In the Shadow of Falcon's Wings

CHAPTER 19 FINAL FLIGHT

Dodge’s heart plummeted like a stone. They had failed.

A procession of evils that he imagined would be unleashed by this defeat paraded through his mind, not the least of which was their own fate. They were thousands of miles from any form of civilization, and at the exoskeletons’ top speed it would take days for them to reach safety — days in which they would be without food or water. An outcry from Hurley jolted him out of his anguish.

“There’s another plane down there.”

He looked, but lacking Hurricane’s sharp eyes, did not see it until nearly a minute later. His inability to distinguish the aircraft did not owe so much to any shortcoming of his eyesight, but rather the plane’s diminutive size. When compared to the enormous X-314, the little bi-plane being tossed about in the swells looked like a bothersome gnat.

“It’s the Duck,” Hobbs declared.

Dodge kicked himself for having surrendered so quickly to despair; of course there was another plane. Their foe could not have come so far without one. And while the Grumman JF didn’t have the same range as the larger Boeing, it was just as fast. The race was not over yet.

Their final approach to the small amphibious craft was unexpectedly nerve-wracking. Salt spray sizzled against their energy shields as they hovered above the pitching plane. To avoid getting electrocuted by a rogue wave, they took a stationary position above the wings, and when the plane rose to the crest of a swell, each man in turn deactivated his exoskeleton and dropped the remaining distance onto the fuselage. Without the protective bubble of the force field, the freezing cold ocean spray and wintry air chilled them to the bone instantaneously.

Once they were safely down, Dodge pushed back the canopy and slid into the pilot’s well, while his companions squeezed into the observer’s compartment. It took him only a moment to familiarize himself with the switches and levers in the cockpit; though radically different from Boeing, the Duck’s control mechanisms were much simpler than those in the larger plane. After a moment of searching, he found the switch that started the lone Wright Cyclone engine.

His takeoff was nothing to be proud of. The plane yawed and banked dangerously close to the turbulent sea as he over-corrected again and again, but once clear of the swells, he quickly learned where a feather touch was required, and adjusted the flaps and propellers to pull the little biplane aloft.

Hurley guided him onto the track of the X-314, now too distant to be observed in the night sky, and Dodge took the plane as high as he dared to get above the weather and increase visibility. He kept the throttle wide open, pushing the nine-cylinder engine into the red. The fuselage shuddered violently from the torque of prolonged excessive exertion, but Dodge saw no alternative. The race would not be won with caution.

They spied the larger plane’s running lights ten minutes later, a twinkling pinpoint too nimble to be a star on the horizon. Taking it as an omen that their fortunes were finally changing for the better, Dodge wrestled another five knots from the Cyclone engine and threw the aircraft into a dive that yielded two more. As focused as he was on the pursuit, Dodge kept one wary eye on the fuel gauge. It had registered less than half a tank when they had first reached the Duck; now they were down to nearly a quarter-tank. Although they were finally creeping up on their foe, there would be only a narrow window of opportunity to act before they ran out of fuel and plunged into the sea.

He looked over his shoulder to direct his voice back to the rear cockpit. “When we get close enough, try to shoot out the engines. If we can force them to land, maybe we’ll have a chance.”

The only response was an affirmative from each man. As dangerous as the suggestion sounded — especially to the hostages aboard — both men were soldiers and knew better than to question an order from their leader. For better or worse, they had chosen that role for him, and now they were bound to that decision.

As the silhouette of the enormous flying boat gradually materialized ahead of them, Hurley pushed the cowling back and leaned out one side of the plane, Hobbs the other. Dodge felt a faint crackle of energy as they activated their exoskeletons. He climbed the Duck up above the Boeing then angled down to give them the best field of fire. His fingers were tight on the control stick as he made his first attack run.

Twin bolts of lightning lanced out ahead of the Duck and scored hits on both of the Boeing’s starboard engines. The inboard propeller continued to spin, evidently undamaged, but the outboard nacelle flared brightly and immediately began to stream smoke.

Dodge pulled back on the yoke and took the plane up to assess the results of the assault and prepare for a second run, but before as he rolled the plane onto its side, a tongue of white energy lashed up from the top of the larger aircraft — from the observatory window designed to allow the pilots to navigate by the stars — and flashed across their path.

“Damn!” he raged, reversing the roll, to peel away from the lightning bolt even as it vanished. He had hoped that the plane’s occupants would not immediately attribute the engine failure to any hostile act, but it seemed such was not the case. To make matters worse, the Boeing did not appear to be losing speed or altitude.

Another volley of lightning speared into the heavens, forcing Dodge to live up to his nickname. The Duck danced to and fro above the X-314, but nonetheless took a glancing hit that left a black streak on the fuselage. Dodge threw the agile aircraft into a dive that took it out of the range of their foe’s weapon, but a second shooter lurking just beyond the side hatch quickly took up the slack.

Hurley returned fire as Dodge twisted away from this new attack, and his lightning bolt left scorched aluminum across the side of the plane and forced the mercenary there to retreat from his position. It was only a brief reprieve; soon multiple bursts of electricity were arcing all around them. Dodge hauled back on the yoke and then rolled the plane over halfway through the loop — without knowing it, he had performed a maneuver known among barnstormers as an Immelmann turn — to change the direction of the plane, after which he retreated to an area of relative safety above and behind the larger plane.

“What now?” Hurricane shouted.

Dodge racked his brain for an answer. Their firepower was equal to the enemy’s and their ability to evade was far superior, but like the whalers in a longboat, it would only take a single unlucky swipe of the behemoth’s tail to destroy them, whereas the flying boat could withstand a lot of punishment. He circled back and contemplated the metaphor. The difference in their struggle was that they didn’t desire the death of the great metal beast; they wanted to get inside it. Dodge felt faintly ill when he realized what he was going to have to do. He took a deep breath, buckled the clasp on his own exoskeleton, and then shouted over his shoulder again. “Hang on! And be ready to move!”

He tried to think about what he was doing in familiar terms, sports terms. This was like football, and he was the quarterback forced to tackle an opposing linebacker who had recovered a fumble. It was going to hurt…a lot…but if he didn’t do it, no one could. He pushed the stick forward and charged.

Lighting stabbed out from the top of the larger plane and lanced head-on into the Duck. The engine flared brightly as the bolt incinerated hoses and set fire to the oil and fuel, and in an instant the cockpit filled with acrid smoke. But the electrical discharge could not stop or alter what Dodge had set in motion.

The smaller plane dove like a peregrine falcon on a fat pigeon. It swooped down onto the tail section of the X-314 and plowed into the airframe. The still spinning propeller blades, with the smoking mass of the ruined engine block behind them, chewed through the aluminum skin like it was tissue paper. With a cacophony of metal tearing apart, the Duck smashed into the cabin of the larger plane.

The difference in speed between the two was perhaps only ten miles an hour, but neither craft was designed to withstand a mid-air collision. The wings of the biplane snapped off, but not before carving halfway through the tail of the flying boat. What little fuel remained in the Grumman’s tank sprayed out onto the flight deck as a broken support beam gutted its underbelly, and a spark from the smoldering engine set it alight.

Through it all, the Boeing seemed not to have felt the blow. Aside from a tremor at the moment of impact, the big aircraft continued to lumber forward undaunted. Nevertheless, as the flames sprang up in the tail section further damaging the weakened skeleton of the beast, the inevitability of the experimental plane’s demise became certain; both aircraft were doomed.

The indefatigable Hurricane Hurley was the first to emerge from the wreckage. Shaken but unhurt, he tore himself free of the crumpled cockpit and came out ready to fight. Though he still wore the exoskeleton, some primitive impulse caused him to brandish his fists rather than the lightning weapon.

One of the mercenaries, the one that had taken a station at the side door, turned to meet his charge and he did not eschew the use of the ancient technology. Lightning sizzled through the smoky air, striking Hurley’s shield in a dazzling discharge, but ultimately caused no injury to the raging giant. Hurricane’s monstrous hands however, were far more effective. His punches did not penetrate the other man’s shield, but the force of the blow sent the unlucky Afrikaaner bouncing around the interior of the craft. As he tumbled away, Hurley slipped a hand through the force field and seized the man’s ankle, after which he whipped the unfortunate soldier of fortune around and pitched him headlong toward the wreckage of the biplane. The man bounced off the broken Grumman, and then vanished through the breach, sucked out into the darkness.

The crash had crumpled the lightweight frame of the biplane like a child’s balsa wood glider, but Dodge’s exoskeleton had protected him at the moment of impact. Nevertheless, it wasn’t until Hurricane broke free of the wreckage that he and Hobbs were able to extricate themselves. By the time they escaped, the entire tail section of the plane was ablaze. Fighting through the flames, they reached Hurley’s side at almost exactly the same moment that two more mercenaries came forward to challenge them.

Dodge saw Molly and the President, now bound hand and foot near the ladder that led up to the flight deck. Before he could take a step toward them, electric bolts began sizzling back and forth in the enclosed space.

Dodge joined the fight this time, adding the electrical energy from his gauntlets to Hobbs’ attack on one of their foes. The man’s shield crumpled under the combined assault and a final lightning blast sent him careening senseless into a bulkhead. Hurricane meanwhile engaged the remaining threat using the same methods that had defeated his earlier foe. It was over in seconds.

Dodge felt a surge of elation as he raced over to the hostages and began loosening their bonds; his insane suicide attack on the other airplane had worked! Yet he knew better than to count the outcome of this battle as victory in the war; their nemesis had yet to make an appearance and Dodge didn’t believe for a second that the hooded villain would let them simply slip away.

“Hell of a plan!” chortled Hurricane, as he and Hobbs joined the group. “But how did you figure on getting away?”

“We fly,” Dodge answered grimly. “We can carry them between us. It’s not the best idea in the world, but it’s all I’ve got.”

“Then we’d better get moving,” suggested Hobbs. “This bird is about to come apart at the seams.”

As if to underscore his dire prophecy, a strange vibration began to shiver through the aircraft followed by an animal-like shriek as the weakened tail section began to sag under its own weight. The deformity was just enough to alter the flow of wind around the plane’s aerodynamic profile. Dodge managed to snare Molly with one outflung arm and drew her into the protective field, but there was nothing to anchor them in place. The enormous aircraft began to undulate through the sky and the hapless passengers were tossed around like so much chaff. The violent, chaotic heaving further weakened the damaged section, and after only a few seconds the entire tail of the Boeing tore free and fell away into the night.

It was the beginning of the end. Suddenly unbalanced, the enormous plane nosed over and began to spiral downward. The corkscrew turning threw the battered passengers against the sides of the cabin and centrifugal force held them fast. The crazed carnival ride lasted only a few moments however, and then the intensity of the spin began to diminish and along with it, the noise of the three remaining engines.

Hobbs was the first to divine the import of this. He understood that up on the flight deck their arch-foe had switched off the engines to slow their deadly descent. The plane was now gliding in the same uncontrollable spin; not quite dropping like a stone, but still doomed to crash. Worse, there could be only one reason for their enemy to cut power: he was preparing to attack. “We have to go! Now!”

But his warning came too late. Before he could move, a pillar of violet fire transfixed him like an insect on a pin.

The energy bolt tore through his force field like it didn’t exist and the full fury of the blast crashed into his chest. Hobbs’ entire body jerked rigidly, enveloped within a corona of electricity, and he collapsed in a heap. Even after the lightning ceased, sparks of energy continued to coruscate along his extremities like rivulets of water, and wisps of smoke issued from his hair and clothing. From where he crouched, still hugging Molly and too dizzy from the spin to rise, Dodge saw no indication that the Padre still drew breath.

“No!” Molly tore free of Dodge’s grasp and half-crawled across the deck. She cradled her father’s lifeless head in her lap, oblivious to both the fire now creeping through the plane and the impending crash.

Hurricane seemed likewise unaware of these imminent dangers. He gazed at the stricken priest, rage boiling behind his eyes, and then focused on the source of the lethal attack. The hooded figure stood imperiously at the top of the ladder, wielding his metal staff like the god he claimed to be.

If he was intimidated by the display, Hurley didn’t let it show. Instead, he lashed out with a two-fisted lightning attack of his own, even as he started running toward the ladder.

The cloaked villain gave a maniacal laugh then leaped from his perch, easily avoiding the electrical arcs, to land on his feet directly in Hurley’s path. Hurricane tried to react to the unexpected maneuver but he was too slow. The dark god sidestepped and then lashed out with the lightning rod, using it like a cudgel, to hammer Hurley in the kidneys.

His momentum and the fierce pain of the blow, which passed effortlessly through the energy shield, caused Hurricane to stumble out of control into the ladder. He caromed from the sturdy rungs and rebounded back into the villain’s clutches. The staff came down again, and although Hurley managed to throw up his left arm to parry, the blow connected with the intensity of a bomb blast. There was a burst of light from inside the ineffective energy bubble as Hurricane’s forearm snapped, and then the full force of the dark god’s weapon blasted against his torso and propelled him backwards down the length of the cabin, through the gaping hole where the tail section had been, and out into the night.

Dodge alone remained to face the villain, and could only watch in mute horror as the triumphant foe stalked toward him.