Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“What do you think?” asked Kent Allard, the original civilian name and face of The Shadow, stopping his car at the edge of the private airfield. 

“Wow!”  Tip sprang out of the vehicle and sprinted toward the aircraft, waving her arms and whooping in enthusiasm.  The kitsune was in her usual shape, looking like a child of ten, with blue hair, pointed ears, and a generous blue fox’s tail trailing behind her.

“Well, it’s … what is it, exactly?” asked Ann Coppre politely.  “I wish my husband Carrick had been home to come with us, I’m afraid I’m a poor second choice when it comes to aircraft identification.”  The were-unicorn, in her guise as a rather small human, stepped from the car to look at the machine, painted in shades of dark brown and tan and decorated with the bright blue, white, and red “bulleyes” of the World War I-era Royal Air Force.

“It's been a long time since I did that report on airplanes for school -- always felt guilty for the teacher who wrote that all my drawings of various planes showed so much hard work.  I didn't feel guilty enough to tell him it was one evening's free-hand copying pictures from our encyclopedia, though. That was the night before it was due, too,” she said.

Kent smiled at her.  He pointed at the machine as Tip ran around it, ducking under the wings. 

“You are not afraid to learn, which is always refreshing.  You are looking at a complete and operational replica of a Bristol F.2B fighter biplane.  A World War I era two-seater aircraft originally intended for reconnaissance, but its Rolls-Royce engine made it an excellent fighter as well.  Started service late in 1916.  Armed with one synchronized fixed, forward-firing .303 inch Vickers machine gun and a single flexible .303 inch Lewis gun mounted on a Scarff ring over the observer's rear cockpit.” 

“Um, the guns are replicas, aren’t they?” asked Ann, watching in some trepidation as Tip peered through the sights on the Lewis gun.

“Yes, indeed,” said Kent.  “Fully-functional replicas built to the original specifications.”

“Functional?!  Tip!  Don’t you dare touch anything!” Ann shouted at the kitsune, who had disappeared into the observer’s seat behind the double wings of the aircraft.

“Hey, I know better than to play with real guns!”  Tip poked her head above the edge of the cockpit. “Come on, Annie, this is great!”  

“Yes, it's great, but don't you fire those guns unless it's a genuine matter of life or death.  I don't want anyone below getting hit by a falling bullet,” Ann said firmly.  She could not help but remember the dogfight in an old "Jonny Quest" episode featuring World War One era biplanes.

“I was asked to test the aircraft before it is shipped off to be used for a movie.  After that, it will go to an air museum.”  Kent tugged on one of the wings, rocking the plane gently.  “It won’t do to have a failure mid-air.”  He looked at Tip.  “We need to test-fire the guns as well, although they are armed with low-power bullets.  Basically, the bullets are modified paintball charges so we can see where the shots land.”

Ann felt better knowing the bullets were unlikely to be lethal.

“Really?  Whoa Nelly!”  Tip clapped her hands with glee.  “We got targets?”

“Yes, down at the other end of the field,” Kent said, pointing along the paved landing strip.  “The plan is to take off, perform some normal maneuvers at altitude, then try some practice runs with both the forward Vickers and secondary Lewis guns once we are within range of the targets.”

“All right!  Happy to help.”  Tip beckoned Ann closer.  “C’mon up!  Plenty of room in this seat.”

I suppose I’d better go along, thought Ann, walking to the Bristol and staring at the slot in the fuselage made for the observer.  Just to keep a lid on Tip.  Kent is a fine pilot.  Should be fun to fly around in an antique-replica for a little while.

Climbing onto the fuselage, she peered down into the observer’s cockpit. 

“Where is the seat belt?” Ann asked.

“Don’t be silly, Annie!  Safety is for losers!” 

Ann gave Tip her best "mom death glare".

 “Actually, there are safety harnesses, just reach behind you.  We needed to add them to make the aircraft legal for use in this country, along with a proper transponder so air traffic control can see us,” said Kent, sliding into the pilot’s seat and beginning the preflight checklist.  “We are registered as a historic aircraft, so we are not required to have all the modern bells and whistles, just the necessary minimum.  Do not ask about the paperwork required to have functional weaponry aboard.” 

Tip cackled merrily as she helped Ann down into the seat, which was wide enough to accommodate both of them. 

Kent pulled on a period aviator’s helmet and goggles.  Ann found several similar sets of gear in a small cargo basket beside her seat, gave a pair to Tip, and placed the second onto her head, adjusting the goggles over her eyes.

Once strapped in, Ann was chagrined to find the cockpit was almost too deep to see out of. 

“This thing was designed for tall men, wasn’t it?” she sighed.  At five feet two inches tall, Ann was unsurprised to find she was too small for certain things, but it still annoyed her.    

“’Fraid so,” said Tip, who, being the size of a ten year old child, found herself even lower in the cockpit than Ann.  Fishing out a handful of dry leaves from a pocket, she muttered over them.  “Hold on an’ I’ll magic us some cushions to raise us up enough so we can see out.”

By the time Tip had their seating fixed so they could see over the edge of the cockpit, Kent had finished his preparations.  Jumping out of the pilot’s seat, he ran around to the front of the aircraft, grasped the prop, and spun it sharply.  The engine coughed and started, running raggedly at first.  Kent leaped back into his seat and must have adjusted something, because the engine was soon running smoothly, the big prop sending a wash of warm air over them.  After several minutes, he nodded.

“Here we go!” he shouted over the engine.  The Bristol began to move and Kent brought it around onto the simple runway.  The engine revved loudly as the throttle was opened.  The Bristol sprinted down the runway and was soon airborne. 

Ann watched the small airfield drop away swiftly as Kent made a series of climbing turns. 

“I’m taking us out toward the Channel along a civil aviation route so we do not interfere with commercial traffic.”

“Visual flight rules?” called Tip.

“Yes, exactly,” Kent replied.

The English countryside was rapidly becoming a pretty patchwork quilt of farm fields, developments, and silvery rivers as they gained altitude.  Ann shivered a little as the air of summer became cooler the higher they went.

“Want a coat, Annie?” asked Tip. 

“Not yet, thank you,” she replied.  “I should be fine as long as we don’t go too high.  What is the – what’s the term – operational ceiling – for these aircraft?”

“Eighteen thousand feet,” called Kent, without turning his head.  “Although that can be pushed if needed – the main limit is oxygen for us along with the engine.”

“Hmm, maybe a coat would be welcome then,” said Ann.  Tip pulled out a few more leaves and soon had both of them clad in proper leather flight coats of the time period. 

“Hey look!”  Tip pointed over the side of the aircraft.  “Is that the Channel down there?”

“Yes,” said Kent, sending the Bristol somewhat lower.  “We will fly out about halfway across and then do some maneuvers.  I filed a flight plan yesterday, so we should not cause any consternation if we keep to a lower altitude than the usual passenger jets.”

“If it makes the air warmer, I’m all for it!”  Tip called. 

They flew onward until the shores of England became misty with clouds and distance and the French side looked quite a bit closer.  Kent adjusted the trim of the aircraft, then began to perform a series of turns.  On some he climbed and then banked, on others he descended at varying speeds, performing turns that became progressively tighter.  The turns gave Ann a great view of the sea of the English Channel below, with smatterings of fine clouds in between themselves and the cold waves below.

Hooray for not suffering from motion sickness, Ann thought happily.  It means I can enjoy the ride without any worries.

“Feels great!” Tip shouted.

“Yes, it’s a good build,” Kent replied.  “Very solid.”  He laughed and added.  “More solid than the originals.”

A thin keening sound made him look quickly over his shoulder just in time to see a flash of red out of the corner of his right eye.  Immediately, he kicked the rudder and rolled the Bristol hard to the left, pointing that wing straight down toward the sea.  A brief stream of bullets lanced across the body of the Bristol, carving a series of holes between the pilot and observer’s seats.  He continued to heel the craft entirely over, opening the throttle and completing the full roll a moment later. 

“What the F@#$?!” Tip stood up to scan the skies in search of their attacker.  “There’s some idiot in a red plane out there an’ he just tried to wax us!”

“Know anyone with a red triplane?” asked Ann as she gripped Tip’s safety harness.  The kitsune seemed almost ready to launch herself out of the aircraft in her outrage.

“I do, but that was many decades ago,” said Kent.  “He should be long gone by now, along with the war that made him.”

“Seems pretty lively to me, whoever he is,” said Ann, clutching the edge of the cockpit and staring at the red triplane as it dived toward them.  “Wait, I know that plane!  That's the Hammer of Hell!  I saw a history video about him on YouTube!”

“You are right,” Kent replied, before rolling the Bristol again at the last instant.  Their plane acquired several more bullet holes along its tail section.  It was becoming quite evident that the red triplane was far more maneuverable than the larger Bristol, and faster as well, putting them at a disadvantage.

“It certainly is a fine reenactment of The Hammer of Hell,” said Kent.

The triplane made a tight loop to set up for another attack.

“Shit!  He’s gonna pick us apart!”  Turning to Ann, Tip held out a hand.  “Lemme see yer purse! 

“My purse?”  Ann held out the capacious purse to the kitsune, who began to rummage in it with desperate speed as Kent put the Bristol through a series of hair-raising dives, turns, and spins in an effort to discourage their pursuer.

“Altoids, nope. Compact an’ mirror?  Nah, not yet.  Cell phone?  Measuring tape? Nope. Aha!  Here we go!”  Triumphantly, Tip held up her find, a slender penlike item.

“Carrick’s laser pointer?” Ann asked, squeezing her eyes shut to avoid having to look at the earth and sky swapping places as Kent rolled the Bristol again, then sent it into a roller-coaster dive.  “He uses that for lectures – and we’re not going to give this fellow a lecture up here!  Much as I’d like to,” she added. 

“Bakayaro!  Eat green death!” Tip bellowed as she aimed the laser-pen toward the onrushing red triplane. 

“It’s not a Star Trek phaser!” Ann shouted. 

“Almost as good, Annie!”  Tip’s face was determined as she held the laser pointer steady toward their foe.  A moment later, the aircraft spun away before it could get into firing range. 

“What did you do?” asked Ann.

“Fried his freakin’ eyeballs,” said Tip with a grin of triumph. 

“That’s illegal!”  Ann put a hand over her mouth as she realized what Tip had been up to.  “They keep trying to arrest anyone who shines a laser at aircraft!”

“Well it’s illegal to play Snoopy an’ the Red Baron with live bullets, too!  I’ll take my chances with the police.” 

Chapter Text

Tip scanned the skies with narrowed eyes, standing with her legs braced apart in the cockpit.  She yowled as bullets crashed through the bottom of the Bristol, narrowly missing their seats, and blasting out around the top of their cockpit.  Some of them pinged off the Lewis gun.  As Tip screamed profanities, Kent took the Bristol through another sequence of fast aerobatics.  Ann hauled on Tip’s harness against the forces of gravity to pull her back into the relative safety of the fuselage.  As they tumbled, Tip bashed her helmeted head against the cockpit cowling and grabbed at it with both hands.  The laser pointer pinged away into space and vanished.

“K’so!  The laser!”

“You owe Carrick a new laser pointer if you can't magic it back!” Ann declared automatically.  Someone's trying to KILL us and I'm worried about a laser pointer??!

The triplane surged past them from below.

“I think he’s figured that trick out, anyway!” Ann shouted.

“Man the Lewis gun,” said a voice that was cold and calm.  Despite the fact Kent was facing away from her, Ann could hear it clearly, as if the speaker was standing by her shoulder in a quiet room.  The voice of the Shadow. 

“It is armed with paintballs.  The charges are weak; you will need to wait until he is very close.”

“Aye-aye,” said Tip.  “Gimme a hand, Annie!  This thing is heavier than I thought.”

As Ann reached up to help Tip swivel the gun on its circular mounting, the Shadow spoke again.

“I will place you into the correct firing-line.  He is too good a pilot to linger in range of my Vickers.”

“Too good?”  Ann was astonished by that calm admission.

“Yes.  Our best chance for survival lies in interfering with his ability to target us until we can reach French airspace and the help of the authorities.”

“Ha!  Mebbe we’ll get ta see yer cousin Klaus!”  Tip laughed as she sighted the Lewis on the fast-closing red dot of the triplane as the Bristol rolled it into view.

“Oh God, if we scramble NATO over a dogfight in antique aircraft… I’ll never live it down.”

“Gotta live first to have problems,” said Tip, grinning so widely her sharp canine fangs glinted in the sunlight.

“Steady,” said the Shadow.  “In range… now.”

They fired in unison, a stream of all-too-real bullets ripping through the Bristol, answered in the same instant by the deeper cough of the Lewis, which spit a defiant fusillade in return, all of them aimed at the cockpit of the red Fokker.  A line of brilliant yellow-green paint appeared on their opponent’s aircraft, splattering over the twin Spandau machine guns and the helmet and goggles of their foe.

The Fokker dove at the last moment, passing under the Bristol, barely missing its wheels.

“Got ‘im!”  Tip shouted in triumph, turning around and waving her fists at the red aircraft, middle fingers extended.  “Suck paint, ya jackass!”

Kent did not bother to gloat, but sent the Bristol full throttle toward the French shore during the lull in battle. 

“Almost over France, near the border with Belgium,” said Kent, sounding a little strained.

“Are you all right?” asked Ann, giving up for the moment on trying to police Tip’s rude gestures. 

“Clipped through my right side,” Kent replied.  “In no danger of fainting yet, but it definitely woke me up.”

“Give me your hand and I’ll heal you,” said Ann, trying without much success to stand up fully in the cockpit and turn around.  To her chagrin, Kent was not within easy reach despite the fact he was sitting nearly at her back.

“Once we are on the ground,” said Kent firmly.

“Shimatta, he’s back!” Tip growled as the triplane suddenly appeared beside them, flying easily in parallel.  The pilot had pulled his paint-covered goggles up to clear his vision.  Nudging his aircraft closer, he pointed at both the Lewis and the forward Vickers guns.  Ann saw Kent return the gesture and the face of their challenger showed surprise.  Sending his aircraft a little forward, he made a “follow me” motion and turned toward the French shore.  Kent did as requested, since their erstwhile enemy was heading in the correct direction.  The red triplane climbed, the air becoming markedly colder as they gained altitude. 

As they passed over the shore, Ann rubbed her temples, surprised at the headache that had suddenly gripped her skull.  She looked down over the edge of the cockpit at the landscape below and bit back a scream. 

“My God, the land is ruined!  People are dying, I can feel them!”

“Everything’s a mess down there, what happened?!” Tip shouted. 

“War,” said Kent.  

“WHAT war?” Ann was appalled. Nausea threatened, the first time she had felt physically ill in years.

“The Great War,” said Kent.  “None other looks and feels like it.”

“But… how?”  Ann stared ahead at the red triplane.  “Was it something he did?”

“Doubtful,” said Kent.  “He seemed as surprised as we were.”

Ann felt her mouth drop open.

“You mean… that’s the REAL Hammer of Hell?” 

“High probability,” said Kent.

“Well, sheeee-it,” said Tip.  “If that’s true, ya did great, old man!  High five!”

Ann sighed. 

“Tip, please.  And I’m so glad I didn’t know that at the start.”

“Karmic payback?” Kent mused as the torn fields of battle passed far below them.  “Although I was aware of Von Hammer’s skill, we never met in a proper dogfight – my assignments took me in a different direction, shall we say.”

“Ooo, stories!”  Tip bounced on the seat.

“Absolutely not,” said Kent, in a tone that brooked no argument. 

Ann frowned, shook her head, and stared sternly at Tip. 

“We’re going to have to be very careful if we’re back in the past,” she said to the werefox.  “I know the timestream can heal minor discrepancies, but we wouldn’t want to change anything too much.”

“Wot, you don’t wanna return to a present where everyone is sentient roaches?” Tip snickered and made crawling motions with her fingers.

“NO, thank you very much!”

Kent snorted a brief laugh.  “Let us try at least to return to a future we recognize.”

“Hmm, mebbe I better look a bit more like the mundanes,” said Tip.  A few muttered spells later turned her blue hair brown, made her ears look human, and disappeared her blue fox’s tail. 

After some time, the triplane descended toward a simple dirt airfield surrounded by an orderly arrangement of buildings and hangars.  Aircraft were parked here and there, some surrounded by people making repairs.

“Where are we?” asked Ann. 

“Imperial Germany, some distance from the Western Front, not too far from part of the Black Forest,” Kent replied.  “We are close to France as well, which makes good sense given this stage of the conflict.”

“I'm glad you know which point the war is at.  Just because I've watched documentaries about World War I doesn't mean I'm that familiar with it.  My classes tended to skim over it when I was in school.  College too, come to think of it -- and I majored in history,” said Ann.

With the triplane pacing them, Kent put the Bristol down on the rutted runway and taxied to a halt.  Kent switched off the engine.  Mechanics and pilots began to appear outside the buildings and poke their heads around their aircraft, but no one was in haste to run up too close as the triplane’s pilot leaped down from his mount, and strode over to the Bristol.  After helping Ann and Tip out of the airplane, Kent turned to meet him.  

The two men seemed to be of similar height and build.  Von Hammer wore a heavy dark wool coat with a fur collar over his flight uniform.  High boots and jodhpurs protected his legs.  He had removed his helmet, which in addition to a long silken streamer, now bore heavy paint splatters.  His short auburn hair ruffled in the breeze.  Bits and drips of paint likewise decorated the shoulders of his coat.  Ann noticed Kent had dressed in more-or-less proper flier’s clothing, but it was definitely not from any of the time period’s militaries.

Von Hammer halted five paces away and saluted Kent.

“Hans Von Hammer, Rittmeister of this Jagdstaffel, Hunting Squadron #17 of the German Flying Corps.”

Kent returned the salute at once.

“Colonel Kent Allard, Royal Air Force, retired.”

“Retired!  God in heaven man, you fly like an eagle!”  Von Hammer grabbed Kent by the shoulders, his eyes alight with something close to happiness.  “But, what possessed you to take your Bristol over the Western Front without properly-armed weapons?”  Shifting his gaze from Kent to Ann and Tip, his face grew alarmed.  “With children as observers?!  They could have been killed!”

“Hey, we did awright with the gun!”  Tip crossed her arms and gave Von Hammer a fierce glare.

“Er, I’m a grown adult,” said Ann.  “Despite appearances.”

“You had good aim, Fraulein,” said Von Hammer, looking at her keenly.  “You and your little sister were very brave.  Had your Lewis gun been loaded with something other than paint, I would be dead.” 

Tip snorted, not at all mollified.  “Why so polite, Annie?  Th’damn bakayarō tried to waste us!"

Von Hammer looked confused.  His English was quite good, but Tip’s combination of a broad Brooklyn accent, modern slang, and Japanese were more than he could interpret.  "What is the child saying?"

Ann smiled weakly and shook her head.  “You don't want to know.”

"Not sure I can get the exact idioms correct in high German..." said Kent, smiling crookedly.

“Don't you dare!”  Ann glowered at both of them.  “We’ve caused enough of an incident as it is.”  

“Again, Colonel, why did you take your Bristol over the field of battle when it was not prepared for such?  Why load your guns with… paint?”

Kent waved a hand at the Bristol. 

“Because it isn’t a real Bristol F.2B, but a replica built to the original specifications.  It is meant to be a prop in a cinematic movie and we were on a test flight to be certain it worked well enough for our needs.”  Kent touched the lower wing, fingering a bullet hole, his grin growing wider.  “It looks a lot more authentic now that it has battle damage.”

“This is no place to be creating moving pictures!”  Von Hammer was adamant.  “I had enough trouble with a journalist trying to take photographs of my pilots.”

Kent looked surprised. 

“You allowed it?  I thought it was bad luck.”

“It was!  For two of my pilots, and for the photographer – he did not get out of the way in time and was killed by debris falling from the sky.”  He shook his head.  “Useless deaths, all of them, and I could not prevent it.”[1]

“We weren’t trying to make a movie, just test the aircraft,” said Ann.  “Luckily for us, it was well-made.”

“There was no luck, Fraulein, Colonel Allard is superbly skilled.  You owe your lives to his sharp reflexes.”

Von Hammer frowned a little as he thought.  “This still does not explain how you strayed into such contested skies if all you wished to do was see how your Bristol handled in flight.  You could have stayed safely behind the lines of battle in either England or France.”

“That was the portal’s fault,” said Tip. 

“Portal as in time portal?” asked Kent, eyes narrowing as he considered the possibility.

“Yeah, we got too busy there for me to really think about it, but we flew through one right before we met the Rittmeister.”

“What?  But…”  Ann pointed in the direction of the Channel.  “Who would create such a rift in the middle of the air like that?”

 “Savage.”  Kent said the word as if it left a bad taste in his mouth.

“Doc Savage?” asked Ann.

“Yes,” Kent replied.  “He’s done it at least once before.”  He looked pained.  “They were cleaning up after it for weeks.”

“How?” asked Ann.  The thought made her skin crawl.

Kent laughed and flicked out his left hand. 

“By accident!  The same way he does nearly everything.”

“Eh, rifts happen,” said Tip with a shrug.  “Crazy wizards, cosmic disruptions, mad scientists, tesseract folding, warp drive malfunction, wormholes, you name it.”  The kitsune looked away from Kent and noticed they had collected a loose circle of young German airmen and their staff, who were looking at them with varying degrees of curiosity, and murmuring among themselves as they gestured at the Bristol.

“Annnd mebbe we better talk about this somewhere else?” Tip added.

A pair of regular soldiers with actual rifles ran up, looking flustered.  The air crews were amused.  Von Hammer waved them away with a brief statement in German.

“He says they aren’t needed,” said Kent to Ann and Tip. 

“Thank goodness, that’s what I thought he said, but my German is far from perfect.  I wouldn’t want a melee on top of everything else today,” said Ann quietly.

“It would be good to be repaired before starting anything new,” said Kent.  He had been keeping a hand against his left side, pressing into the flight jacket.  He brought it away red and wet. 

“Ohmygod, Kent!  I forgot you were hurt!” 

Von Hammer stared at Kent and shook his head. 

“I have not noticed injuries before in the heat of battle, but it is dangerous to ignore them.  Come with me, you can sit down and have your wound tended.  We can also speak in private.”

“Ann here has the skills required to care for my injury,” said Kent.

“So young to be a nurse,” said Von Hammer, giving Ann a polite bow.  “Please to come this way.”  He strode off briskly.  The little crowd of onlookers parted to give them passage.

Ann smiled at that as they followed the German ace across the airfield toward a building that looked more like a dwelling and less like a hangar.

“I’m not that young, really.”

“Have you looked in a mirror lately?” asked Kent quietly. 

“Well, I’ve not made a study of my face, no,” Ann replied.  It's not as if I wear makeup, or do more with my hair than brush or comb it, she thought.

“I strongly suspect you are experiencing the same phenomena as myself,” said Kent, gazing down at the top of her chestnut-haired head.  “You appear to be perhaps twenty years old.”   

“Uh…”  Ann looked up at Kent and blinked.  He looked to be a hale man in his early forties and it clicked in her mind that he was now well over 120 years old[2]. 

“Because reasons,” said Tip.  “Y’should know it by now, that yer not what you was.”

“Mmm,” said Kent, letting the topic drop for the moment, as Von Hammer ushered them into the building. 

The main room was set up with long tables and lots of well-worn wooden chairs arranged around it in neat order. 

“We will host you this evening at dinner,” Von Hammer said with a smile.  “A tradition to honor captured pilots who will no longer be flying against us.”

Tip snorted, and Ann poked the top of her head with a knuckle.

“No incidents.”

“Yeah-yeah,” the kitsune muttered. 

Kent coughed and Ann gave him a look, but his expression was entirely innocent.  Ann felt a little prickle along her spine and had a strong suspicion that he would be far more dangerous than the kitsune were the situation to go “pear-shaped”. 

“Have a little jaunt,” Ann muttered.  “What could possibly go wrong?”

[1] Explained in the adventure Flaming Bait, from Our Army at War, No. 151, April 1965, published by DC Comics, written by Bob Kanigher, illustrated by Joe Kubert.  Reprinted in the DC Archive Editions, Enemy Ace Archives, vol. 1.

[2] That was all Doc Savage’s fault, so we can’t blame Kent for being suspicious of strange phenomena like time portals.

Chapter Text

Von Hammer took them across the large common room and through a door into a smaller chamber, which must have been his office.  A cast iron stove sat in one corner and a battered desk had been positioned in the middle of the room, attended by four equally-used chairs.  A large map of the Western Front had been tacked on one wall, and another map laid out across the top of the desk, held in place by several coffee mugs and one cracked glass beer stein.  Von Hammer pulled dark curtains across the windows, cutting down on the late morning sunlight and giving a bit more privacy from the gaze of the curious.

A quick rap at the door sounded and a young man poked his head into the chamber.  At Von Hammer’s gesture, he shouldered the door open to reveal his hands were full with a metal basin of steaming water.  This he placed on a corner of the table, avoiding the middle of the map, and followed it with bandages, scissors, and a small pile of other medical items. 

“Thank you Werner, you may go… wait, coffee for everyone, please.”

The young orderly snapped a salute and left, closing the door behind him.  Pacing to a cupboard, Von Hammer withdrew a bottle and filled a glass with a measure of brandy, which he brought to Kent. 

“Here, this will help a little.” 

Werner returned in short order with a tray bearing coffee for everyone, although he gave Tip a confused glance when she took a cup for herself.  He left with a salute and closed the door.

Pulling up a chair, Von Hammer seated himself near Ann and Kent. 

“Ordinarily, Colonel, I would simply send you away to one of our field hospitals for treatment, but they are … busy of late and the care our men have been receiving has often fallen short of our requirements.”  Von Hammer nodded at the heap of medical supplies.  “Better to attend to our own, as much as we can.”

“New offensives, more casualties,” said Kent, removing his flight coat and then turning to let Ann pull up his jacket and shirt and inspect the wound. 

Ann realized Kent was wearing the Shadow’s pair of automatics under his jacket.  Dipping a clean cloth in the water, she had Kent hold the layers of clothing up out of the way while she washed off enough of the blood to be able to see the wound itself. 

“Hmm, yes.  Went right on through.  Lucky you.”  Rinsing her hands off in the basin, she turned back to Kent and laid them over the injury.  Her eyes flashed gold for a moment and her hands glowed briefly as she sent her healing power outward.  The wound closed, grew pale, and shrank away to a small star-shaped scar in moments.

“There we go.”

“Thank you,” said Kent, tucking in his shirt, and tugging his jacket down without exposing his arsenal of pistols.

“Is that how everyone heals themselves in the future?”  The German ace stared at them in astonishment. 

Ann dusted the bits of pale ash from her hands that were the result of her healing energies on living tissue.  She shook her head.

“No, this is a gift, and not something I talk about outside my home.  Even in the year 2020, some things are considered uncanny.”

“That seems an impossibly distant future to me,” said Von Hammer.

“The good news is that there IS a future.  We need to find that rift and return home,” said Kent.  “And then close it up, or it may be a very distant future indeed.”  He shifted his attention to Tip, who had managed to push the window up and was staring outside through the curtains.  “Tip Blue Fox.”

“Yo,” Tip replied, turning to look at the adults. 

Kent pointed to the map on the table. 

“See, here – I estimate we crossed the rift in this area.”  He indicated a spot near the middle of the English Channel.  “Do you remember our altitude?”

“Not too high,” said Tip with a shrug.  “The plane didn’t have one of those things that tells you how high up ya are, but it wasn’t so high birds couldn’t manage it, even a crow or robin.”

“An altimeter?” asked Ann.

“Yeah!”  Tip nodded.

“That’s because they haven’t been invented yet,” said Kent.  “One of the modern items I left off the Bristol for historical accuracy.”

“Oh,” said Ann, giving Von Hammer a worried glance.  “Sorry.”

“Awkward!”  Tip laughed.  “Gotta love time travel.  We screw this up, we’ll be checkin’ into roach motels when we get back.”

Ann sternly suppressed the urge to give the kitsune a piece of her mind, settling instead for a glare, which proved as ineffective as any of her lectures.

“Irrelevant,” said Kent.  “How large was the rift?”

“Uh.”  Tip closed her eyes, furrowed her forehead, and thought for a time.  At last she stretched her arms out to either side.  “Oval shape, wider than it was tall.”  She nodded.  “Plenty big – that’s why I only noticed it at the last minute.  Wide enough to fly an Airbus through, no problem.”

“Air bus?”  Von Hammer smiled at the strange image the term conjured in his mind.

“Large commercial passenger aircraft,” said Kent.  “One can hold anywhere from two to four hundred people.”

“What?!”

“Very bad if something like that went through the rift,” said Ann. 

“We weren’t on a commercial route or flying at their usual altitude,” said Kent.  “We should have time to find the rift and close it before anyone else blunders through it.”

“Close it how?” asked Ann.  “We’re not going to be setting charges on something hovering in thin air.”

“Working on that,” said Kent.  He looked at Tip.  “First, we need to do a positive location.”

“Hai, Sensei!”  Tip spun around once and promptly turned into a blue hawk.  She fluttered to the window, poked the curtains open with her hooked beak, and turned to stare at Kent with her fierce eyes.  “You do the ‘splainin’ an’ I’ll be back in a jiffy!  Bye!” 

A moment later she was gone.  Ann did not hear any cries of alarm from outside and allowed herself to take a deep breath before she turned back to von Hammer, who was looking out the window with an expression composed of surprise and longing in equal measure.

“I do not assume that ability is common to people of the future, either.”

“Her kind are rare,” said Ann. 

“Thank goodness,” said Kent with a laugh. 

“She’s a kitsune – a Japanese fox-spirit,” said Ann.  “They have a sort of nature magic and can change their shape if necessary.” 

“None of you are exactly ordinary people, are you?” asked Von Hammer, giving Kent and Ann a level stare.

“That would be a correct statement,” said Kent.  His smile reached his eyes, giving him a lively expression that Ann did not often get to see on the crime fighter.

“You cannot stay for long here in this time.  That much I understand.”  Von Hammer pulled back the curtain Tip had left halfway open and looked out the window at the airfield. 

“Combatants on either side of the conflict fly over the English Channel and many traverse at that altitude since it is more comfortable.  There is a risk some of ours and theirs might end up… elsewhere.  I will have your Bristol refueled.”  He crossed the office and opened a door into a room that looked less utilitarian and more like a living space. 

“It will take your hawk some hours to fly all the way to the Channel and return.  You can stay here tonight and I will escort you to that rift as soon as the sun rises tomorrow.”

“You won’t get in trouble for keeping us here?” asked Ann.

Von Hammer shrugged and his worn face relaxed into a slight smile.

“If fortune is kind, no one who would care will be the wiser.”

---

Tip returned shortly before sunset.  After drinking a glass of water, she was able to draw the size and location of the time rift on the map, and confirm their estimations of its altitude.  After conferring with Von Hammer, Kent had requested and received one unarmed grenade.  This he carefully opened and split its charge in two, packing the material into empty tobacco tins.  After this, he commandeered Ann’s and Tip’s cell phones to cannibalize several of their internal components and batteries.

"Remind me to activate two phones from my stash at home, please," said Ann to Tip.  "These almost lasted six whole months."

“These devices,” said Von Hammer, sitting at the table and passing small tools when requested.  “What is their purpose?”

“The original devices?” asked Kent, as he gently prized a battery loose from its casing. “They are for communication and are now ubiquitous in the population.  Completely useless for their original purpose so far back in time.”

“Will I live long enough to see these?” the Baron wondered.

“I should hope so!” said Ann.  “They started building the prototypes many years ago.”

“Many years ago from 2020,” said Von Hammer, making his fingers meet in the air as if at some arbitrary time point.  “It is 1917 for me.”

“Time is relative,” said Tip, munching on a bit of dry bread she’d scrounged up from somewhere. 

“If you make me laugh and disturb my work, I will haunt you from whatever afterlife we are consigned to,” said Kent softly. 

“Right-ho,” said Tip, edging toward the door.  “Think I’ll just go an’ help the mechanics.” She left a moment later.  Ann stood up carefully. 

“If you gentlemen can manage things, I think I’ll make sure her help isn’t too exciting for your people, Rittmeister.”

“Very wise,” said Kent as he teased a fine piece of wire loose from the phone.

Chapter Text

“What do you scrubs think you’re doing?” 

Tip returned an hour later, just in time to hear that annoyed question as she opened the door.  The voice belonged to someone she didn’t know.  Ann was still talking to one of the mechanics in her textbook German, and Tip had wandered back to the main building and come quietly inside.  The speaker was a stocky older man with greying hair, a bristly mustache, and a mostly-white apron tied over his uniform.  He was looming over a pair of teenagers who were huddling over some bit of equipment lying in pieces on the tabletop.

“Repairing a prop bearing, sir,” said the first lad.  His hair and eyes were both dark brown.  As he spoke, he put out his hands to corral various small metal pieces that were trying to roll off the uneven table.

“Well, pack it up, and clean up!” growled the cook.  “Supper is due to be served in ninety minutes and the Rittmeister will not be pleased to find the table covered with grease and filthy metal!”

“What?  The Rittmeister?”  The second lad jumped up as if he’d been stung.  He was a bit shorter and more slender than his companion, with grey eyes.  His lighter brown hair had blond streaks in it where the sun had bleached it and freckles peppered his nose and cheeks.

“Yes!  Haven’t you been paying attention to anything?  He’s hosting the ace who flew that Bristol parked on the field.  Tonight.  Now get moving and put that junk away and set the table!  Then you can help prepare the vegetables!”

“Right away, sir!”  The first one grabbed at the stuff on the table, scooping most of it into his hands and sending a number of the smaller pieces flying onto the floor in his haste.  Tip could hear them rolling about. 

“Otto, you’ve swept half of the bearings onto the floor!” protested his companion.

“I got most of it, Donar.  Grab what you can, only hurry for godsakes!  If we don’t get the table set, Sergeant Stubben will have us peeling potatoes till the second coming.”

Tip nabbed a few of the metal parts as they skittered by her feet.

“Here,” she said, offering them to Donar, who was closest to her. 

“You’re the little girl who flew with the ace, Colonel Allard!” said Donar, accepting the pieces from her with a wide grin.  “They say you’re a good shot.”

“That’s me, Tip Blue Fox,” said Tip, returning his smile and not bothering to translate her name.  “Happy to meet you.”

“I’m Fahnenjunker[1] Donar Bergstrom, and that,” he pointed at the other young man, who was shoving metal pieces into his jacket pockets and muttering as he looked at the floor.  “Is Otto Bayer.  We’re cadets.”

“That sounds great!” said Tip, finding one more piece of metal to give Donar.  “What do you do?”

“Mostly we help to keep the aeroplanes running,” said Otto. 

“And anything else that needs doing,” added Donar.  “Someday we’ll get to fly.”  He cast a worried glance at the kitchen.  “If Sergeant Stubben doesn’t kill us, first.  We’ve got to run, the Sergeant gets nervous when we have company of any importance.”

“Or no importance,” snickered Otto. 

“Come on!”  Donar grabbed his friend by the shoulder and dragged him toward the kitchen.  “See you at dinner, we’ll be serving the food!”

“Good luck with that,” said Tip waving at them.  She thought for a time.  “Hmm, maybe they could use a little help?”

The sun had set when the pilots of the Jagdstaffel arranged themselves around the table with Colonel Allard in the place of honor on one side and their Rittmeister facing him on the other.  Ann and Tip had seats by Von Hammer, much to the relief of the pilots.  The table made a brave showing, with dishes, glasses, cutlery, and napkins all laid out in perfect order.  Ann was impressed.  She was also impressed with the fact Tip looked amazingly tidy, put-together, and on her best behavior.  Once they were all arranged and in place, they sat in unison, and after a brief statement of welcome from Von Hammer, the food was brought in. 

Donar entered with a platter of sausages and trod on a missing bearing just as he reached the table.  He staggered, and in his effort to catch himself, performed a near-perfect 180-degree turn, somehow carrying the platter with him.  He’d been heading toward the middle of the table, to serve the lady guests first, but now found himself facing Colonel Allard and Rittmeister Von Hammer.  By some miracle of physics, the food had managed to remain on the platter, and after taking a quick breath to steady himself, he set the dish gently down in a clear space on the table, gave everyone a bow, and made a strategic retreat to the kitchen.  Inside, Otto was doubled over with laughter, having seen the entire performance through the half-opened door. 

“You found a bearing!” he managed to choke out in a low wheeze.

“Yes, you noodle-head! I found it all right!  And it’s still on the floor somewhere, so now it’s your turn!”  He picked up a platter of sliced rye bread and butter and thrust it into Otto’s hands.  “Try not to shuffle,” he added as he picked up a bowl of potatoes. 

“Off we go,” said Otto, gamely striding out into the dining room. 

“It is good to have a little light entertainment with dinner,” said Von Hammer, politely passing the sausages across the table to a position in front of the guests. 

“If he’d gotten properly airborne I’d have thought it a perfect Immelmann turn,” said Meyer, one of the pilots.  He nodded to Otto, who managed to deliver the bread without any further antics.

Following Miss Manners’ advice to ignore any “awful” happenings at social engagements, Ann only smiled at everyone as the meal was arranged on the table.  She was very aware that food was in short supply and was careful to take no more than was offered.  Kent and Tip did the same.  Kent would look elegant eating pretty much anything, she thought, and then followed the thought with, given he lived through this time period, he probably did eat anything they served.  To her surprise the food was quite good – and evidently to the surprise of some of the young officers as well, although they managed to control themselves admirably.

“Rittmeister, you’ve been hunting,” said Kent with a smile. 

Von Hammer looked pleased at the comment.

“Yes, mother nature favored us with a wild boar not two days ago.  He had been sneaking in at night to pillage our vegetable garden.  Otto and Donar helped to pack the meat out of the forest and our good cook has been busy ever since to prepare things which will keep, such as these sausages.  Early on, I used to walk in the forest and hunt small game – to sharpen my aim more than anything, but lately I look for that which might supplement our rations.”

“Elk is very nice,” said one of the older pilots.  “But it will not be in season until the fall.”

“And we need just about everyone to help haul it back once it is dressed,” said another with a grin.  “Well worth the effort, however.”

The rest of the meal passed with pleasant conversation about hunting for sport and food, with not a mention of the current war that put their lives in jeopardy.  The meal finished, Otto and Donar cleared away the dishes with quiet efficiency and Von Hammer poured out glasses of wine, which were distributed around to all. 

Standing, he raised his glass. 

“To the Kaiser.” 

Everyone dutifully took a drink. 

My German ancestress eloped to the United States in the 19^th century, so their Kaiser isn’t exactly mine, but I suppose it doesn’t make much difference, thought Ann with an internal shrug.  In my time Kaiser Wilhelm II is long gone, so I guess it can’t hurt to wish him well right now.

“To our country, our comrades.”

I remember this, thought Ann.  Some of these toasts could get long – luckily I don’t think we have enough wine to get tipsy.

“To the Flying Corps.  All of them,” said Von Hammer.  Lowering his glass, he looked across the table at Kent, who lifted his own glass and stood. 

“Through the years our countries have called, and many have answered the call. Let us not forget our fallen comrades, but remember them always, for they have earned our respect and admiration with their lives.  We knew them, we remember them, and they will not be forgotten.  To our fallen comrades!”[2]

With murmurs of appreciation, everyone drained their glasses. 

Von Hammer looked as if he was about to give everyone leave to go, when the main door burst open, and in rushed a quartet of armed soldiers.  Following on their heels was an officer with a pinched face and sporting a narrow mustache on his upper lip.  A monocle was screwed into one eye.  His face was set in a sneer of superiority as he took in the dinner party. 

He looks like Snidely Whiplash! Ann thought, putting her napkin up to her mouth to hide her expression.  Whoever he was, he was no friend to Von Hammer, for he fixed the German ace with a narrow stare.

“Colonel Schlein,” said Von Hammer.  “How good of you to visit us.”

“How nice that your party is over, Rittmeister.  We will take the prisoner now for questioning, I’m so glad I captured him.”

“News travels fast,” murmured Tip to Ann.  “We haven’t even been here a day.  My creep-o-meter is going off big time, though.”

 “What are these?” asked Schlein, looking down his long nose at Tip and Ann.  “You are taking in someone’s brats now, Baron?”  He smiled nastily.  “They aren’t yours are they?”

“They came here by accident,” said Von Hammer, keeping his tone carefully neutral.  His eyes had turned the color of steel.  “I will contact the Red Cross on their behalf in the morning.”

“Sentimental idiot,” sniffed Schlein.  “A waste of resources.  I want them gone the next time I come by.”  He flicked his fingers as if shooing flies.

“Konoyarō,” muttered Tip under her breath. 

“Damare,” Ann hissed.  She trod on Tip’s foot and forestalled any other outburst.  It would have been one thing to unleash the kitsune against the man were they alone, but they had a captive audience of at least fifteen young men, all of whom looked mortified, appalled, and fearful.  Schlein smelled of evil.  The skin between her shoulder blades twitched with the urge to change into her unicorn shape and take him on herself, but she tamped the need down firmly. 

Their host looked coldly furious and appeared to be preparing to launch himself across the table at the Colonel.  Given the officer’s escort of four nervous armed soldiers, Ann knew that would be nearly as rash as whatever actions Tip might be considering.  Kent looked completely relaxed, but Ann knew from experience that was simply part of the Shadow’s skill. 

I’ll bet he’d love to get Von Hammer shot, the slimeball! She thought.  Quietly, she took the Baron by the elbow and concentrated.

Wait, wait, it will be all right.

The Baron started a bit, but must have caught the gist of her message, because he deliberately relaxed and took a deep breath.

Schlein seemed disappointed.  With a snort of distain, he turned about on his heel and barked orders at the guards, who marched stiffly out the door with Kent.  With a last sneer, Schlein followed them into the night.  A few moments later the sound of a truck pulling away was heard and momentary silence descended on the dinner party.  The entire group performed a collective exhalation.

“Dismissed,” said Von Hammer quietly.  “We will sort this out in the morning.”

[1] Fahnenjunker - most junior officer cadet with sergeant (US) or corporal (UK) status.

[2] Adapted from Toast to Fallen Comrades: https://vaughnbarry.com/toast-to-fallen-comrades/

Chapter Text

The pilots left as hastily as they could and still maintain good order.  Soon Ann and Tip were alone at the table with Von Hammer.  Otto and Donar lingered nearby, making a show of sweeping up the crumbs and clearing the remaining glassware. 

“Well, what d’ya think Annie?” Tip’s cheerful voice broke the somber mood.

“An hour, maybe, give or take ten minutes to find a good spot,” said Ann. 

“I’m betting twenty minutes, the local town’s about fifteen away if you drive fast,” said Tip, toting up the time on her fingers.

“Hmm, better split the difference then, and say forty minutes,” Ann replied.

“Done!” said Tip, shaking her hand.

“Herr Rittmeister, they are placing bets?” asked Otto. 

“Yes, I believe they are,” Von Hammer replied, raising an eyebrow at Ann. 

“We are, sorry,” said Ann.  “It’s become a bit of a custom, given Kent’s particular skills.”

“D’they want a piece o’the action?” asked Tip with a grin. 

“Skills besides being a superb pilot?” asked Von Hammer.  “He never did mention any other talents, although I have seen he has more than usual.”

“It’s a little complicated,” said Ann.  “How would you even describe what he does?” she asked Tip.  She wasn’t at all sure it would be a good idea to delineate a list of the Shadow’s capabilities for their audience. 

“Erinyes,” said Tip. 

Von Hammer, who must have had a classical education, looked startled, as did Otto and Donar. 

“Der Erinnyen – the Furies?”  He looked confused.  “There are several, if I recall my Greek legends correctly.”

“Yes indeed,” said Ann.  She counted them off on her fingers.  “Alecto – punisher of moral crimes; Megaera – punisher of oath breakers and theft; and Tisiphone – punisher of murderers.”

“So… which one?” asked Von Hammer, feeling the hairs on his arms prickle at the thought.

“All of them,” said Tip.

 “But, the soldiers on the truck,” said the Baron, looking out the nearest window into the night.

“They should be fine, unless one of them is a murderer,” said Ann.  “He’s nothing if not just.”

“That’s impossible, Herr Rittmeister!”  Otto protested.  “He’s one man surrounded by armed guards.”

“And forgive me, but Colonel Schlein is armed as well,” added Donar.

“Wait and see,” said Tip.  “What’s the time?” she asked Ann.

“Nine thirty-five, said Ann, checking her pocket watch.  “Ten minutes.”

“Great!”  Tip pulled a pack of worn cards from her back pocket and riffled them.  “Anyone for a game of Go Fish?”

---

“Do you have any twos?” asked Donar of Tip.

“Here,” Tip handed him a card.

“Thank you.”  Donar laid down his new set of twos. 

“Any aces?” Ann asked Von Hammer.

“Go fish,” he replied, after squinting at his hand. 

Ann picked a card from the pool and showed it to them with a sigh.  It was the ace of clubs, but since it had been taken from the pool she could not play it that turn.

“And this is why I never gamble, the cards hate me,” she said with a rueful smile.

“Do you have any…” Otto left the request to Ann dangling as he became aware a tall man wrapped entirely in black and wearing a broad-brimmed black hat was standing by his elbow.

“Jacks,” the man finished for him in a low, sibilant voice.

“Um,” said Otto, taking a card from Ann automatically.  He rolled his eyes at his spectral-seeming visitant, but did not jump up screaming.

Ann smiled at him encouragingly.

Von Hammer rose.

“Meyer, Bergstrom, you are dismissed.  Tell Wilhelm to prepare my aircraft and the Bristol for flight an hour before first light.”

“Yes sir!”  The young men laid their cards on the table, saluted Von Hammer, bowed to Ann, and left the room at a brisk pace, closing the door firmly behind them.

“Welcome back,” said Ann as the Shadow removed his hat, cloak, and scarf, and stowed everything neatly back into his jacket.

“Forty-five minutes,” said Tip.

“Yes, it took a little time to settle the guards at the local inn and beg a ride from a truck heading past your airfield.”  Kent smiled at Von Hammer.  “The townspeople are friendly and willing to help a serviceman needing a lift back to their post.  They are also sympathetic to those who may have overindulged while on leave.  The guards will be well-cared for.”

Von Hammer nodded.  That is good to hear, thank you.  And Colonel Schlein?”

“Unavoidably delayed,” said Kent, his smile growing wider.  “He will kill your pilots no longer.”

“How did you…?” Von Hammer stared at Kent in surprise. “I lost two of my good pilots to his arrogance this spring and two more only four weeks ago.”

“I know the type,” said Kent.  “Completely wasteful of their men’s lives and too cowardly to hazard their own on the field of combat.”  His voice held a glacial timbre.  “I have remediated any number of them in my career.  Sometimes too late, so it pleases me to be able to repair something that is broken before a complete failure happens.” he spread his hands.  “I am very good at what I do, but I am not omniscient.”

“Not yet,” said Tip with a laugh. 

---

“So, where is Colonel Slime?” asked Tip into the soft darkness of the room where they were resting that night.

“Tip, really,” said Ann, in an ‘oh, please’ tone.  “We shouldn’t be discussing details.  And Colonel Slime?  You mean Colonel Schwein.”

“Hey, the Rittmeister is sleeping across the hall, it’s OK.”

“Feel free to ignore her,” said Ann, “She is the bane of operational security, I’m afraid.”

There was a long silence and Ann had just about decided Kent was taking some well-earned rest, when he spoke from the gloom. 

“My uncle had a farm years ago; I think it is still in the family.  Did you know pigs will eat anything?”  Kent’s voice held a smile.

Oh dear, that makes me think of at least two serial killers who may have fed their victims to pigs, she thought in chagrin.  Another topic followed hard on the heels of the first, my Colonel Schwein remark was too close to home.   

“You rock,” said Tip, snickering. 

“I was moments away from changing my shape when you left with Colonel Schlein,” said Ann.

“I surmised as much,” said Kent.  “Your aura ‘blooms’ when you are preparing to do that.  I am glad you did not, however.”

Tip laughed softly. 

“Yeah, there wouldn’t have been enough left to feed the pigs after she got through.”

“And everyone on this base has had enough trauma for one lifetime,” said Ann.  “They didn’t need to see me rampaging”

“Cleanup would’ve sucked, too,” said Tip.  “Glad you held off.  G’nite.”

---

“Ugh, a dawn patrol only sounds romantic in books,” said Tip.  She yawned widely and scrubbed her hands through her short mane of hair.  She sat up on the camp bed she had shared with Ann.  The unicorn-woman was gone, as was Kent. 

“Figures, she muttered.  “Mister ‘I live in the darkness’ and Miz ‘lark in the morning’ weren’t going to sleep late.”  Pulling on her britches and boots was the work of a moment, then she ran off in search of her comrades.  Once outside, she saw the sky to the east was lightening with false dawn, while the stars still shone brightly between fine banners of high cirrus clouds. 

“I see folks working on our planes, I wonder if Otto an’ Donar are out there?”  Whistling a little tune, she trotted off.

Ann was glad of the flight coat Tip had made for her the day before.  Despite it being June, at this hour the air was chill and damp.  Out on the airfield, Kent spoke to Von Hammer as the ground crew prepared their aircraft for flight.

Breakfast had been black coffee and a very hard roll.  Ann thought she could have gotten more nourishment from shifting into her unicorn shape and grazing, but thanked them profusely for sharing what they had.  As she approached the Bristol, she heard Von Hammer’s mechanic say the machines were ready. 

As Ann drew near the two men, she saw Von Hammer look skyward and take a deep breath. 

“The day will be fair with few clouds to conceal our movements.  Best to climb as high as we can for the trip to the Channel and then descend to your rift at the last moment.  Being escorted by myself will get you safely through our skies.  Beyond no man’s land, we will be in enemy territory for the rest of the journey.”  He made a quick motion at the Bristol.  “Well, I will, that is.”  He gave them a small smile.  “It is heartening to think that by your time at least, such distinctions will be a thing of the past.”

“There is a future worth living to see,” said Kent.  “Like anything done by human beings, it is imperfect, but it is still something to strive for.”  Stepping a pace closer, he lifted his hand and laid it over Von Hammer’s chest.  The large opal on his ring sparkled in fiery reds and blues.

“Protect this.  Be true to what you know is right.  Look after your people.  The rest will sort itself out.”  He grinned at the ace.  “Oh, and be aware, not everything evil comes from the darkness.”

Von Hammer looked thoroughly surprised as he took in that brief exhortation.

“Have we… met before?” he asked at last.

“Not yet,” said Kent.  He touched his forehead in a salute and strode off to the Bristol, which the ground crew had started. 

Chapter Text

“Off we go to knit up a rift in time,” said Ann, shaking Von Hammer’s hand while he was still collecting his thoughts.  “Thank you for your hospitality and kindness.”  Her eyes sparkled amber-gold in the dark.  If the ace noticed, he held his peace.

“I would say, Fraulein, please return when all the fighting is over and experience our country at its best, but…” Von Hammer made a little shrug.  “That would probably not be a good idea given the potential for disruption.”

“Hey, you could come and visit our time!  I’m sure that would be lots safer!” said Tip, running up.  She clutched several spheres to her chest.

Ann suppressed a groan at the idea of more time-travel, but dropped that thought to ask:

“What’s that you’ve got?”

Tip held up one of the spheres for her inspection. 

“Paint bombs.  Bigger an’ better than the little paintball bullets.  Donar an’ Otto helped me put ‘em together.  Kind’a like baseball-size water balloons filled with paint, only stronger, so they don’t bust as easy.”

“What do you think you’re going to be doing with those?” Ann shook her head.

“Just in case we gotta negotiate safe passage on the way.”  Tip nodded at Von Hammer.  “I knew we’d be going most of the way over land where he’s not welcome, an’ I’ll be a monkey’s uncle before I let some yahoo blow him away while he’s doing us a solid.”

Von Hammer’s face relaxed into a seldom-seen smile.

“I could barely interpret half of that, but I believe I understand your intent.” 

“Fine,” Ann sighed. “I’ve no idea how this is supposed to work.”

“Trust me,” said Tip with a toothy grin.  Looking around the bodies of the two adults she grabbed at Ann’s jacket sleeve.  “Hey, Kent’s gonna roll out!  C’mon!”  She paused a moment and waved at Von Hammer.  “Thanks for everything!  It’s been real!”

“Real?”  The ace looked after Tip as she dashed across the airfield and flung herself into the observer’s cockpit of the Bristol. 

“Definitely real,” said Ann.  She could not suppress her smile.  “Guess I’d better hurry and keep her out of trouble.”

---

“How do you even know where you are?” Ann shouted over the roar of the engine as they cruised at maximum altitude.  The air was bitterly cold and thin.  The sun had crept over the horizon.  She could breathe just fine, but some bit of memory yammered about the “death zone” of Everest and the fact even acclimated humans could not linger there for long before suffering ill effects.  Very far below, the land was a scarred gray patchwork with small shreds of green that might have been the remnants of farm fields or hedgerows before all-out war had torn everything asunder.

“We’re over Belgium, Flanders, above the Western Front.  It’s unmistakable,” Kent replied.

“If by unmistakable you mean I’ll never forget the sensation of someone trying to dig out my eyes with a pick, then I’d have to agree.”  The were-unicorn gritted her teeth against the pain. 

“That’s the altitude,” said Kent.

“No it’s the miasma of war,” Ann replied.

“We are over three miles above the battlefield,” said Kent.

“Which is good,” Ann said.  “I’d be in sorry shape if we were at ground level.”

“I can see the Channel!”  Tip pointed ahead.  In the distance, the gray sea gleamed under the sun.

“Good,” said Ann. 

Off to their right, perhaps one hundred feet above their own aircraft, Von Hammer paced them in his red Fokker triplane.  He had placed himself slightly above them, which in theory gave him a better view for potential interference on their flight path.

Ann stretched as best she could in her shared seat with Tip.  Deliberately turning her gaze from the battlefield below she looked up at the sun to check its position.  Her eyes could stand the brilliance longer than a human’s and in that moment when she stared at the burning orb she saw something more than just the Earth’s star.

“Kent, someone’s in the sun!”

Kent shot a quick glance upward and immediately took the Bristol higher, seeking to bring the aircraft above that of Von Hammer’s Fokker.

“Not friendly,” said Kent briefly. 

Thrusting out an arm, he pointed sunward and Von Hammer banked his aircraft below the Bristol, close enough that Ann could have jumped down onto his plane had she been so inclined. 

The plunging aircraft passed them by without firing.  Ann saw it was painted black and sported a most unnerving insignia on its sides. 

“A gallows!?”  Ann held onto the Lewis gun as Kent banked the Bristol.

“The Hangman,” said Kent.  He peered over the side of the Bristol to mark the path of the black plane.  “Or Count Andre de Sevinge, if you prefer.  No one else flies a coal black Spad with that insignia.”

“Why is he…?  Oh!  He wants to fight Von Hammer!”

“Exactly so,” Kent replied, as he sought to place his Bristol in such a way as to interfere with the French ace’s intention.

“I have to make this look like I don’t know what I’m doing.  Things may get bumpy,” he added with a smile in his voice.

“K’so!”  Tip hauled two paint bombs from her small trove stowed in the basket beside her feet and handed them to Ann.  “Here, give ‘em t’me once I’ve changed!”  An instant later a large blue falcon clutched the edge of their shared cockpit.  Ann placed one sphere in Tip’s right claw and the other in the left as she hovered momentarily.  Scarcely had she completed that action, when Kent rolled the Bristol over and put it into a screaming dive. The falcon vanished from her sight.

“Tip is off to do… something,” Ann shouted as she hung on to the Lewis.  It was still loaded with paint and offered little deterrent unless they could get very close. 

“Good, that may even the odds.”

Kent proceeded to put his aircraft through a set of maneuvers – rolling, diving, climbing, and banking, all apparently done in panic over the situation, and yet somehow keeping the Bristol between the Hangman and Von Hammer. 

Ann noticed they were continuing to move closer to the location of the time rift as Kent directed their “random scramble” through the sky.  Von Hammer must have realized what Kent was doing, because while he managed to keep near them, he seemed to be just as disorganized in his flight pattern, and yet was able to keep the Bristol as a shield against the Hangman’s attacks.

How long until he…  Ann’s thought was unfinished as the Hangman’s black Spad performed a tight loop and opened fire on their aircraft. 

“Nice while it lasted,” said Kent with a chuckle as he turned the Bristol on its side to get out of the hail of bullets.

“Shall I return fire?” Ann shouted over the wind, gripping the Lewis gun.

“Wait just a little,” said Kent.

He looked upward over his shoulder and pointed.  Ann saw a blue streak plunge down from heaven toward the black Spad.  Just when she was sure it was going to collide with the Hangman, it made a quick hairpin turn, but a pair of objects continued on the original vector, traveling at the same velocity as the falcon’s stoop.  A moment later the Hangman sent his Spad into a steep dive and bank to get himself away from the Bristol and Von Hammer’s triplane.

“Was… was that Tip?” Ann looked over the edge of the cockpit to see their attacker dwindle into the distance as Kent sent the Bristol out over the English Channel.

“It sure was, sister!”  The blue falcon had looped around, dropped down into the cockpit, and shifted back into her humanoid form, cackling merrily.  “I got so much paint on him he could open a store.”  She fastened up her safety harness. 

“The paint would be discouraging, but even more so would be the speed at which your little ‘bombs’ were delivered,” said Kent.  “It would be like being hit by a water balloon traveling at rifle bullet velocity.”

“Yeah, I was going pretty fast,” said Tip.  “Falcons dive over 200 miles per hour, whatta blast!”

“Is the Count all right?” asked Ann.  She scanned the skies, but saw no sign of their opponent.

“Probably has a mild concussion,” said Kent.  “If he has any sense, he’ll put down at an allied airfield to clean up and regain his equilibrium.”

Tip snorted at that comment. 

“If any of these guys had any sense, they wouldn’t be doin’ what they be doin’ right now.”

“A salient point,” said Kent.  “By our current definition, I had no sense either when I was in the thick of this war.  Youth feels itself immortal.  If we survive that, we gain some level of balance and caution.”

Tip laughed so hard she sagged deep into the cockpit. 

“What?” asked Ann, scowling down at the kitsune. 

Tip finally got her merriment under control.

“All your life has been one of ‘balance and caution’, eh?”

“Within the bounds of my work, yes,” said Kent in a very reasonable tone.

“We’re not going to discuss career choices right now,” said Ann firmly to Tip. 

“Awright, fine.”  Tip directed her next comment to Kent.  “An’ I owe ya a big one for Col. Swine, so I ain’t gonna give you a hard time.”  She thought a moment.  “Well, any more than usual.”

“You are too kind,” said Kent with a laugh.  “What do you see ahead?”

“Hey!  Our time rift!”  Tip gave a cheer. 

Von Hammer’s red aircraft drew alongside their own.  Kent pointed ahead to the rift and saluted the German ace.

Von Hammer returned the salute and sent his red Fokker into a wide turn, keeping well clear of the rift. 

“Do you have your charge?” asked Kent.

“I do!”  Tip pulled the small packet from her jacket pocket.

“Very good.  On my mark, throw yours to the left.”

“Aye-aye!”

Ann held her breath as Kent took them through the exact middle of the rift.  This time she could feel the odd frisson on her skin that told of shifting timeframes.

“Now!”

Kent threw his charge to the right and Tip immediately tossed her to the left.  Two seconds later he detonated them with their cannibalized cell phones and Ann saw the small flashes behind them.  A moment after, the rift collapsed like a soap bubble and the sky became smooth and unmarred.

“There,” said Kent.  “That should set everything to rights.”

“From your mouth to God’s ear,” said Ann, releasing her breath in a long sigh.  She smiled happily.  “That was rather fun, in its own weird way.”

“More like to Doc Savage’s ear.  I need to have a Talk with him,” said Kent, sounding very much like the Shadow.

Tip cackled.  “I wanna see that!”

“Why not?” said Kent, sounding nearly as cheerful as the kitsune.

Why do I have A Bad Feeling about This? thought Ann.

---

Von Hammer watched the rift close and vanish behind his visitors from the future with a sense of both relief and sadness.  While it would have been far too dangerous for them to linger in the past, he treasured the thought of a future with less war and from the few hints he had gleaned, aviation of a sort undreamed-of by the aircraft engineers of his time.

They have left me with much to think upon, assuming the killer skies give me the time to do so.  With that cogent reminder, he kept a close eye out for the Hangman or any other foes as he returned to his Jagdstaffel.

As he circled his airfield and made an inspection from above, he decided nothing had been altered by the breach in time.  Landing his aircraft, he left it in the care of his mechanic, Wilhelm, and strode into his office to plan the day’s operations.  After some time, as he pored over the maps of the battlefields and examined the sometimes conflicting orders from his superiors, he became aware of a soft murmur of voices coming from the dining hall. 

Gently he eased the door open and looked into the larger room.  Otto and Donar were seated at the main table, their latest project spread out in pieces over the surface, along with various hand tools.  Donar’s big pet raven, which the cook had forbidden to be anywhere near their food on pain of a horrible death for everyone nearby, was perched on the boy’s shoulder, patiently allowing them to stretch out his wings now and then as they scribbled notes. 

“See?” asked Donar, holding out the wing and pointing at the trailing feathers.  “He can change the entire shape of his wing by turning his arm-bones and twisting each feather, which gives exquisite control at low speeds.”

“But they tried that sort of wing-warping with the Fokker Eindecker and D.III,” said Otto, shaking his head.  “It was too difficult, too prone to structural failure.”

“Yes,” said Donar, scribbling madly at a sketch.  He lifted a bit of shaped light wood from the table.  It looked like a scale model of a standard aircraft wing.  The cadets spent as much of their spare time as they could building and flying model aircraft – initially, most of them would crash spectacularly, but they were persistent at their hobby and their little fliers were rapidly improving, along with their engineering skills.

“Look here, Fraulein Tip talked about leading edge flaps, remember?  How they could extend the control surfaces of the wing and lower the airspeed needed for a safe takeoff or landing.”  Donar picked up another bit of wood. 

“I think I have the correct shapes, but the actuators…”

Otto pulled his chair closer.  “Right.  This requires some thought.  It won’t do to have yet more fussy controls for the pilot to manage.”  His voice trailed off as he picked up first one piece then another.  “What about…”

Von Hammer stepped back into his office and softly closed the door.

I’m sure it will be fine, he thought.  Just fine.

###