of cheeses adorned one plate and fruit another. A bottle of French wine sat nearby with crystal glasses to match. It was an incongruous mix, and Mitch could only guess where it all had come from. The scenery too was splendid, like a fine dining room in a New York hotel.

Then there was the girl.

She stood silently at the tableside. Her eyes were glued to the floor. She spoke not a word, only moving when asked for something. The woman obeyed her master’s every command. There were other natives too, sliding about unacknowledged in the background. Mitch imagined them to be servants or slaves. The very thought got him heated.

The man opposite Mitch smiled as the girl sat down a silver platter. On it was a kettle and two piping cups. She passed one to Mitch and then to the other man who must be Handschuh.

“Say,” he said, studying the contents. It was a frothy, deep brown liquid. Piping hot. “Is this—?”

“Cocoa?” said Handschuh. “Indeed, Herr Faraday. A local delight that I have come to greatly enjoy.”

His host was tall, lean, and predatory. A neatly parted cap of silvery-blonde hair crowned his pate. He was gaunt, like a vampire, though his flesh was warmly-hued with an innate vitality. He sipped delicately of the hot drink, but every motion was calculated and with purpose. A pair of striking blue eyes watched Faraday. They were unwelcoming and insistent. They looked at him like prey. Mitch shrugged off the gaze, choosing instead to eat. There was no telling when next a meal might arrive.

“How do you know my name?” he asked, mouth full. 

“Oh, I know much more than that, Herr Faraday. I know that you are flying from Manaus. That you are destined for the rubber plantations in the west. Your plane holds supplies in its belly. Rations mostly, but creature comforts as well. And a few guns.”

“How could you possibly know all that?” asked Mitch, stunned.

“I have ears everywhere, mein freund. There is no word uttered in these skies that I do not hear.”

Mitch thought for a moment then understood.

“The radio tower? You’re listening in to all the chatter.”

“Very astute, Herr Faraday,” smiled Handschuh. “Ja, that is correct. I am privy to every spoken word from Bogotá to Rio de Janeiro.”

A device that powerful was unheard of. To know the flight paths and cargo of every plane flying was an astonishing level of intelligence. The havoc one might cause with that sort of thing was chilling. Mitch struggled to hide his shock.

“It seems, mister Handschuh,” he said finally, “that you know a lot about my business. I’m afraid that leaves me at a disadvantage. I know so little of yours.”

“You seem a clever man, Herr Faraday. It appears possible to me that you know more than you realize.”

“I’ve heard of you then?”

“Perhaps.” Handschuh grinned. “Though my exploits may have faded in the convening years. How old were you during the Great War?”

Handschuh was leading him somewhere. Mitch searched his mind for some hint or clue. Suddenly, it struck him.

“Klaus Handschuh,” Mitch grinned. “The Iron Wolf.”

“Sehr gut, Herr Faraday!” Handschuh clapped child-like but lost none of his rapacious presence.

“I was only a kid back then, but I read about you in the papers. A real ace. I thought you died. Crashed out in Bloody April. Fell from the sky one day without firing a shot. A real tragedy.”

“Ja, that is the tale.” There was a flash of anger in the German’s gaze. “But as you can see, I am very much alive.”

“You ran then? Is that it?” The accusation did nothing to ingratiate him to his host. Handschuh’s face turned a shade more red.

“From inferior technology. Not from the war.”

“Inferior technology?” scoffed Mitch. “Maybe I’m wrong, but you Germans had the best machines on the field, didn’t you? The Brits at Arras had you outnumbered three to one! Only way they could win.”

“Ja, that is true. But perfection is not made overnight, Herr Faraday. It takes testing and experimentation. German aircraft design dominated the skies over Verdun and more. But progress was rushed. The engineering became sloppy as desperation sank in. I was gifted a state-of-the-art aircraft for my unparalleled success. Eighty-four confirmed kills. It would have been one hundred before the war’s end, if not for my misfortune. I was promised the most advanced aircraft in the skies. What they gave me was a failure! A dud! Scheiße!”

Handschuh slammed his fist on the table. The plates rattled. The girl jumped. One of the cocoa mugs toppled over, spilling its contents across white linen.

“I will clean it!” she yelped. There was a look of horror on the girl’s face as she spoke. She jumped into action, mopping up the mess with a cloth. Handschuh was cold and silent. He moved not a muscle as she worked. A thick vein bulged from his brow. What sort of hold did Handschuh have on these people to elicit such a reaction?

When the girl was finished, the Iron Wolf nodded grimly.

“Danke, Nato. Thank you.”

So that was her name?

“What next, then?” inquired Mitch, returning to the conversation. “You slink off to the jungle? For what?”

“To pick up where my country had failed me. To achieve aviation perfection!” There was gleam of madness in his eyes. “I have gathered here the most promising pilots from my homeland. Together, we fly the most advanced aircraft in the world. Our machines are tested against the utmost rigorous conditions. High altitude maneuvers. Aerial combat.”

“Combat? Against whom? There’s no war here.”

“That is where you are wrong, Herr Faraday. These skies are alive with the thrum of aircraft engines. Each one a pawn in the game of globalization. Why, just today we captured a cargo plane bound for Manaus carrying bullets and guns.”

Handschuh laughed at that.

Mitch glowered.

“What do you mean ‘captured’? It was engine trouble. I was forced to land.”

“A missed opportunity, to be sure. A real shame I could not have demonstrated to you my pilot’s prowess. Yet, you are still here. Luckily, we have a much grander experiment scheduled very soon.”

“Wait a second,” said Faraday. He leaned in, locking eyes with his host. Mitch bared his teeth. “Are you telling me I was supposed to be a target?”

“Ja. That is correct.”

The answer was short, matter of fact. He liked none of it.

“That’s your whole gig? You wait around for planes to fly over and then what? Shoot them down? For your ego?”

“Oh no, Herr Faraday. Ego alone does not drive me. Look at all of this,” he motioned to the food, the room, and all the finery. “Consider it reward for all my efforts.”

Mitch started to laugh. It was soft at first, then rose to a boisterous crescendo.

“I see now,” he said. “You’re pirates!”

Nato gasped at that. Handschuh’s face turned fiery red. He shot up from his seat, the chair tipping over behind him.

“You insult me!” he yelled. His fists were clenched tight, his body rigid. The blue eyes bulged from his face. “If we are but pirates, there is only one thing left to do. Throw him into the brig with the others!”

“Others?”

Suddenly, from the room beyond, a pair of his goons piled in. One grabbed Mitch roughly by the shoulders.

Instinctively, he jumped up from his seat. He spun and socked him with a hard right hook. The man reeled. Mitch followed up with a pair of quick jabs. Then, just as the big German was about to fall, the other rushed in.

Mitch buckled suddenly, a rifle butt shoved hard in his gut.

He doubled over and dropped to his knees. Mitch was met next with another strike, this time across his temple. The whole world spun. He tried to hold himself erect, but his arms and legs were like rubber now. The men laughed at him. He could hear Handschuh laugh too. Mitch fought off the encroaching darkness just long enough to see the girl, Nato, cowering in the corner.

She was pretty. And scared.

Handschuh filled his wavering vision. He leered down at Mitch, smiling grimly.

“It is a shame, Herr Faraday, that you will not be a witness to my greatest achievement yet.”

*****

THE WORLD WAS black as pitch. Mitch thought he was blind. Then, out of the gloom, emerged the shapes of other men.

“Where am I?” he groaned.

“Take it easy, son,” came a voice. It was weary but there was kindness in it.

He was helped up from the hard ground. Mitch felt stone at his back. Three shadow-veiled figures huddled about him. They murmured amongst themselves. They were all men by the sounds of their voice. Mitch heard English and Portuguese in the mix, a little Spanish too.  

“Who are you people?” He asked. He held his aching head in his hands.

“Prisoners. Pilots too. Just like you, I imagine.”

“I’ll get that bastard.”

“If only,” said the voice. “We’d all surely help you too. Only, there’s no way out from here, I’m afraid. Name’s John O’Malley. Was a courier once. American, but I flew for France back in the day.”

“And them?”

“That one is Pedro. The other, he’s called Lourenço. Bush pilots. Survived Handschuh’s guys, just like me. Only to end up here, starving in a hole. The one in the back, well I’m not sure of his name. He doesn’t speak much and when he does, it sure isn’t English.”

With effort, Mitch pulled himself from the floor. In the darkness of their cell, he could make out few details on any of the men’s faces. The last man, he sat huddled in the corner. He seemed frail and much older than the other men. Drawing near, Mitch noticed he did not wear dingy clothing like John and the others. Instead, he was nearly naked save for a breechclout wrapped around his waist.

Mitch leaned in. The man looked up at him. His eyes were dark and full of hurt. Mitch had a hunch.

“Nato,” he said. “Do you know Nato?”

The man’s eyes widened at the mention of her name. He nodded vigorously.

“Son, do you know this man?” asked John.

“Know him? No. But when I talked to Handschuh there was a girl with him. A native girl called Nato. This man, he’s native too. And I reckon he’s old enough to be that girl’s father. I’d wager he’s some important chief. It’s got to be how Handschuh keeps the others in line.”

“Well, I’ll be,” whistled John. “Didn’t realize we were in the presence of royalty.

*****

MINUTES, HOURS, DAYS; all time passed the same down in that hole.

Occasionally, somber native porters and armed escorts delivered stale bread and ill-flavored water to their darkened cage. Without sight of daylight, it was impossible to tell if this was a daily delivery or at random. Silently, the prisoners split their meager meal. They all seemed resigned to this dismal fate.

Mitch conversed with the men, learning all he could about their experience here. It seemed the dungeon sat somewhere beneath Handschuh’s estate. There was a narrow stair leading up, but they’d only ever caught a glimpse through the tiny portal from which rations were proffered. Neither had they been able to converse with anyone. The native men spoke not at all, and the German guards only greeted them with mocking jeers.

“There must be some way out,” pondered Mitch aloud. His stomach ached from hunger pangs, but his mind remained alert. He was glad to have gorged himself above while Handschuh offered him the chance.

When not sleeping, he scoured every inch of the cell for some means to escape. The survey was difficult in the darkness, but with his hands he managed to probe every square inch of the space.

The floor was thick flagstone. As far as he knew, the other walls abutted solid earth. Mitch found a few bricks that seemed loose enough to pry, but it would take them ages to dig out. The means of escape would have to be through the single sturdy door.

“I have an idea,” Mitch announced with a hush. “It’s got a lot of guesswork and luck, but it’s all I’ve got.”

“Let’s hear it,” said O’Malley excitedly. The Portuguese huddled in close as well.

“Like I said, I think that man in the corner is some headman for the natives here. It’s got to be the leverage Handschuh has over them. If something were to happen to him, those people would have no more reason to do his bidding.”

“How’s that help us?”

“If I’m right, he’s our ticket out of here. When the guards deliver our next meal, we tell him that he has fallen ill. Make sure the porters understand, too. Handschuh won’t want the word to get out that something has happened to their chief. He’ll have to do something. When they come for him, we make our move.”

“There’s a lot of assumptions in there, Mitch.” O’Malley mulled over the plan. “If this all works out like you say, what’s the next move?”

“Well, there’s planes in that hangar we all saw. I say we fly out of here.”

“Those Germans though, they got guns. On the planes too. They’ll hunt us down like dogs. Shoot us right out of the sky.”

O’Malley mimicked the sound of a crashing plane.

Mitch knew this was true. He hadn’t thought that far ahead. Someone would have to stop their captors from following suit.

“How about this?” he suggested. “It’ll have to be quiet. Lots of risk. But we could disable their planes. Keep them grounded so we can make our escape.”

There was silence then. Pedro translated roughly the plans to his countryman. Mitch only regretted that they couldn’t loop the chief into their plan.

“Mitch,” said O’Malley. “It’s a desperate ploy, but its all we got. What do you need from us?”

*****

THERE CAME A rap on the dungeon door.

“Gericht!” barked a guard. “Your food!”

The little window slid open and dark hands thrust forward their scraps.

“Hey! You out there!” yelled Mitch. “Can you hear me?”

There was cruel laughter. There were two of them.

“Ja, we hear. What do you want?”

Mitch could sense their smug grinning.

“You got a man in here. He’s in a bad way. Real sick with something.”

There was silence. Then, briefly, the two guards murmured between themselves.

“Who is it?” one of them asked.

“Not me or the other American. Nor the two Portuguese. He’s a native man.”

More whispers.

“What is wrong with him?”

“He’s not eating or drinking. Pain in his stomach, I think. Hard to say. Can’t understand a word he says.”

Mitch leaned forward, peering into the open slat. He was greeted with a pair of wide, dark eyes. Mitch motioned with his own toward the back where the chieftain sat. There was recognition in that gaze.

“Get away from there!” ordered a guard. Mitch winced as he heard a rifle stock slap bare skin. The eyes disappeared and the portal was slammed shut suddenly.

“He’s in a lot of pain. Might die.”

The Germans argued amongst themselves for a bit. Mitch only caught small parts of the disagreement for it was the guard’s native tongue. From what he could tell, however, his plan was working.

“All of you, your backs against the wall. We are coming in for the sick man.”

“Yes, sir.”

The four pilots did exactly as the guards commanded. They placed their backs firmly against the damp stone and waited.

The clatter of locks being opened filled the silence. The door was flung open forcefully. Standing in the threshold was a single man, a black silhouette. He had an automatic clutched in one hand. The light was so blinding from being locked in that blackened cell that Mitch could scarcely see beyond.

“Bring him to me.”

“I can’t do that without leaving this wall,” said Mitch.

The other guard spoke harshly from beyond sight. The guard in the doorframe grumbled and set foot within the cell.

Mitch waited till the man was fully enveloped in darkness.

“Now!”

He leapt atop the guard.

The other men rushed toward the threshold, the door already slamming shut. With every ounce of strength they held open the portal. There was yelling beyond, but Mitch paid no heed.

Mitch delivered the armed guard a vicious chop across the wrist. The man yowled in pain, his hand suddenly numb. The pistol fell harmlessly upon the pave. The German flailed about in the dark, swinging wildly. He was sightless in the black cell, but Mitch had gotten so used to it that it hardly bothered him at all. Balling his fists into a mallet, he planted them upon the base of the man’s skull. That flattened him. The German conked his head on the damp stone and was out cold.

Mitch scooped up the pistol and ran to assist his compatriots at the door. What he found instead shocked him.

The doorway was wide open; the three men bathed in the glow of lamplight. There were the native servants too. And the remaining guard as well, though his body was spilled across the stairwell like a discarded doll. Atop the stairs stood Nato, her bosom heaving. In a slender hand she held a makeshift bludgeon.

“Is my father alright?” she asked.

Then Mitch’s assumptions had been true.

“He’s fine. As fine as could be, given the situation.”

From out of the murky cell hobbled the chieftain. A smile grew wide across his weathered face at the sight of his daughter. She ran to him. They embraced. Time was of the essence, but Mitch allowed them a moment for this tender reunion.

“Nato,” he said finally. “Can you lead us to the hangar? Where they keep the planes?”

Nato gave Mitch a worried look.

“We must hurry,” she said. “Handschuh has gathered his best men. They prepare for war.”

“War? What do you mean?”

“They go to attack. I do not know details. There is a gold shipment, I think. I have heard the men talking.”

“Handschuh’s grand experiment,” growled Mitch. “He’s going to take that gold.”

“Those poor fliers,” interjected O’Malley. “They won’t see it coming till it’s too late.”

Mitch clenched his fists tight; his jaw set with grim determination.

“Then we have to stop him.”

“But how?”

“I have an idea.” Mitch grinned with grim satisfaction.

*****

FARADAY HAD EXPECTED a laboratory of sorts. What he got instead was a museum.

The aircraft within were not the sleek, modern models that Mitch had assumed they would be. Instead, they were dated machines from the Great War: Aviatik single-seaters, a Phönix bi-plane, an Albatros D.X, even a Knoller C.II. The planes should have been outclassed by even Mitch’s Lockheed Vega in all things but armament. For all intents and purposes, they were relics with a new coat of paint.

Under the hood, however, was another story.

With Handschuh’s guidance, the guts of each aircraft had been stripped down and overhauled. The planes were faster than before, with better maneuverability. The Iron Wolf was not only an expert pilot, but he must also be an ingenious engineer.

The centerpiece of the collection was surely the Fokker Dr. I triplane. Mitch knew it well, the iconic aircraft of Manfred von Richthofen, the legendary Red Baron. It was also the aircraft, or a prototype of which, that Handschuh himself flew that fateful day. He wondered if this was the exact plane, somehow stitched back together and given new life like Frankenstein’s monster.

It was painted a deep emerald green, nearly matching the jungle canopy. Mitch imagined it would be almost invisible from above. Still, undoubtedly a product of Handschuh’s German pride, the plane was emblazoned with black Hindenburg Cross just as it had been during the Great War. It sported a pair of Spandau synchronized heavy machine guns that would perforate plane’s fuselage like pellets through paper. The presence of such a war machine gave Mitch a pause. With a man like Handschuh at the stick, it would be a force to reckon with.

“What’s your plan, Mitch?” asked O’Malley.

“An oil line in my Vega cracked. I lost pressure and had to emergency land. That’s how I got here in the first place. I say we give these bandits a taste of that.”

While Mitch and the other pilots worked hastily at their sabotage, Nato and her tribe kept close watch. Handschuh had convened a meeting of the pilots in his war room. Mitch wondered what sort of plans were hatched atop that castle tower. He imagined those vultures huddled about their charts and maps, reveling in their plots. It took a brave man to fly these skies. It was a dangerous enough job porting goods across the vast expanse of jungle wilderness, even without the pirates.

“They are coming!” called Nato.

“Damn!” cursed Mitch. “Not enough time.”

They’d all done good work, managing to tamper with most of the planes. Left untouched, however, was the Fokker alongside one Aviatik and the Albatros.

“They are getting close!”

“Wrap it up, boys. Close shop and find a place to hide!”

Mitch hated that his plans had not been complete. He had been looking forward to watching all those planes fall from the sky like stones as their engines seized. As it were, Handschuh might still be able to cash in on his prize. If only just.

Ducking behind a stack of wooden crates, Faraday watched as the Iron Wolf and his men strut into the hangar. They were dressed finely in leather flight jackets accented by long scarves and aviator googles. There was an arrogant pageantry to their movements, their manner. These men acted as though they went off to war. Like they were heroes and not conniving thieves. It made his blood boil.

In timely fashion, each aircraft was ferried out to the runway. They took to the skies with the blustery thrum of whirling propellers.

They were in for a shock.

When the last of the sky pirates had disembarked, Mitch emerged from hiding and strode purposefully to one of the remaining planes.

“Help me with this,” he said.

“What the blazes are you doing, Mitch?” asked O’Malley. “I thought we were getting out of here.”

“You are. Take those tools and get the Vega patched up. It should have enough fuel to carry you back to someplace civilized. “

“Where are you going?”

“After them. I can’t let them down that plane.”

Just as Mitch was about to hop into the cockpit of the Albatros, Nato ran forward.

“Faraday,” she said softly. “I need to thank you.”

“For what?”

“For saving my father. Helping my people to escape from Herr Handschuh and his dogs.”

“It was nothing,” he replied. “Just the right thing to do.”

“No. I think it took great courage. We will return to the jungle now. We will travel far from here. You will not see us again.”

Mitch understood the sentiment. The outside world was expanding, and fast. It had violently interrupted these folk, even way out here. He did not blame them for wanting nothing more to do with modernity.

“That’s probably for the best, Nato.”

“Before we leave, I would like to give you something in return.”

“Oh no, that’s not—”

Before Mitch could say another word, Nato leaned forward and pressed her lips against his. It was a gentle kiss, soft and warm. The feeling lingered a bit and then they parted.

“Well, now. That sure was something.”

*****

THE ALBATROS CUT through the air like a knife.

It was a fine machine, made more so by Handschuh’s mysterious tinkering. The canopy below sped by in a blur. The fighter plane felt different than his Vega, and not simply because of its modifications. This was an aggressive aircraft, a weapon of war. It was built for killing rather than cargo. Mitch had been far too young to fly combat. It was the stories of old Aces that had ignited his love of aviation. To be behind the stick of such a thing felt somehow surreal. He did not savor the thought of tripping those triggers, but he knew what must be done.

A black speck appeared before him. It grew in size with each passing moment. Soon enough, Mitch could recognize the shape. It was one of the German planes.

The craft was trailing smoke.

Mitch cut a cold smile as the plane approached.

One of the sky pirates was trying to make it back to base before the craft quit on him. By the look of it, he wasn’t going to make it.

Mitch tilted the yoke slightly, maneuvering out of the other’s path. It passed by at breakneck speed. A plume of oily smoke billowed in its wake. From the cockpit Mitch could see the pilot’s desperation.

It wouldn’t be long now.

Then, sprouting from the jungle below, Mitch discovered more evidence of his handy work. Plumes of tarry cloud billowed from rough holes torn in the Amazon’s upper story. Mentally counting the trails, he knew their tampering had worked. But that still left the other two fighters.

That left Handschuh himself.

Suddenly, racing up from the canopy, came the blur of an Aviatik.

Mitch banked hard as tracer rounds streaked past his cockpit. The Albatros responded beautifully. He rolled and then dove toward the river valley below. The thick, humid air whistled through the wing struts as he pulled out of the dive.

The Aviatik came at him from the right, guns chattering like frigid teeth. Bullets punched through the Albatros’ fabric wings, yet its robust German construction held.

Faraday hauled back on the stick. He climbed steeply into a loop, then rolled off the top. He came down fast upon the Aviatk’s tail.

The pirate snapped left and dove for the deck.

Mitch didn’t follow. Instead, he pulled higher. He would let the German come to him.

As expected, the Aviatik pulled out of its dive and climbed back up toward the fight. The Albatros dove then, like a striking hawk. Mitch fingered the triggers of his heavy guns. They roared like jackhammers in the sky. The concentrated burst caught the Aviatik across the engine cowling. Black smoked streamed from the aircraft.

It would have been a natural thing for the pilot to retreat. The instinct for survival was innate. Contrary to this notion, the German pilot circled back. The crippled fighter turned toward Faraday like a charging bull.

Mitch banked a hard right. He felt the damaged Aviatik’s wing tip brush past his cockpit. His whole plane shuddered at the passing. He pitched his head sidelong, eyes glued to dying plane. Mitch watched with steely gaze as it continued its death dive into the jungle below. It disappeared then, in a gout of orange flame.

“You fly well, Faraday. For a cargo pilot,” came Handschuh’s voice over the radio. 

“Learned from the best, Handschuh. Flew a Jennie for Marie Meyers with Joe Hammer and Jimmie Donahue. People came from miles around to see that circus!”

“Ah yes, a performance pilot. A dancing clown fit for children. But I am Klaus Handschuh, the Iron Wolf of the Western Front!”

“Is that so?” growled Mitch. “I’ll show you a clown!”

Handschuh’s Fokker shot like a rocket up from below. He’d been hiding there the whole time, just watching and waiting to strike. Like a bolt of lightning he sped skyward, pushing the supercharged Mercedes engine for all it was worth. He pulled into a high loop and came out leveled straight at the Alabatros.

The two aircraft closed for a head-on pass.

Guns blazed.

Faraday felt his aircraft tremble as bullets hit their mark. By some miracle, the Albatros held together.

Handschuh’s tri-plane swept past.

Mitch caught a glimpse of fabric fluttering from a tear in the German’s upper wing.

He’d hit his target too.

Together they climbed, spiraling upward, higher and higher through the atmosphere.

Handschuh had the advantage. Both experience and mechanical performance were on his side. Still, Faraday had a secret weapon. He knew these skies. He’d flown cargo runs through the treacherous thermals and sudden downdrafts that rose from the heated jungle floor. The air was filled with invisible obstacles and Faraday knew them like the back of his hand.  

At three thousand feet, the planes leveled off.

The deadly dance began in earnest.

Handschuh attacked with textbook precision—climbing turns, barrel rolls, Immelmann maneuvers executed with a mechanical perfection. The German pushed his engines hard, demanding maximum performance.

That was his weakness.

Faraday led Handschuh through a series of increasingly violent maneuvers. He pulled high-G turns that stressed both aircraft to their limits. Even with all their modifications, the engines ran hot in the thick, tropical air. Handschuh’s tri-plane was burning fuel at an unstable rate. The supercharged cylinders rapidly approached their thermal limits.

“Come on, come on…” Mitch muttered, rolling inverted and diving toward the trees. “Push it harder, Handschuh. Show me what you got!”

The Iron Wolf took his bait. He dove after the Albatros with throttles open wide. The tri-plane’s engine howled as it closed the distance. Faraday heard something though, a sign that his trick was working. The steady, almost harmonic thrum of Handschuh’s engine had become rough and irregular.

They raced across the treetops at full throttle.

Wingtips brushed past emergent giants.

Faraday pulled up sharply and Handschuh followed. Both aircraft climbed fast and high—a deadly game of chicken.

At the top of the climb, as both fighters hung motionless for a split second, Handschuh’s tri-plane finally reached its breaking point. White smoke erupted from the cowling as a piston seized, then another. The Iron Wolf’s aircraft sputtered and began to fall.

Handschuh fought to control his dying craft. The green hell below hurtled upwards to greet him. Even if he could somehow right the plane, there was nowhere to safely land. This was it. As the tri-plane catapulted toward the jungle, Handschuh’s voice returned over radio transmission.

“Well flown, American. Well flown.”

The Fokker vanished into the trees. There was a distant crash. Faraday circled back around once, but he saw no sign of fire or movement. Klaus Handschuh, Iron Wolf of the Western Front, had finally met his match. Defeat had not come from enemy guns, but from the unforgiving jungle and his own vicious pride.

Faraday turned the damaged Albatros southeast, back toward civilization. The sky pirate’s reign of terror was over. O’Malley and the others were long gone by now, well on their way home. And Nato? She and her people had disappeared into the jungle by now. Mitch absently wondered if they’d ever again find the solitude they so dearly sought. To him, it seemed unlikely.  

He checked the fuel gauge. It was dropping fast. He still had a long way to go. 

THE END.

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Return August, 29th for a sword-swinging tale of Byzantium in “THE PURPLE SHROUD” by the Master of Heroic Historicals, Scott Oden!