by Steve Cole
“So here we are, flying a Nazi plane in broad daylight, heading for London,” said Bo sourly. “We might as well hold up a big sign saying, Shoot us down, please!”
“I only hope Odette makes it through in her helicopter,” said McMoo. “My plan won’t work without her.”
Pat sighed. It was a pretty wild plan even by the professor’s standards. He knew it might not work even if Odette did make it through.
“Mind out of the way, Pat,” said Bo, squinting into her rear-view mirror. “Someone’s coming up behind us. Is that Odette?”
McMoo looked for himself. “No,” he said gravely. “It’s a Nazi fighter plane, and it looks like it’s going to attack!” Suddenly, the rattle of guns pounded out over the roar of the engine, and McMoo groaned. “You know, every now and then, I wish I could be wrong for once!”
“So do I,” said Bo, banking sharply to the right to avoid the gunfire. “Hang on!”
As they swooped crazily through the sky, Pat glimpsed a flash of steel and four glowing eyes in the cockpit of the enemy plane. “The ter-moo-nators!” he cried, transfixed with fear. “They must have had a plane hidden at the farmhouse.”
“I’ll see if I can lose them!” Bo yanked back hard on the control stick. Pat’s stomach lurched as the plane performed a steep climbing turn to the left. Bullets zinged through the blue sky around them.
“Hang on,” warned Bo. “Looks like more planes up ahead.”
Pat saw them – a squadron of seven, painted shades of green in camouflage patterns with a big target on the side. “They’re Hurricanes, aren’t they, Professor? Like the one we saw at the air show.”
“Only these planes will be firing real bullets,” said McMoo. “And they think we are the enemy!”
“Caught between the British and the Nazis,” cried Bo as Hurricane bullets zipped through the air in fierce flashes. “We haven’t got a chance!”
Chapter Eleven
SHOT DOWN FOR THE SHOWDOWN
Bo pushed forward on the control stick. “I’ll try to cut underneath them and get on their tails,” she bellowed. “They can’t shoot us if we’re behind them!”
The plane plunged into a spin. “Whoaaaaa!” wailed Pat.
“I definitely prefer travel by Time Shed!” McMoo agreed.
By now, England was green and bright below them. Bo sent the plane climbing up again in a tight circle. Pat saw five of the Hurricanes bank away from them.
“Hey, most of the Hurricanes are attacking the ter-moo-nators’ plane!” said Bo.
“It’s got bigger guns,” shouted McMoo over the scream of the engine. “It’s more of a threat than we are.”
“But there are still three planes after us!” Pat yelled. More bullets pinged past the cockpit as the nearest Hurricane dived towards them.
“They’re aiming for our engines to bring us down,” McMoo cried. “And we’re still a good ten minutes away from London!”
But suddenly, the attacking Hurricane dropped away with black smoke pouring from its side. The pilot ejected and soon had his parachute open.
“Luckily for us, T-23 is a rubbish shot,” said McMoo grimly. “He tried to get us but he hit the Hurricane!”
“If we can just hold out a little longer,” said Pat desperately.
“I’m working on it,” Bo assured him. “But what am I supposed to do when we reach the secret base? Land on the roof?”
“Oh, dear.” McMoo looked shifty. “I was so busy worrying about getting here, I forgot to worry about landing!”
Suddenly, a shadow fell over them. “Oh, no!” cried Pat. “Hurricane right above us!”
“And another close behind,” McMoo realized. Their plane shook as bullets pumped into its body. A flap of metal burst away from the side like a big black bird launching into flight. “That was our engine cover!”
The roar of the plane’s motors soon sounded sickly. “We’re losing speed!” Bo groaned as the plane started to dip. “I think we’re going to crash!”
“We’re not far from the secret base now.” McMoo pointed down at a grey ribbon of water. “That’s the river Thames. Try to crash there away from any of the boats so no one will get hurt.”
“No one?” Bo gulped. “What about us?”
The engines were screaming as the plane spiralled down towards the river. Pat’s stomach kept flipping like a pancake. “We’d better get ready to use our parachutes,” he said.
“Everyone ready?” demanded McMoo. Pat and Bo nodded. “Eject!”
BANG! The plexiglass cover of the cockpit burst away and Pat found himself falling upwards! He pulled on the ripcord and the parachute opened with a whoosh of white canvas.
Then – KA-SPLOOOSH! The aircraft splashed down in the murky water of the Thames and a huge plume of spray rose up like a fountain. Several boats nearby were drenched but no one was hurt. Pat breathed a sigh of relief as he, Bo and McMoo floated down over the roads beside the riverbank.
“We made it!” cheered Bo.
“But look,” said Pat suddenly, staring down. Dozens of soldiers and air-raid wardens and even ordinary people were gathering below, pointing and shouting and waving any weapons they could lay their hands on. “That mob think we are Nazis trying to invade. They’re going to get us!”
The C.I.A. agents landed with a bump in a busy street. Cars screeched to a halt, honking their horns. The angry crowd surged towards them, led by the soldiers. Pat covered his eyes and waited for the worst to happen . . .
But then he heard a familiar voice: “It’s all right, everyone. They aren’t Nazis, even if they were in a Nazi plane. They are friends of Winston Churchill himself!”
Pat opened his eyes. “Captain Walker!”
“Yay!” Bo ran over and gave the soldier a big kiss on the cheek. “Are we ever glad to see you!”
“I’m glad you’re all back in one piece,” said Walker, blushing. “But I’m surprised you let Doctor Von Gonk travel by himself. Did something go wrong?”
Bo nodded. “Just about everything!”
“I thought so,” Walker continued. “I opened every other crate, but each one was stuffed full of butter – and Von Gonk insisted on taking the whole lot to the secret base with him!”
“Uh-oh,” said Pat. “Brand-new Butter-Bot, here we come!”
“Walker, the man you think is Von Gonk is an impostor,” said McMoo breathlessly. “He must be stopped!”
Walker stared. “Are you sure?”
“Duh!” yelled Bo. “That’s why we whizzed back to warn you!”
“We must tell Mr Churchill quickly,” said McMoo. “Where is he?”
“He’s at the base,” said Walker, pale-faced. “Watching the demonstration of Von Gonk’s amazing new weapon. We’d better find him right away!”
“First, you must tell the Royal Air Force not to attack a Nazi helicopter that’s on its way here,” McMoo told him. “It’s vital – Sir Ivor Throbswitch and the real Doctor Von Gonk are on board with Odette LaBarmer.”
“Well, strike me pink and call me a kipper!” said Walker, scratching his head as he turned to one of his men. “Sergeant Smith, take care of it.”
“Yes, sir,” said Smith, hurrying off to obey.
“Professor,” hissed Pat, “what about T-23 and his metal mate?”
“Looks like the air force has already got them well under control,” said McMoo, pointing upwards.
The Hurricanes had all ganged up on the Nazi plane, circling it tightly and forcing it into a nose-dive. Two metallic figures ejected as the plane made another safe but noisy splashdown in the Thames. As the waters foamed and bubbled over the sunken craft, T-23 and the fake Sir Ivor parachuted slowly through the air, ready to land a few streets away. The angry crowd dashed off to confront the new arrivals, and the soldiers went with them.
“My men will take care of that parachuting pair and bring them in double-quick,” said Walker. “Now, come on!”
He led the way to the secret base beneath the building on the b
usy street. Soon, Pat, Bo and McMoo were following him down the stairs to the secret weapons-testing centre in the heart of the building. Waving aside a gaggle of guards, Walker opened the doors and crept into the enormous chamber beyond . . .
Pat grimaced, and Bo gasped. There was an identical Butter-Bot rampaging in the middle of the vast chamber. It was in “fridge-hard” mode, crushing an armoured car like a human would crush an old tin can. Churchill and a small group of British bigwigs were watching with excitement as the fake Von Gonk – in reality a ter-moo-nator – twisted the buttons on his remote control.
“He’s the same one who chucked me off the boat,” Bo whispered to Pat. “His name’s T-60!”
“Thank you, Von Gonk,” said Churchill gravely as the Butter-Bot stopped still. “This is a fine weapon—”
“Stop the test!” shouted McMoo, charging across the room between the Butter-Bot’s enormous legs, with Pat and Bo close behind him. “That is not the real Von Gonk, and this weapon will destroy us all. It’s all a trick!”
Churchill rose sternly from his seat. His observers whispered among themselves in confusion.
“Von Gonk” himself – Ter-moo-nator T-60 – spun round to face the professor. “It is you,” he growled.
“True,” said McMoo. “But it isn’t you!”
So saying, he swiped T-60’s ringblender. Churchill gasped, and the bigwigs yelped as the robo-bull was revealed.
“I don’t believe it!” cried Churchill, his face going dark with fury. “Von Gonk was a metal monster all along!”
Bo tried to grab T-60’s remote control but he kicked her aside and she fell into McMoo. Pat lunged forward to grab the device himself . . .
But suddenly, huge sticky fingers closed around his body. The Butter-Bot had grabbed him!
T-60 laughed and twisted a dial on the remote. “You wanted to stop my demonstration,” he jeered. “Now you will become part of it!”
Pat gasped and struggled as he was lifted helplessly high up into the air. The Butter-Bot’s huge red eye glared down at him as its creamy yellow fingers started to squeeze . . .
Chapter Twelve
THE FINAL, BUTTERY BATTLE
Pat struggled for breath as the Butter-Bot’s grip grew tighter and tighter. He saw the onlookers down below staring in horror. But what had happened to Mr Churchill . . .?
Then McMoo’s voice rang commandingly across the hall. “Don’t bother with small-fry, T-60!” he boomed. “Your plan may have failed, but you can still capture this country’s leader. While you’re wasting time, he’s getting away!”
Pat frowned – then saw what he meant. Bo was dragging Churchill by his sleeve out of the testing room . . .
The next moment, Pat found himself slung to the floor like a sack of spuds. “Oof!” he gasped.
The Butter-Bot picked up T-60 instead. “McMoo is right,” the ter-moo-nator snarled, fiddling with the remote. “The rest of you can wait – but Churchill must be mine. After him, my Butter-Bot!”
The buttery monster clomped away, covering the length of the enormous room in three mighty strides. McMoo helped Pat up and dusted him down.
“You fool, McMoo,” said Captain Walker crossly. “Thanks to you, Mr Churchill is in direct danger!”
“It’s all part of my plan, Walker,” said McMoo, hopping about with excitement. “Bo is using Churchill to lure that monster outside – but everything depends on Odette arriving in time.” He charged off after the Butter-Bot. “Come on, then!”
Pat and Walker followed him, hurtling up the steps four at a time and trying not to slip on the creature’s buttery footprints. By the time they got upstairs to ground level, the Butter-Bot was surging out into the street beyond.
Pat burst through the doors after the professor and Walker. Turning to the left, he stared in horror. Sergeant Smith and his men were marching T-23 and the fake Sir Ivor down the crowded street. But the Butter-Bot bore down on the soldiers and flicked them away, before scooping up the two F.B.I. agents in its free hand. People ran for their lives.
“Ha!” T-23 stared down at McMoo from his buttery vantage point. “Once we have captured Churchill we shall squish you all!”
Pat turned to his right and saw Bo scattering people in all directions, carrying the British leader away in a fireman’s lift. She was running at an incredible speed, but the Butter-Bot was already looming up behind.
“Come on,” muttered McMoo, staring frantically up at the sky. “Come on, come on, come on . . .”
Then, suddenly, a huge helicopter zoomed overhead, escorted by a couple of Hurricanes. The Nazi symbols on the ’copter’s side had been painted over with red, white and blue stripes and a funny red cross in the middle – the flag of the Free French.
McMoo punched the air. “Yes!”
The Hurricanes flew away and left the helicopter hovering above the street. The crowds of panicking people stopped running and stared up in amazement. So did Bo and Churchill. Even the Butter-Bot paused while its F.B.I. masters checked out this new arrival.
Then the helicopter doors opened to reveal Odette LaBarmer at the controls – and the real Sir Ivor Throbswitch and Dr Von Gonk behind her! They started to drop hundreds of thin brown squares down into the street below.
“People of London, don’t be afraid!” McMoo bellowed. “That’s bread falling from the sky. I know it’s normally rationed, but today it’s all free. Loads and loads of fresh free bread!”
An old woman picked up a couple of slices and licked her lips. “He’s right!”
“Yes!” A man started dancing a little jig. “It’s raining bread!”
McMoo stabbed a hoof at the Butter-Bot. “And that thing is made of solid butter,” he yelled. “Look! It’s trying to squish your brave prime minister. And only you can stop it. Because bread is butter’s natural enemy – and those nice people up there are giving you enough to mop up every last blob of it.”
“Go on, my friends,” called Churchill, encouraging the crowd. “Tuck in!”
The bread kept on tumbling down from the helicopter. Hundreds of slices were already sticking to the Butter-Bot’s body.
“Stay back,” T-23 warned the gathering crowds.
But one little boy scooped up some of the Butter-Bot’s foot with a crusty slice. “Delicious!” he said. “I haven’t had as much butter as that in a fortnight!”
And suddenly, everyone charged towards the Butter-Bot!
“Attack!” cried T-60, pressing buttons on his remote. The Butter-Bot lifted one foot to crush the crowd, but it was too slow – already a flurry of fingers were clawing huge lumps from its sole and guzzling them down with tasty chunks of bread. The people’s food had been rationed for nine months – and here was the biggest free meal they had ever seen!
“Hang on,” yelled Sir Ivor. “We’ve got some French toast here somewhere too!”
Word spread even faster than the butter, and men, women and especially children came pouring in from other streets all around. The Butter-Bot was being whittled away. People were clambering all over it like ants on an ant hill. Even “fridge-hard” it could no longer defend itself – not while it held the ter-moo-nators in its buttery fists. And it wasn’t long before T-23 and his ter-moo-nator friends were wrenched away from safety by hungry hands and half trampled by the mob.
“Curse you, McMoo!” squawked T-23. He pulled a flat silver time-travel machine from underneath his chest-plate and stood on it with his fellow ter-moo-nators. “Our plans have failed,” he growled. “Mission abort! Recall! Mission aborrrrt!”
The three robo-bulls faded away in a cloud of black smoke. But the hungry crowd, busy scoffing the last sticky traces of the Butter-Bot, never noticed a thing.
“The F.B.I. has given up!” Pat cheered. “They’ve gone back to their own time.”
Bo appeared, carrying Winston Churchill on her shoulders and smiling. “Blimey, Professor. Your plan actually worked!”
“So it has!” McMoo grinned. “Believe me, Bo – no one is
more surprised than I am!”
Odette LaBarmer’s helicopter landed on the roof high above the underground base. Pat, Bo and McMoo were waiting with Captain Walker and Churchill. As Odette wearily flopped out of the ’copter, McMoo grabbed her in a hug. Pat and Bo helped Sir Ivor and Dr Von Gonk down so that Churchill could shake their hands. In the street far below, the people were still cheering and celebrating their good fortune.
“Professor,” Pat asked quietly, “what about all those tiny computer chips they’ve eaten with the butter?”
“Perfectly harmless in the 1940s,” McMoo assured him. “But if it happened in the 1980s, they would switch TV channels every time they burped!”
Churchill greeted Odette warmly. “You are a very brave woman, my dear,” he told her. “You have fought not only Nazis, but monsters both sticky and mechanical. Will you rest with us in Britain for a while?”
“I cannot, sir,” Odette told him in halting English. “Not until the people of France are free.” She frowned. “Also, I think I left the oven on!”
Churchill smiled. “We shall smuggle you back to your bakery with much flour and yeast to make up for all you have used this glorious day.” He turned to Sir Ivor and Von Gonk. “And you, gentlemen – will you stay?”
Sir Ivor nodded. “We want to work together to make the world a better place for everybody, wherever they are.”
“And so we shall no longer make weapons for anyone,” said Von Gonk firmly. “Instead, we shall work on better ways to heal the wounded on both sides.”
A smile settled on Churchill’s craggy features. “Gentlemen, I fear we shall not know peace for many years. But when it comes, fine people like you shall ensure it is a lasting one.”
