gasped. She had only read about the thunderbird before. She had never seen it in action.
Watching it tear into the kite, she could only imagine what its sharp beaks and talons could do to a human being, what they had done back in 1848… She dived for cover beneath the bandstand. Rain-swept litter washed against her, but that was the least of her worries. She cautiously poked her head out to see what was happening. “Come on, Artie,” she entreated. “Where are you?” The thunderbird descended toward Univille. Followed closely by a vintage World War I triplane…
CHAPTER
19
“UNIVILLE
” “Hold on tight!” The Fokker DR-1 triplane dove through the storm. Its wings and fuselage were a brilliant shade of red, except where an Iron Cross was painted black against a field of white. A contraption of wood and canvas held together by wire, the primitive flying machine felt uncomfortably flimsy compared to more modern aircraft. Yet this particular plane, Artie recalled, had survived some of the most deadly aerial dogfights of the First World War. He hoped it had one more victory in it. The spinning propeller sliced up the air. He clutched the control stick with both hands.
Tinted goggles and a leather aviator’s cap protected him from the elements. A thick wool scarf was knotted around his neck. Twin Spandau machine guns were mounted directly in front of him, their sights lined up with the nose of the plane. Its powerful nine-cylinder engine was nearly drowned out by the crashing thunder. “I’m holding, I’m holding!” Claudia shrieked over the roar of the plane, her arms wrapped tightly around him. She was squeezed into the cockpit behind Artie, acting as spotter. A red, white, and blue USAF flight helmet was clamped over her skull. A brown leather bomber jacket covered her goo-splattered clothing, which there had been no time to change out of. She batted the tail of Artie’s scarf away from her face. “What am I doing here anyway? I thought the Red Baron always flew solo!” “I’m not the Red Baron, okay?” He thought that was obvious. “I can use the backup!” Manfred von Richthofen, the infamous Red Baron, had been the most lethal flying ace of World War I, with a record-setting eighty kills to his name. He had died in this very plane, shot down by ground fire while flying too low beyond enemy lines, but he had never lost a dogfight. And he had even managed to land the Fokker safely before expiring. Warehouse agents had acquired the plane decades ago, after its more unusual properties caught their attention. It had been gathering dust for as long as Artie remembered. He had been tinkering with it for years. The Fokker broke out of the clouds. It leveled off above the town. “There it is!” Claudia let go of Artie’s waist long enough to point below them. “T-bird at twelve o’clock!” The totem soared low over Univille, hundreds of feet below the triplane. Hot on its tail, Artie was relieved to see that the flooded streets were empty, thanks to Reich’s cloudbuster. Good job, Leena, he thought approvingly. I always knew that “art installation” was going to come in handy someday. Deprived of human prey, the bird screeched in frustration. It flew low over the deserted streets and sidewalks, hunting for a hapless victim. Rain sluiced off its chiseled feathers, but it appeared quite at home in the torrential downpour. The storm did not deter it. No surprise there. According to North American Indian mythology, the thunderbird was the harbinger of both war and fierce weather. Lightning was said to be the flashing of its eyes; thunder the flapping of its wings. “What are you waiting for?” Claudia hollered. “Shoot it!” “Not yet!” Artie held his fire. The old plane had a limited quantity of ammo. He didn’t want to waste it. “We need to get closer.” “Says you!” Claudia objected. “Me, I’d rather keep my distance.” Not an option, Artie knew. The Fokker’s ancient guns were not very accurate at long range. The Red Baron himself never opened fire until he was within three hundred feet of his target. Firing too early just gave your location away. Those tactics had been passed along to his plane, which had done this many times before. Artie was not about to second-guess them now. Working the stick, he tried to get the wooden raptor in his sights. The bird’s painted tail feathers came into range, and he let loose with a short burst of machine-gun fire.
An ingenious mechanism, designed by the famed Dutch aeronautical engineer Anthony Fokker, synchronized the guns’ fire with the motion of the propeller so that the bullets shot through the spinning blades without damaging them. The twin muzzles flared a brilliant purple. The guns rattled over the storm. A round of handcrafted 8mm ammo chipped away at the flying totem but failed to kill it. A neutralizing compound had been mixed with the alloy to give it more punch against renegade artifacts and their effects. Sap, not blood, dripped from the gouged wood. Did the unnatural creature even have any vital organs to hit? The Red Baron had died from a single shot to his heart, but the thunderbird was made of wood, not flesh and blood. Even with the glowing purple bullets, how was one supposed to kill it? He tried targeting its head, but the bird banked hard to the left. Artie wasted a round on empty air. The DR-1 had been faster and more maneuverable than its peers back in the Great War, but the thunderbird had it beat by a long shot. The monster zigged and zagged before him, making it all but impossible to get a bead on. Not that he even knew where to shoot. “Tracer rounds!” he shouted back at Claudia. “Give me the tracer rounds.” Fumbling awkwardly, she reloaded the right-hand gun.
This was a difficult operation to perform in midair, but her agile fingers were used to handling intricate mechanisms under pressure. She had once defused a doomsday bomb with seconds to spare. “Locked and loaded!” she reported. “Light her up!” Artie opened up the throttle to catch up with the bird. An elevated water tower suddenly loomed in front of the thunderbird, which smashed right through it, emerging intact from the other side. Twin cataracts of water poured down onto the already flooded street fair, washing away booths and bandstands, even as the punctured tower loomed directly in the triplane’s path.
“Artie, watch out!” “I see it!” he shouted back. “I’m not blind, you know!” “Could’ve fooled me.” Artie pulled back on the stick, and the Fokker climbed steeply. He held his breath. History recorded that the DR-1 sometimes lost power climbing at high altitudes, but he hoped that wouldn’t be a problem here. The tower filled the view before him, so close that he could read the graffiti spray-painted on its tank.
The Class of 2010 “ruled,” apparently. “Artie?” Claudia asked nervously. “We’re going to make it. Probably.” Climbing at top speed, the triplane barely cleared the towers. Its landing gear scraped the top of the empty tank, sending a bump up his spine. He wondered if Vanessa knew a good chiropractor. “Ouch!” Claudia got bounced as well.
“You have flown this thing before, right?” “I never said that.” He switched into lecture mode. “But this plane is an extension of the Red Baron. His tactical genius and flying skill passed into it upon his death.” The controls felt alive in his hands, guiding him in their use. “It practically flies itself!” “‘Practically’?” Her eyes searched the cockpit. “And the parachutes are…?” “There aren’t any,” he explained. “No room.” “Now he tells me.” “Never mind the parachutes.”
He eased up on the stick, leveling off at about five hundred feet above the town. Fortunately, Univille was not known for its skyscrapers. Few buildings were more than three stories high. “Just keep your eye out for that bird!” He had lost track of their avian adversary. Where had it gotten to? “Incoming!” Claudia shrieked in his ears. “Dead ahead!” The thunderbird brought the battle to them. It dived at the Fokker head-on, its talons extended. The triplane rose to meet it, playing a deadly game of aerial chicken. Artie got the wooden monster in his sights. “Let’s see just how flammable you are.” He opened fire with the tracers. The incendiary rounds, which contained phosphorus as well as neutralizer, burned brightly, blazing through the rain, before strafing the thunderbird’s chest. Flames ignited, causing spilled sap to bubble and blacken. Burnt paint chipped off.
The bird broke away, screeching in rage. Smoke trailed behind it.
Golden sparks flashed amidst the fumes. “We did it!” Claudia cheered.
“Burn, baby, burn!” Artie appreciated her team spirit but held off from celebrating until he knew for sure that the threat was over.
Years of experience had taught him never to underestimate an angry artifact. That wary attitude had kept him alive and sane longer than any other Warehouse agent in recent memory. He wasn’t ready to fly a victory lap just yet. “Not so fast,” he cautioned Claudia. “Keep watching!”’ His reservations proved sadly apposite. Setting the totem ablaze had been a good idea in theory, but the inclement weather worked against them. Soaked timber refused to ignite. Sheets of rain doused the sputtering flames as the thunderbird flapped into the storm, disappearing into a churning black cloud. Wailing winds carried the smoke away. “Blast it!” Artie pounded the dashboard in frustration. “We lost it again!” He climbed after the bird, heading straight into the storm. The Fokker
