Track of the Beast: A Brock Stone Adventure

“We’re in the middle of nowhere,” Alex said. “The odds of encountering another plane out here must be microscopic.”

“Try changing course and see if it follows us,” Stone suggested. He had a bad feeling about this newcomer.

Alex adjusted their course several degrees west-northwest. Moments later, the Albatross too changed its direction. Soon it was gaining ground on the Flying Wing.

“They’s definitely after us,” Moses said. If he was frightened, he didn’t let it show. “Now I’m wishing we had added weapons to this bird.”

“We designed her for long-distance travel,” Alex said. “A weapons system would add unnecessary weight.”

“It feels pretty necessary right now, don’t it?” Moses said.

“Maybe they don’t mean us any harm,” Constance said. “Just another pilot out enjoying the day?”

The Albatross answered her question by opening fire. Bullets zipped past the nose of the Flying Wing. Alex let out a yelp and opened up the throttle.

“Can we outrun them?” Moses asked.

“Not likely,” Stone said. “The Albatross was a lousy plane, but she’s lighter, faster, and more maneuverable than we are.”

“What do we do, then?” Alex asked, his face ashen and his voice tight.

“Head for that cloud bank up ahead. And don’t fly in a straight line. A moving target is harder to hit.”

“Roger that.” Alex banked the plane toward starboard. Another rattle of gunfire and another hail of bullets missed them badly.

“And don’t fall into a pattern with your movements,” Stone warned. “Mix it up. Keep him guessing.”

“How about you make me a list?” Alex snapped as he once again banked the plane to starboard, then back to port. “Sorry. This is my first dogfight.”

“Don’t mention it. But speaking of dogfights, I want to see if maybe we can turn this into a real battle. Can you lower the hatch?”

“Sure, but make sure you affix the safety line to your belt. I don’t want you getting sucked out of the plane.”

Stone did as instructed. Moments later a rumbling sound filled his ears and the deck trembled as a hatch opened beneath them. Wind ripped through the cabin like a tornado. Constance let out a shout of protest and covered her head. Stone grabbed hold of a metal rung at the edge of the hatch, drew his Webley Top-Break revolver. The standard-issue sidearm for the British army, it fired .455 slugs and delivered a punch. Stone worked his head and shoulders down through the opening.

The wind tore at him and he held on for dear life. Hanging upside down, he took a few seconds to reorient himself before taking aim at the Albatross as it closed in. The pilot fired off another burst, but at this range and with his poor accuracy, he was wasting ammunition. An amateur.

Stone took aim with his Webley, and focused. He squeezed off a single shot aimed at the cockpit. It missed, making a ragged tear in the upper wing. Stone fired again and this time the slug pinged off the fuselage just inches from the cockpit.

The pilot took evasive action, sending the fighter into a barrel roll, then taking it into a dive, before coming up and firing again. Stone adjusted his angle and squeezed the trigger. This time his shot struck the landing gear.

“I can’t get a decent shot,” he complained, though no one could hear him. As the battle went on, the Albatross drew ever closer. Stone managed to score a few hits, one to the cockpit’s windscreen, which slowed the pursuit a little, but nothing that made the Albatross back off. Finally, when he had emptied the cylinder, he climbed back into the cabin.

“No joy,” he said. “I hit them a few times but it’s like poking an elephant with a sharp stick.”

“We’re almost into the cloud bank,” Alex said. “But what do we do after that?”

“We got parachutes,” Moses offered.

Constance blanched. “I don’t know how to use one of those things.”

“Forget it,” Stone said. “We’d be sitting ducks. The pilot would gun us all down before we hit the ground.” He looked around. “Are you sure there aren’t any weapons on board?”

Moses looked at Alex. “I suppose we could show him the new invention.”

Alex shook his head. “It’s not a weapon. Besides, he hasn’t even had a chance to test it out yet.”

“But if he…”

“There’s no time to argue,” Stone said. “Tell me about this new toy of yours.”

Interlude 2

May, 1927

Five Years Ago

Stone grabbed hold of the rope and tested its strength before grabbing on with both hands. It supported his weight. He looked up, trying to catch sight of his rescuer. A small, wiry man with skin like tanned hide, peered over the ledge.

“I will not pull you up,” the man said simply.

“Fair enough.” With the rope to hold on to, Stone had no problem finishing the climb. When he reached the top, he found himself on a narrow path that wound its way along the mountainside.