Warbirds of Mars: Stories of the Fight! Read online

  The general modified the orders, “Even if all you can manage is to stop them from having it, that would be enough. After all, we would not want those alien slime to have an upper hand, now would we?” His eyes once again narrowed at her.

  The woman smirked and responded with a calculated humor. “No. I suppose we do not wish that.” Setting the folder under her arm, she offered them both a gentle nod of her head. “Well, gentlemen, I will seriously consider this proposal and respond within the week. Thank you.”

  She rose up and the major leapt from his seat to show respect. His chair screamed in protest as he pushed it backwards. The farewell niceties were acknowledged and she turned to leave. She could feel the major’s eyes follow her.

  The man at the back of the room stood just as the lady did. He did not appear to be a bodyguard or a servant. He wore a brown leather jacket, similar to the sort a bomber pilot would don. However, instead of patches of pinup girls or the colors of his country littering the sleeves and back, only the logo of the Doyle family company was proudly positioned just below his left shoulder.

  He was not a handsome man, with a pumpkin-shaped head and a sharp nose that jutted out over his thin, chapped lips. Still, his body carried itself with an obvious muscular bulk. He was young, yet pub brawls and hard-knock experiences had left just as many lines across his face as if he had been in his fifties.

  Lady Doyle avoided eye contact with the soldiers they passed as she lead the way up a staircase and into the military post office that served at the bunker’s cover. While the pair exited the building and moved in a beeline for the airplane hangar just outside, the government officials noticed how the gruff looking pilot fell in line behind his female employer with a mix of respect and trepidation.

  Lady Doyle’s private cargo plane awaited them, standing out amongst the RAF’s uniform bombers and gooney birds. Jerry retrieved an item from within his pocket. He started buttoning his leather jacket and snapping the helmet over his light hair, giving him the proper appearance of a pilot. His carried his goggles in his hands.

  “We done ‘ere?” He attempted to hide his thick cockney accent as he followed the woman across the hangar toward her private plane. When she did not reply, the click of her heels against the concrete filled the hangar like a ghost’s clanging chains. The man tried again. “S’pose we’re off to Austria then? The bird is all gassed up.”

  His assumption halted Lady Doyle only a foot from the waiting plane. “Really, Jerry. You overestimate me,” she answered coolly, as she pulled back on her gloves, after the farewell with the officers.

  “Of course, m’lady.” He rocked on his heels, feeling comfortable enough to return to his unusual outspoken attitude. He opened the door of the plane. As he felt the weight of her hand against his while she climbed inside, he asked, “Ah right. Where to, m’lady?”

  With a quick glance over her shoulder, she looked at him as if he had grown elephant ears. “Austria. Honestly, Jerry. Were you not paying attention to anything in that meeting?”

  With a chuckle, Jerry pulled his flight goggles over his eyes. “Yes, m’lady.”

  The lady managed to change out of her business wear and into a pair of trousers she kept held up with suspenders. Although she preferred the freedom allowed to her in her more manly attire, her string of pearls stayed clasped securely about her neck.

  As the plane crossed the English Channel, Lady Doyle read through the folder’s contents. Jerry stayed focused on the sky as if there were traffic to be concerned about. He was one of the many characters within her employ. Sometimes the most reliable skills came from the most unreliable sources. Jerry, when she had hired him, had been living the exotic life of a prisoner on his way to trial. He never did find out how exactly she managed to have him freed. ‘Better not to know’ had become his motto.

  She stared at the paper lying in her lap without reading. Over the roar of the engines, she pondered the many odd turns the war had taken. Ever since the Martians had landed, society and culture instantly began to reflect the new conflict at hand. Con men sold phony vitamins, telling gullible buyers the pills would keep them from being eligible for the alien experimentation if ever captured. Nazi wives wore jeweled pendants reminiscent of the shape of the three Martian eyes. Children’s toys were fashioned to mimic the new technology developed to shoot a Martian dead.

  Even the American cartoons had begun to reflect the presence of the Martians. Some people thought the shorts were in poor taste, but she thought they were brilliant. They were released with fake titles and with no credit to the men who created them for fear of their obvious support to the American resistance getting them killed. The world needed to laugh a little. Besides, Lady Doyle had to admit, it would be nice to be able to fool a group of those three eyed creeps over a cliff as easily as the smart-alec, animated rabbit did.

  A rustling sound returned her to reality. The folder started to slide off her lap. Lady Doyle caught it and glanced once more at the photo of the thin professor. Famous names going missing was no big news. Just a few months earlier, the internationally acclaimed director Gerulf Blau had vanished while attempting to help his brother defect from Germany. The event had taken up every news reel for three weeks, and weeping starlets mourned on every media outlet.

  The publicity was nearly heartbreaking when she realized it was the same month when one of the British Army’s chief engineers, Henry Crooks, also vanished from a weapons warehouse in France. No one publicly mourned the disappearance of a scientist and solider. Their type vanished daily. Still, Lady Doyle tugged at her pearls as she remembered him.

  She’d known Henry since they were children. She had gone to school with his sister, and he, in turn, had treated her like family. Their paths continued to cross as adults, at first through her social obligations and later through their separate war activities. A brilliant, albeit humble, man, Henry used to always say to her, “You know, Eva, if you didn’t keep telling people how fantastic you are, then someone might actually think that.”

  Lady Doyle felt a twinge of regret. The last time they met in person was during her attempt to steal from him. She brushed away the turn in her stomach by thinking a quick reminder to herself. He had driven her to the theft. If he had only shared with her his amazing work in recreating Martian technology, then she would have… Either way, Henry Crooks was more than likely lying in a ditch or trapped at one of the Martian ‘farms,’ being turned into some monstrous hybrid.

  The muffled buzz of another plane echoed through the clouds. “Company,” Jerry informed her, yelling to her over the noise of their own propeller.

  Bullets rat-a-tated alongside her window. “Opening fire without a proper introduction. What cheek! I’ll just have to teach them a lesson.”

  “I ‘ate to be the one to break this to ya’, missus, but this ain’t a gunner—”

  “I made a few adjustments while you were on holiday. Just keep flying evasive maneuvers. I’ll handle the munitions.” She unstrapped herself from the seat so quickly she practically fell to the opposite end of the plane.

  A few crates had been stacked at the back, reaching from floor to ceiling. She opened one side of the crates, which swung on a hinge to reveal a gunner station she’d had built at the back of the aircraft. The space was not the most practical of arsenals, but it had a small window through which she could set the end of her Vickers machine gun.

  Wind ripped through her jacket as she prepared to take a shot. The enemy bomber let loose another stream of bullets. The plane rocked after a loud ping resonated against the left side.

  “When I said evasive maneuvers, I meant don’t let us get shot at!” Lady Doyle screamed at Jerry. She doubted he could hear her, still the yelling helped steady her hand.

  The plane was barely visible to her at first as it weaved back and forth, attempting to keep up with them. The clouds thinly layered the atmosphere allowing them a game of hide and seek. Despite the size of their plane versus the traditional design of
the bomber, Lady Doyle had learned over the years not to depend on the status quo. Jerry’s plane had been outfitted with a powerful engine and the latest in aircraft technology. Then, there was Jerry himself. The man could fly an oversized Boeing passenger plane as if it were a spitfire.

  Jerry kept them steady while still dodging back and forth through the clouds, making them a more difficult target. Their assailant attempted to mimic the moves, yet could not manage to follow Jerry while keeping an accurate aim.

  Both of Lady Doyle’s hands kept the gun steady, adjusting and aiming as best she could in her cubicle. She waited until the Messerschmidt behind them gained speed, trying to fly over the top of them for a better shot. The nose of the plane started to ascend and Lady Doyle opened fire. The gun recoiled violently as bullets decorated the underside of the Nazi plane. Liquid dripped from the holes in the metal, and the aircraft fell back in a tailspin. A veil of smoke entwined with the wings, encircling the plane as it fell. She leaned against the window to watch as the enemy plummeted to Earth.

  Returning to the front of the plane, Lady Doyle breathed in deeply with self-satisfaction. “Nothing like German air space to wake up the senses.”

  The pilot fidgeted with his goggles using one hand, covering his annoyance with the action. “No offense, marm, but I would’ve liked to know there was a machine gun at the back of me plane.”

  Lady Doyle refastened herself to the co-pilot’s chair. “Really, Jerry. Where would the fun in that have been?”

  Hours passed before they entered into the airspace of Austria. They could see the outline of mountains through the clouds. Jerry set them down easily, landing in an open field clear of crops or livestock. Both of them climbed from the plane, Jerry opening his jacket despite the biting air and Lady Doyle placing her fedora over her long hair. She triple checked that her pistol was loaded and set it easily into the holster at her hip.

  “Did you pack any protection?” she asked her pilot, wishing she had thought to conceal an extra revolver within her boot.

  Jerry held up a .45 caliber Colt and waited for her to lead the way. “May I ask why you had me land in the middle of nowhere.”

  She pointed a slender finger at a building in the distance. A white bell tower jutted from the top. She explained, “Dr. Delacroix apparently spent quite a bit of time at this monastery when he was working for the Nazis.”

  “Did anyone ever think that maybe this man was just lookin’ for a good chicken dinner?” Jerry waited for her to respond. “You get it, m’lady? Chicken, friars—”

  “Jerry, I do believe it would be advisable if you did not speak for just a bit,” she told him with an amiable smile.

  They trekked through the countryside toward the centuries-old building. The quiet of the afternoon could very nearly trick a person into forgetting about the war with the alien invaders. The mountains bordered one side of the building, while green pastures spread like a carpet in the opposite direction.

  Even the imposing shade provided by the entrance of the monastery did not mar the peacefulness. Without being asked, Jerry obediently lifted the knocker hanging from the aged wood door. The brass ring slammed against the wood, echoing through the valley.

  “Do ya’ fhink we should just ask what that archeologist was doing ‘ere? What we gonna say when they answer the door?” Jerry questioned as they heard footsteps nearing from the other side.

  “That we are selling hoovers,” Lady Doyle replied without missing a beat.

  “Some’ow I fhink, ‘Give ‘er a ‘oover, give ‘er the best’ ain’t gonna mean much to a lot of monks.”

  A man fitting the religious description perfectly, from his brown robe to his bald head, answered the door with a quizzical look. Before he could even ask, Lady Doyle stepped foreword. In her best Austrian-accented German, she explained that she was part of a cargo service delivering medicine to a refugee meeting place somewhere in the alps, when their plane’s navigation instruments went out. “Would it be too much of an inconvenience if we came in for a moment while we check our maps?”

  The monk shook his head violently, as if trying to dislodge water from his ears. He started to shut the door while Lady Doyle protested. “It really won’t take long. Or could someone please give us some direction? We just need someplace sheltered to sit for a moment while we try to compare major landma—” The door slammed closed.

  “Friendly lit’ul blighter,” Jerry grumbled.

  “Yes, but that at least answers one question,” she explained, as she began circling the stone building, “There is something here worth hiding.”

  Moving around the walls, they rounded the entire building twice. The monastery had only one other door, presumably linking a back garden to the outside world. Lady Doyle thought of the logistical nightmare of sneaking in through a garden probably full of monks. She stared at the back door with her hands firmly on her hips, sizing up the height of the walls, the distance to a window, and the size of said window.

  Jerry’s hand hovered over her shoulder, about to tap down on her coat, but he thought better of the familiar contact and said, “Look over there. Odd place for a statue, ain’t it?”

  She turned. Less than a mile from the monastery stood a lonely saint statue amongst a grove of trees. She double checked her sidearm before moving toward the statue. The marble carving depicted a frail, crooked man on crutches with a dog on either side of him. He was not the normal, noble, robed figure meant to mimic the well fed cardinals and lords of the middle ages that littered most of the churches in Europe. The statue was also devoid of bird droppings or the ravages of time. The monks took extra care of this monument.

  “M’lady, something’s written ‘ere.” Jerry pointed at the base, kicking down the grass so she could better see. “Fink it’s ‘is name. Cave canem? Never read about ‘im in Sunday school.”

  Lady Doyle corrected Jerry’s pronunciation. “Ca-vay cane-um. It’s not a name. It’s Latin for ‘beware of dog.’ ” After removing her gloves, her hands started running across the backs of the marble canines, stroking their stone fur and checking behind their tilted ears. Her fingers pressed against a niche at the corner of one dog’s mouth. The groove ran from one side of the animal’s jaw to the other. She pulled at the bottom jaw until it gave way, leaving the stone dog’s mouth hanging open in a fearsome snarl. Stone moving against stone echoed through the trees as the jaw hung loose on a rusty hinge. The statue shifted, straining against ancient pullies and chain, until the second dog had moved behind the man, leaving a hole in the ground just big enough for a human being. Without a thought, she hopped down through the opening, finding crudely made stairs just within reach. She glanced backwards several times at the monastery, wondering whether the sound would alert the monks. However, the building seemed at peace, and they continued to be alone in the glade.

  “Jerry, do you have a torch on you?” she called back up as the darkness engulfed her.

  The pilot came down after her, switching on a flashlight as he landed. A cavern surrounded them, dry and cool. The further they walked, the more they had to duck their heads. The circle of light from the electric light danced across the dull rock walls.

  “I don’t fhink anyfhing’s down ‘ere, missus,” Jerry pointed out. “Maybe what’ver it was already got taken out by that archeologist fella. Maybe it was wit ‘im when ‘e was taken.”

  “No. I don’t think so.” Lady Doyle strained her eyes against the black, triple checking each corner of the tiny grotto as the light bobbed about. “Jerry, point it downward. Check the floor.”

  Obediently, the beam of light scanned the dirt at their feet then moved outwards to the corners. In the smallest niche, where the ceiling came down into an overhang, making the perfect hiding place, a wooden box was barely visible. The container was tall enough to reach a man’s knee and wide enough to hold a prize winning watermelon. Jerry, without needing an order, passed the electric light to his employer and moved the box out into the open.

 
“Someone has moved this before, recently in fact,” Lady Doyle pointed out, moving the light along grooves in the dirt. She sighed heavily and added in a grumble, “But then why would they put it back?”

  Jerry traded with her once more, giving her space to open the box while he held the light over her. The wood had begun to rot in places and the lid had been pried open with precision, making opening the box an easy task for her. The space within was taken up by yards of a coarse, brown burlap, encasing something round.

  “Can you bring the light closer?”

  He crouched at the other side of the box, and the burlap was illuminated, while the corners around them once again went pitch. Lady Doyle removed the rough coverings, dropping them carelessly onto the floor. She wrapped both hands around the sphere within and pulled it out into the light. A skull stared up at her, cracked and worn from nearly a thousand years of stagnant death, yet it was intact thanks to the conditions of the cave. She nearly dropped it as she examined the many orifices, at first believing she was experiencing a trick of the shadows. Three eyeholes studied her, making her squirm. The skull was like a misshapen potato with two small nostril holes toward the bottom, just above the place where the miniscule, yet threatening mouth would normally be.

  The light began to shake as Jerry managed only a single word. “M’lady?”

  She swallowed hard and regained her composure as if nothing were wrong. “Yes, Jerry. It is exactly what you think it is. This is a Martian skull.”

  “That it is!” a voice echoed in the darkness.

  The lady and her pilot stood instantly, pointing their pistols into the dark. Jerry attempted to reveal their guest, using the light in his other hand, while Lady Doyle held the skull securely under her arm like a football. Two Nazis and Dr. Delacroix filled the cramped space between them and the exit. The two Germans held their own weapons, while the archeologist cowered between them, wringing his hands.