by Todd Downing
The Daedalus leveled off, having turned in a complete three-sixty to face the aerial pirates. They banked again, regrouping for a third pass. Jack squinted into the distance, and something caught his eye. A round object, hovering at the rear of the squadron. Then the seaplanes were all over them, machine guns rattling. This time, Jack gambled and took no evasion.
Once again, no damage.
“Wait a second,” Jack said. “Three passes and they haven’t hit a square inch of this bird.”
Doc continued gripping the desk in front of her. “What are you thinking, Jack?” she asked.
“See that motorized balloon,” he pointed out the forward window, “at three o’clock, south end of the squadron?”
Doc scanned the area Jack was pointing at. Rivets staggered forward, leaning on the pilot’s seat. “The one with the twin Lewis guns on the gondola? Yeah, I see it.”
Jack rubbed his jaw, deep in thought. “I’ll bet the admiral of this pirate fleet is in that thing.”
Duke suddenly turned in his seat. “We’re being hailed, Captain!” He flipped a switch and static erupted over the bridge speaker.
“To the American airship, cut your engines and prepare to be boarded.” The voice was a deep bass, with a Caribbean accent.
“Patch me through,” Jack ordered, and Duke flipped another switch. “This is Captain Jack McGraw of the airship Daedalus. We mean you no harm and carry no cargo of value.”
There was another burst of static and then silence. The four waited anxiously for an answer.
Static again. “Not Captain ‘Stratosphere’ Jack McGraw—??” the voice said, incredulous.
Doc cast a quick glance at Duke, then at Rivets. Duke watched Jack for a reaction. Rivets just stared at Jack.
“It’s been a few years since France, mon ami,” said the voice, and Jack finally exhaled.
“I don’t believe it,” Jack muttered. “Could it really be…?”
Rivets took a tone. “Care to fill us in?”
“Who is it, Jack?” Doc asked, leaning forward on the nav console.
Jack folded his arms and leaned back. “An old war buddy,” he explained.
“Didn’t you make any enemies during the war?” Rivets asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Plenty,” Jack said, flipping switches. “Cutting engines,” he announced over the radio. “Permission to come aboard, granted.”
Jack unbuckled the pilot harness and gestured Rivets into the seat. “Rivets, you’ve got the stick. I’m going topside to receive our guest.” Then he was out the hatch and up the ladder, and Doc, Rivets, and Duke stared at each other in silent confusion.
He twisted the hatch lock counter-clockwise and popped it open. The air was cool over the water, an occasional gust of tropical wind buffeting the small airship. Jack clipped one end of a steel safety cable to a metal ring on his belt, the other end to a thin guide rail which ran from the gun turret to the rear fins.
Deadeye saw him come up and raised his goggles. “What’s up, Cap’n?”
“Stand down on the guns, Deadeye,” Jack said. “We’re receiving company.”
“The good kind, or the bad kind?” Deadeye asked, climbing from the gun seat and locking his own safety line on the guide rail.
“I guess we’ll see.”
Jack kept a wary eye on the balloon as two diesel engines propelled it closer. It was a simple hot air envelope, lightbulb-shaped at the top, dangling an armored gondola beneath, on which was painted a name: REVENGE. The engines were mounted where propane burners would usually go, venting hot exhaust into the skirt, while two outboard propellers on the burner ring provided thrust. A pair of Army surplus Lewis machine guns provided an intimidation factor which was not to be dismissed. The balloon itself was a sun-faded black, with a giant pirate flag sewn to the envelope exterior: a grinning skull over a single horizontal bone at the center, with a dagger on the left and a heart on the right. It had been the historical standard of 18th century “gentleman pirate” Stede Bonnet.
A latching hook descended on the end of a docking cable, and Jack pointed it out to Charlie.
“Grab that line and hook it to the guide rail.”
Deadeye did as ordered, and a winch on the balloon began to coil the slack cable, pulling the gondola down close to the spine of the Daedalus. A chain ladder unrolled, and a figure descended from the balloon. Were it not 1925, the man could have just as easily been stepping off a pirate sloop in the 1600s. He was tall and broad, dark-skinned and dressed in what could only be described as pirate regalia. A maroon sash and matching bandanna stood out from the otherwise black ensemble of baggy linen trousers, leather boots and arm cuffs, and an extravagantly embroidered leather vest which was cotton-lined and stretched across a well-muscled chest.
The visitor turned from the ladder and Jack saw one gold earring glint in the morning light. The man’s eyes moved from the Cherokee marksman to the airship commander in brown flight leathers. A pronounced scar running from forehead to cheek across his left eye—yet somehow leaving the eye itself intact—marred otherwise handsome features. His mouth was a tight line, his jaw set forward.
Jack and Deadeye stood ready. They knew their position was tenuous, but they were resolved not to be taken prisoner or lose the Daedalus to sky pirates. If need be, they would die defending the ship—or see it destroyed.
“Well well well,” boomed the pirate captain over the buffeting wind. “If it isn’t the one and only Captain Stratosphere.”
At over six feet tall, Jack was still outsized by the man. Even so, he stuck out his chest in a misplaced show of courage.
“Captain Stede Bonnet of the Lafayette Escadrille,” Jack announced.
The pirate stepped forward, towering menacingly.
“I never got a chance to do this back in France,” he said, his voice thrumming like distant cannon fire.
Then he grabbed Jack in a massive bear hug, lifting him into the air such that his safety cable clanked and pulled at the guide rail. He put Jack down, grasping both of his shoulders in massive hands. “Thank you for saving my life, my friend,” he beamed.
Deadeye exhaled, and Jack allowed himself a nervous chuckle.
“Good to see you, Stede,” Jack said. “I wasn’t sure what reception we were gonna get. It’s been a few years since the war.”
“Nonsense!” Bonnet laughed. “I would not forget the man who saved my skin! We must have some rum and celebrate old comrades-in-arms!”
Jack realized that they were outside United States jurisdiction, therefore Prohibition didn’t apply. In reality, he’d rarely had to worry about it in the States anyway, since everyone seemed to have a way around it. He couldn’t remember ever having tasted rum, but he was certainly willing to try it.
The pirate seaplanes turned and descended over Grand Bahama, and Captain Bonnet directed the Daedalus down to the harbor at West End, at the northwest tip of the island. Stede leaned on the pilot seat and marveled at the bridge as Jack gave him a general rundown of the airship’s capabilities.
West End was a small tropical island community rising from the sea. White stucco houses and red tile roofs punctuated a strip of green palms and white sand, and busy locals bustled to and fro, engaged in trade or less-savory business. An oil tanker lay on the beach just east of the harbor, being dismantled for scrap. Pirate seaplanes and commercial boats crowded the tiny harbor, coming and going with cargo to sell or empty holds to fill.
They tied down at a pier usually reserved for large fishing boats or supply ships, and Stede informed his pirates that the Daedalus crew were to be treated as honored guests.
Then Jack and Doc joined him to go get drunk.
- Chapter 7 -
France, May, 1918
Stede Bonnet pushed forward on the stick, nosing his SPAD VII into a dive. He was separated from his squadron and miles beyond the German lines. He desperately needed to shake the enemy pilot on his six. But the forest green Fokker triplane matched the maneuver and let loose
a volley of hot lead from a pair of synchronized Spandau machine guns.
A line of holes perforated the SPAD’s fuselage. The last bullet shattered the small windscreen, and a sudden sting told Bonnet he’d been grazed as well.
He pulled back hard on the stick, kicking to full throttle as the SPAD climbed high into the clouds. Maybe he could hide away from this German flier, who seemed to be able to match his every move. He banked the biplane toward the Lafayette Escadrille aerodrome just outside Verdun, squinting through the clouds for a landmark below. Stede knew the green plane and black Iron Cross insignia belonged to German ace Hans Heinrich, and he felt sick, because Heinrich was a pilot known for enforcing kills in the air. Whereas many pilots considered themselves gentlemen and would only shoot to disable enemy planes, allowing the pilots to survive, Heinrich always went for a total kill.
Stede felt wet on his neck and reached up to wipe blood onto the fingers of his gloves. His goggles were cracked on the left side, probably from the piece of windscreen which had impacted his head as it was blown apart by the German machine guns. Blood ran from a wound on his forehead and cheek, above and below the broken goggles.
Lifting the goggles to his leather flight cap, Stede strained to see ahead, but the lack of windscreen and functional eye protection already had his vision murky with tears.
He dove, deciding it best to take his chances while still able to read the landmarks below. The Fokker was immediately behind him, spraying the SPAD with another line of bullet holes. The Hispano-Suiza V8 engine sputtered and revved, sputtered and revved, and Stede knew immediately that the fuel line had been hit. He hauled left and right on the stick, jinking and weaving as Heinrich closed for the kill.
Suddenly a blue S.E.5 with British wing markings came screaming out of the sun above Heinrich, opening up with the staccato harmony of a Vickers machine gun and a top-wing-mounted Lewis gun. The Fokker erupted in smoke and fire, Heinrich struggling to maintain control of his plane as flames leaped into the cockpit. Another burst of gunfire from the S.E.5 tore through Heinrich himself, ensuring he would not feel the fire nor the impact as his plane spiraled down in smoldering wreckage.
Stede glanced to his left. Blood was seeping into his left eye, but he could just make out the pilot of the British plane. A square-jawed six-footer saluted him and drifted back to fly escort until Stede got his failing plane close to home. Then the British plane was gone.
Stede Bonnet followed up with the other Allied squadrons, asking after the blue S.E.5 and its pilot. He’d managed to get a name: Jack McGraw, the pilot they called “Captain Stratosphere” for his tactics, which sounded quite like the pilot he’d encountered. Jack had likewise found the pale yellow SPAD with the black skull markings to belong to Lieutenant Stede Bonnet with the Escadrille Américaine. The two men had come close to meeting over the next few months, but then the RAF No. 32 Squadron was reassigned back to England after the Armistice, and McGraw with it. For two pilots who had only met briefly in the skies over France, each ended the war knowing quite a bit about the other.
# # #
The tavern was like a swashbuckler movie set. Stucco outside, exposed brick within, wrought-iron candle lanterns on the walls and hanging from the ceiling beams—strong enough to swing on, Jack thought. Fishermen and pilots mixed with the local prostitutes, and a one-eyed bartender pulled frothy beers from wooden casks behind the bar. Rum bottles—of a locally-made and unmarked variety—lined the shelves above.
Doc felt as if she’d wandered into a Robert Louis Stevenson novel.
Stede, Jack and Doc sat at a quiet corner table. The trio occasionally got a discerning look from one of the patrons, but nobody messed with Stede Bonnet, pirate admiral of the skies.
A small monkey scampered among the three, taking the occasional scrap of food or nip of rum from Stede’s glass.
Stede was catching his guests up on his transition out of the French military.
“So when the war ended,” he explained, “most of us found a distinct lack of opportunity out here in the islands. There weren’t any jobs before the war, after all. I don’t know what I thought would be different.” He took a gulp from the glass, swallowing hard. “So we cobbled together this flying flotilla and made our own opportunity.”
“What about running mail or passenger service?” Jack asked.
“We do that too,” Stede nodded. “But the legal jobs are few, and they don’t pay well.”
The monkey suddenly climbed up on Doc’s shoulder and began to groom her, combing through her hair for anything edible.
Stede laughed. “It would appear you’ve become the new best friend of Jake-in-Irons.”
Doc grinned as the monkey dug into her hair. “What a jolly pirate name,” she said.
“We took him from a South African poacher who sailed into our jurisdiction,” Stede said. “It seemed appropriate.” He tipped back another sip of rum. “But enough about me. What brings you to my island, Captain?”
Jack leaned forward on his elbows. “What else,” he asked, “but the end of the world?”
They sat and talked for another hour, telling Stede the story of Aleister Crowley and the Silver Star, of the mysterious Luftpanzer, of the assassinations of Vincenzo DiMarco and Dirk Starr, and the origin of AEGIS and the airship Daedalus. When they were finished, Stede leaned back in the corner, tossing a shot of rum back and mulling over this new information.
He glanced back and forth at Jack and Doc, finally sitting forward. “That’s quite a tale,” he said.
“God’s own truth, Stede.” Jack ran a hand through his hair and noticed it was matted with sweat. The Caribbean was a region where you just accepted you were going to be wet at all times with seawater, rain, sweat, or a combination of all three.
Jake-in-Irons had passed out, belly full and distended, in Doc’s lap. She spoke softly so as not to wake him.
“We think the Luftpanzer might be on its way to Haiti,” she suggested. “Possibly to acquire the Cross of Cadiz.”
Stede leaned back again, holding the small pewter mug with three fingers. “Doc,” he said, “I might not go in for all of that occult mumbo jumbo, but the bottom line is that Jack here saved my life. So ‘end of the world’ or no, Bonnet’s Brigands will give the Daedalus crew safe passage within our skies, and we’ll help you whenever we can.”
He offered the mug to Jack, who toasted with his own. “Thank you, dear friend.”
Then the sky above West End became suddenly dark, and a behemoth descended from the clouds. The bar began to clear, and Deadeye burst into the tavern from the street outside.
“Captain!” he shouted. “Picked up a huge signal—Duke thinks it’s the Luftpanzer!”
The plaintive wail of an emergency siren rose above the confusion of patrons scattering. Stede rose from the table and headed for the front entrance. “They must be close,” he said.
Jack and Doc met Deadeye at the door.
“Take Doc back to the ship,” Jack ordered. “I’ll be there as fast as I can.”
The first explosion tore through the bottle glass window of the tavern, knocking the four to the ground.
Stede was up immediately, rushing outside—and taking the door off its hinges in the process. Another explosion rocked the town center, then another, then another. The old cobblestone streets were strewn with ceramic roof tiles and chunks of plaster. Parts of at least six bodies poked up through the rubble.
“They’re bombing us!” Stede bellowed, furious. He took off down the street, Jack following behind.
“Doc! Over here!” Deadeye grabbed Doc by the shoulder, hauling her toward the small electric motorcycle parked near the outside tavern door. The Dugdale had a lightweight aluminum frame and a bolt-on sidecar, which wasn’t much more than a folding baby carriage with an armor plate at the front. Deadeye jumped into the saddle, switching on the underpowered electric engine. Doc stumbled into the sidecar, finding an uncomfortable seat on a honeycombed piece of metal.
T
he bike pulled away with a whine, just as another bomb impacted the street, sending chunks of dirt, cobblestones and 300-year-old tar into the air in front of them. Deadeye struggled to keep the motorcycle upright, almost spilling them both as the front fork caught a pothole and flipped sideways. He readjusted in the air and the bike came down hard, rubber tires squeaking on the cobbles.
Doc grunted with the impact. “Oof! I was never thrilled with the Dugdale,” she said.
Deadeye revved the electric motor to full throttle, slaloming down the main street to the harbor, dodging bombs and debris. “It’s light, it’s fast, and it’ll get us back to the ship,” he said.
Two streets to the west, Jack caught up with Stede. The pirate was heading toward a pier that branched off from the main dock, where a couple of Sopwith Babies floated at the wharf.
“Got a spare kite you could let me fly?” Jack asked.
“Thought you’d never ask,” Stede replied. “This way—to the north dock!”
The two men scampered over a low retaining wall and down across a spit of sand to the makeshift air harbor, where Stede jumped into the Revenge gondola, casting off the dock ties immediately.
Jack undid a dock line on a Sopwith Baby, climbed into the cockpit and hit the ignition. He thrilled as the Clerget rotary engine spun to life, and he shoved a piece of Black Jack gum into his mouth as he pulled away into the water of the harbor. He did a quick visual check of the flaps and rudder as he pulled the radio headset from its cubby and taxied into the bay to take off.
The Revenge had 600 feet of altitude on him before he was off the water.
Jack put on the Resistal goggles he’d brought along, grabbing the pinch-call on the radio. “Captain McGraw to Daedalus,” he said. “Climb as high as you can. Get out of the area. Defend the ship if necessary, but do not engage. We’ll handle the Luftpanzer!”
The frequency was already abuzz with pirate chatter, wondering what kind of ship could appear out of the clouds and bomb their town. Most of the pirate seaplanes had already scrambled aloft and were racing to engage the attacker.
