Track of the Beast: A Brock Stone Adventure

8- The Dogfight

“What do you call this thing again?” Stone looked down at the strange suit he now wore. It was a set of coveralls made from a thin fabric that Alex assured him was exceptionally strong. Beneath each arm was a winglike membrane of the same fabric.

“I call it a soaring suit,” Alex said from the pilot’s seat. “Moses doesn’t like the name.”

“Neither do I,” Stone said. “How do we know it will support my weight?”

“The suit we’ve tried out,” Alex said. “Moses has flown in it and he weighs almost as much as you.”

“It was almost like really being able to fly,” Moses said. “Better than any parachute, that’s for sure.”

“It’s the boots that haven’t been flight tested,” Alex continued. “But we fired them up in the lab and they didn’t explode.”

“That’s comforting.” Stone cast a nervous glance at the heavy boots he wore. They were high, with thick soles. A tube ran from the back of each up to the canister he wore on his back. In his right hand he held a cylinder with a button on the end that would activate the boots.

“I recommend firing the burners in short bursts to conserve fuel,” Alex said. “You should have enough for about five minutes.”

“What happens when I run out?”

“You sail on down to the ground,” Moses said. “Just make sure you deal with that biplane before you do. Otherwise, it’s gonna be open season.”

“Thanks for that,” Stone said.

“Speaking of the biplane, we’re almost out of the clouds,” Alex said. “If you want the element of surprise, you’d better get a move on.”

“This had better work.”

“Relax,” Alex said. “I designed it, so you know it’ll run smoothly.”

“Like eggs in coffee,” Moses added.

“This is remarkable,” Constance said. “Like something out of Jules Verne.”

“It’s not that advance,” Alex said, his cheeks turning pink. “It’s based on work being done by several European inventors and scientists.”

“Alex figures out the science. I just help him make it run,” Moses said.

“You are both far too humble,” Constance said. “I am amazed at what you have done with the plane, the suit, and whatever you call these things.”

“Rocketboots,” Moses said.

Constance nodded and turned to Stone. “Be careful.”

Stone pulled on his goggles and grinned. “I don’t think that’s possible, considering what I’m about to do. But I’ll give it my best shot.”

Alex opened the hatch again and Stone climbed down the few rungs, holding on with all his might. The icy wind bit through him, and the cold moisture made it difficult to hold on. He was surrounded by impenetrable white mist.

Stone concentrated on his sharp sense of hearing. He mentally separated the rush of the wind from the roar of the Flying Wing’s engines. Then he picked out the higher-pitched drone of the Albatross. He focused on the sound until he was certain of its location. He locked in on the spot and opened his eyes.

The sky was brighter, the air growing warmer. They were leaving cloud cover. Stone tensed to spring. They broke out into open sky. Stone focused on the cloud bank until he saw the fighter plane’s silhouette appear.

And then he jumped.

He fanned his arms out and felt a sudden upward thrust as air filled the wings of the soaring suit. He really disliked that name. The biplane was emerging from the clouds and Stone angled toward it.

The pilot didn’t see him coming until Stone was nearly on top of him. Instinctively he opened fire. Stone gritted his teeth expecting a sharp burst of pain and certain death. But the pilot had no time to change his course and the rounds came nowhere close to the man in the flying suit. Unfortunately, Stone had aimed too high and he shot past the biplane. The pilot looked up as Stone passed him by.

Cursing, Stone adjusted the suit and began a long, slow turn. As he came about, he looked up to see that the biplane had maintained its course and was closing in on the Flying Wing. Alex was taking evasive action, but the transport lacked the speed and agility of the smaller plane. It was all up to Stone.

He completed his turn and locked in on the fighter. His heart skipped a beat as his thumb found the button that would ignite his rocketboots.

“Alex, I hate being your guinea pig,” he shouted. His voice was lost in the wind. Heart in his throat, he locked his legs as Moses had instructed him, and fired the burners.

A jolt of white-hot pain shot from his hips up his spine as he was hurled forward at high speed. In his ears, the scream of the wind rushing past him dueled with the sonic scream of the rocketboots. He felt his lips pushed back by the force of the air, baring his teeth in a rictus of adrenaline.

He released the button and adjusted his course so that he was following directly behind the fighter plane. Another burst of the rockets and in seconds he had closed half the distance between them. Still locked in on its target, the Albatross banked to the left as the gap between it and its quarry narrowed perilously. The pilot fired again and the rounds just missed the transport’s tail section. Distress twisted Stone’s gut. For a moment, he had been certain his friends were goners. It was time for an act of desperation.

Like a quarterback leading his receiver, Stone chose a path that would intersect with the banking aircraft, and hit the gas. He was hurtled forward like a bullet, so fast that the biplane seemed to be standing still. For a split-second Stone feared that he would overshoot his target. The pilot finally noticed him and let out a cry of alarm.

Everything seemed to happen in an instant. Stone released the gas. The pilot took his craft into a dive. Stone, inexperienced with the soaring suit, pressed his arms to his sides. He immediately began losing altitude. Too much altitude.

He soared beneath the fleeing biplane and slammed into its undercarriage. His breath left him, replaced by a flood of pain. The impact sent the plane into a barrel roll. Stone reached out in desperation and managed to hook his arms around the landing gear. The world somersaulted before him and he closed his eyes against the dizzying sight.

The engine whined and sputtered. The pilot spewed a stream of invective. Stone wondered if they would crash. And then he barked a laugh. The Albatross might crash, but thanks to the sailing suit, he didn’t have to go down with it. But no sooner had the thought come to him than the pilot brought the craft out of the roll and righted his course.

“Now what?” Stone said to himself. He was unarmed and clinging to the landing gear. He could do no good from here.

The pilot once again drew a bead on the Flying Wing. Stone’s collision with the biplane had gained the fleeing transport a few precious seconds, but not nearly enough. The fighter plane opened fire. From his position beneath the craft, Stone saw the rain of bullets seem to bend toward their target. A few more seconds and they would shred the transport plane to ribbons. Having no better idea, Stone flipped upside down and pressed the soles of his boots firmly against the plane at a spot he estimated to be underneath the pilot’s seat.

“This had better work.”

He activated the rockets. The impact nearly tore his shoulders from their sockets, but he held on to the landing gear with all his might. The average man would not have been able to maintain his grip, but Stone was not an average man. He held on with muscles that had been honed by years of strenuous training and enhanced in ways he didn’t like to think about. Pain burned through even as the rockets burned through the thin aluminum hull.

It was only seconds, but it felt like hours before the pilot let out a shriek of pure pain and terror. Stone released his grip on the landing gear and let himself fly free. As he sailed away, he glanced back to see the burning fighter plane tumbling toward the ground, leaving a trail of smoke behind him.

The pilot bailed out. He tumbled toward the ground, then activated his chute far too early. He hung there far above the ground as the strong wind began to carry him toward the distant mountains.

This was an opportunity Stone could not pass up. He turned and sailed toward the drifting pilot, who didn’t see him coming. Stone wrapped his arms around the man as they collided, pinning his arms to his sides. Immediately they began to fall, the parachute unable to support his weight.

“What are you doing? You’re going to kill us.” His words cut off in a gurgle as Stone wrapped a powerful hand around his neck.

“Listen carefully. You answer all my questions or I’ll cut your ropes and let you fall. Understand?” Stone didn’t have a knife on him, but the pilot didn’t know that. He nodded and Stone lessened his grip.

“Why did you attack our plane?”

“Orders,” the man grunted. “You’re being tracked. Pilots all over are on the lookout for you. If one of us spotted you, we were to report your location, then shoot you down, preferably somewhere witnesses wouldn’t see.”

“Who did your orders come from?”

“I don’t know.”

Stone once again tightened his grip on the man’s throat.

“He’s called the Warden.”

Stone frowned. “And who do his orders come from?”

“I can’t say for certain. He might have Senior Wardens above him. I wouldn’t know. Ultimately, we all take our orders from the Worshipful Master. And don’t bother asking his name. The only rumor I’ve ever heard about him is he’s a rich guy from back East. That’s all I know. I swear it.”

“Are you Freemasons?” Stone asked.

Even in this perilous situation, the pilot let out a braying laugh. “The Freemasons are children playing at a game they don’t understand.”

“Who are you, then?”

Without warning, the pilot threw his head backward. Pain burst across the bridge of Stone’s nose as skull collided with cartilage.

“That wasn’t very nice,” Stone said, blinking away the pain. Unlike himself, the pilot wore a knife at his belt. Stone pulled it free and began sawing at the parachute cords. The man screamed and fought, but Stone was too strong for him. “Don’t feel bad. I don’t know about you, but the gall is my favorite time of the year.”

He severed the last cord and released the pilot. As the man plummeted toward the ground, Stone spread his arms and let the sailsuit arrest his fall. Spotting the Flying Wing, he set his course, braced himself, and fired the rocketboots. As he soared through the air, he had to smile.

“Alex my friend, I will never doubt you again.”