

Casey Hunter

project

PHOENIX

By Damien Conn

***

Smashwords Edition

***

Copyright 2011

1

The huge hanger was disguised as a factory in the heart of industrial Munich. Marcus James slid down a rope from the cathedral like ceiling until his combat boots touched the ground. He adjusted his night vision and scanned the floor.

There were ten planes in the wide open space. He couldn't tell too much about them as they were covered in sheets. Each plane looked to be identical in proportion. They were only small, the size of prop engine stunt planes.

Marcus reached behind his back and pulled a tiny camera off a Velcro patch. He had been in the employ of the CIA for nearly ten years and the toys just kept getting smaller. Silently he cursed as he fumbled to switch on the camera. Three options came up on the menu. NORMAL, THERMAL and NIGHT.

Marcus selected NIGHT from the menu and began snapping pictures of the hanger. He walked on silent feet around the floor taking photographs of anything that appeared interesting. He switched the camera mode to THERMAL and continued to photograph his surroundings.

At the other end of the hanger the sound of a door opening caused him to turn into a statue. His ears strained for more sound and a bead of sweat found its way into his eye. Time passed slowly, a minute seemed like an hour.

Then he heard it.

Footsteps.

His heart began to beat just a little faster. He had a feeling things might get interesting. Behind him the rope dangled from the ceiling. A dead giveaway.

"Who's there!" shouted a voice in German.

Marcus risked a move and rolled under one of the planes. Crouched low he drew a silenced Colt OHWS, an experimental pistol firing .45 calibre rounds with a 10 round clip. Only a few of the pistols existed and Marcus had been able to acquire one through his contacts.

Flattening himself to the ground Marcus saw the guard clearly walking around the hanger. A flashlight beam searched the corners. On the side of the pistol Marcus thumbed a small switch and a green laser dot, only visible to night vision, appeared on the guard's chest.

Marcus held his position and watched the guard walk around. He felt sick in the pit of his stomach when he saw the guard begin to check under the planes and their sheets.

"Damn!" he whispered to himself.

Marcus was under the seventh plane in the line and the Guard was already up to checking the third.

The laser dot from his pistol cut a green beam through the room and hovered on the guard.

Fourth plane.

Marcus wondered how many other guards were in the area.

Fifth plane.

The guard lifted the sheet and scanned the undercarriage thoroughly.

Sixth plane.

Marcus gripped the pistol tightly.

Seventh plane.

He switched off his night vision lest the torch of the guard blind him. His finger put slight pressure on the trigger. The boots of the guard stopped just under the sheet and he began to lean down. Marucs could hear his breathing, smell his cheap aftershave. The beam from the flashlight lit up underneath the plane and Marcus felt his finger squeezing the trigger.

"Albert!"

The guard dropped the sheet and stood up.

"Over here!" said the Guard.

"What are you doing?" came the second voice in German.

"I thought I heard something – just checking the planes."

"You know we're not supposed to touch anything. Your wife's on the phone."

Albert the guard swore under his breath.

"Alright, I'm coming."

Marcus switched back to night vision and watched the booted feet of the guard depart the hanger. The sound of a door shutting echoed through the vast empty space and Marcus allowed himself to exhale. "Your lucky night Albert."

That had been a little too close.

He rolled out from under the plane and went back up the rope almost as quickly as he had come down.

Up on the steel roof the lights of Munich sprawled out before him. The stars were out and the breeze was cold. He pulled up his line and tossed it over his shoulder. His last act before he disappeared into the night was to re-connect the pressure sensor roof alarm that he had disabled earlier.

Casey Hunter zipped up his flame patterned flight suit. He'd had it specially made when he had come second in the Air Race Grand Prix in 2009 – the year the series became a huge commercial success worldwide and the second most watched racing sport behind F1. Most of that success had come from countries like South Africa and France permitting races where the planes flew head to head rather than in heats.

The danger factor went up and so did the popularity of the sport.

Like it wasn't already dangerous enough.

Outside the hanger he could hear the crowd calling his name. He was the most popular racer on the circuit, easily distinguishable with his spiky blonde hair and perfect smile. At only seventeen he was also the youngest.

Casey stood up and took a deep breath. Other teams filled the hanger with their pit crews and mechanical equipment. Each team employed a security detail for their pit and the opponents eyed each other warily as they worked on their shiny stunt planes. Casey's team wearing his flaming colours pushed his plane out onto hydraulic lift. Along the side of the fuselage in running-writing was the planes name, the _Phoenix_. The Lycoming engine that powered the plane was rated to 224KW and could send the nimble stunt machine to a top speed of 407km/h.

The lift took the plane up away from the pit area and into a hanger. From there the pit crew pushed the plane towards the entrance.

When the crowd saw the sun shine off the _Phoenix_ they went ballistic.

Casey walked out behind his crew and blinked as the light sparkled in his eyes.

Before him was a makeshift runway that floated on a converted oil tanker. The roar of the crowd filled his ears and his heart began to beat faster.

When his eyes adjusted to the light he took in the majestic New York skyline. On the harbour cruise ships had been turned into makeshift grandstands filled with cheering spectators. Three other tankers were strategically placed around the foreshore and each one supported massive one hundred foot high screens. New Yorkers turned out on every available space lining the route which the planes would take.

The ocean was as smooth as a billiard table and reflected the morning sun. The cameras were on him and he appeared as a giant on the huge screens. Casey Hunter lifted his helmet in the air and flashed a smile. The crowd roared their appreciation and without further delay he clambered up into the cockpit.

His ground crew surrounded the plane conducting final checks. The clear cockpit bubble was lowered. It was specially designed to allow the pilot nearly a full field of vision in order to perform the aerobatics required in the competition. Inside it the world seemed to take on a surreal feel. Casey knew that soon he would cheat death once more and the adrenaline began to flow through his veins.

One of his ground crew tapped the bubble.

"Ten thirty three point four!" the sound came muffled within the cockpit.

Casey nodded. Ten minutes and thirty three point four seconds was the time to beat – set by the competition leader Hans Goebel of Germany.

He gripped the stick in front of him and felt the reassuring responsiveness of the controls. He pushed the red starter button and the engine purred into instant life, the propeller spinning smoothly.

The signaller in front of the plane waved his flags and Casey throttled down.

The Phoenix shot off the mark and in an instant Casey felt the weightlessness as the plane lifted off the runway and flew over the waters of New York Harbour.

In front of him the first set of red gates rose up out of the water, each inflatable tube attached to an anchored buoy they wavered slightly in the wind. Behind the gates was the first landmark obstacle – the Statue of Liberty.

The _Phoenix_ charged towards the gates as straight as an arrow. At the last instant Casey moved the stick and pedals. In a perfect half roll the plane flipped 180 degrees and flew neatly through the middle of the gates. He held the controls as tightly as he could and throttled down hard. The plane started to lose altitude but he kept it steady. The plane continued to fly sideways and out of the top of the cockpit he saw Liberty Island and the colossal statue.

Just as he passed the western side of the island he pulled up on the stick and the plane, still on its side, began a tight turn. The G-Force pushed him into his seat as he curled around the statue. Below him the island was packed with waving spectators.

The _Phoenix_ came out of the turn on the eastern side of the statue and Casey flipped it back level. Straight ahead in the middle of the harbour and right beside the P&O cruise ship the _Fair Princess_ was the first blue gate.

"Pit to _Phoenix_ , good take off!" said Ronny Goldberg, the navigator for Team Hunter in Casey's earpiece.

"Thanks Ron," said Casey.

"Roll before next gate," said Ron.

Casey knew the coarse well but Ron was there to make double sure there were no mistakes. Missing a trick or doing the wrong trick at the required time could lose a tournament.

He moved the stick and rudder controls. The _Phoenix_ spun in a perfect 360 degree roll and levelled out to pass through the blue gate. Inside the cockpit of the Phoenix Casey could see the crowd on board the ship cheering.

The _Phoenix_ blasted past the _Fair Princess_ just thirty meters above the water.

"Take a left," said Ron.

"Roger that," said Casey.

Ahead Buildings sprung up out of Manhattan Island which divided New York Harbour into two. To the left was the Hudson River and to the right was the East River.

At the mouth of the Hudson River was a set of three red gates, one after the other and slightly offset. A slalom that required the pilot to turn rapidly from side to side.

"Take the first gate with a left pitch," advised Ron.

Casey manoeuvred the _Phoenix_ to twist left. He knew timing was everything as he pushed his pedals in practiced sequence.

The plane pitched left, travelled through the first gates on its wing tips, pitched right through the next gate and flipped on to its alternate wing, pitched left again and _just_ passed through the last gate – the propeller missing one of the inflated tubes by inches.

"You shaved the paper off that one," said Ron.

"Room to spare," said Casey, the first beads of sweat running down his face.

"Fourteen seconds behind," said Ron.

"I'll make it up in the turns," said Casey.

He knew his plane was slower than the German's but it was faster to respond, more nimble.

He flew straight down the river keeping to the east bank and only forty meters above sea level.

"Hard right at the CBS Broadcasting Building."

Casey followed the gentle right hand curve of the Hudson River until he sighted the building. Twitching the nose of the plane he adjusted it to make for the corner. Even from a distance he could see the camera crews on the rooftop waiting for him to pass by.

He left the waters of the Hudson River and skimmed the rooftops of New York. Just before he got to the building he pitched the plane to the right and pulled back on the stick. Compared to the giant structures the plane looked as small as a bird.

The _Phoenix_ began a hard turn until the green of Central Park came into view. The news crews turned frantically to catch the action on film to broadcast it to the giant screens around the city. Kicking the pedals Casey righted the plane.

In the middle of the park was Bethesda Fountain on top of which stood the statue of an Angel with outstretched wings. Water spurted out of the top and the park was quiet except for the occasional chirp of a bird.

That was all about to change.

"Landmark turn Bethesda," said Ron into the mike.

The _Phoenix_ roared over the park and banked hard at the fountain, blowing the leaves off the treetops and scattering loose sheets of newspaper on the ground. Below a race official in a red and blue shirt who stood amongst the pointing crowd looked up and checked the turn. The official raised a portable radio and spoke into it. A moment later Ron's voice came into his earpiece.

"Half second penalty, Landmark not cleared,"

"No way!" said Casey.

He was sure he had cleared the landmark. He tried to hold his composure and concentrate on the race.

"I'll bet its Van Pragg down there!" said Casey.

"Take it easy kid, we'll worry about it later," said Ron in a calm voice. "Here come the turns. Queensboro Bridge loop."

Casey knew that this was where the _Phoenix_ would outshine the other planes. She had been specially set up for loops and tight turns. The Queensboro Bridge loop was where he could make up a full second, maybe more.

The rooftops below the plane turned to the blue rippled waters of the east river and Casey followed its path.

The Queensboro Bridge was built on an island in the middle of the east river and spanned to both banks. As such there were two sides to it. The course required a pilot to travel under the right hand side, perform a loop and travel under the left side before continuing on back down the East River towards the Harbour.

Casey checked his controls. Everything was still smooth.

"Time?"

"Twelve seconds," said Ron.

_Here goes_ , thought Casey.

He pointed the nose slightly downwards to begin the loop. The water rushed up to meet him.

Reefing hard back up on the stick and with only feet between the water and the propeller the _Phoenix_ flew under the bridge and shot skyward. Casey's neck strained to look backwards as New York City shrank below him. The _Phoenix_ looped up and around until he was looking through the roof of the bubble at the tiny bridge. Careful adjustment brought the plane around to take on the left hand side of the bridge which was increasing in size rapidly as the Phoenix shot down out of the sky, engine screaming, in a straight dive. Casey pulled back hard on the lever and willed the plane to give a little more. On the dashboard the speed showed 405km/h. The G-Force pushed him backwards into his seat and he felt the skin on his face pull back.

The plane finished the loop at top speed and passed neatly under the left hand side of the bridge.

Casey turned this thoughts to the final leg know as the 'Bridge Run'. The first bridge in the series was the Williamsburg Bridge. This was the easy part of the run and he flew under the bridge and drifted towards the next two bridges.

The first was the Manhattan Bridge followed by the famous Brooklyn Bridge. He had to fly over the Manhattan Bridge then _under_ the Brooklyn Bridge. Both were close together so it was precision flying with speed and altitude key factors. Last year John Rockerfeller had clipped the second bridge and ended up in the water. Casey tried not to think too hard about John at this point in the race.

He judged his run and made for the low point of the suspension cables on the Manhattan Bridge, easing the throttle ever so slightly.

As the _Phoenix_ began to pass over the bridge he banked slightly to the left and pushed forward on the stick. The roadway of the Brooklyn Bridge loomed ahead and filled his vision. The engine pushed him forward towards it and just when it looked like the plane would smash into the huge steel structure it passed within feet of the roadway.

Shooting out from underneath it into the sunlit waters of New York Harbour Casey Hunter pushed down on the throttle and let out the engine. The Green gates at the finish loomed on the waters and the crowds lining the harbour and on the ships shouted him home.

"Ten seconds," said Ron.

The finishing gates grew in the distance as the _Phoenix_ closed in.

"Seven,"

"Come on!" shouted Casey.

"Six,"

The engines red lined and smoke began to come from the exhausts leaving a streaking trail behind the plane.

"Four,"

The speedo needle began to wind back and the engine made an unhealthy sputter.

"ONE!" said Ron as the _Phoenix_ crossed the finish line.

Within moments the photo finish was up on the big screens around the harbour. Casey spun his neck around desperate to see.

Ten minutes thirty three flat.

Plus half a second penalty.

He had lost by point one of a second.

Furious he punched the controls.

"Don't worry about it kiddo, you still got the better time." said Ron. "We were robbed. I'll lodge a protest as soon as you land."

2

The Director of Central Intelligence Dave Chalmers paced his office. He had served in Nam and some people said he had his patience shot off there. It wasn't too far from the truth.

The door to his office opened and John Wilkins, a chief analyst, and Michael Lee from the Special Activities Division walked in. The two could not have been more different. John Wilkins was small and geeky with too many pens in his front pocket. Michael Lee was a middle aged man who would never find a suit to fit his muscled frame. A scar ran down his left cheek and he had a cold stare.

"Speak to me people," said The Director. "These Nazi wannabes are up to something and I want to know what it is."

John Wilkins stepped forward, "They've been buying up some pretty weird equipment through their companies. Big computers mostly which isn't too unusual by itself, except some of the companies have no possible use to them. Six years ago they purchased a series of superconducting magnets through their offshore mining companies. They also bought a number of linear accelerators and they commissioned a series of Cockroft-Walton Generators – big ones. They went to a lot of trouble to try and conceal that particular purchase. Four companies bought the parts and we think they were assembled somewhere in France. They've also been hiring and possibly kidnapping physicists. "

"A Cockcroft what? Are you swearing at me son? Speak English." said The Director.

John Wilkins pushed his glasses back up on the bridge of his nose, "A CW Generator is basically just a way of increasing voltage. Massively."

"For powering up what?"

"They use them in X-Ray machines, televisions, bug zappers, photocopiers, atomic weapons manufacture."

The Director's ears pricked. "Atomic weapons?"

John Wilkins shrugged, "Maybe."

The Director paced for a while and rubbed his wrinkled brow.

"What about you Lee?"

"Stunt planes," said Lee.

"What? Don't jerk me around Lee."

"I'm not. My man tells me that initial observations are that the hanger contains stunt planes. We've sent our data over to the Analytical Division to await confirmation."

The Director shook his head. What did a Neo Nazi organisation of business magnates want with stunt planes?

"Alright," said The Director sitting down, "bring me updates. Leave the planes alone for the moment and concentrate on what they're doing with those Cockcroft Generators. Their little organisation is becoming worrisome."

John Wilkins left the room and Michael Lee paused at the door.

"What is it Mick," said the Director in a tired voice.

Michael Lee was silent.

The Director looked up and leaned back into his chair. It dawned on him, "None of this is news to you is it? Black Ops right?"

Michael Lee shut the door and sat down opposite Dave Chalmers.

"How Black is it?" asked The Director.

"If it's what I think it is – then you don't even want to know sir. What Jenkins said gave me a few insights and will probably help quite a bit."

The Director breathed out. He hated Black Operations but sometimes it was the only way things got done. He trusted Michael Lee and if he said he didn't want to know then he definitely _did want to know_. He just needed it fixed.

"Alright Mike, you're in charge of this one. Don't mess it up."

Michael Lee nodded and made for the door.

"One more thing Mike, you need anything, you call and let me know. I don't like Nazis. If you get a chance, plug one for me."

"Yes sir."

3

The _Phoenix_ circled the carrier and came in for an easy landing on the deck. Underneath the plane the tail hook dropped to the tarmac and caught the arrestor cable running across the deck. The cable went tight and the plane jolted to a halt. The Team Hunter ground crew ran out and started checking the plane. Casey pushed the bubble canopy up and began his climb down the ladder that the ground crew wheeled up.

Ron was there in his overalls that stretched over his ample stomach.

"Come on, let's get through the media and we'll talk about the race,"

Casey nodded and took off his sweat soaked helmet and undid the upper half of his flight suit.

"I passed the marker by a mile," he said.

"Yeah, I saw it," said Ron as they walked together towards the main hanger on the flight deck.

Another plane, a purple Zivko Edge 540 had been brought up the hydraulic lift from below decks. Beside the aircraft in a purple suit was Joseph Lopez of Columbia. A real lady's man – or at least he thought. He would have been a better pilot if he concentrated more on his flying. Currently he was coming third. As he saw Casey he saluted. 'Too bad Hunter. You'll get him next race.'

'Good luck Joe,' said Casey dejectedly.

As Casey and Ron entered the hanger they had to walk through the media barrier, known by pilots as 'The Gauntlet'.

Ron walked in front and tried to absorb as much of the light from the flashes as he could. Head down Casey Hunter walked behind the bigger man. Questions were asked like machine gun fire.

"What happened out there Casey?"

"How does it feel to come so close to winning?"

"Will you be able to win the last two races and take the title?"

"No one's ever flown a ribbon match before – do you think you'll beat Hans?"

Trying not to look at the cameras and ignoring the media scrum they finally made it through the gauntlet and to the lifts. The media were prohibited below decks for safety reasons and Casey breathed a sigh of relief as the elevator took him down to the next level on the ship.

Underneath the flight deck it was all business. The huge area was divided into ten bays, one for each team in the series. The flight deck above was supported by steel pillars so the pit area was more or less open air. To get to his bay he had to walk past Team Goebel. He dreaded it.

Hans Goebel was reclining in a chair in front of his jet black McDonnell DouglasF-45 Stunt plane – the only one of its kind.

"No good Casey, no good." said Hans Goebel in his thick German accent.

Casey kept walking.

"Keep training Casey," said Hans, "and maybe you win next time."

"Get a life Hans," said Ron.

"Are you threatening me fat man?"

"Just ignore him Ron," said Casey pulling his friend away.

As Casey entered his bay he could still hear Hans chuckling to himself. He hated Hans Goebel. He wore his blonde hair in a comb over reminiscent of Hitler Youth and his black and red suit was practically a tribute to the Gestapo. Rumour had it that he was funded by Germany First, a right wing Neo Nazi political party. His plane was named _Master Ace_. Some said he had originally named it _Master Race_ but had been told by race officials it wouldn't be allowed. In almost every event except the Berlin Head to Head the crowds flocked to see him lose.

Unfortunately that was not very often.

Hans was an excellent pilot. Patient, precise and aggressive. He had the best plane in the competition and also held favour with race officials.

Casey slumped into his chair and drank deeply from a water bottle. Ron tinkered with his tool kit. The plane would be a few minutes coming and they needed to look at the engine to see what had gone wrong.

"I beat that bastard today," said Casey, "but he'll walk away with the points."

"Winning's not always about the points," said Ron. "He knows you beat him and it hurts. That's why he's carrying on like he is now."

"I wish there were no officials," said Casey. "Just me and him and a clear sky. Then we'd see who was the best."

"Next race is Berlin. Head to head."

"In Germany with German officials," said Casey.

"Try and think positive," said Ron. "In the meantime I'll type up the protest against the decision."

Casey watched his friend typing away on the small computer amongst the other equipment in their bay. Ron had been there from the beginning. He was the one who had taken him from dusting crops on his parent's farm to the Red Bull World Series. He had convinced the syndicate of companies that financed the team that he was the racer they wanted. Casey knew he was lucky to have Ron on his team. He was the best navigator and most experienced pilot on any of the teams in the series.

Not many people knew it but he also had four confirmed kills in Vietnam – one short of being an ace. Ron didn't talk about that.

The flight crew wheeled the _Phoenix_ into the hanger, wisps of smoke still coming from the engine. Ron turned around from the computer and shook his head.

"We've got a lot of work to do before Berlin," he said.

John Wilkins immediately began sifting through the companies that funded the political party Germany First. The extreme right wing group had gone a little quiet lately which meant they were up to something. Indirectly a variety of influential business leaders contributed to the party's funds.

He tapped some keys and images of those who bankrolled the venture began to come up on his screen until he found who he wanted.

Karl Goebel. A descendant of Prussian Royalty. His ancestors had managed to escape the Nazi purges after WWII. Karl Goebel was lucky to even exist.

"Alright Karl," said John to his screen, "what have you been up to lately?"

John began to sift through the numerous companies which Goebel controlled. After a while his eyes began to sting from looking at the screen. It took a quick coffee injection and he was back in the game.

Finally he found a lead.

One hundred miles square of vacant woodland in Western Germany. Not a cheap purchase. What piqued John's interest was that the property was bought by a company that was primarily involved with steel manufacture and had no possible use for that much land.

_Could be something_ , he thought.

John picked up the phone and dialled.

"Hey Jerry, I've got a surveillance mission for one of our birds. Authorisation comes from the top – I'll send you the co-ordinates and the instructions."

Michael Lee's black Jeep left a dust trail through the desert. The dying afternoon sun hit the windscreen and it reflected the golden rays. Outside the car the environment was harsh. Mostly small shrubs and cacti. Inside the Jeep it was all comfort. Leather backed seats, air conditioning and a GPS navigator that flashed the current position of Agent Lee.

_Sixteen miles to destination_ said the slightly artificial voice on the GPS.

"Thanks babe," said Lee.

The Jeep ate up those miles in no time and pulled up to a halt at a chain link fence topped with razor wire. There was a gate with a single United States Air Force Security Force guardsman. The USAFS were an elite group assigned to guard the United States Air Force's nuclear arsenal. They were also posted as guards to the most Top Secret research installations. They were easy to pick out on an air base with their dark blue berets.

Michael Lee scanned around as he got out of the car. Somewhere in the desert would be a ten man team with rifles trained directly on him. The USAFS soldier walked up to him, MP-5 slung around his neck and silver sunglasses flashing.

"We've been expecting you Colonel," said the Guard. "Go on through and stay to the main road."

Michael Lee nodded and got back into his Jeep. The CIA had the power to authorise temporary military appointments up to the rank of Major. It was particularly convenient when entering a military base to hold rank to get through administration.

It wasn't long after he entered the restricted area before the hanger loomed in the distance. The building grew larger and the corrugated metal walls shone in the last rays of the sun. The dirt road gave way to tarmac and Michael Lee drove right into the main hanger. The change from light to dark was dramatic and his eyes took a while to adjust.

Nothing.

No one.

It was like a ghost town, completely deserted. He stepped out of his car and walked around. He felt tiny in the huge vacant space. The wind blew up in dust swirls on the abandoned runway and rusting fuel drums littered the site.

"Hello there,"

Michael Lee spun around and instinctively his hand went to his hip. When he saw who it was he relaxed.

"You must be Dr Strauss."

"In the flesh," said the small man looking every inch the scientist with his white coat and unkempt hair. "You're here about Operation MISTLETOE."

"Yes,"

"I have to ask," said Dr Strauss, "how did you people find out about it?"

Michael Lee allowed himself a small smile, "I wouldn't be very good at my job if I didn't."

"I suppose there is some comfort in that," said the Doctor. "But we _did_ try so hard to conceal what we're doing here. Come right this way."

Michael Lee followed Dr Strauss to the middle of the hanger.

"Underground?" said Michael Lee.

The Doctor looked slightly disappointed that he had guessed right.

"Be careful where you stand," he said fumbling with a small button control in his pocket. "A little to the left."

Michael Lee obliged by stepping carefully to the left on the concrete floor.

"Hold on to your breakfast," said the Dr and pressed the button.

Michael Lee exhaled in a silent scream as the floor disappeared beneath him.

The SR-71 Blackbird waited on the strip. It was without a doubt the most stunning plane ever pieced together with it's twin rear engines sporting pointed nose cones, long central section from the tail to the cockpit and the smooth lines of the overall design – not to mention the colour, a deep dark blue, almost black. If it weren't for the green runway lights the plane would have been lost in the night.

Officially only 32 were ever built before the factory machines required to make them were decommissioned and destroyed. Retired from service in 1998 NASA owned the last two of the thirty two operational Blackbirds.

The SR-71 being fuelled up on the tarmac was Blackbird number 33 . The _unofficial_ Blackbird and the last to be built. Capable of travelling in excess of 2,200 mp/h it was the fastest jet aircraft ever made.

The pilot emerged from a small nearby building wearing an orange high altitude suit designed to allow survival on the edge of space where the SR-71 Blackbird liked to travel.

The lone figure was strapped in to the futuristic looking cockpit and the ground crew scattered.

Moments later the engines began to whine and the twin turbines fired the after burners. The sound was like that of a blowtorch big enough to warm up hell. The twin pointed flames lit up the runway and in an instant the jet shot forward and into the night. The afterburners grew small in an instant and were lost in the stars on the horizon.

The ground crew began dismantling the runway and prepared to move to the next rendezvous. The last SR-71 Blackbird never slept in the same place twice.

At his computer station CIA Analyst John Wilkins sipped a coke and waited. The SR-71 Blackbird would be over the target soon. He slammed down the Coke as the four screens in front of him came to life. The Blackbird had a ceiling of 85,000 feet. From 20,000 feet the equipment on board could make out a licence plate. It was considerably lower tonight and Germany in high definition sprawled out before him. His computer secured an uplink with the SR-71 and he began to control the camera, zooming in quickly until he had his destination.

On the screen the huge amount of vacant land purchased by Brauer Metals Incorporated could be seen in all its detail. There were a few buildings that could have been small factories but little else. Just a massive vacant lot.

"Alright," said John, "that's what we can see on top but what about infra red?"

He typed in the commands and the image turned to shades of blue, green, yellow and red. The softer the colour the cooler the object and right in the middle of the vacant lot were two huge spots of red.

"Yes!" said John standing up in his chair. Everyone else had long gone home and the office lights were off. He was allowed a little celebration.

"I think we have our CW Generators," he said and sat back down.

Excitedly he began to type in the command that switched the sensors of the Blackbird to search for electronic fields. He wanted to know where those Generators were directing their power to. That should bring him one step closer to where the Atomic Bomb was being manufactured. He pressed the last key and sat back.

The results of the scan showed up on the screen.

"What in the Hell," said John leaning forward, "is that?"

On the screen covering nearly the full 100 miles square parcel was an electromagnetic circle.

John sat back puzzled. There was no structure on the surface to indicate what the huge circle meant. Possibly there were sensors staked into the ground or maybe something underneath it.

One more test would tell. He began to type in the command to switch on the X-Ray sensors when suddenly all three screens flickered.

"Oh come on! What now?"

He quickly tried to finish the command when again the image on the screen twisted and fizzed before going completely black except for the message in the middle

UPLINK LOST

"Man!" said John throwing down his keyboard.

The Brauer Metals Incorporated factory complex consisted of four buildings. Two were huge factories with six cylindrical silos attached to each. There was a guardhouse building at the entrance to the fenced off secure area and a six story glass walled administrative building topped with satellite dishes.

It was completely quiet.

The top lids to the Silos opened like an iris, metal spiralling back to reveal a dark hole. A low noise began to build and the ground started to shake.

The silence of the night was shattered and four German made LFK –NG missiles launched out of the silos. The missiles were designed to track targets with an extremely low infra red signature - they had little trouble locking on to the rear jet flames of the SR-71 Blackbird as it passed overhead.

On board the SR-71 Blackbird warning systems were flashing. Four missiles showed up on the radar and they were closing fast. The on board computer systems identified the missile from their shape and speed. Flying at close to Mach 2 the missiles were like deadly fingers reaching out into the night to close around their prey, seeking the red hot signature of its afterburners. Warning systems on board started to go crazy and all reconnaissance systems were shut down. The pilot banked and saw the tail flames of the missiles turn and follow his path.

They were new generation missiles and they were gaining quickly.

The SR-71 wasn't as stealth capable as some of the newer aircraft but it could do something modern aircraft couldn't.

The Pilot tilted the sleek nose of the plane towards earth and pushed the throttle forward.

The twin engines sucked air and breathed fire. The G-Forces pressed the pilot into his seat.

It was going to be close.

The digital speed gauge on the head up display started to flash numbers until they were a blur.

BOOM!

The SR-71 Blackbird hit Mach 3.

One by one the tail flames of the missiles went out like candles in the breeze. They just couldn't match pace with the fastest jet aircraft ever made.

John Wilkins hung up the phone.

That explained the systems failure.

The Brauer Metals Incorporated factory site had just become even more interesting. Someone really didn't want anyone else looking in. LFK – NG missiles were not easy to come by. They were breaking edge military hardware and would have easily taken down any plane owned by the United States Air Force except the Blackbird. The fact that a supposed industrial company had possession of them suggested links to the German Government.

"What are they up to?" said John leaning back into his chair.

He picked up a hardcopy image that he had printed off just before the communications link between his computer and the Blackbird had gone down.

It showed that huge circle of electrical activity.

He picked up the phone again and dialled.

"Hi, it's John Wilkins. I need to speak with Michael Lee immediately."

He held the photograph in his hands and turned it every which way trying to think what it could be. Maybe when the data was physically downloaded off the SR-71 something else would come to light.

"I'm sorry," said the female voice on the other end of the line, "Mr Lee can't be contacted right now. Would you like to leave a message?"

4

Michael Lee fell.

The hatchway above became a small square of light as he dropped into the void. Everything was black but he could sense a floor rushing up to meet him. This was the end.

There was nothing he could do.

An earthshaking noise filled the cavernous black space. A whirring sound on a universal scale vibrated through his very bones and shook his skull.

A wind blast hit Michael Lee's body like a truck and instantly he felt his fall broken by the wave of air. It took him a while to realise that he was going neither up nor down but hovering.

The sound began to wind down and a set of lights flashed on below him marking out a perfect square.

The bottom of the shaft.

It was then that he noticedDoctor Strauss hover in beside him in a classic skydivers pose. Michael Lee quickly gathered himself and rolled forward in a somersault before opening up with his arms and legs outstretched. The air tugged at his clothes and whipped his hair.

Together they were lowered by the air blast that continued to wind down. Finally they reached the bottom and placed their feet on the ground.

The fans shut down entirely and normalcy returned.

"That's a very interesting entry," said Michael Lee composing himself.

"You like it?" said the Doctor smiling. "The General thought it up. Since our funds are off the books it's a lot easier to invest in high tech security like that. If anyone actually makes it in to the hanger and we don't like them we shut off the fans."

"What if they have a low altitude parachute?" asked Michael Lee.

"Then it gets even funnier. We turn the fans back on,"

Michael Lee nodded, "I like it."

TheDoctor moved to the only doorway at the bottom of the shaft and swiped an identification card over a sensor.

The door slid open.

"After you Mr Lee,"

Michael Lee walked through the door and was closely followed by the Doctor. The door slid shut.

Michael Lee stood with his mouth open.

"Impossible," he breathed.

Stretched out before Dr Strauss and his guest was an underground facility that disappeared into the distance. A circuit made up of giant clear pipe filled the cavity.

Tiny by comparison was the open workstation where numerous men in white coats tended to computers. Above them the roof was lost in blackness and there was a feeling of an enormous empty space above.

In the middle of the circuit stood the Cockroft-Walton Generators emitting a gentle hum of electricity.

"No, not impossible," said Dr Strauss. "Just very expensive and very secret. The General only agreed to your meeting because he wants to know just how you found out about this project."

In truth Michael had heard pieces of information about the project and had carefully put together the puzzle.

"Speaking of the General, here he is now."

A tall man with grey hair and thin pursed lips walked over to where they stood. He was wearing a suit which surprised Michael.

"Colonel Lee isn't it?" said the General extending his hand, "Or Agent Lee?"

"Michael Lee CIA, Special Activities Division. And you must be General Martin."

"You are very well informed for someone from Special Activities. What could our research possibly have to do with your area of expertise? I can assure you it has no possible use in the field of political assassinations."

Michael Lee smiled at the insult. He knew the General was testing him, waiting for a reaction.

"We haven't performed a good old fashioned political assassination in years General. Drug dealers are our current sport."

The General's thin lips twisted into a smile.

"You haven't answered my question Mr Lee. What do you want with Operation MISTLETOE?"

"Just curious," said Michael guardedly.

"Information is a two way street," said the General. "This is one of the most, if not _the_ most secret operation in the United States. If the president knew what we were doing here he would shut us down and I would be court martialled. So you see Mr Lee, I'm putting a great deal of trust in you. I hope you can return me the same courtesy."

Michael considered what the General had said. "Alright, I'll tell you what I can. There's a German syndicate which may be working on a similar project to yours. We can't be certain though. When we heard about it I did a bit of research, then I found out about your operation."

"Can I ask how you found out?"

"No," said Michael bluntly.

"Very well," said General Martin, "go on."

"After I had made some preliminary enquiries I realised how black this operation was. Things like that make me suspicious, especially when a Neo Nazi organisation is working on a similar project – so here I am."

The General looked at Michael, appraising whether or not he had told the truth.

"I believe you've earned your answers Mr Lee, however what we are about to tell you can never be repeated. Other people have come close to discovering this operation and they've been retired, permanently - understand?"

Michael nodded.

"What do you know about M-Theory?" asked the General.

Ron walked up the steps to the Aviation Museum of Kentucky at Bluegrass Airport Lexington and through the pillars that made the building look like an ancient Greek temple. Inside was an information desk and main entry. Past that the museum opened up into a huge hanger where World War II planes hung from the ceiling so that the crowds could stare up in awe at the undercarriages or stand head on in the sights of the old fighters. They were like statues of Titans, about to come to life and fly out of the hanger to again do battle in the skies.

Ron walked through the crowds until he found Casey. He was wearing a hat and trying to be inconspicuous.

"You know," said Ron behind him. "If you didn't want people to know you're here you shouldn't park the Ferrari out the front."

Casey turned and gave Ron a sheepish grin.

"Hi Ron," he said.

The two of them stood in front of an exhibit of a German Me-109 that was suspended above them in mid dive. The cockpit was empty and it looked like a ghost plane. The Me-109 was the best German fighter plane of the Second World War. Sleek and silver it looked dangerous, a steel predator.

"Nice looking planes weren't they," said Ron.

Casey stood in silence. A tour group moved on and it was only the two of them in the wide open section of the museum.

"Why do you always come here kid?" asked Ron.

"Just to look at the planes I guess," said Casey.

"Couple of big races coming up," said Ron.

Casey nodded.

"Head to Head in Berlin. That's gonna be interesting. It's a straighter course, doesn't suit us. We lose that to Goebel and we lose the series."

"And if we win that there's still the ribbon race," said Casey.

Now it was Ron's turn to be quiet. The ribbon race was a mock dogfight where each plane had a long ribbon attached to their tail. The object was to cut your opponents ribbon with your propeller. This was the first year that they had introduced the Ribbon Race and there was a lot of hype about it.

Ron knew what was coming next.

"So are you going to show me a few things or not?" said Casey.

Ron breathed out. He remembered being strapped in to his McDonnell Douglas F-4 Phantom and waiting on the rain washed runway. By then he'd flown so many missions in that plane he could almost feel the flight crew's hands as they fuelled up the bird and attached the AIM-9 Sidewinder missiles to the fuselage. Somewhere out in the dark was another bird of prey, with red Chinese Stars on its wings and a pilot with just a silver reflective piece of glass for a face. Only one of them could come back alive. Sometimes he still had the nightmares. It wasn't that he was afraid of dying – he was afraid that he might become as lifeless as the steel plane, a stone cold killer that only knew joy from hunting human prey. Casey was asking him to relive his time in Vietnam.

"Alright," said Ron. "I'll do it."

Casey clapped his friend on the shoulder, "Thanks Ron, I won't let you down."

Michael Lee followed Dr Strauss around the underground facility. The Doctor talked excitedly about his work and Michael Lee tried to keep up.

"M-Theory links all five string theories together. There's some debate about the title of the theory. Some think 'M' stands for 'Mother of all theories', others say it stands for 'Magic"' or 'Mystery'. The creator of the theory Edward Witten has hinted at various meanings but it's generally agreed that 'M' stands for 'Membrane'."

"Membrane of what?" asked Michael.

"Universes," said the Doctor turning to face him.

"You're joking,"

"I can assure you he's not," said General Martin.

The three of them stood in front of the control centre of the underground facility. About a dozen scientists ignored them as they went about their business on the numerous computers that faced the huge Walton-Cockroft Generators in the centre of the complex.

"Alright, go on," said Michael trying to keep an open mind.

"Everything in the Universe is made up of strings," said Dr Strauss moving amongst the computer terminals, his hands gesturing excitedly as he spoke. "The five string theories tried to explain quantum mechanics and the theory of general relativity but couldn't. M-theory does."

"Translation?," said Michael.

"Sorry," said the Doctor. "Imagine our universe as a piece of paper moving in the breeze, and that there are other pieces of paper next to it like in a book. The other pieces of paper are moving as well. The pieces of paper never touch and nothing passes between them."

"If nothing passes between them then how do we know they're there?"

"Aha," said the Doctor raising a finger in the air. "What if somehow something _could_ pass between them?"

"Science fiction," said Michael.

"No," said General Martin. "Science fact. Doctor if you would."

The Doctor turned to a computer and began to type in commands. The Walton Cockroft Generator began to power up and they all felt the tingle of electricity in the air.

"What we're doing is looking at gravitons," said Dr Strauss. "Gravitons are a type of string, or a type of particle that makes up our universe. What we're doing is firing protons and anti protons at each other in opposite directions around the circuit you see before you. When they collide we see evidence of gravitons."

Michael Lee folded his arms.

Dr Strauss pulled a small lever and the scientists about him worked frantically at the command station. There was a huge flash that filled the underground cavity, then another and another. Each flash was followed by a whip like crack and the smell of burning air.

The Generator powered down and the doctor pointed to the computer screen. A straight line appeared in green with two dots moving along it towards each other.

"The proton and the anti proton," said the Doctor.

The dots collided and appeared to move in opposite directions. The Doctor tapped the keyboard and the sequence replayed. This time he stopped it at the point the two dots met.

"There it is," whispered the Doctor.

Michael had to lean in closer. On the screen apart from the two dots was a tiny mark. The sequence continued and the mark disappeared.

"And there it goes," said the Doctor.

"Goes where?" asked Michael.

"Through space and time,"

Michael Lee breathed out in exasperation.

"So this huge complex can't be used as a weapon?"

The Doctor looked up puzzled, "Well..."

"And all it does is send these gravitons somewhere else?"

"It does a lot more than that," interrupted the General. "It proves the existence of other universes. It showed us that travel between them was a possibility and it also led the way for our other experiments."

"Like what?"

"Time travel," said General Martin. "At first we thought we would find other universes completely different to our own. Instead we found out that these 'universes' are actually our past. Those sheets of paper the doctor was talking about are actually moments in time. We've developed a way to fire entire objects from our world like a bullet through those sheets and to stop at a specific point. We can also create a tear so that they can come back. The project is in its final stages."

"Why does the air-force want a time machine?" said Michael.

"The jumps in time do not have to be huge and they also jump space. We can plot anywhere we want in the universe to send an object instantly."

"Rapid deployment of forces," said Michael.

The General nodded and smiled, "Since time memorial the tyranny of distance has always been a defeating factor for an army. Logistics are more important than the actual battles that are fought and usually twice as expensive.

"The work we're doing here solves the problem for good. When the project is complete we will be able to strike anywhere on the globe instantly. Whole armadas of planes will appear suddenly above our enemies to drop their payload and disappear just as quickly as they came. So you can see, Mr Lee that Operation MISTLETOE is _the_ ultimate weapon."

"I'm guessing that you're still working out the kinks,"

"We've been sending small objects too and from places around the globe in experiments," said the Doctor. "But it takes an enormous amount of energy – not to mention the cost of approximately two million a shot."

"Our funding is entirely off the books and we are having difficulty securing the money needed to complete the program," said the General. "But when it's needed in the next war the cost will be a lot cheaper than sending an army by conventional means."

"This thing really works?" said Michael Lee.

"Absolutely," said the General.

On the surface of the secret facility Michael Lee walked towards his black Jeep. He hopped inside and switched on the ignition. He was quite pleased that the General had agreed to co-operate. It made things so much easier.

He was about to turn on the ignition when his phone beeped.

Two missed calls.

He dialled the number for his message bank and listened.

He dialled another number.

"John, what have you got for me?"

On the other end of the line John Wilkins sounded excited, "They're up to something pretty weird in Germany. There's a block of land about a hundred acres square with an electromagnetic field running around its entire length. I was just about to do a subterranean scan when they fired missiles at our bird."

"Really?" said Michael trying not to sound alarmed.

"I've got no idea what it's for but it's big."

"Good work, I'll be in touch shortly."

One hundred acres square. That was nearly ten times as big as the facility beneath where he sat. Was it possible that this group, whoever they were, were more advanced in their research than the United States?

"I hope not," he said to himself.

Now he knew what they were building he needed to know how they intended to use it.

He picked up his phone and dialled Marcus James' number.

5

Berlin Olympic Stadium was crowded with 100,000 screaming spectators. Two planes stood on the tarmac that ran down the centre of the stadium. Casey's hunter's flaming Phoenix and Hans Goebel's jet black McDonnell DouglasF-45.

Hans strutted around his plane in his black and red suit playing to the crowd. Casey watched on and felt the hostility of the people around him. When his name was called there was a resounding boo.

This was the one race where he was definitely not the crowd favourite.

Hans walked over and extended his hand to Casey.

Casey took Hans' hand and shook it. Hans squeezed hard until Casey thought bones would break but he tried not to show any discomfort.

Hans smiled, "Have a good race Hunter. Be careful, it's dangerous up there."

Casey pulled his hand away and returned the smile, "see you in the air 'master ace' – or is that 'master race'?"

Hans laughed and turned his back on Casey. Before he got into his plane he raised his helmet to the sky. The crowd roared their appreciation

Casey pulled his red and yellow helmet down and adjusted the strap. He quickly got into the _Phoenix_ and his flight crew began strapping him in. Ron clambered up the ladder and leaned on the cockpit rim.

"You've got no problems flying aggressively," said Ron, "but you gotta know when to keep your cool. Do that in this race and we're in with a chance. He's going to try and force a mistake from you. Don't let him."

Casey nodded.

"Alright kid, have a good race," said Ron and closed the bubble of the small plane. The noise of the crowd was subdued with the cockpit sealed and Casey checked his controls. At each end of the stadium a section had been removed so that the planes could fly through on a circuit of Berlin. This was where the race started and finished. The runway was only short so each plane needed a catapult wire to launch. The first gate was the northern end of the stadium and it was only wide enough for one plane.

Casey looked to his right and saw Hans eyeing him coolly with a confident smile.

"Alright Hans let's see what you've got," said Casey.

The race official waved a single flag and both pilots started their engines. The noise from the two planes made it impossible to speak in the pit area and the crowd stood to their feet cheering. In three laps of the circuit there would be a winner.

The race official ran from in front of the planes off to one side. Both pilots throttled up their engines as hard as they dared.

The make shift catapults fired in a blast of steam and sling shotted both planes forward. On the left was the _Phoenix_ , first to lift off and on the right was the _Master Ace_ rapidly catching up.

The end of the stadium rushed forward to meet them.

Their wingtips were nearly touching but neither gave way.

Only one would fit through the gap.

Casey could now make out faces in the crowd cheering on either side of the exit.

They were almost past the point of no return.

Turning to his right Casey saw Hans turn his head and smile. Hans looked forward and steadied himself. He turned his head again and noticed that Casey hadn't taken his eyes off him. He was flying blind.

Five seconds to impact.

A bead of sweat ran down Hans' forehead and his smile wavered.

Casey, stone-faced, never took his eyes from his opponent.

"Crazy Australian!" shouted Hans and eased back on his throttle.

Casey twitched his peddles and took the centre line, just managing to buzz through the gap. A split second later Hans followed still shouting his frustration.

On the ground in the pit area behind them Ron Goldberg was jumping up and down.

"I said to play it cool!" he shouted.

The spectators loved it and didn't stop cheering. On the big screen in the stadium the two planes zipped over the rooftops of Berlin, the _Phoenix_ slightly in front of _Master Ace_.

Once out in the open air the two planes vied for position. _Master Ace_ was faster and this was a pretty straight course. Casey knew he'd have to be perfect in the turns to stand a chance.The first marker was a Statue, the Angel of Berlin in the Tiergarten, Berlin's biggest park.

The golden statue of the Angel loomed atop the tower, sparkling in the sun. Both planes edged for the southern side of it so as to make a tighter corner. Casey looked left and saw _Master Ace_ making a move. He twitched the controls and the _Phoenix_ swerved to block it.

Hans Goebel eased back. He only needed his opponent to make one mistake then he had him. Once he was in front the _Phoenix_ would not be able to catch his faster plane. For now Casey had the lead and was the first to bank and steer around the statue. Unlike the New York marker this statue was high enough from the ground to avoid any confusion as to whether he made the turn.

In the parks below crowds cheered as the planes banked and zoomed past at low altitude. Almost simultaneously the planes levelled out and headed for the next red markers over the Reichstag building. Casey's turn had been tight and he was a full plane length ahead. Predictably the _Master Ace_ began to close the gap.

Swivelling his head to see what his opponent was doing Casey blocked first left and then right.

Hans seemed to be toying with him but he continued to shift his peddles furiously to stop the faster plane from getting the lead.

"Doing good kid, nearly gave me a heart attack at the start though," said Ron in Casey's earpiece.

"He's all over me," said Casey shifting the plane as he spoke.

"Stay calm, remember what I told you. The next turn isn't that tight so you're going to have to keep him off you until the next one."

Ron was right. Ahead were the twin red markers waving slightly in the breeze. Below them were the Grand Marble pillars of the Reichstag. A little further in the distance were the next markers, almost in line with the first. This course was made for a plane like the McDonnell Douglas F-45.

Casey was the first to cross between the markers but Hans Goebel's propeller was shaving the paint off his tail.

"Come on Hans," said Casey, "is that all you've got?"

As if in response the _Master Ace_ moved to one side and almost drew level with the _Phoenix_.

Casey pushed to the left, holding him wide. Hans held his line and both planes made for the markers which were on a slight curve. As the markers drew in Hans dropped back again and Casey composed himself.

"This is where we make up our time," said Ron. "Hard right turn and make for Berlin Tower. Then it's the home run."

"Thanks Ron," said Casey just as he passed through the markers. He pitched hard right and pulled back. The nimble plane responded and the G-Force pressed him down into his seat. This was the tightest turn on the circuit and Casey felt the blood leaving his head.

"Come on," he said through his teeth. Spots began to appear before his eyes just as he levelled out. He breathed in deeply and searched for the marker.

He didn't have to look very hard.

Berlin tower, known as the _Fernsehturm_ , or television tower, rose up above all the other buildings. It was a huge white pillar topped with a silver ball and large spike that pierced high up into the sky. The tower was the third tallest structure in Europe.

The _Phoenix_ shot towards the silver ball on the tower, the black _Master Ace_ was right behind it and closing fast. By the time both planes reached the tower they were side by side, Hans Goebel on the outside of the turn.

Again the nimble _Phoenix_ turned tighter and came out in front. They were on the straight now and Casey knew he had some work to do.

Having regained his composure from the start Hans Goebel bided his time, making feints to pass and harassing the _Phoenix_. Casey's head swivelled from side to side as the _Master Ace_ moved about behind him.

The stadium came into view. There was only room enough for one plane through each gate. The crowd waited anxiously as to what they would see first, the flaming colours of the _Phoenix_ or the shiny black _Master Ace_.

Hans seemed content to let Casey take in the first run and the crowd rose to their feet as the planes made the first pass. The _Phoenix_ zoomed through the stadium followed closely by the _Master Ace_. The crowd shouted as both planes disappeared out of the other end of the arena and turned towards the first mark.

Again the Angel of Berlin glittered gold in the morning sun and the houses sped by beneath them. Hans Goebel used the raw power of his F-45 and Casey had only his reflexes to keep his opponent from passing.

Drifting left and right Hans Goebel harassed the tail of the _Phoenix_.

"Keep it together," said Ron.

"I'm doing my best," said Casey, now thoroughly soaked in sweat.

The crowd had never seen a closer head to head race and soon they began to cheer for Casey and the skill he was showing with his slower plane.

Casey was the first to tear around the Angel marker and it was then Hans made his move. The Angel was only a slight turn but Hans on the outside took a tighter line and flew on the inside of the _Phoenix_. Casey saw it happen but there was nothing he could do.

Hans had him.

The _Master Ace_ came out of the turn on the inside of the _Phoenix_ and was level.

That didn't last long.

The more powerful F-45 began to pull away slowly. Casey watched helplessly as Hans calmly turned to look at him with those cool blue eyes.

Casey's face scrunched up in anger.

"Keep your head!" said Ron. "It's not over till it's over."

Casey listened to Ron and held on to the control stick tightly, falling into Hans' slipstream and sticking to his tail like glue.

The Reichstag flew beneath them as both planes cleared the red markers on top of the building and entered the tight turn. Casey pitched right and pulled back. He had to get inside Hans on this turn. At first the _Phoenix_ was directly behind the _Master Ace_ but soon the nimble handling characteristics allowed it to pull in tighter and slowly begin to creep up on the inside. Hans Goebel looked up through his windshield and held his line. The _Phoenix_ drew level and both pilots pulled back hard on their flight sticks, willing the planes to turn harder.

The corner began to end and they started to level out. As the planes righted themselves Casey could see he'd missed his chance on this lap. Both planes cleared the smooth tower turn and pulled out onto the straight.

Together they flew for the stadium and this time when they roared through the centre of it the jet black _Master Ace_ was in front.

Surprisingly the crowd greeted the appearance of the _Phoenix_ with a louder cheer.

"Last lap," said Ron. "You can take this guy."

Casey didn't reply, he was busy staring hard at the tailfin of the _Master Ace_. He had never wanted anything more badly than to beat Hans in this race.

Not concerning himself with blocking moves and simply trusting his faster plane Hans flew straight and level. When the planes took the Angel turn the _Phoenix_ made up some of the gap it had lost in the straight.

Again the Reichstag building came into view. The last time they would go through that famous turn.

Casey's body was worn out from the G-Forces that had been tearing at it. He breathed in and prepared himself for one more hard turn – the hardest one yet.

It was as though Hans sensed what he was thinking and he pulled in early and tight – trying not to leave any room for the _Phoenix_.

Casey was ready for it and tipped his plane's wings almost at the same instant that the _Master Ace_ did.

This time the turn was faster and tighter than it was before. Casey felt as though his leather flight suit would be torn to pieces from the G's he was pulling. Breathing became difficult and the airframe of both planes flexed dangerously with rivets popping out. The _Phoenix_ had managed to get on the inside but was still level with the _Master Ace_. Casey knew he had to be in front when they came out of the turn.

Steeling himself for what was to come he pulled back a little further on the stick.

The _Phoenix_ lurched ahead as the end of the turn neared.

Spots appeared before Casey's eyes and his head began to spin. Fighting the black cloud that began to cover his eyes he flew by instinct only – no longer seeing the turn but feeling it in every part of his body.

Then he blacked out...

...only to regain consciousness seconds later as both planes levelled off.

The _Phoenix_ was in front and instinctively Casey grasped the controls and moved in ahead of the _Master Ace_.

Hans Goebel had lost his cool facade and now tried every trick to pull in front. Casey's reflexes were up to the challenge and he held him off.

The Stadium on the horizon appeared before them. The finnish line was close and Casey was in front.

"Just the loop to go," said Ron. "You've got him now."

Like two mad dragonflies the planes zipped over the rooftops. The tunnel like entrance to the southern end of the stadium flew up to meet Casey Hunter and in a rush he entered the arena.

One hundred thousand people were on their feet cheering. The green field below was gone in a second and he was out the other side of the Stadium. Immediately he began the final loop that would bring him back into the southern entrance again and across the markers in a spectacular finish.

It was as he neared the top of his loop that his engines coughed.

"Oh, god. Not now," said Casey.

At the worst possible time the prop fluttered out of sequence and he lost speed rapidly. He was almost through his loop when it stalled completely.

The jet black _Master Ace_ flashed past and began its dive. Casey's own plane came down in a screaming dive without any engines. He aimed it as best he could whilst pumping the start button.

He was just above the _Master Ace_ , almost touching it.He knew two planes would never fit side by side through the entrance – but if he could pass through on _top_ he might stand a chance.

In an instant the engine sparked to life and the propeller spun in a blur. Under power again Casey tried to control his dive. To describe what he was doing as dangerous would have been an understatement.

It bordered on suicidal.

In a never before seen manoeuvre both planes flew through the southern entrance at the _same_ time, the _Phoenix_ on top of the _Master Ace_.

Casey steered his plane home. The crowd held their breath as both planes crossed over the finish line.

The verdict came in...

Hans Goebel had won by a thousandth of a second.

The crowd stomped and clapped and shouted. It was the greatest race ever seen in the history of the series. Both planes exited the arena. Casey peeled off to the left and Hans to the right.

As the winner of the race he alone had the right to land in the stadium.

Casey flew to the airstrip at the front where the other planes in the competition were lined up.

Loser's row.

The _Phoenix_ came down and landed smoothly. Ron was there when the bubble came up.

"You lost kid – but that was some race," he said.

"The engine failed," said Casey.

"Yeah, I saw. Don't worry about it- we'll get him in the next race and there won't be any engine failure. One of our mechanics won't be on the team anymore either. Turns out he's got connections that lead back to our friend Hans."

Casey felt his face flush with anger.

"Let it go," said Ron. "It happens."

Casey climbed down the ladder and stood on the wide open green field that was overshadowed by the stadium. Inside a muffled announcement was made and the crowd roared.

"There goes the series," said Casey.

The teams began packing their pit machines into huge removalist trucks. The owners had been good enough to come over to Casey and congratulate him on the race. They had also asked him to stay on for the next series – with a significant increase on his current contract.

As all the teams were leaving Hans Goebel walked through the crowd. Some of the other pilots congratulated him but he ignored them. He was walking past Casey's truck to get to his own and didn't look like he would stop, almost as though he were pre-occupied. He certainly didn't look like someone who had just won the World Series.

Almost as an afterthought he shouted out, "Engine trouble again Hunter?"

Casey didn't take the bait and Hans kept walking hurriedly. When he reached his truck he walked up the rear ramp and began to shout at his crew.

"Wonder what's wrong with him?" said Casey.

"The guy's not a real pilot. He doesn't love flying," said Ron. "For him it's a means to an end. He's good at it, sure, but he's not born to it."

Casey watched the trucks begin to depart. One more race left in the series – not that it really mattered if they won. The season winner had already been decided.

"We're gonna chew up and spit out his fancy plane in the next round," said Ron.

Casey Hunter looked at his friend and saw a cold glint in his eye he had never seen before. Casey sensed in his friend the cold calculating fighter pilot that Ron had once been.

"The next round measures courage, and Hans is in short supply," said Ron. "The next round is a _dogfight_."

6

Marcus James sat on the bed in his hotel suite. Spread out before him were hundreds of photographs. His mission briefing sounded simple enough. Infiltrate and gather intelligence. Supposedly this facility was some sort of generator. He knew that the land was owned by Brauer Metals Incorporated, that there was an office building, two factories and a barracks.

He guessed that there would be a large ground force, possibly ex-military and also that he would find what he was after in the office building.

The company had links to Karl Goebel and he had links to Germany First, the right wing Neo Nazi political party. Germany First tried to disguise their ideals as being nationalistic so that they wouldn't be banned from politics. At heart they were still just plain racists. They also had a paramilitary arm made up of German Army misfits – although Marcus knew that some of those misfits were pretty good soldiers and he expected to find a few of them on the ground at the complex.

The aerial photographs showed a large barracks – capable of housing around a hundred men. That would make land insertion difficult.

Air insertion would almost certainly be detected – he'd read in the report that they'd managed to pick up an SR-71 Blackbird on radar.

How to get inside then?

Marcus stood up and paced the room. He walked out onto the balcony and looked down onto the streets of London. The chill night air woke him up a bit and there was the noise of a city that never sleeps. He liked London. There was a lot of history here, especially history in his chosen profession. Spies had to make do with a lot less back then.

He understood why this assigment had to be a one man job. Things could get pretty nasty between governments when one country led an armed force into another. Much easier to send in a single spy and disown him if he was caught. But there were limits on what one man could do.

He was about to pick up his phone and tell Michael Lee that what he was asking was impossible when there was a sharp prolonged whistle followed by a brilliant red explosion of sparks in the night sky.

Fireworks suddenly erupted all over the city and Big Ben began tolling out the hour. He'd forgotten it was the Queens birthday. He was enjoying the show when something suddenly clicked.

Rushing back inside his hotel room he shuffled through the pictures on the bed until he found the one he wanted.

The report said that German LFK-NG missiles had been launched from the ground somewhere. The photo showed the top of one of the factories. Attached to the side of the building were six silos. The picture was a little fuzzy but it was clear that two of the silos showed openings on top.

"Missile pods," said Marcus. "Interesting."

Ron hadn't allowed Casey any time to rest. Training was a 6:00am sharp at Queenstown Airport New Zealand – the location of the last race.

The Ribbon Race.

Casey was flying a French made CAP 232. It was an older plane with a wooden frame. Still good to fly by not nearly as good as the _Phoenix_ which was undergoing repairs.

Ron watched the blue CAP 232 circle above the clear water of Lake Wakatipu. In the background were the Remarkables, a snow capped mountain range so named because they were one of only two ranges in the world that ran directly north south.

"Alright kid, that's enough altitude, now turn."

Casey tilted to the left and began his turn. Behind him his red ribbon streamed out and followed his path. In the real competition there would be another plane trying to cut that ribbon with its propeller.

"Keep that turn going," said Ron.

Casey focussed on maintaining the tail rudders and wing flaps so that the plane performed a perfect turn without losing any altitude.

"How long do I have to keep this up?" asked Casey.

"As long as it takes," said Ron holding a stop watch. So far Casey had only been turning for five minutes.

Casey concentrated as hard as he could, first fighting boredom and then as the minutes wore by fatigue. He felt uncomfortable and sweat beaded on his forehead.

"Much longer Ron?"

"Stop asking," said Ron into the radio he held in his other hand.

Casey focussed. He noticed that Lake Wakatipu had gotten a lot larger below him. He was losing altitude but that was to be expected. He adjusted his grip on the stick and wondered how much longer Ron wanted him to do this.

"I can't take much more of this," said Casey.

"Yes you can," said Ron without emotion.

His concentration faltered for only a second and he dropped altitude.

"Watch it kid," said Ron. "That's all the other guy needs."

Ron knew that dogfighting was more about patience than aggression. Whoever broke and ran first would have to cross the path of their enemy. It was at that point that the monotony of circling your opponent was at an end and you could move in for the kill. At least that was how it went when there were only two planes involved. He remembered back to his last battle in Nam when he had been shot down. Over twenty planes going at it.

Mayhem.

Ron checked the watch. One hour.

"Alright kid, that's it for today. Bring her down."

Exhausted from the exertion Casey tipped the plane back level and made for the green strip on Queenstown Airport. His muscles ached and his neck had a crick in it from looking constantly at an angle.

When the plane had safely stopped and the crew had popped the plexiglass bubble Casey jumped out.

"I thought there would be more to dogfighting than that," said Casey.

"There is," said Ron. "But learning patience is the most important thing. Tomorrow I'll show you how to come out of the sun and dive on an enemy, then we'll do a little work on evasion."

Back at the resort Casey booked a massage and returned to his room. His team had been good enough to pay for the penthouse that overlooked the lake and mountains. At the shores of the lake Queenstown sprawled out amongst the trees. It was probably one of the most picturesque locations in the series. There weren't the man made landmarks in the other races but nature had provided the perfect arena for the Ribbon Race.

In four days crowds would line the shores of the lake and fill the stadium that had been built halfway up the Remarkables. Then he and Hans would do battle – not for the series – but to see who really was the best pilot.

Casey found it strange that he had not seen Hans yet. Most of the other teams had arrived and were quartered at the various hotels and resorts that lined Queenstown. Usually Hans was the first to arrive as he had by far the biggest entourage.

Putting his thoughts about the race aside Casey tossed his aching body onto the bed and was asleep before he knew it.

7

Ten thousand feet up in a black sky the SR-71 Blackbird began its second pass over the Brauer Metals Incorporated site. Something fell away from the fuselage and speared towards earth. The pilot nervously waited for the response he expected would come. His radar screen reflected off his glass face mask.

Nothing.

Then two blips.

Then four.

Closing fast.

The pilot pushed down the thrusters and the Blackbird began its race with the German missiles, their tiny robotic minds seeking only the heat from the Blackbird's engines.

Marcus James fell earthward. The night air chilled him as it whipped about his clothes. Ten thousand feet below him was the Brauer Metals Incorporated site. Straining his eyes he saw four small pricks of light before...

WHOOSH...WHOOSH, WHOOSH, WHOOSH

The missiles passed within meters of him and were gone in a thousandth of a second. He had actually felt the heat from their exhaust on his face and the light from their rockets had temporarily blinded him.

That had been too close.

He steered himself toward the ground like an earthbound meteor. He wasn't worried about the radar, he was wearing a suit with graphite particles worked into the material, similar to the iron ball paint used on the F-117A Stealth fighter. He might appear as a small signature, but that would show up as an echo of one of the missiles that had just passed by.

Finally below him his night vision cut through the dark and he saw his target. The dummy silos used as missile pods were attached to the side of the factory building. He aimed for one of them by turning his body and changing his trajectory. There was a light westerly wind that he would have to allow for.

He saw that the roofs of the missile pods were still open as he had hoped. If he landed on the roof he was sure to be seen by the guards, but if he managed to bullseye a silo he would be hidden along with his chute which would get pulled in after him.

Marcus was about to tug the ripcord when he saw the roofs of the missile pods begin to close shut, the black holes slowly becoming smaller.

"Oh no," he said.

Leaving the ripcord he straightened and speared towards the earth.

The lids were half closed.

If he left it too long he would splatter all over the ground inside. Too early and he would be detected by the guards and shot to pieces.

It had to be just...right.

Marcus pulled the cord and the low altitude parachute billowed out above him. He winced at the noise it made and searched the grounds for guards. The wind was taking him and he had to steer hard for his target. He was still coming down fast and the circle of the closing roof opening rushed upwards towards him. His boots passed through and he entered total blackness. The lid closed and he jolted to a stop, bouncing up a small way before again settling with his feet dangling. The parachute had been caught in the closing lid. Inside the silo there was no light and his night vision was useless. He only hoped that enough of his chute had made it through the hole so that it wouldn't be seen from the ground.

Marcus reached into his thigh pocket, pulled out a small glow stick and cracked it. Immediately his night vision kicked in and the glowing stick in front of him was blindingly bright. He dropped it and watched it spin towards the bottom of the silo. It hit about thirty feet down and looked like a small fire that lit up the entire cavity. The light it shed showed another three missiles left at the base of the silo, standing upright and ready.

There was also a door.

Marcus swung gently from side to side. It was too far to fall to the floor but the missiles were a lot higher up.

He unclipped his harness and eased himself out of it until he was only holding on with his hands. He swung his legs to gain momentum and pushed off the side of the silo, careful not to make any noise. He swung back, then forward again. When he reached the top of his swing he let go and struck the side of the Silo with his body flat. He slid for ten feet and kicked off the wall, grabbing on to one of the tubular missiles and slid down it to the bottom.

Not stopping Marcus checked the door. It was locked as he had expected, however the locking mechanism was on his side of the door.

From his vest he pulled a tiny blow torch that was attached to a bottle about the size of a cigar tube. He pushed a button and there was a _click_ followed by the hissing of a hot blue flame. Marcus put the flame to the lock and it cut through the fine metal parts like they were butter. When he had finished he turned off the torch and drew his Colt OHWS pistol. The door was well maintained and didn't make a sound as it opened.

Pistol first he exited the Silo and gently shut the door behind him.

Inside the factory the lights were off. Through the green filtered night vision goggles he saw that there were crates stacked at one end of the huge space. Next to the silos was a forklift – probably used to reload the missile pods.

Marcus hugged the walls as he made his way towards a window. Outside the office building lit up in his night vision and he could see movement on the top floor. Two guards were stationed at the main entrance and he caught sight of a guard pacing the perimeter.

He allowed for at least one hundred guards all up in the complex but the site was huge and they would be spread out.

Outside all seemed calm. His insertion had gone undetected.

"Identify yourself!" said a voice behind him.

In one fluid movement Marcus turned and fired at the bright white outline of a face. The subsonic ammunition coupled with the silencer made a barely audible _click_ that echoed slightly through the factory. There was a wet sound as the .45 calibre bullet exited the head of the guard.

The body slumped to the floor and after Marcus had scanned for more guards he quickly moved over to it. The guard was carrying an MP-7- Heckler & Koch's latest offering in the submachine gun department. The guard was dressed out in black combat fatigues with a Brauer Metals Incorporated Logo on the shoulder. He was also wearing a black ski mask due to the cold.

Perfect.

It only took Marcus a few minutes to put on the fatigues and hide the naked body of the guard in the missile pod.

He checked his dressing and confidently exited the factory.

Immediately he took to pacing the permitter of the building. At a glance he estimated himself to be about one hundred meters away from the office building. His objective would be the top floor.

After he had done a lap of the factory he began walking over to the office building.

One of the guards on the door eyed him as he paced over.

Marcus felt his heart rate begin to rise.

The guard on the door shuffled from one foot to the other and said something to the other guard.

Marcus placed his finger on the trigger of the MP-7 and kept walking as calmly as he could towards the building.

The guard on the door took a step forward.

The MP-7 in Marcus' hands began to swing around.

"What time do you finish?" shouted the guard.

"Zero two hundred," replied Marcus in perfect German.

The guard nodded and went back to his post.

Marcus breathed out and forced his muscles to relax.

Once he was at the base of the office building Marcus could see that there were gaps between each of the panels that held the glass. He walked around to the side and without pause he began to climb, placing his fingers in the cracks and using his upper body strength he pulled himself up. The first floor was relatively easy but he began to feel the fatigue by the second. There was a crunching sound of gravel and he stopped still.

The perimeter guard walked directly beneath him and continued on.

When the guard was out of sight Marcus continued upwards. He knew at any moment a glass panel could come loose under his wait and he'd be sent crashing to the ground so he was very careful with his movement.

At the fourth floor his fingers ached. Frost came with every heavy breath he took and sweat soaked into his ski mask and chilled instantly in the cold air.

Two more floors to go.

Each time he scaled a floor he had to move sideways to the rooms that were dark before he could go up, however as he reached the sixth and final floor all the lights were on. With his fingers clawing at the gap between the glass panels he raised his head.

The sixth floor was an open plan. There were no separate offices as in the other floors, rather the whole level was an office. There was a long table with about ten seats on either side and a large chair at one end. At the far end of the level was a gigantic desk. An older man in a black suit was working on a laptop. Behind him was a floor to ceiling bookcase that partially obscured the glass windows in that corner.

Marcus knew what he would have to do.

Calling on all his reserves of strength he began to edge around the building. From this height he could see all the other buildings and the ground was a dizzying five floor drop. He couldn't feel his fingers anymore and that was dangerous.

Carefully he slid along the wall sideways, moving one hand first and then the other. In half an hour he had finally reached the corner with the bookcases. They didn't go all the way to the roof but they went close enough.

Starting the final leg of the journey he wedged his numb fingers between the vertical crack in the glass panels and slid upwards. As he neared the top of the glass panel he saw over the bookcase.

The laptop shone brightly only a few meters away. The older man was still typing away although Marcus could not make out any detail on the screen.

Leaving the old man for now he scaled the final lip of the building and rolled onto the flat gravel bedded roof. He lay on his back breathing heavily. If he wasn't careful he would cramp up completely in this cold so he spent some time massaging some feeling back into his muscles.

The rooftop was bare except for a maintenance entrance that looked locked and a few ventilation pipes. At the front of the building was the main car park for the building. A dozen expensive looking cars were parked there but it was the trail bike that caught Marcus' attention.

He tucked that piece of information away and contemplated his next move. He assumed that the laptop would probably hold the information he needed but there would surely be no way to get it without setting off alarms.

That part of the plan seemed unavoidable.

Then he had to worry about his extraction.

That part of the plan would get messy.

Sighing in resignation Marcus pulled out a line made out of spider silk and tied one end off to an exhaust vent and clipped the other to his harness. Spider line was extremely expensive and extremely strong. It was also very thin.

"Here goes," he said and ran at the ledge.

When Marcus reached the lip of the rooftop he jumped out and spun in mid air. The ground disappeared below him and he felt weightless.

Then gravity kicked in.

The spider line coiled out behind him before becoming taught. Marcus was pulled back towards the building and swung feet first, connecting with the glass panel. It shattered under his weight and he rolled into the office amidst shards of glass.

The old guy ducked for cover as the shattered remains of the window showered down on him. Marcus grabbed the laptop and stuffed it into his pack. A second later he ran out the window and then abseiled face first down the side of the building.

Below him the guards were looking up. He didn't give them time to react and was firing his MP-7 on full burst.

Both guards fell in a shower of bullets and blood.

Floodlights around the complex turned on and an alarm sounded. Men's voices could be heard shouting from the barracks.

Marcus gave himself about a minute before they arrived.

His feet moved over the glass panels as he ran down the building. When he hit the ground he didn't even break step but made for the motorbike in the parking lot.

The supersonic crack of a bullet passing his ear made him turn. Marcus saw the perimeter guard kneeling in a firing position and dodged sideways.

Bullets kicked up dirt and gravel in front of him. He let the guard have a full burst from the MP-7 until it ran dry.

Marcus quickly closed the distance to the motorbike and jumped straight onto the seat. He flicked out a combat knife, cut the ignition wires and with fumbling fingers touched the wires together.

There was a few sparks before the roar of the engine sounded.

Revving up the cold bike he kicked it into gear and twisted the throttle to full. The back wheel spun and the bike took off the mark towards the main road out.

Up ahead in the darkness figures of men started to spread out. Then the muzzle flashes and gunshots began. One of the first bullets struck the front headlight of the bike before deflecting.

After that the other shots were sporadic and not well aimed.

Riding blind Marcus hit the curved gutter and jumped off the road.

Up ahead the men were trying to organise some sort of a line to contain him. Suddenly a set of flashlights lit him up and an engine sounded like some enraged animal. A Humvee laden with spotlights burst out of the barracks. Mounted on top was a .50 calibre machine gun. The shots _sounded_ big as the gun fired rapidly after him. The .50 calibre made a mess of the ground ahead of Marcus as he turned to avoid the fire.

In the dark the bumpy track jolted Marcus from side to side as he wrestled with the bike to stay upright. The Humvee behind him had no such trouble, almost rising vertical, the floodlights illuminating the clouds before the metal beast of a car crashed earthwards spewing dirt and rock.

The bumpy road had one advantage for Marcus, the turret gunner in the Humvee was being thrown about like a rag doll and tracer rounds were being shot everywhere.

Still, all it took was one lucky bullet...

Marcus throttled back. Up ahead was the black spiky tops of a tree line. If he made it to the woods he had a chance.

As though the Humvee sensed his thoughts it accelerated harder, bashing across the rough open plane and closing on his rear tyre. He risked a look back and was blinded by the floodlights. If they couldn't shoot him they were going to run him over.

Without warning a rise in the plane came up. Marcus stood up on the pegs and the bike jumped through the air.

As he rose up higher he heard the Humvee plough into the hillock, a sickening sound of metal crunching.

Marcus landed roughly on the dirt and fought for balance. Behind him the Humvee had only been stalled by the uneven ground and was still coming after him. The slower speed allowed the turret gunner to draw a better bead on him and tracer rounds were snapping over his head.

Crouching low and dropping a gear Marcus pulled into a tight turn. With his rear wheel chewing up dirt and sliding sideways he used the upright front wheel to steer the bike into the slide. The turret gunner couldn't match the pace of the turn and the tracers followed harmlessly a few meters behind him.

Marcus suddenly turned in the opposite direction, trying to keep the bike as low as he dared. The orange beam of tracer rounds passed inches above his head. He straightened up and turned just in time to miss the first tree.

The Humvee crashed through the brush before pulling up to a halt. The spotlights followed Marcus through the forest and the .50 calibre machine gun thumpedrounds into the trees around him. The gunner was able to lay down accurate fire now and the bike took a shot in the exhaust that passed through the metal and touched Marcus' leg, burning him. More rounds passed him and into the trees ahead. One of the trees snapped with a sound like a lightning bolt and came down in front of him.

Marcus threw himself off the side of the bike and stray branches from the fallen tree slapped at him. Coming out of the other side of the tree he regained the seat of the bike and steered carefully along a twisting path. Behind him he could still hear the gun firing but could not see any more rounds. The sound grew distant and eventually stopped.

Marcus pulled off the balaclava and wiped the sweat off his forehead.

He had made it.

Up ahead through the trees he saw a line of headlights travelling in one direction. He came out of the forest beside a main road and entered into the traffic.

Mick Lee sat at his desk. He was waiting to hear from Marcus James. Before him was the John Wilkins' report on the photographs taken by Marcus at the hanger in Munich.

The analysis showed that they weren't stunt planes.

They were modified World War II fighters.

Marcus reached Berlin an hour later. He ditched the bike in a car park and tried to stick to the back streets as he made his way to his safe room. His leg burned from where the tracer round had struck him. He passed a few people still out at night and his clothing drew a few stares.

Turning into a narrow alley he stuck to the walls. About halfway down the alley he stopped at a door and pulled out a key. The old wooden door with peeling red paint creaked as it opened. Inside the building it was totally dark and Marcus made his way up theextremely narrow staircase. At the top there was a window that was open and a moth eaten curtain that blew in the breeze. Moonlight shone through and lit up the small room. There was a simple bed with a mattress, a side table and a plain wooden desk and chair with nothing on it. On the far side of the room was another door.

Marcus hopped over to the other door and pulled it open. He fumbled for a light switch and a few seconds later a fluorescent light flickered on showing a disused bathroom with an old style bath and shower in one with a plastic shower curtain and a basin with a mirror. The light was above the mirror and shone painfully into Marcus' eyes.

He took a seat on the rim of the bath and took out a knife. He cut through both the overalls he had stolen and his stealth suit beneath it. The material peeled away and revealed a neat burn mark across his calf muscle about half a centimetre deep. He'd been lucky. If the .50 calibre round had hit two inches to the left he wouldn't have a leg.

Marcus reached up to the cabinet and opened it. There was an empty bottle of mouthwash and a half used tube of toothpaste. The shelves were grimy and it looked like they hadn't been touched in years. Marcus pulled the mouthwash bottle upwards and line attached to the bottom of it unlatched something with a _snick_.

The whole cabinet opened up off the wall and another brighter light shone out. Hidden behind the cabinet was a brand new refrigeration unit stocked with bags of blood for transfusions, a dozen medicine bottles, gauze and stainless steel instruments. Marcus took a tube of Lidocaine ointment from the cabinet and smeared it on his wound. The anaesthetic began to work and the pain eased. A patch of gauze finished the temporary treatment.

Marcus went out into bedroom and pulled the laptop from his backpack. Flipping it open he powered it up. It was password protected as he thought it would be. He felt around under the desk and pulled out a Toshiba Flash Drive. He inserted it into the computer and the screen flickered. Almost straight away the program on the Flash Drive went to work decoding the password. A minute later the password was bypassed and Microsoft Windows showed up. The profile displayed belonged to Hans Goebel.Marcus began to sift through files. Most related to various businesses. He did a search on the most recently used files. He opened them one at a time, mostly boring statistics.

He opened a file titled SOLUTION 4 . His eyes flicked over the screen taking in the content. Marcus saved the file onto the flash drive and closed the laptop. He jumped up onto the bed, bounced once and reached up for the ceiling. His hands struck a manhole that flipped open and he grabbed the ledge. His fingers felt for a disarm button for a trap he had set and pressed it. Marcus then pulled himself up into the roof cavity.

A light flashed on revealing a tight space with the curve of the roof showing. There was a brick firewall not so far away. To one side was a well made single mattress nestled amongst the timber roof battens. Running down one of the central battens was a group of electrical cables that connected up to another laptop fixed to a small table next to the bed.

Marcus crawled over the bed and switched on the computer. He accessed the net and account number. The laptop made a faint dialling sound.

Michael Lee showed up on the screen sitting at his desk.

"Marcus, I was just wondering when you'd call in. How did it go?" he said.

"I got their plans. Are they serious about this. I've seen some pretty weird things in this job but this takes the cake."

"I've confirmed that the technology is possible, but I had to know what sort of time frame we're looking at," said Mick.

Marcus nodded, "The document details a schedule. If they're serious about this it looks like they intend to put it into action in seven days."

"Seven days!" said Mick.

"Ten pilots – three locations. All critical. I've got times dates and coordinates."

Michael Lee rubbed his forehead, "Alright. Marcus. Send through the file and come in as quickly as you can. We need to get on top of this fast."

Michael Lee spun away from the screen of his computer. Seven days. Not nearly enough time to act. This was perhaps the biggest threat he had seen to his country since he had been working at the Agency and there was no one he could tell, no one he could turn to for help. He also knew that the analyst John Wilkins would soon start to piece things together. If John blew the whistle on this one it could be disastrous. The bureaucrats would shut them down no questions asked.

Ten planes!

He knew he could only send one plane, one pilot – and everything would depend upon that one man.

But who to send?

8

Casey Hunter stepped up into the cockpit of the _Phoenix_. A westerly wind blew down off the Remarkables, bringing with it the chill of snow. The sky was blue and clear, the sun shining.

The only disappointment for the day was that he would not be flying against Hans Goebel who had mysteriously not appeared for the event. The organisers were furious that the series winner had snubbed the final and last race of the year.

Casey had made it through the preliminaries without too many problems. Many of the pilots hadn't trained for the event and were treating it as a novelty. They had all of the off season to prepare for the new ribbon races. A 200,000 strong crowd had turned out for the spectacle and Queenstown was filled with people of all nationalities, every corner had something happening and earlier in the day jet boats had raced on the lake. But now the grand finale was at hand and everyone had staked out their seats. Those who could afford it were in the grandstand on the mountain side.

"Are you ready kid?" said Ron climbing up the ladder and leaning on the plane.

"Piece of cake," said Casey.

Ron flashed him a smile, "Alright – go get him."

The team closed the bubble on the plane and the race official walked out onto the runway.

Casey glanced beside him and saw his opponent the Frenchman Jean Riccard in his racing green Sukhoi Su-31. The Russian built stunt plane was faster than the _Phoenix_ and more agile. Along with the F-45 it was the next generation of stunt planes, named the _Joan of Arc_ by the Frenchman.

Jean gave him a salute and Casey returned the gesture. Jean Riccard was one of the better pilots in the competition. He had beaten the Columbian Joseph Lopez in the heats to reach the final. He was also one of the better sports.

"Pilots," came the official over their radio headsets, "you know the rules. Head out to your marker, turn, and fight. There's a big crowd out there today so give us a show to remember. Good luck."

Both pilots started their engines. The cylinders fired, the props began to spin and the crowd stood to their feet cheering.

The official in front of each plane waved their flag before running off the grass runway. As soon as it was clear both planes powered down and headed in opposite directions.

Casey throttled back and felt the ground fall away.

Complete freedom.

All his life he knew that this was where he belonged, man and machine as one.

The single blue marker appeared ahead. It was the only one he had to pass in this race. The _Phoenix_ circled it with ease and immediately began to climb, clawing for as much sky as it could.

In the distance the Frenchman was doing the same, each plane trying to gain an advantage in height.

Casey flew as steeply as he dared, until the engine started to struggle and he risked a stall. Even at this stage he could tell that the Frenchman with his better plane was going to get the jump on him.

"Release ribbons," said the Race official's static voice in his ear mike.

Casey pressed a red button on the dash and a bright yellow ribbon unfurled from behind the plane. Now the _Phoenix_ had some plumage to match it's name.

In the distance he saw the bright blue ribbon fall out behind the _Joan of Arc_.

Both planes were nearing their ceiling height and Queenstown looked small below, the lake seemingly a puddle and the crowd like tiny ants moving about in a toy town.

"OK kid," said Ron. "He's got you for height. Remember what I taught you about evasion. This one's going to take patience."

Casey felt that his machine had gone as high as it would. He looked up through his bubble at the dark green _Joan of Arc_ , circling above him almost gracefully.

Both planes glided in the quiet blue sky.

The calm before the storm.

Casey flexed his fingers around the stick and tried to gather himself. He was at a disadvantage and he had a lot of work to do.

Above him the sun flashed off the canopy of the _Joan of Arc_ as it began its dive. The engine began to whine as it picked up speed and made adjustments.

"Here he comes!" said Ron.

"I see him good buddy," said Casey.

The _Joan of Arc_ closed in. Casey turned hard and the streamer behind his plane curled in the air. The Frenchman had anticipated the turn but not how fast it would be. Struggling with his controls he steered his propeller towards the bright yellow streamer and missed it by three feet.

"Ok kid, turn and keep turning."

Casey pulled his plane into a tight turn and the Frenchman was right on him, his propeller seeking out the yellow ribbon trailing behind him. Because both planes were in a tight turn the blue ribbon of the _Joan of Arc_ was ahead of Casey but still well out of range.

Casey swivelled his head to look behind, he saw Jean Riccard closing on his ribbon. If he didn't act soon it would all be over. He had made up his mind to switch angles.

"Keep circling," said Ron as if reading his thoughts.

A bead of sweat rolled down his face into his eye. It stung and he blinked at it.

"If you say so," said Casey.

The fast spinning prop of the _Joan of Arc_ was only a foot away from his ribbon, the G-force from the tight turn was pressing Casey down into his seat and he was struggling to hold the pattern.

"Stay with it," said Ron.

Below the crowd held their breath, watching as the two planes lost altitude with each circle. It looked as though it would all be over in an instant. Then the shiny green _Joan of Arc_ faltered. It was only a small mistake, a tiny push of the rudder to one side and it dropped twenty feet.

Casey held his turn, balancing the controls perfectly to maintain maximum height. Looking behind him he could see that the _Joan of Arc_ had regained control and was closing on him again.

"His plane's too fast," said Casey into his mike.

"Stick with it, he's tiring."

Casey knew that Ron was right...the trouble was he was tiring as well. They had been circling for twenty minutes now and the Frenchman was again bearing down on his yellow ribbon.

"I'm gonna break the turn," said Casey.

"Don't!" said Ron.

Casey flipped the rudders and pushed forward on the stick. The world turned until he was staring straight down at the lake. His engine began to work overtime in the steep dive, the needle on his speedometer touching the red line.

Straight away the _Joan of Arc_ was diving after the yellow ribbon, Jean Riccard sensing the kill.

Casey knew that once he hit the deck he wouldn't have enough speed to keep the Frenchman off him for long. Even now he turned and rolled as he flew towards the ground to stop his opponent's propeller from shredding his ribbon.

Below the crowd watched and began to talk as both planes headed straight for them. Spectators in the grandstand stood up to get a better view.

"Pull up" said Ron.

"Not yet," said Casey.

People in the crowd began to move uneasily away from the path of the two planes.

"Pull up!" shouted Ron.

Casey leaned back on the stick and the _Phoenix_ pulled up just meters above the lake, sending a spray of water in the crowd. Right behind him was the _Joan of Arc_. The crowd ducked as the ribbons of both planes ripped through the air meters above their heads. Then when the planes had passed a huge roar went up and everybody turned to watch them heading up the Dart River canyon.

Casey steered his plane through the sheer rock walls of the canyon as foaming water roared beneath him. The Frenchman Jean Riccard did his best to stay on Casey's tale. The bright ribbons of each plane flowed perfectly through the sheer walls of rock.

"Come on Frenchy, see if you can keep up," said Casey looking over his shoulder.

Up ahead the canyon took a huge left hand twist. Casey flipped the plane on its wingtips and pulled back on the stick. The Phoenix cut a smooth line around the bend, turned level in a split second and pulled up just in time to clear a waterfall that left the plane covered in water.

Jean Riccard tried to follow but misjudged the turn. His plane veered towards the canyon wall and he turned level and rose unsteadily upwards, missing the rocks by meters. Water from the falls covered his canopy and shone like a thousand lights in the sun.

In the open sky he looked desperately around for Casey but couldn't see him.

"Got you," said Casey.

The Frenchman shielded his eyes as the Phoenix came straight at him out of the sun, a mere speck in the bright ball of light.

Now the Frenchman was the hunted.

The shiny green _Joan of Arc_ pulled up into the sky and tried to gain speed. Casey was right on the tale of his opponent. The _Joan of Arc_ pulled into a tight spin causing the ribbon to corkscrew and shorten. It was a move that Casey hadn't expected but his reflexes allowed him to follow. Both planes twisted and rolled out of the canyon and back into the Queenstown Arena above the lake. The crowd screamed and jumped up and down at the reappearance of the two planes.

"He's going for more height," said Ron.

"I can see that," said Casey gritting his teeth with concentration, "what do you suggest?"

Casey wrestled with the controls and strained his ears for the advice of his friend, all the while the Frenchman was slowly getting further away from him.

"Let him get behind you – then flat stall and recover,"

Casey let what his friend had told him sink in.

"You're not serious?"

"You can do it," said Ron.

Casey wasn't sure if he could, but he knew he could try.

"Alright, here it goes,"

He stopped chasing the Frenchman and pulled off to one side, flying straight towards the grandstand. The _Joan of Arc_ wheeled about and came straight at him. Both planes picked up speed as they careered towards the packed stand.

"Timing's everything," said Ron.

Casey had stopped looking forward and instead watched intently behind him as the green plane of the Frenchman closed in.

It was almost on his ribbon.

"Now!" said Ron.

Casey pulled back hard on the stick and steered the rudders and flaps full to the right. The _Phoenix_ went from flying straight to being completely stalled in an instant. The Frenchman panicked at the sudden halt of his prey and steered to avoid a collision. With his concentration gone the Frenchman completely missed Casey's yellow ribbon and zoomed past the stricken _Phoenix_ that was spinning out of control. His own blue ribbon passed through the spinning propeller of the _Phoenix_ and was sliced to pieces.

In one insane instant the Frenchman had lost.

The crowd was silent, not believing what they had just seen and the _Phoenix_ was spinning towards the grandstand.

Casey didn't know which way was up or down. He was closing in on the mountain packed with spectators. Closing his eyes he imagined he was a bird of prey that had just seized a weaker bird from the air and was tumbling from the impact. The wind ruffled his feathers and pulled at his muscles. Using instinct alone he picked the perfect moment and pulled hard on the controls. As if by magic the _Phoenix_ came out of the spin and gracefully headed away from the mountain towards the lake.Across Queenstown the crowd cheered at the sight. Casey pulled out of the dive and levelled off next to his opponent. The Frenchman ever the good sport gave him a wave and he returned it.

"Well done kid, that was some flying," said Ron over the mike.

"Thanks Ron, couldn't have done it without you."

Casey did a flew over the crowd and everyone stood and cheered. All except one man in the grandstand wearing a black suit and dark sunglasses that hid an icy stare.

When the _Phoenix_ had come to a complete stop the pit crew rushed out and chocked the wheels. The moment the prop stopped spinning a ladder was wheeled up to the canopy. Ron was the first one up it. He opened the bubbled and lifted Casey out of his seat. All around him the crowd began to shout.

"Hunter! Hunter! Hunter!"

Teenage girls were screaming and the media scrum had formed. Casey was blinded by a thousand camera flashes a second.

Somehow someone had gotten a hold of a champagne bottle and was pouring it all over him.

On Ron's shoulder he was guided through the throng of people and towards the podium set up near by. Ron put Casey onto the steps and security guards stopped the cheering crowd from following him.

Taking the top step Casey looked out at the mass of people that had flocked to the airfield. The Frenchman Jean Riccard took the second position on the steps and the Columbian Joseph Lopez took third.

"Congratulations Hunter," said Joseph. "Come to a party at my place tonight. I know lots of ladies who would like to meet you."

Casey laughed, "No thanks, I've heard about your parties."

"Well fought out," said Jean Riccard shaking Casey's hand. "It's a pity Hans didn't turn up. I think you would have beaten him easily."

"Maybe," said Casey. And that was what bothered him. Hans had failed to show up to the race. He knew that Hans had many poor character traits, but cowardice was not one of them. What had kept Hans away? Casey remembered back to the Berlin race and how Hans barely gloated at the win. It wasn't' like him at all.

The announcer took the microphone, "And now, the winner of the first Ribbon Race to be held in the series – CASEY HUNTER!"

The crowd screamed louder than ever. Both the other flyers on the podium tipped more champagne onto Casey and he was eventually carried away from the stage by his pit crew back to the hanger.

The media circus waited outside, security holding them at bay.

Inside the hanger the crew were opening up bottles of Champagne and toasting their success. Any win in the series was important, and this one was the last race for the year. They could take a moment to relax, maybe even have a month off before they started training.

Casey took a chair in the pit area next to the _Phoenix_. On the floor there were engine parts and tools scattered around. The hanger doors were closed to the public and it felt good just to be amongst his team.

As Casey was sitting in his chair one of the team owners, Gerald Newman, came over.

"Good race Casey. I thought he had you right up until the end."

"He did," said Casey.

"I'd like you to meet someone. This is Michael Lee, he works with the CIA."

Casey sat up in his chair and shook Michael Lee's hand. He felt how strong the grip was and was slightly taken aback by the cool eyes.

"Pleasure to meet you Casey."

"I'll leave you two to talk," said Gerald.

When Gerald had left Michael Lee pulled up a chair beside Casey.

"You work for the CIA?" said Casey.

"Don't be alarmed Mr Hunter. You haven't done anything wrong. I'm actually here to ask for your help. We've got an unusual problem...I can't say too much about it except that it involves national security. I'm sorry to have to barge in on you so soon after your win but time is short."

"What do you need me to do?"

"Fly for the CIA."

Casey laughed, "The air force has thousands of pilots. There's a whole lot of other stunt flyers you could use."

Michael Lee shook his head. "None of them have your qualifications – and we've only got one shot at this."

Casey leaned over and thought about the proposition.

"What I can tell you is that this is a once in a lifetime opportunity. It will be a unique experience and the significance of the event surpasses the first walk on the moon. In gratitude when the task is completed the Government will fully fund you team for the next ten years – including the creation of an aircraft of your choosing."

"Can I think about it?"

Michael Lee put on his glasses and stood up, "I can give you five minutes."

Casey watched as Michael Lee walked towards the hanger doors.

Ron came over as soon as he had left.

"Who was that?"

"CIA," said Casey.

"What'd he want?"

"He wants me to fly for them. He won't say when, where or why."

"I don't like it," said Ron.

"Me neither," said Casey, "but he also said the Government would fund an aircraft and a team in the series for the next ten years."

"I still don't like it. During the war the spooks were always meddling. In my opinion they never did anyone any good – got a lot of soldiers killed is all. Don't do it is my advice – but having said that it's up to you kid."

Casey nodded, "Look after the Phoenix for me Ron. I'll call you when I get back."

Outside the hanger Casey ran up to Mick Lee who was waiting beside the airstrip.

"O.K., I'm in. What now?" said Casey.

Mick Lee looked at his watch.

A huge black shadow passed over the top of them, the sound of engines was deafening and a blast of wind blew up a cloud of dust.

The C-130 Hercules transport touched down on the landing strip and the rear ramp lowered.

Michael Lee walked towards it at a fast pace and Casey rushed to keep up.

"Where are we going?" shouted Casey above the engines.

"I don't want to ruin the surprise," said Michael Lee.

They both boarded the plane. One of the crew members guided Casey to a seat and buckled him in. Michael Lee sat opposite him.

The ramp lifted up and the light from outside disappeared as it clanked shut. The huge aircraft began turned and accelerated back down the runway. Casey felt the familiar feeling of lift off and soon they were above New Zealand's snow capped mountain ranges.

"Good to have you on board Mr Hunter," said Michael Lee.

9

Somewhere in an industrial area in Munich in the dark of night ten planes were moved from their hanger and loaded onto the back of trucks. The drivers wore overalls but were a little too fit looking to be genuine truckies, and a keen observer would have seen the dull shine of gun metal from the armed guard in the passenger seat. The men worked quickly and professionally. When they left, the huge factory building was completely empty except for a few boot prints on the floor.

10

"They're up to something!" said John Wilkins into the phone.

"What are you talking about?" said Michael Lee.

"Movement of funds, telephone traffic through all their companies, the directors are jumping countries. We still haven't figured out what they're up to but we know they're doing something and they're doing it now."

"Thanks for the update John. Let me know when you get something more."

Michael Lee switched off his phone.

Of course they were up to something.

He knew what they were up to.

On the 10th of July 1940 Germany stepped up its bombing campaign of Great Brittain. Daily engagements were fought until the 31st of October 1940 when Brittain successfully repelled the Luftwaffe offensive and ended any hope Germany had of a land invasion of Brittain.

This later became known as the Battle of Brittain.

In less than three days Karl Goebel and his Neo Nazi buddies were going to try and change history by winning the battle and changing the course of the war.

Three days didn't give them much time at all.

Michael Lee spun in his chair to face General Martin who sat on the other side of the desk.

"Is the plane ready?"

"As ready as we can make her. Is your pilot ready?"

"I watched him in Queenstown. He's ready."

"Does he know what we're asking of him?"

"No. Do you think he'd go on with it if he did."

"No."

11

Casey was picked up from his hotel by the USAF guardsman who had declined to engage in small talk on the trip into the desert. They had passed the barbed wire checkpoint with a nod to the other USAF guardsman standing at attention in his blue beret. The desert road twisted through the dry scrub until they came to what looked like a disused hanger and a runway with grass growing from between the cracks in its surface.

"This is it?" said Casey.

"This is it," confirmed the soldier turning off the engine.

Casey got out of the car. His new white shoes kicked up rust coloured dirt. The place looked empty, as though some ghost plane would suddenly appear and take off into the sky.

"Colonel Lee will be here shortly. Here's your bags," said the Guardsman unceremoniously dumping Casey's suitcase onto the ground. Casey looked down at the Gucci label covered in dust.

The soldier got back into his jeep and took off back down the road, the setting sun flashing off the bouncing windows.

"OK," said Casey and took a seat on his soiled luggage.

The red afternoon sun beat his brow with its rays. It was the kind of dry heat that sucks the moisture from your pores and turns your tongue into a piece of beef jerky. Casey waited for at least an hour watching the sun finally dip under the horizon and the first stars start to come out above the purple haze that shifted to a deep blue higher in the sky.

Footsteps.

Casey turned around and saw Michael Lee walking out of the hanger.

"Good to see you made it. Sorry I took so long – we had a lot to prepare for your arrival."

Casey stood up and knocked the dust off his jeans.

"Grab your bags and let's go."

Casey picked up his suitcase and followed Michael Lee. They walked into the hanger which was completely dark except for the last light of day that was fast disappearing. Both men stood outlined against the huge doorway.

Inside there were small planes covered in plastic sheets. Casey tried to make out what they were but it was just too dark. There was also machinery and what looked like a workshop at one end of the building.

"Where are we?" said Casey.

"This is our base of operations. Very secret stuff," said Michael Lee. "You're living quarters and the rest of the base is underneath us."

"Underground?" said Casey.

Michael Lee nodded.

Casey had heard of secret underground bases before but never thought he would be visiting let alone staying in one.

"O.K." said Casey. "Are you going to tell me what I'm here for yet?"

"All in good time. Right now we need to get you squared away. I have to warn you the entrance to the base takes a little getting used to."

"Oh?"

"If you could just move a little to your left."

Casey stood up unsteadily at the bottom of the shaft, his hair blown out of place and his face pale.

"What the hell was that?" he shouted.

"I told you it takes some getting used to."

"Casey looked up the massive shaft and saw the hanger floor closing back over. The lights from the floor switched on and a doorway was lit up.

"Right this way,"

Casey followed Michael through the door and along a cement corridor. He had the feeling of a great weight of earth being placed upon him. Being used to the wide open sky he didn't like it one bit.

Michael stopped at a green door, fished a key from his pocket and opened it.

"If you need anything just press the buzzer. Your dinner will be brought in. I'd suggest you get some sleep. You've got a very big day tomorrow."

Casey walked into the room and took it in. The carpet was white and there was a two seater leather lounge in front of a wall mounted plasma television. In one corner there was a single bed with a green military blanket on it. In the corner of the room was a cupboard with a selection of DVD's and in the other corner was a door which led, he guessed, to the bathroom.

"What if I want to-"

The door slammed shut behind him.

"-make a phone call?" he finished.

Casey tried the door.

Locked.

"Great," he said.

Not for the first time he had the feeling he had made a bad mistake. Ron had even warned him about it. Why then had he gone along with it all?

"Because I'm an idiot," he said aloud and switched on the TV.

No reception.

"Perfect,"

He went over to the cabinet and checked out the DVD selection. _The Dirty Dozen, the Great Escape, a Bridge Too Far, Kelly's Heroes, Tora Tora Tora, the Battle of Brittain_. All old war movies.

He pulled out _Tora Tora Tora_. He had seen half of it once when he was young.

He put it into the DVD player and the opening credits began rolling.

_If they don't answer a few questions tomorrow I'm out of here_ , he said to himself as the first Japanese bomber took off from a carrier and headed towards Pearl Harbour.

The lock to his door clicked and the door swung open. Casey sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes, blinking at the fluoro light that flooded in from the corridor.

"How'd you sleep?" said Michael.

"Terribly," said Casey.

"Brought you something," said Michael pulling a metal military chest into the room. It thumped down when he let go of the handle.

"Put this stuff on and I'll meet you at the entry bay. You've got about half an hour. Breakfast will be brought in shortly."

Casey was about to ask what was on the day's agenda when Michael Lee shut the door quickly.

At first he was angry at being treated like a prisoner but curiosity overtook him and he examined the steel chest. It looked a lot older than he had first thought, the painted green metal was scratched and there were numbers and letters sprayed on it in yellow. There were two latches on either side. Casey flicked them back.

His fingers felt for the lid and lifted up. The first thing he noticed was a musty smell. Covering the contents of the box was a white sheet of thick canvas. Whatever was beneath it caused irregular lumps on the surface of the material.

_Michael had said_ _put this stuff on_.

Clothes maybe, equipment?

Casey lifted the canvas. Beneath it was a green American flight suit – an old one. There was a life vest and flight gloves. Casey sifted through the contents and began to lay it out on the floor. He pulled out a flight mask, a thin leather cap and goggles.

"What is this? Fancy dress?"

At the bottom of the box was a leather case in a shape that looked vaguely familiar.

Casey unbuttoned the leather case. His eyes went wide as he pulled out the pistol and held it up in front of him. He didn't know much about guns but this one was big. It had Colt written on one side of the metal slide and there was a button near the handle. He knew it wasn't the trigger so he pressed it. In a smooth action the magazine fell out and clattered heavily to the floor. Casey could see at the top of the magazine the brass casing of a lead tipped bullet.

With a slightly trembling hand he picked up the magazine and carefully, slowly, slid it back into the pistol. Something stopped it when it was almost all the way in. He pushed a little harder.

_Click_ , the magazine locked into place.

Casey sat crouched in the middle of the room and wondered what he was doing in his boxer shorts, in a secret underground facility, holding a loaded pistol and being asked to play dress ups.

It was time to leave.

Casey tried the door handle and was surprised when it turned. He leaned out into the corridor and looked to the right. It extended for about a hundred meters. There was a door at the other end that looked tiny from so far away. To his left was where he had entered the day before. The door was open and a beam of natural light came down the shaft.

"Excuse me!" he said. His voice echoed down the corridor.

Stepping back inside he partially shut the door and looked for the buzzer. He eventually found it on a panel in the wall. It was a simple white button and a small screen. He pressed it and heard an electric hum.

Nothing.

He pressed it again.

Casey sighed in frustration and paced around the scattered equipment on the floor.

What could they do to him if he didn't do as they said?

He thought about it for a while.

"All right, I'll play along for now."

He began to dress as best he could in the unfamiliar gear. The suit was a little too small and the boots were a little too big. It took him a while to find all the buttons and straps but he eventually managed to get everything on. The last item he put on was the gun. It was a shoulder holster and took some working out. It was strange but once he had it on he felt a tiny bit safer, even though he knew he didn't stand a chance of shooting his way out of this place.

Feeling ten kilos heavier he walked out of his room and to his left. He entered the entry shaft and looked up to where the top was open. He could make out the roof of the hanger. He could also hear voices and machinery in operation. Something was happening up there.

Suddenly the floor jolted upwards and he nearly fell over. Regaining his balance Casey stood on the platform as it lifted upwards, the huge hydraulics beneath it hissing. He felt like some strangely dressed gladiator being raised into the arena.

As his head reached the top of the hanger floor he saw the booted feet of Michael Lee.

"You look good," said Michael.

"I feel like an idiot," said Casey as the lift clanged to a halt.

Inside the hanger people were moving everywhere. At one end was a fully equipped workshop; crates were stacked against the walls, USAF guardsmen were at every entrance, workers in military fatigues wheeled boxes around on forklifts and other people in white coats worked at computer terminals.

"What's going on here?" said Casey, his patience completely gone.

"I don't want to spoil the surprise," said Michael smiling. "Come on, over here."

Michael half jogged over to one of the covered planes. He seemed genuinely exited and Casey followed.

"This," said Michael tearing away the cover "is what you'll be flying today."

The plastic sheeting fell revealing the brand new sleek silver P-51 Mustang.

Casey's mouth fell open.

The plane looked awesome. The colours and markings were perfect, on each wing protruded three .50 calibre machine guns and underneath the nose was painted a shark's mouth.

He reached out and felt the smooth metal surface of the wing. Slowly he walked around the plane.

"She's impressive," said a female voice.

Casey looked over and saw a young woman in overalls. The grease on her face couldn't hide her delicate features and her dark hair was tied up in a tight bun. In one hand she was casually spinning a spanner.

"Casey, meet Jennifer Newton, our chief engineer," said Michael.

"You've probably already noticed that it's an exact replica of a Mustang," said Jennifer walking around the plane with Casey. "At least on the exterior that's what it is. We've made a few modifications. The engine is not a Merlin, but a Lockheed and Martin custom design. It's at least twenty percent faster than an original. We've also replaced some parts with titanium and carbon fibre to reduce weight."

Casey stopped at the front of the plane in wonder.

"I've got to ask, what does me flying this have to do with national security?"

"Patience, patience," said Michael. "All will be revealed. For now we need to get you familiarised with the controls."

Casey clambered up into the cockpit. It was unlike anything he had ever flown before.

"This isn't from World War II," he said looking at the modern control panel.

Jennifer Newton climbed the ladder and stood next to him. "That's obviously the stick. The red trigger is on the front and the two smaller red buttons, well, don't worry about those for now. This panel is your weapons systems, six .50 calibre guns. Very effective but you only have limited rounds, shown here." Jennifer flipped a small switch and the panel lit up. To the right of the weapons systems was a series of bars representing ammunition.

"Very cool," said Casey trying not to get distracted by Jennifer's perfume.

"To your left you'll see a small screen. That's your GPS, its voice activated and can guide you to a series of positions."

Casey eased back into the seat. Even with the plane sitting in the hanger with its wheels chocked up he felt dangerous. It was completely unlike anything he could have imagined.

"Here's your targeting reticle," said Jennifer pressing a button on the weapons systems panel.

In front of him on the glass canopy a series of red circles appeared, seeming to float out in front of the plane.

"That's the important parts, the rest of the controls are similar to the planes you are used to flying."

"Do you want to take her up?" said Michael.

A grin spread across Casey's face, all his questions were gone. The one thing, the _only_ thing he wanted to do was get this bird in the air.

"Is the pope catholic?" said Casey.

12

The P-51 was taxied out onto the runway by a number of ground crew in their military fatigues, working quietly and efficiently. The shine off the silver wings was blinding in the desert sun. The sky above was clear and blue, the air mild. Perfect flying weather.

Casey tested the flaps and pedals. Everything responded smoothly. He couldn't believe he was actually going to fly this thing. It felt as though the Mustang was aching to get airborne and it was rubbing off on Casey.

Silently he willed the ground crew to hurry up in getting the planed lined up. The fuel pump was disconnected and the chocks were pulled away from the wheels.

The signaller in front of the plane snapped one of his flags through the air and Casey hit the starter.

BOOM, BOOM, BOOM,

The pistons fired their start before thumping into a deep bass that Casey felt in his veins. The front exhaust spat fire every so often as the engines warmed up. In front of him the sharp blades of the propeller blurred into a spinning disc.

Casey gripped the control stick. The metal was cold and he could feel the power of the machine in his hands. Just in front of his index finger was that red trigger. That trigger changed everything. It turned a plane from a playful sparrow into a hawk, a fierce bird of war.

The signaller snapped his flags again and ran out from in front of the plane.

Casey throttled down and was pushed back into his seat.

Underneath the runway at a command station deep in the base General Martin and Agent Michael Lee watched on monitors.

"Power up the generators," said General Martin.

A dozen men in lab coats began to pull levers and monitor computers. The buzz of electricity flowed through the air in the chamber. In the distance the Generators started to leak lightning.

"You'd better be right about this kid," said the General.

Michael Lee continued to watch the monitors of the runway.

"Plot the destination," said the General.

Another scientist at a much larger computer began to type in commands.

"How accurate is this?" asked Michael.

"Reasonably," said the General. "We've allowed enough time for the briefing to be played before the mission."

Michael Lee nodded.

"Alright, let's get him on course."

Casey felt the ground rushing past him and still the plane gained speed, the rubber on the wheels starting to smoke. Shocked by the raw power of the machine he held on to the stick tightly and tried his best to keep a straight line.

He pushed the throttle all the way forward and the plane lifted off. The feeling of weightlessness was like nothing else in this world, combined with speed it was like a drug.

"Oooooh, yeaaahh!" he screamed.

The silver P-51 shot straight up. Casey couldn't resist a barrel roll and the plane corkscrewed up higher and higher. It was vertical flight and he was sure the plane would stall soon – but it didn't.

Turning the plane to one side he pulled back and began a hard turn. Immediately he was pressed down into his seat and the world appeared tilted through the roof of his cockpit.

"I love this plane!"

"Having fun up there?" came the voice of Michael Lee through his ear mike.

"Hell yeah!" said Casey.

"That's good to hear. Press the little yellow button on the GPS."

Casey reached out with a gloved finger and pressed the button. The screen instantly flashed on. There was a four dimensional arrow that spun as the plane turned. Longitude and Latitude numbers spun forward and backward at the bottom of the screen. It only took Casey a second to figure it out.

"It's set to magnetic north,"

"Very good," said Michael. "The system has set to default compass mode. We need to test out the accuracy of the GPS. We're sending through some coordinates."

A second later the arrow flashed red and pointed off to the left and slightly down, back towards the base.

Casey smiled, "It's working,"

"Good, just follow the arrow. There's a distance meter as well as a timer. You need to get to the location at the exact moment the timer runs out."

"OK," said Casey.

He edged the plane slightly to the left and tilted the nose down. It was hardly a challenge for the super agile fighter.

"Remember to time it perfectly."

Casey watched the distance meter tick down next to the clock. He was travelling at about four hundred miles per hour and had ten seconds to make the gap.

_Easy as pie_ , he thought.

"Alright, everything is plotted," said the General over the whirr of the generators.

Michael gripped the back of the chair on which the lead scientist sat, gazing at the screen. The air was alive with electricity and sparks were flying off monitors. A red panel began flashing and a siren sounded.

A scientist stared at a smaller monitor, sweat beading off his forehead. "Nuclear fission in five, four, three, two..."

"Come on kid," said Michael. "We're counting on you."

"...one!" said the scientist.

The underground facility was alive with white lightning and cracking electricity. Raw energy from the generators powered the particle accelerator. Billions of protons were colliding with each other in brilliant blue flashes. The complex engine focussed all its energy upwards.

A dark rip tore open in the clear blue sky directly in front of Casey. It was so black it looked like it had no end. The tear appeared as an ugly wound, jagged and moving.

"Oh no!" said Casey pulling at the controls.

It did nothing. His plane was literally being sucked into the tear.

Casey closed his eyes, felt his ears pop.

It was like being squashed down into a tiny compartment, the cockpit shrinking, his body shrinking. He felt like a Jack in the box. The handle was winding, the music was playing, getting faster and soon he was going to explode.

Pop

His ears equalised. Everything came rushing back to him in a spin causing him to become dizzy.

He opened his eyes.

"Oh NO!"

Gunfire raked down the wing of his aircraft. He felt each bullet pierce the thin skin through the controls.

The Me-109 tore past him, the sound of the engine growing distant. In the air were hundreds of planes, darting, twisting and spitting tracer rounds at each other. The Arizona desert below him was gone and had been replaced by lush green fields.

Casey pulled up into a corkscrew and instinctively looked over his shoulder.

Two more Messerschmitts were on his tail, dodging and weaving – following his every move.

"OH GOD NO!"

They were firing at him now in short bursts, the tracers going over his cockpit, one of them grazing a long scratch in the glass.

"Try this," said Casey gritting his teeth and pulling up into a steep climb.

The Me-109's tried to follow but were forced to level out when their engines started to stall.

Casey turned the plane over and performed a loop.

_Initiating Mission Briefing_ , said the GPS computer on the dashboard in a neutral female voice.

"What?" said Casey desperately trying to come to grips with the situation.

The P-51 Mustang came down in a steep dive. Below him was a maze of fighters and bombers dicing each other into scrap metal. Casey pulled and pushed at the controls, the Mustang turning swiftly through the carnage.

Pulling back he levelled out on two Me-109's.

_Good Morning Casey_ , said Michael Lee's voice over the computer, _you're probably wondering what has happened. Try not to be alarmed._

More rounds passed over his cockpit and he saw that he'd picked up another Me-109.

We've sent you back through space and time to deal with an imminent threat to our very existence.

Casey turned the plane over hard and pulled back to deal with the threat to _his_ very existence.

_Never mind the details for now, we'll talk about that later. In this battle there will be three planes being flown from pilots from our time. You need to eliminate them to ensure the battle proceeds to its original outcome_ **.** _The onboard computer will automatically detect the planes and confirm the kills. When your task is complete the coordinates to your path back here will be unlocked._

Good luck!

The Me-109 on his tail dropped off as another P-51 Mustang shot it from the left side.

Casey turned his plane, spied two shining silver Me-109's navigating the fray and pulled in behind them.

He flicked on his sights and the glowing red circles appeared in front of him. He selected the Me-109 to the left and guided his plane into a firing position.

One more thing...

Casey pressed down on the trigger. The plane shuddered as the six .50 calibre cannons fired a stream of glowing orange tracer rounds into the Me-109 blowing chunks of metal off it. He felt the exhilaration of a successful hunt and adrenaline pumped through his veins.

... _try not to kill any historical pilots. It may change the future. We're still unsure what the effects will be._

"Oops,"

The Me-109 exploded in front of him and his own plane flew through the debris that tinkled on his air frame like hail.

"Good shot," came a voice over his radio.

"Ah... thanks," said Casey keying his mike.

"Behind you!"

Casey turned without looking just as a line of tracers passed over his left wing.

"I've got him," said the calm male voice.

Casey wondered who this was talking to him as he pulled in a sharp turn that the Me-109 followed.

Suddenly a brilliant silver Mustang hovered into the view and placed a burst of rounds directly into the cockpit of the Me-109. The enemy plane turned over and plummeted towards earth leaving a trail of smoke.

"Thanks," said Casey.

"Any time," said the unknown pilot.

Just at that moment the dark shadow of a German Bomber flew over head and unleashed a storm of fire, obliterating the Mustang that had just come to his rescue.

The guns on the bomber then turned their attention to his plane and he pushed forward on the stick. Most of the bullets missed and the bomber flew out of range with three Mustangs harassing its tail.

"I've got to get out of here," said Casey beginning to feel sick.

_Target identified_ , said the computer's calm female voice.

Casey saw the arrow on his computer begin to turn up and to his left. The range on the arrow was three thousand meters and closing.

With a sigh of resignation Casey pulled up and weaved through the raging battle. He was well above the melee and spied the three planes the arrow was pointing to. They looked like they were moving faster than the other planes and they were carving their way through the opposition.

"Alright, I can do this," said Casey.

He checked his gun sights and pushed forward. The P-51 began to dive, the engine breathing the air deeply and propelling him forwards. The bullet holes on his wings made a screaming sound as he came out of the sky from above.

The three Me-109's were easily identifiable as they each had a red tail fin. They were knocking allied planes out of the sky like flies. Casey picked the leader and lined him up in the targeting reticle.

"Someone take out those red tails," said a voice with a British accent over his radio.

_One step ahead of you buddy_ , thought Casey as he pressed down the red trigger.

His six cannon cut the enemy plane in two halves that spun towards the ground.

_Kill Confirmed_ , said his computer.

The other two red tailed Me-109's split into opposite directions and he took off after the one on the right.

Straight away the Me-109 on his left turned back and was on his tail.

Clearly these guys had been practising.

The tracers pinged off Casey's aircraft and white smoke started to come out of the engine.

He recognised what it was straight away.

Coolant.

He had ten minutes tops.

The Me-109 in front banked left and Casey followed him into the turn. The wounded P-51 Mustang struggled to hold the line but Casey gritted his teeth and hung on to the stick. Outside the damaged wings began to shed flakes of metal.

"Come on baby," Casey said to his plane.

The Me-109 quickly flipped and turned the other way. For a split second it would cross Casey's sights.

He held his breath.

Jamming his finger down hard on the trigger he let out a hellish long burst of cannon fire that ripped into the enemy fighter and it exploded spectacularly in mid air.

_Kill confirmed_ , said the computer.

Almost straight away the fighter behind him fired as though to seek quick retribution for the death of it's comrade.

"Let's see if you can play follow the leader," said Casey.

He pushed forward on the stick and entered the moving maze of aircraft and streams of orange tracer. A quick left then a quick right.

Up ahead he saw a squadron of P-51's and headed straight for them.

The Me-109 didn't hesitate and followed, sending the occasional spray of tracer rounds Casey's way.

The P-51's quickly grew in size and at the last moment Casey pulled up.

The Me-109 followed him only to have all six incoming Mustangs open up. The sky blazed with their withering fire and the Me-109 completely disintegrated.

Casey checked behind him and saw that the enemy was gone.

_Kill confirmed – processing coordinates_ **.**

"Just hurry the hell up," said Casey to the computer.

He still flew evasively and took the odd stray bullet. His engine was starting to miss and he felt a noticeable loss in power.

Coordinates complete.

"About time,"

Casey glanced at the computer.

The arrow pointed up and away from the battle.

Distance 4 kilometres.

Time ten minutes forty three seconds.

Casey couldn't believe it. His engine had about three minutes if he was lucky.

"Oh no," he said once more.

He looked out of the scratched glass at his wings – or what was left of them. Bullet holes riddled his plane and fuselage, it was a miracle he hadn't taken a tracer round to his fuel tank and exploded.

Casey searched the sky and then banked left and up. The battered plane complained through the stick as he gained the cloud cover.

His mind raced.

Engine failure was imminent and he had to wait around for ten minutes.

What to do?

"Alright baby, one more climb."

Casey throttled down hard and pulled back. The plane responded reluctantly and began to rise far away from the battle and into the cloud. The propeller in front of him shuddered once or twice but kept spinning.

The P-51 pierced though the last of the cloud and came out shining in the sun. Casey levelled off and shut down the engine. It was so quiet it was scary. Below him people were killing each other but up above the cloud it was just an ocean of white pillows and sunshine.

For the first time since he had been sent back Casey allowed his body to relax. His hands started to tremble.

"Not home yet," he said to himself and willed them to stop.

The time clicked down, five minutes.

Only just gliding he followed the GPS arrow and gently eased the plane towards it.

Three kilometres and counting.

Plenty of time.

Unseen behind him another Me-109 appeared. Silently it crept up above him and into the sun.

Casey was calming down. He shook his head and took a firmer hold on the stick.

"Nearly there,"

He didn't even turn his mind to the possibility that the gateway back to his own world would not be open. He didn't think about how angry he was with them for doing this to him. He just concentrated on getting to where he was going.

He eased the plane a little further down until was right on top of the cloud cover.

One minute, one kilometre.

He flicked the switch for the ignition just as the first of the fiery rounds bounced off the cockpit bubble. Risking a glance behind him he saw the Me-109 closing in and spitting bullets his way.

The engine coughed. He was a sitting duck.

"Come on!" he shouted as he manically pressed the ignition.

The engine coughed once before booming into life.

The Me-109 was really letting him have it and he swerved from side to side, the plane shuddering with the effort.

In front of him the sky tore open. That horrible deep blackness appeared.

Casey throttled down hard and felt his ears pop. The bullets continued to pepper his plane. He had tried every trick he knew and he wasn't going to make it. His eyes flicked down to the control stick and the two shiny red mystery buttons on top.

_Oh well_ , he thought and jammed down the button on the left.

Instantly a blue flame shot from the rear of the Mustang. The speedometer needle wound up to 500mp/h and struggled at the end of its measure. Casey was thrown back into his seat and towards the black hole. Whatever forces that caused the tear sucked him in and he felt like he was being squashed again. The tracer rounds were still hitting his plane as he went through and he closed his eyes again.

His ears popped and it was quiet.

Below him was the desert and the landing strip.

His engine had stopped completely and he was forced to glide the plane down.

The ground grew larger and he could see the crew waving him in.

Michael Lee was there as well and for a moment Casey toyed with the idea of letting them all have a burst from his cannons.

The P-51 touched down roughly and bounced along the runway.

When it stopped Casey slumped forward completely exhausted. His head hurt.

13

Casey felt as though he were in the clouds. Everything was soft and fuzzy. There was a light coming from somewhere. He floated happily in his daze, not caring a thing for what had become of him or what lay in store. It was quiet and peaceful – then something started to bother him. It was small at first, like an itch, at the back of his head. He blinked and there was a numb pain. Annoying at first, it grew.

He blinked again and the pain stabbed through the back of his head like a blade. His brow furrowed.

The ethereal light he was seeing began to form into colours.

"Owwww," he said, the words falling dumbly from his mouth.

"He's awake," a woman's voice, but far away.

"How does it look," a man's voice – someone he knew. Starts with an "M".

"He'll live," the woman.

"Can he fly?"

He blinked again and the pain caused him to sit up. The world was spinning. Jennifer Newton was in the room with Michael Lee. There were white sheets, stainless benches and tiles. A hospital?

Casey leaned over and spewed. Jennifer was already there holding a pan.

"Take it easy,"

"What happened?" said Casey.

"You got shot, in the back of the head."

"Shot?"

"A graze is more like it kid," said Michael, "but you pulled through. Just a mild concussion."

Casey was in too much of a stupor to see the look that Jennifer shot Michael. He ignored her.

"Got another mission for you soon – get your rest, you'll need it."

Casey fell back into the soft pillow and let himself drift back to sleep.

General Martin stood in the hanger where the P-51 Mustang had been dragged for repairs. The sorry looking bird had bullet holes all over, and each hole was scorched a little from the fiery tracer rounds. Steam still wafted thinly from the engine. The plexiglass bubble was covered in scrapes and in one spot, just behind the pilots head rest, there was a neat hole. On the other side of the cockpit was a fine red spray.

Casey had been lucky.

Damned lucky.

The General shook his head. Still – the kid had pulled it off.

Michael Lee walked towards the General and stood silently beside him.

"He'll be OK," said Michael.

"You're boy did well. We reviewed the tapes –he's some pilot."

Michael Lee nodded.

"Will he be able to fly the next mission?"

"Yes," said Michael, "but whether or not he wants to is another question."

The General shrugged, "He's your pilot."

"I know, leave it with me. What are we going to do with the plane? We need it ready for the third mission."

"Jennifer's on it. Boy was she pissed when she saw what condition it came back in."

Michael frowned. Something had been troubling him. "They know we're on to them. Marcus was sighted retrieving the plans and when all three of their planes don't return..."

"I've thought about that too. I've spoken with Dr Strauss, he tells me that we can monitor their site from space. The duration and power of the energy they use will tell us if they are sticking to the plan or have chosen some other time to attack. My guess is that they'll stick to their plan. The Battle of Brittain is their main objective. Casey's going to be gone for a while on this one – do you think he can handle it."

"He'll have to," said Michael.

Now it was the General who was silent. He paced about the plane and rubbed his hand across the tarnished steel. He knelt down and checked the belly. Coolant was still dripping from the engine and a trail of oil came from the exhausts on the nose. The General stood up and brushed the dust off his blue trousers.

"We're cutting this fine," he said.

"I know. Has the doctor calculated the estimated changes that have occurred?"

"He's working on it. At last count the figure was less than 0.9%, but that may change. A lot of allied pilots died – some that weren't supposed to."

"That's not a bad figure when you consider what we're tampering with, although we did find a report in a German Newspaper about the battle that reported experimental jet aircraft being used by the allies. I'm pretty sure we told him to leave that button alone."

The General grunted. "All right. See that your boy is ready to fly. We'll look after the rest."

Michael Lee nodded and left the hanger.

Casey woke with a massive headache. He was on his simple bed in the room they had given him to stay in. He scanned around and saw the empty DVD case for _Tora, Tora, Tora_ still on the floor – then it all came back to him and he felt ill.

He got up quickly but unsteadily to his feet and made his way to the bathroom, clutching at the walls. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead and he leaned over the toilet. The nausea came over him again only stronger and he was noisily sick.

He turned on the tap and sipped some water then splashed some on his face. Feeling a little better he returned to his bed and sat down.

Images of the fighting flooded his mind. He remembered the exhilaration he felt when he pressed down the trigger and scored direct hits. The almost beautiful way the planes exploded under fire, the triumph of victory. Then he felt something else that he hadn't whilst he had been in the air.

Guilt.

Flying those planes had been living breathing men. He was a stunt pilot not a soldier. He wondered about their families and friends. What had they looked like? Thank god he had been spared that. They were just a faceless enemy hell bent on killing him. That had been it though, hadn't it? Kill or be killed. He hadn't any idea what he was getting himself into. Ron had tried to warn him.

Casey could hardly believe what had happened. Time travel. Who _would_ believe it?

And he was still here. Still a prisoner. One thing he didn't have to do – what they couldn't _make_ him do was get back in a plane and fight.

The door to his room swung open and Jennifer Newton stood leaning against the frame in her grease stained overalls.

"Hey there," she said.

"Hey yourself,"

"Can I come in?"

"Sure," said Casey, "why not."

Jennifer walked into the room and casually inspected it.

"The accommodation's not real flash,"

"I've got a DVD player," said Casey with mock enthusiasm.

Jennifer smiled and Casey noticed how cute she looked.

"So they sent you to speak to me?" he said.

"Good guess," said Jennifer sitting down next to him on the bed. Casey noticed that she smelt good even though her clothes were covered in grease.

"You know I've watched you race for years," she said.

Casey sat not knowing what to say.

Jennifer shyly turned her head down. "I think...I think you're easily the best pilot in the series."

"We're all good pilots."

"What about Hans Goebel?"

Casey felt a flush of anger at the very name.

"Don't like him much huh?"

"He's not on my Christmas card list,"

Jennifer smiled. "You know you wrecked my plane?"

"Sorry about that – people were trying to kill me and I travelled through time a bit."

"I'll forgive you this time. What was it like?"

Casey felt unsure how to answer. "It was a bit scary and..."

"Was it exciting?" said Jennifer.

"It was – I killed people," he blurted. He hadn't meant to say it and he didn't want to talk about it.

"Don't worry about it," said Jennifer softly. She put one arm around him and he felt better almost straight away. "You know, I'm just a civy like you. I got recruited by the Agency just after you did. It's all a bit much for me as well."

"You were recruited?"

Jennifer nodded, "Surprised?"

"It's just..."

"The girl thing?" she said laughing. "I get that a lot. No one knows these old planes like I do. Machines and I just understand each other. They wanted the best of everything on this, no expenses spared. And at the pointy end of it all is just you."

Casey nodded.

"That's special," she said.

"I suppose."

"What we're doing is important. Really important. There's a group of people out there who are hell bent on destroying the very world we know. We're stopping them.They'll write about it one day – secrets don't stay secrets forever."

"They lied to me,"

"Would you have believed them if they'd told you the truth?"

Casey thought about it. "No,"

"Listen, whatever you think about them, what's important is that some very bad people need to be stopped. At the moment we're relying on you. Think about that."

Jennifer rubbed his hair and stood up.

"Come up to the hanger a bit later. There's something I want to show you,"

"What is it?"

"A surprise,"

"I think I've had about all the surprises I can take,"

"You'll like it," said Jennifer as she walked to the door.

He watched her leave the room. He lay down on the bed and smelled her perfume. Casey decided that he liked Jennifer very much and the very thought of her distracted him from the real dilemma at hand.

They were going to ask him to fly again.

To kill again.

Would he?

14

The containers of all sizes and colours were stacked together in what looked like a giant Lego exhibition on the shores of Staten Island. The Howland Hook Marine Terminal is among the largest in New York City and stores the goods that fuel the economies of the world. Incoming and outgoing are all manner of items on the huge container ships. It was widely rumoured that the Mafia has some connection to the ports and in particular the Howland Hook Marine Terminal.

People scrambled all over the wharf, driving forklifts and loading containers onto ships and trucks. Although there were security checks in place with regard to illegal immigrants being smuggled into the country they were relatively easy to avoid with a little inside knowledge.

Paul Marchegiano had some of that knowledge. He watched from his site office as a huge yellow crane swung out over the water fifty meters below it. The cable was lowered onto a massive ship laden with boxes. Everything about the Terminal was on a massive scale and the men who scampered across the green crate looked like ants. They worked in perfect timing as they connected the necessary cables and attached the crane's hook. The counterweights on the crane shifted, the green box lifted up from the deck of the ship and began to move over the water.

The door to the site office opened behind Paul and two men wearing suits entered the room. They each had shortly cut hair and wore stern expressions. One of the men wore dark sunglasses and there was a noticeable bulge under his left arm.

"Is everything to your satisfaction," said Paul.

"Very satisfactory," said Rueben Hauss with only the hint of a German accent. "Oly, go and see that the cargo is loaded onto our vehicle."

The man wearing the glasses nodded and left the room.

"You really shouldn't worry. My people are quite reliable."

Rueben had expected Paul to be a little cruder. He had seen all the movies about Mafia gangsters and he found that Paul didn't fit the stereotype. He was obviously well educated and looked only half Italian.

"It is not your people that worry me," said Rueben.

Paul turned away from the window and smiled at Rueben.

"The Government? Don't worry about them. Down here, on this wharf – we are the Government."

"That is most comforting," said Rueben looking at his watch.

"In a hurry?"

Rueben didn't answer.

"I won't keep you much longer. Two things. What you do here doesn't come back to us. If it does your name goes on our shit list. Secondly, after today you don't contact me or anyone in my organisation again - we contact you."

"I understand – the weapons?"

"Will be provided as agreed upon. We've got your invoice and it's a bit extravagant. We'll see what we can do; the price stays the same though."

Rueben watched Paul walk across to the floor-to-ceiling glass windows in the office.

"You pay well my German friend, but there's a dangerous feel about you. Depending upon how you behave on your visit to our shores we may be able to do business again."

"Perhaps," said Rueben knowing full well that after he completed his mission Paul Marchegiano and his organisation would want absolutely no connection to him whatsoever. "And now I must go, if you'll excuse me."

"We'll be in touch."

Rueben left the room and walked down a flight of stairs to the noise of the container yard. Men in hardhats drove forklifts in precision choreography. A white truck pulled up. On the back of it securely lashed down was the green container. Almost out of sight on the container was an air conditioning unit and filter. The gentle hum of the motor was lost in the busy surrounds of the wharf.

Rueben allowed himself a small smile.

So far so good.

15

Casey left his room and entered the lift. No one had tried to stop him but he was sure that somebody was watching his every move. The light broke through the shaft as the platform rose and the hanger floor peeled back. The lift stopped and he walked out into the wide open space. The desert heat sucked the moisture out of his mouth.

Inside the hanger Jennifer was sitting on the wing of a brand new Supermarine Spitfire.

"What do you think?" she said swinging her legs.

Casey walked over to the plane and rubbed his hand over the green and tan camouflaged fuselage.

"She's beautiful," he said.

"And as a special touch," Jennifer leaned to one side and Casey couldn't help but smile.

Written on the nose in bold orange and yellow letters were the words _Phoenix II_.

"Do you like it?"

Casey nodded. He clambered up beside her and sat down.

"When I built the Mustang I didn't know you'd be the one flying her. This time around I couldn't resist. I built her to go fast as well. It's a standard engine only I've added fuel injection and tweaked it a fair bit. There's a couple of other modern components that make it lighter. The frame's titanium and carbon instead of aluminium and steel. Plenty of armour around the cockpit – Kevlar and ceramic plate. She's got four 20mm cannons and I've checked the ammo supply myself so you won't get any jams when you're up there."

Casey sat quietly with his hands in his lap.

Jennifer rubbed his hair roughly, "Cheer up Casey. It's not the end of the world. Not yet anyway."

"I thought about what you said. I guess I don't have much choice in it."

"There's no one else who can do what you do," said Jennifer.

He looked at her to see if she was smiling but instead saw that she was serious, her clear blue eyes looking into his.

He felt himself blushing and looked away.

"I suppose Michael will be looking for me,"

"I'd say so. He was up here earlier checking on the plane."

"I'd better go find him," said Casey hopping down from the wing. "And Jennifer,"

"Yes?"

"Thanks for everything,"

16

The truck stopped at a small service station in the Arizona desert. It wasn't much to look at, two bowsers and a small garage to one side. On the chipped white paint in faded red lettering was the word "PETROL". Rueben jumped down from the passenger seat.

"Keep the engine running," he said to Oly who was at the wheel.

Oly nodded, his killer's eyes hidden behind his dark glasses.

Rueben's polished shoes kicked up the desert dust as he walked towards the kiosk. He was hot in his full suit and sweat ran down his face. Still, he was used to the heat. Most of his training had been done in South Africa.

He pushed open the glass doors and a bell tinkled. The clerk stood up, a youngish man with a missing front tooth and greasy slicked back hair. His grimy fingernails suggested that he was also the mechanic.

"Can I help you?" said the man.

"I need an air-conditioning unit fixed," said Rueben. "Do you know someone who can do that?"

The man eyed Rueben sideways and smacked his lips making a wet sound.

"Oh I think maybe I can do that," drawled the man. "Gonna cost ya though."

"Money is not a problem,"

"No I suppose it ain't," said the man looking Reuben up and down.

"I'm in a hurry," said Rueben.

"Let's have a look then," said the man who walked from behind the counter.

Reuben led the way outside and the lanky mechanic followed him.

"It's here," said Rueben pointing to the air conditioner at the front of the huge green shipping container on the back of the truck.

The mechanic inspected the unit. "How long it been broke?"

"Twenty minutes," said Rueben.

"What you got in there?"

"Christmas hams,"

"That so?" said the Mechanic giving Rueben another sideways glance. "I haven't had a Christmas ham in I don't know how long."

Rueben tried to keep himself calm.

"I'll give you a couple if you can get this thing running soon."

The mechanic laughed, "Well alright then."

He pulled the cover off the unit revealing a large fan and lots of wiring. His grimy hands worked at the interior of the thing, tugging gently at wires and unscrewing bolts. The mechanic unclipped a small black box and pulled out a tiny glass piece. Rueben watched the man spit onto the piece and rub it.

"Well there's your problem. Blew a fuse. They keep a couple of spares in the fuse box. I'll have her running in no time."

Rueben looked anxiously at his watch. The mechanic leaned into the unit and began replacing the fuse.

"These air conditioners are all basically the same. This one looks like its set up to ventilate too which is weird. Where you from anyway?"

The fan on the air conditioner spun to life. The mechanic replaced the housing and tightened the clips that held it in place. The lanky man then slapped his grimy hands together and turned to see Rueben smiling at him.

"Now how's about one of those hams...Christmas is a long way off-"

"Oly," said Rueben.

"What?" said the Mechanic.

He hadn't heard Oly get out of the truck, he hadn't heard his footsteps on the dusty ground and he didn't hear Oly draw his silenced Glock 22 Pistol from his holster.

Click, Click

The mechanic fell to the ground and the desert dirt began immediately soaking up his blood. The hapless man clawed at the earth and gasped for air. The bullet wound through his left lung bubbled blood and he clutched the one in his stomach with his other hand.

"That's very messy Oly," said Rueben.

"Would you have preferred two shots through the heart and one in the head?"

"No – messy is perfect. Take the money and cigarettes. Burn the place."

Oly put his gun back into his shoulder holster and made for the shop. Rueben took in the desert surrounds. It was just dust, scrub and a long strip of road in either direction. This was going to be a tricky mission but Karl Goebel had given him full authority to do whatever was necessary. Reuben was good at doing whatever was necessary.

The tiny bell on the shop rang and Rueben turned to see Oly come from the shop and pull a pump from the bowser. Oly walked around spraying petrol into the shop and around the other pumps. He stretched it towards where Reuben was standing and the smell of petrol became overpowering.

"Him too?"

Reuben nodded and Oly soaked the mechanic in petrol.

"No, please don't," gasped the mechanic, blood running freely from his mouth.

"Let's go," said Rueben.

Oly pulled a pocket book of matches from his coat pocket and struck one. The head of it flared brightly before settling down into an orange flame. He then carelessly tossed the match on the mechanic.

WHOOMPF!

The man lit up and the fire spread quickly to the shop and pumps. The mechanic was still screaming when both men returned to the cabin of the truck.

"Come on, I don't want the smoke to be sucked into the container," said Rueben.

Oly turned the keys of the ignition and floored it. The trucks wheels spat dust before finally gaining purchase and the truck moved out onto the road, speeding away from the column of thick black smoke rising into the clear blue sky.

17

Casey found Michael Lee at the control station underneath the hanger. He was pouring over a data sheet and talking to one of the many scientists wearing a white coat. He didn't even notice Casey walk up behind him.

"Got a minute?" said Casey.

Michael turned and when he saw Casey he smiled.

"Good to see you're up and about."

"Who were those men I killed?" said Casey.

"Will you excuse us?" said Michael to the scientist and waited for the man to leave.

"Take a walk with me," said Michael.

Casey paced by his side as he made his way around the massive underground complex.

"So you want to know who you killed?" said Michael.

"I do,"

"You sure?"

"Yes,"

"Alright kid. The first guy you shot down we believe was Carl Hessle. He was just a German Pilot in the war. You didn't change too much because he wasn't supposed to survive that battle anyway."

"And the other three? They were different weren't they?"

"That they were. The first man you killed was Paul de Carne, formerly of the French Air Force, a first class pilot. The second was James Smith – RAF."

"He was British?"

Michael nodded, "And the third was Jamie Cullen."

Casey felt his heart skip a beat, "I know him."

"Yes, I believe you flew against him in the heats for the New York Gate Race."

"He wasn't a bad guy," Casey's palms began to sweat.

"Don't be so sure about that. He took a lot of money to work for some very bad people. Karl Goebel is the financial backer and a key player. He's the money behind Germany First – basically they're a Neo Nazi organisation out to change the world – and if we don't do something about it they may just succeed."

"Karl Goebel," said Casey to himself.

"You know him?"

"I know his nephew."

"Ah, Hans."

"Is he involved?"

"We believe he his – however that's not confirmed."

At that moment Casey knew that it was Hans who had shot him. The fourth enemy plane, the one they didn't know about. Rubbing the back of his neck he felt the aching wound. It wasn't enough for Hans to beat him, he wanted to kill him.

"When's the next mission?"

"If they stick to their plan it will be in four days time. This one's expected to last a bit longer. The first mission was like a test run for them – to see if it could be done. Their target was an American pilot named Jason Turner. They shot him down and it produced what we call an event change that can be traced. Basically it validated their theory that they can alter history.

"The next mission will be for Brittain. If Germany succeeds in gaining air superiority over English skies then a full scale invasion will take place. It may be a big enough event change to alter the course of the war. Historically Hitler lost the battle of Brittain when he started bombing cities instead of airfields – but it was still a close call. A handful of pilots in modified fighters theoretically could change the outcome."

"How long will I be gone?"

"One week,"

"A week! Where am I going to stay? How am I going to survive?"

Michael smiled, "Marcus James will help you with that."

"Marcus who?"

Casey was sitting on his bed when his door burst open. A tall man in his forties wearing jeans and a T-Shirt walked in.

"Casey Hunter, I'm Marcus James," said the man holding out his hand.

Casey reached out and shook it, felt the wiry strength in the man's arm. He looked youngish for his age, Casey guessed about forty. He still wasn't sure exactly what this Marcus James did.

"Come on, we'll be late," said Marcus.

"Late for what?"

"Combat training,"

"Oh,"

Marcus drove fast. The black jeep bounced along the dirt track occasionally getting airborne. Casey sat in the passenger seat. He was used to a much smoother ride up in the air, although the G-Forces were a lot less on the ground.

"So who exactly are you?" said Casey between bumps.

"I work for the Agency. They contracted me a while back when I was doing a little freelance work."

"Freelance?"

"Hostage rescue, security, surveillance. Mostly for big business. Some exec would get himself captured by a cartel. The company or the family would come to me and I'd get him back. Or some other company would want to know what the competitors were up to, I'd find out for them."

"You were in the army?"

"I started out as a Ranger then moved on to Delta. After Mogadishu I retired and went into business for myself."

"So why do you work for the CIA now?"

"The pay is regular and most of the time they're trying to do the right thing," Marcus smiled.

Casey liked him almost straight away. He had an easy air about him and he handled the jeep with a confidence he often found amongst his fellow pilots.

"How did you get roped into this?" said Marcus.

"They needed a pilot," shrugged Casey.

Marcus had heard differently. He had heard they needed _the_ pilot, but he didn't say anything. He pulled hard on the wheel and the car slid onto a side road. When the dust cleared a small group of shacks appeared in the distance.

The black jeep bumped its way along the road until it stopped at a clearing. There were four buildings that were riddled with bullet holes. They looked like houses that had been built but not finished. No gardens, letterboxes or paths. Just blank houses in plane white colours. One thing that did stand out was the bullet holes. They seemed to be on every portion of the buildings. The occasional window was smashed and glass was everywhere on the ground.

"It ain't much but its home," joked Marcus getting out of the car.

Casey opened the door and stepped out into the strange little village.

"Kind of like a ghost town, huh?" said Marcus.

"I guess,"

"Guess again," Marcus whistled and five men emerged from the surrounds, appearing to peel themselves out of the very desert. Casey could hardly believe it. One of them had been less than five meters away from him. They each wore dusty coloured fatigues and a ghillie suit. Two of them carried M4 Carbines, another two carried MP5 sub machine guns and the final member who was furthest away was easily distinguished by the long barrel of an M24 Sniper Rifle.

"Casey, meet the Ravens."

One of the men carrying an MP5 stepped forward and took off the hood of his Ghillie suit. He was a well tanned man of about thirty and wore a blue beret.

"Captain Georges United States Air Force Security attached to project Raven. We look after all valuable Air Force assets. Marcus tells me you're here for a crash course in basic survival. Grab a gun and let's get started."

Captain George held out his MP5 and Casey took it. He was surprised out how light it was.

Marcus walked over to the Jeep and leaned against the bonnet.

"We'll start off by sending some rounds down range," said Captain George walking out into the main street. Where the buildings finished there was a black man sized target. In the middle of the target in a white outline was a circle. Casey felt awkward walking around with the gun.

The Captain scraped a line in the dirt with his boot.

"Stand here,"

Casey did as he was told.

"Now raise the gun up to your eye level, keep everything in nice and tight but don't strain."

Casey raised the MP5 and looked through the sights at the target.

"A little more side on and breathe easy,"

Casey adjusted his stance.

"You've got your finger away from the trigger, that's good. You don't want to touch it until you've made up your mind to fire. Once you've done that you shoot until the target goes down. Line up the sights for centre body mass."

Casey breathed out and eyed the middle of the target.

"Fire when ready,"

He touched the trigger and it pressed back easily.

_BANG, BANG, BANG_.

Casey blinked.He looked at the target and was surprised to find three holes in the centre.

"Not bad. The MP5 is real user friendly though. What you'll need to learn how to shoot is this."

The captain reached behind his back and pulled out a black pistol.

"This is a Browning Hi-Power, or Browning HP. It was issued to allied serviceman in World War Two and so is a museum piece. I've reconditioned it and made a few modifications. It holds a 13 round clip of 9mm ammunition. Saddam Hussein carried one of these you know, except his was gold plated."

Captain Georges handed Casey the pistol. He took it in both hands and aimed downrange. Captain Georges leaned over his should and adjusted his grip.

"Now squeeze that trigger, don't pull or you'll drop a shot."

Casey squeezed and noticed that the trigger was a lot heavier than the MP5.

BANG!

Casey felt the shot reverberate through his body and the recoil made the pistol jump backwards. A new hole on the side of the target was visible.

"It's not a bad gun, just takes some getting used to," advised the Captain.

Casey fired again.

BANG... BANG!

The first shot hit a little nearer to the centre but the second missed completely.

"Keep a firm grip and the pistol will stay on target after each shot,"

BANG... BANG... BANG!

Three shots on target, although a little spread out.

"Not bad," said the Captain. He signalled to one of his men who came over and dropped an ammunition box at Casey's feet.

"Keep shooting," said the Captain.

18

The white truck stopped at a disused farmhouse deep in the desert. Rueben stepped out and walked to the back of the truck. The faint hum of the air conditioner could be heard over the rumble of the engine.

"Take it to the shed," said Rueben pointing to a run down shed not far away.

Oly nodded and slipped the truck into gear. Rueben walked up the broken dusty steps to the farmhouse. The weathered timber decking creaked underfoot and he cautiously pushed the door open.

"Heir Rueben,"

Rueben turned on his heel. Behind him was a huge man with blonde hair.

"You move quietly Wolfgang,"

"You taught me to,"

"Is the area secure?"

"It is,"

"Then let's check our precious cargo."

Casey held his wrist. The knife lay on the dirt in front of him.

"Pick it up again," said Captain Georges.

Casey bent over and picked up the Fairburn-Skykes Fighting knife, a double edged dagger issued to British SAS during the Second World War.

"Come at me!"

Casey thrust forward and his hand was brushed away easily by the Captain. He pulled back just as quickly, holding the knife close to himself as the Captain had told him to do.

The two men circled each other.

"You must be decisive and precise,"

Casey made a fast downwards slash and the unarmed Captain made to grab his hand but missed.

"Rather than back away from your opponent..."

Casey thrust forward and was alarmed to see the Captain move towards him. Somehow he missed and the Captain had a hold of his arm.

"Move in to him and take the initiative," said the Captain pushing Casey away from him and onto the ground.

Casey rolled in the dust and stood back up. The desert heat was taking all his energy away from him. His hands hurt from using the pistol and he had a number of cuts from the knife training.

The Captain came at him and Casey slashed from left to right, the Captain's hand reached out to grab his but suddenly Casey rolled his wrist and changed the direction ofhis cut.

The shiny steel blade sliced through the Captain's sleave and he stepped backwards. Casey took his opportunity and moved forwards, pushing the Captain in the chest sending him to the ground.

Captain Georges looked up at him from the dirt, "Very good."

The Captain raised his arm and observed the tear, a small red patch was slowly spreading into the material. Casey looked at the shining blade of the knife and observed a thin red line on one edge.

"Sorry,"

"Don't worry about," said the Captain with a laugh. "Just a scratch. I think we'll call it a day, that's about all we've got time for. I understand you've still got a bit of theory practice tomorrow."

"Theory?"

Marcus walked over, "Time to go Casey."

Casey walked over and extended his hand to the Captain. The veteran soldier shook it.

"Good luck, we're all backing you."

"Thanks Captain," said Casey.

On the jeep ride back to base Casey was quiet.

"What's up Casey," said Marcus.

"Thing's are happening a little bit too quickly. I never thought I'd have to..."

"Kill anyone? It happens everyday in a million ways. We've been doing it since the dawn of time."

"Have you ever-"

"More than a few. I remember most of them as well – but I don't regret it. Each and every one had it coming in some way or other. Most were trying to do me in. Believe it or not it gets easier – and you've got the benefit of having some rather unsavoury opponents."

"Who are they?"

"They're Nazis. Plain and simple. At the end of the war most of the Nazis were rounded up and tried. Some of them slipped through the net – quiet a few actually. They laid low for a long while and they had plenty of money stashed away, usually in gold. Slowly they began to emerge under the guise of legitimate businessman, but they never gave up their ideals.

"Enough time has passed now that they can re-enter politics."

"Germany First,"

Marcus nodded, "And a few other organisations. There's a paramilitary arm called National Offensive that works with Germany First but they try and keep that quiet."

"Why doesn't the German Government do anything about it?"

"They try, but the Neo Nazi movement has more power than you might think. It's an embarrassing issue for Germany and it makes it hard for us to act. Even the president doesn't know what we're doing."

That came as a shock to Casey. "Will I get into trouble for being a part of it?"

"No, but it won't look good either if it turns out badly."

Michael hadn't mentioned that detail. Casey leaned back into his seat feeling a little uneasy.

The jeep pulled up outside the hanger. Jennifer was waiting in the doorway and waved at them.

"Got yourself and admirer?" said Marcus.

Casey felt himself blushing as he hopped out of the jeep.

"Where have you two been? Michael's got a tight schedule to keep. The _Phoenix II_ needs a test run before dinner."

Casey quickened his pace a little. You could keep your pistols and knives – in the air was where he belonged.

The Supermarine Spitfire roared down the runway, its modified Merlin Engine turning the propeller almost purred. Casey pulled back and the beautiful machine lifted off the ground and into the air.

The desert below him grew distant and the blue sky opened up as a vast playground – his playground.

"Do a control check!" said Jennifer in his ear mike.

Casey checked the pedals and the stick, already knowing that they were perfectly in tune.

"She flies like a dream!" he said.

"Well...have fun,"

Casey couldn't help but smile as he turned the plane upside down and pulled back. The engine screamed like an angry beast as the plane picked up speed, the hanger and runway began to grow huge in the front screen.

"Um, Casey..." said Jennifer, "what are you doing?"

He kept the pressure on the stick and felt the plane respond. The G-Force of the dive was pressing him deep into his seat and he had a warm sensation in his head as his body struggled to keep up the blood supply to his brain.

"Casey!"

The Spitfire buzzed the runway sending desert dust flying across the tarmac and anything not tied down blowing in its wake. The plane had levelled out perfectly and soared again into the sky.

"Very clever," coughed Jennifer. "Now I'm covered in dust."

"It'll hide the grease," said Casey and regretted it almost as soon as he had said it.

The silence on the radio was uncomfortable.

"Sorry," said Casey.

"Forget about it," said Jennifer. "When you're done bring her down and I'll give her the once over."

The thrill of the flight had gone somewhat and Casey went through a few manoeuvres before hitting the runway again.

The plane stopped and he popped the canopy. When he looked out he couldn't see Jennifer. Michael was standing on his own and waited for Casey to shut down the engines and come over.

"Where'd Jennifer go?"

"She said something about taking a shower."

Casey felt immediate shame over what he had said to her.

"How did you like the plane?"

"She flies beautifully."

"Glad to hear it, and how do you feel?"

Casey noticed a slight hint of anxiousness in Michael's voice. The man didn't give away much.

"I'm fine. I wish you'd have told me more is all. Most of what I've found out I've learnt on my own."

"I promise we'll try to keep you more filled in from now on."

"So what are you here for?"

"I can't tell you,"

"That's not funny," said Casey.

"Night school."

"Night school?"

"You're going to learn how to blend in with the British Airmen, come on," and with that Michael spun and headed back into the hanger. Casey couldn't help but look back at the _Phoenix II_ on the runway as the ground crew carefully began to taxi it back inside.

He'd have to make good with Jennifer somehow, and if he knew women at all it wouldn't be easy.

19

The massive stainless padlock unsnapped smoothly when the key turned. Rueben let it fall to the dirt with a thud. Oly and Wolfgang quickly pulled open the bolts at the top and bottom of the doors on the green shipping container.

Ruben stepped back and the doors swung open, pushed from the inside.

The smell emanated from inside in a septic wave. Body odour on a grand scale as well as urine and faeces. Twelve grim faced men wearing all black jumped down one by one, their heavy boots striking the dust as they filed off the container.

The last man off saluted sharply, "Heir Rueben, the smell of the air is good."

"Wait until you have smelled victory my friend," said Rueben.

"Is all going as planned?"

"We are at the first checkpoint. Soon we will be able to strike."

20

Casey sat in the mini theatre watching the images flash up on the screen. First there were muddy men in the trenches. Grimy and sweaty, they wore expressions of desperation. More images of dead bodies half covered in mud, barbed wire, lines of marching men being mowed down.
Michael paused the slide show.

"These are the ground forces of the war. They did the hard work and it shows. Killing each other indiscriminately and by blind chance. Every one of them thought about being killed by a stray bullet fired without thought or design.

"Now, here are some more pictures."

An image of a smiling man with tasselled hair appeared on the screen. He looked young and confident. His top button on his dress uniform was undone and he wore a scarf around his neck that was obviously not military issue. On his left breast he wore wings. The image changed and a group of pilots appeared. They were laughing as though one or the other had just told a joke. Each of them wore slightly modified uniforms and every one of them exuded an air of ease.

"Do you see the difference? The women who spoke of pilots in the war said that they could tell them apart from the infantrymen because they had a certain swagger, a charisma that the other soldiers did not. From the impression you've made on young Jennifer and judging from your fan mail you won't have a problem in this department."

Casey had mixed feelings on the subject. He had never really thought of himself like that.

"The war in the air is different to the trenches – more chivalrous. Downed pilots were generally treated well by the Germans. Again I don't think you have too much difficulty with the dog fighting, hell, that's why you were recruited.

"Where you may come unstuck is the technical language used by the pilots. I'll run you through the basics, and the rest you'll have work out as you go along."

Phrases began flashing up on the screen and Casey sat back into his chair.

When Casey finally returned to his room he was exhausted. His muscles ached from the knife fighting lesson with Captain Georges and he had hand cramps from firing the pistol, although in the end he was hitting the bullseye pretty consistently and with good groupings.

He fell back onto his bed and closed his eyes. The soft mattress felt good and in his fatigued state sleep came easily.

A distant creaking sound woke him.

How long had he been out?

Groggily he raised himself from the mattress. Standing at the door looking absolutely stunning in a black dress was Jennifer.

"You missed dinner," she said.

Casey was too busy staring to reply.

"Can I come in?"

"Sure," said Casey rousing himself.

Jennifer walked in the door and took a seat on the lounge opposite him.

"I'm sorry about what I said,"

"You already apologised, and I said don't worry about it,"

"You look amazing," said Casey.

Jennifer looked down and smiled.

"Really?"

"Every day," said Casey, his heart beginning to beat faster.

Jennifer stood up quickly and paced the room.

"This isn't supposed to happen!" she said getting agitated. "You're a superstar – you should be dating Swedish supermodels."

"Actually I don't get too much time to date,"

Casey was alarmed to see a tear roll from the corner of one of Jennifer's blue eyes.

"What's a girl like me got to offer?"

"You're funny, beautiful and you love engines. I can't think of anything else that I'd-"

Casey was cut short as Jennifer closed the gap between them in a heartbeat. Her lips pressed hard against his and he fell back. It was a textbook attack out of the sun. Under the smell of her perfume and the feel of her soft flesh on his he fell back. After about a minute Jennifer pulled back, breathing hard in short breaths.

"Sorry about that," she said with an awkward smile. "Guess I'm not real ladylike."

"It's O.K," said Casey but Jennifer was already halfway to the door.

"I'll see you tomorrow for another test flight," she said as she vanished from his room.

Casey's head was spinning with what had just happened. He had so many important things to worry about and then with one kiss Jennifer knocked him down. All he could think about was her perfume and soft lips.

He walked over to the basin and splashed some cold water on his face. He picked up a movie, _The Dirty Dozen_ , and put the DVD into the player. Casey then jumped on the bed and fell to sleep to the sound of machine gun fire and with thoughts of Jennifer running through his head.

21

In a small bar in Tuscon Arizona Rueben waited patiently at a table. Oly sat opposite him sipping a Corona from the bottle.

"Their beer tastes like piss and they put fruit in it," said Oly pulling the lemon from the stem of the bottle and tossing it to the floor.

"Calm yourself. The last thing we need is any unwanted attention."

"I was just saying that the beer tastes like piss," said Oly defensively.

"They're late. I don't like this."

"Perhaps they aren't the punctual type,"

Reuben sipped his beer and found the lighter taste was not as bad as his associate made it out to be. He checked his watch. Eight thirty. It was getting late and the bar was nearly empty. Only a tall Mexican bar tender and a hopeless drunk in the corner remained.

"You must be Rueben," said a deep voice with a strong Latin accent.

Rueben turned in his chair. The two men had come through a rear entrance and he hadn't even seen them. The one who spoke was shorter with a shaved head. The other was tall and heavily built – muscle for hire.

"That's me, and you are Julius."

"No, Julius couldn't make it,"

The man sat down without introducing himself.

"Do you have the money?"

"Do you have what we came for?"

The man leaned back and smiled.

"We got some of it. What we couldn't get we substituted – price is the same though."

"I recall that was the deal,"

"Well alright," said the man slapping his hands down on the table. He stood up and whispered in the tall man's ear. The bigger man nodded and walked over to door next the bar and opened it.

"Come right this way," said the small man.

Rueben stood up and straightened his jacket. Oly stood up and followed him through the door.

On the other side they entered a narrow hallway. The tall man led the way to another door to a cool room. He opened it and they all entered.

The room was small with a concrete floor. Empty steel kegs were haphazardly strewn about and the smell of stale beer permeated the air. Against one wall a dozen wooden crates were stacked together.

The small man flipped a lid.

Neatly lined up inside were ten Glock 22 pistols on a bed of straw packing.

"May I?" said Rueben pointing at the box.

"Be my guest."

Reuben picked up a Glock and pulled back the slide locking it open. He pulled the trigger and there was a satisfying snap as it went back. Pulling down the slide release leaver he eased the slide back a touch and then slid it forward completely off the pistol. Turning it over he could see the shiny copper line of the lubricant used by the factory. These guns hadn't been fired yet.

"Excellent," said Rueben piecing the pistol together and putting it back into the box.

"We couldn't get the tactical vests you asked for so we got what SWAT use over here. Also instead of the MP7's we could only get MP5's. The Barrett sniper rifle was easy – in some states you can get them in gun shops. We had to replace the M4 Carbines with AK's. Other than that most of the gear is there."

"Oly," said Rueben. "Pay the man."

22

General Martin sat in his high backed chair. Michael stood beside him and they both waited. The door to the office opened and Casey walked in.

"Take a seat," said the General.

Casey did just that and waited patiently.

"As you know your mission begins in three days," began the General, "and you also know the basic plan. Save Brittain. What you don't know is that there will be ten enemy planes – probably working in two teams of five. Their objective is to destroy the RAF completely. Your plane will be fitted with the onboard computer that has a battery life of two weeks just to be safe. You're gateway back will open in one week. If you get shot down you'll need to destroy your plane and obtain another.

"No one can ever be allowed to inspect your plane – not even for minor repairs. Should the technology used in its manufacture be found it would change the course of history completely and unpredictably."

"What do you mean get another plane?" said Casey.

Michael stepped forward, "In the war airmen got shot down all the time. They'd simply make their way back to an airbase and they'd be flying again within the hour. Try not to make too many friends. We've got the necessary papers for you so there shouldn't be too many questions for you to answer. Better you spend more time in the air than on the ground anyway."

"When you kill all ten planes," said the General, "your mission will be complete."

Casey noted that the General had said he would be killing "planes". Casey knew he'd be killing men.

"How many more missions do I need to fly?" said Casey.

The General and Michael exchanged a glance.

"To be honest Casey, we're not sure," said Michael. "But we're working on it."

Casey left the meeting feeling even more apprehensive about the mission than he did before. As he made his way back to his room he came across Marcus James.

"How's it going kid?" said Marcus.

"OK I guess," said Casey. "Are you going somewhere?" he said pointing at the large kit bag Marcus was carrying.

"Just for a little R and R,"

"Lucky you,"

"Keep your chin up kid, this thing might be over sooner than you expect – and when it is Uncle Sam's gonna owe you big time. Michael can pull a lot of strings. If I don't see you good luck with the mission."

"Thanks Marcus."

"Don't mention it."

Marcus adjusted the heavy bag on his shoulder and made his way for the lift whilst Casey returned to his room. He still had a test flight booked in for the afternoon and was looking forward to seeing Jennifer again.

23

Rueben watched in amusement as his National Offensive soldiers opened up the crates like they were Christmas presents. The experienced men carefully catalogued the weapons and set them out on the floor of the main room in the small farmhouse. With trained hands they pulled each weapon apart and gave them a thorough inspection.

The demolitions man set up a workbench in a separate room and began to shape the C4 Plastic explosive into charges with the detonators.

"A shame there are no MP7's," said Wolfgang, referring to the high tech sub machine gun manufactured by Heckler and Koch.

"The MP5 is a good gun," said Rueben, "and we have silencers for them."

When the weapons were inventoried and inspected Wolfgang began to kit out each man, starting off by handing out the SWAT vests and black fatigues.

Rueben flipped open his mobile phone and dialled.

"Heir Goebel," he said into it, "everything is on schedule. We won't fail the cause."

Tucked away in the CIA headquarters John Wilkins received the data sheet showing phone activity from known Germany First members. The "chatter" had increased. That meant something was happening.

But what?

He knew that he was out of the loop. Two of his assistants had been reassigned and he couldn't get another flight over the target site. The Director had more or less told him to leave it alone.

To a man like John that only made it all the more interesting.

It looked like he would have to do it the hard way.

Data crunching.

With a sigh John began looking up membership details for Germany First and known associations. On a hunch he also did a search request for recent visitors to the United States. This was going to take a lot of coffee.

Rueben assessed the plans to the secret base of operation MISTLETOE. They had been expensive – very expensive. At a glance he could tell that the base was well fortified. One entry in and out, on the drawings at least anyway. A single elevator shaft with a unique security mechanism. The shaft could be turned into a giant wind tunnel at the flick of a switch. There was the elevator but they wouldn't be able to control that. The door could be blasted open no problems. They only really needed to get one man to the particle accelerator. Without that the Time Drive wouldn't function properly.

"What about security?" said Wolfgang looking over his shoulder.

"Air Force Guardsman. They're pretty good at holding a permitter," said Rueben. "But don't worry about that my friend. I've got it all worked out."

"I hope so.This one's risky. Too risky if you ask me."

"There's much at stake.If we succeed Germany will rule."

Wolfgang nodded. He understood the reason behind the mission but still liked to think he stood some chance of surviving it.

Rueben was more realistic.

In a best case scenario he'd still lose half his men. The more likely outcome was that they would all die for the cause. A small price to pay for the betterment of the Aryan Race.

"How are the men feeling?"

"Eager," said Wolfgang.

24

The _Phoenix II_ lifted off once again, the black tarmac a diminishing scar on the desert behind it.

"OK Casey, run the course," said Jennifer into his microphone.

Casey pushed the nose down and felt the plane surge forward. The course was just a simple set of manoeuvres to ensure the instruments were working correctly. The onboard computer gave him the directions and he moved the controls accordingly.

"That's great, everything's going smoothly."

Beneath the airstrip and under the hanger General Martin was ensuring that the co-ordinates for the next Time Tear were correct and programmed.

"How much more to go?" he asked.

"A few more minutes," said Dr Strauss. "Then all you'll have to do is initiate the start sequence and guide your boy through."

"Excellent – but I want those figures double checked. No mistakes like last time."

Dr Strauss hardly considered last time to be a mistake. They had managed to send a human being back through time to within minutes of the desired destination. Still, he knew better than to argue with the General.

Michael walked up to the station.

"Everything OK?" he asked noticing the General's nerves.

"We just can't afford to screw it up. Too much relies upon..." said the General leaving his sentence hanging.

"Don't worry about Casey. He's a fighter if ever there was one. I watched him race in New Zealand. He doesn't give up even when the odds are stacked against him. I'm more concerned about the science behind this. When this is all over there's going to be some serious questions being asked about what went on."

"No one need ever know," said the General.

"Hopefully," said Michael but he knew otherwise. Secrets as big as this didn't stay secret for long. It would get blown wide open sooner or later. Right now though he was focusing on the problem at hand. Clean up would come later.

25

The three teams of National Offensive soldiers stormed the perimeter of the base on dirt bikes. The motion sensors were set off and the alarm bell rang in the USAF Guards Barracks. Captain Georges sprung into action directing his men to the three separate points being breached. As the USAF Guards rushed out of the building gunfire was heard in the distance. Contact had been made with the enemy.

Wolfgang led the first group of three bikes. His MP-5 sub machine gun rested upon the handle bars of his bike. The hot desert wind blasted his face as he scanned the scrub and dust. In perfect formation the other two riders behind him followed his lead as he made a straight line for the shining hanger in the distance.

Suddenly the desert in front of him came to life as the first USAF Guard sprang from the ground. On pure instinct Wolfgang fired a long burst and the man fell before even firing. The five other USAF Guards managed to get shots off that took out the two riders behind him though. Wolfgang alone blasted through the line unscathed. He steered his bike in a broken line, leaving a long trail of dust behind that obscured him from the USAF Guardsman.

"Team 1 is through," he said into his helmet mike.

"Good work," said Rueben. "Continue to harass the target and draw fire."

"Copy that Heir Rueben."

Wolfgang turned his bike slightly off course from the hanger. Bullets were snapping all around him but they were wild shots.

At the base an alarm began to sound. Jennifer ran to the portable radio above her workstation and picked up the receiver.

"This is workstation, what's happening?"

All that answered her was a long stretch of static. The coms switch was either not working or not being monitored.

"This is Jennifer at the workstation. Can anyone read me? Over."

Again nothing but static.

Jennifer ran back outside and looked up to the sky where the Supermarine Spitfire was off near the horizon still performing flight checks.

She held up the hand held portable hand radio linked to the _Phoenix II_ 's frequency.

"Casey, you better get back here. Something's wrong."

"Roger that," said Casey not liking the alarm in Jennifer's voice.

He flipped the Phoenix II on her side and pulled back hard. As the machine performed a perfect horizontal turn he felt the blood rush from his head. The base came into view and he flipped her back over. In the distance he could see three separate dust trails racing towards the main hanger.

Pushing the throttle down hard and tilting the nose he made for the base and prayed that Jennifer wasn't in any danger.

Oly had managed to clear the entire permitter unscathed and only attracted scattered fire. His two riders followed him closely. One of them was a huge Austrian who held an M60 Heavy Machine gun as though it were a toy.

The three bikes zoomed through the bumpy desert terrain. Oly hadn't expected to get this far so easily. A cruel grin spread across his face. Only in his wildest dreams had he ever though he would be attacking Americans on American soil.

It was the last thought he had – a .50 calibre round took his head clean from his shoulders. The bike he had been riding continued on for a few meters before striking a bush and cart-wheeling spectacularly across the desert, his body flung sideways into the dust.

The two other riders beside him began to swerve from side to side. A moment later they heard the gunshot that had killed their team leader.

In the distance Captain Georges gently tapped the shoulder of his sniper who lay calmly on the ground, his eye inches away from the scope of an XM500 sniper rifle. Captain Georges took up his spotting scope and sighted the other two riders.

"They're taking evasive action. North rider – Five hundred meters – wind two clicks west – maintaining speed – four hundred – four fifty."

BOOM!

The ground shook and the Captain's ears rung from the huge report of the rifle. Keeping his eyes glued to the spotting scope he watched the rider's chest explode and the bike skid out from under him.

"Kill confirmed. Next target two hundred – two twenty."

BOOM!

The Captain watched through his scope and waited a second.

"Miss," said the Captain.

The rider was getting closer. Too close.

Captain Georges sprung to his feet and raised his M4 Carbine firing a long burst at the rider. The bullets kicked up dust around the bike and punctured the fuel tank. The big Austrian fired his M60 from the shoulder and caught Captain Georges a grazing shot in the leg. The Captain went down and the National Offensive soldier turned his fire onto the sniper. The USAF Guard didn't stand a chance at close range. His sniper rifle let off one desperate round that went wide just as his body was torn to shreds by a storm of metal slugs.

The Captain regained his feet and the roar of the dirt bike's engine passed him. He flung out an arm in blind hope and connected with something solidly. The Captain was flung to the ground from the impact and the National Offensive Soldier tumbled into the dust.

Captain Georges didn't even bother looking for his rifle but reached behind his back and pulled out a gleaming Bowie knife. The National Offensive soldier was up on his feet and groggily staggered about.

Captain Georges ran and pounced like a mountain lion. He held his blade tucked in close until he was nearly upon his prey. At the last moment as he leapt through the air he thrust out the Bowie.

The National Offensive soldier spotted the glint of bright steel and turned.

Not fast enough.

The blade caught his arm and tore through Kevlar and flesh.

Screaming in pain he backed away, his eyes searching wildly for his M60 that was nowhere to be seen.

Calmer now Captain Georges circled his opponent, bloodied blade held low, his eyes steady and focused.

The National Offensive soldier pulled a dagger from his SWAT vest.

Captain Georges seized the opportunity and slashed with lightning speed. Again the big soldier turned to the side and again the Bowie drew fresh blood.

With the adrenaline flowing freely through his body the National Offensive soldier barely registered the cut to his ribs and swung out with his own knife.

The Captain easily parried the blow, the two knives ringing as they met.

Again the soldier swung and the Captain expertly kept his distance, his feet moving backwards quickly. The National Offensive soldier's blade missed and when he tried to bring himself back on balance the Captain moved in, his Bowie darting out and stabbing the black clad soldier in the forearm.

The National Offensive soldier gasped as the blade touched his bone. His face showed panic. He was completely outclassed and he knew it.

Like a cornered bull he made one final charge, bringing his blade down in a hammer blow.

Captain Georges grinned and remained perfectly still. At the very point when it seemed he would be impaled upon the knife of the huge soldier he moved forward onto the blade, catching the hand of his opponent with a hard strike, turning the point of the knife to his left as though it were the easiest thing in the world to do. At the same time he brought his Bowie up and under the ribs of the soldier, once, twice. With amazing skill and dexterity the Captain flipped the Bowie in his hand so that the blade pointed downwards and brought it up across the neck artery of the National Offensive Soldier.

Blood spurted out like bright red spray paint and the big soldier fell to the ground completely immobilised.

Without wasting a heartbeat Captain Georges was on his com link.

"Situation report!"

"Alpha Team. Perimeter breached to the north," came the familiar voice of a USAF Guard. "One wounded friendly, two bad guys down, one still closing on the base."

"Charlie Team report," said the Captain, sweat mixing with the blood on his face.

"Four friendly down, eastern perimeter breached by three bad guys, no enemy casualties."

The Captain only took a moment to make the decision.

"All reserves into the desert. Stop the enemy from reaching the base!"

Anxiously Michael Lee listened with General Martin to the transmissions being broadcast. Deep underground at the command centre they could only imagine the carnage being caused above them.

"How the hell didn't we see this coming?" demanded the General.

"Do you have enough security to repel the assault?" asked Michael.

"Security is minimal. We weren't just trying to hide from outside sources but from our own government.Up until recently we hadn't even considered the program would be used in this way."

"God damn it, can the assault be repelled or not."

"Yes," said the General. "I believe it can."

"Good,"

"Ah, General," said the radar monitor.

"What?"

"Unidentified inbound aircraft headed this way – _fast_!"

26

Jennifer stood out of the way as the remaining USAF Guards spilled out into the desert in a long firing line.

She had heard the gunshots close by but still wasn't sure what was going on.

Off in the distance she saw a small black dot moving fast through the sky.

It wasn't Casey either.

"Where are you Casey?" she said into the radio.

The _Phoenix II_ came out of the sun all six guns spewing led death into the track of the lone rider.

Wolfgang swerved left and right to avoid the bullets carving up the desert around him.

Casey looked through the sights, down at that small red dot.

The speedometer needled smoothly ran towards the end of its limit as his dive picked up pace.

He could feel the trigger under his finger, its cold hard plastic pleading with him to press down. Maintaining his cool he fought off the urge and twitched the controls ever so slightly to the left. The red dot lit up the back of the rider and he squeezed. The cannon on his wings blasted the bike to pieces and the flaming wreck of twisted metal and body parts scattered through the desert sand.

Casey pulled back on the stick and the Phoenix skimmed the ground before soaring off into the sky.

"Mark one off for me," he said into his mike.

"There's more out there," said Jennifer.

"I see them," said Casey easily spotting the three dust trails heading towards the hanger. They were only about a thousand meters away and would be upon Jennifer within seconds.

"Casey – there's something else out there, something..."

"Jennifer? Jennifer, come in," said Casey only receiving static in reply.

Casey breathed in and tilted the Phoenix towards the fresh targets. Running towards them were the USAF Guards. Even from a height he could see both sides exchanging fire. Two USAF Guards fell to the dirt.

Casey nosed down and began his attack dive.

Captain Georges radio crackled and the sound of Michael Lee's voice came over.

"Captain, return your men to the hanger. The assault was just a diversion!"

Captain looked across the desert and saw that all his men were engaged in a fierce fire fight. The three remaining National Offensive soldiers were riding around them and had them pinned down with heavy fire.

What did they mean by diversion?

WHOOMP! WHOOMP! WHOOMP!

The blades of the Bell 206 Jet Ranger Helicopter whipped up a cloud of dust around the Captain as it passed only meters from the desert sand.

Too late the Captain realised what was happening. He was the closest guard to the base and he began running as hard as he could, stopping only to pick up the dead man's M60 machine gun.

27

Casey had three moving targets zigzagging in front of his sights. As soon as one of them looked like entering his target he let off a burst, kicking up spikes of sand with his bullets.

One of the men hit a bush and fell off his bike. An easy target he tried to run. Casey pressed down on the trigger and watched the tracers tear him apart. The other two riders broke off their attack and began a retreat, the USAF Guards in hot pursuit.

Casey pulled back on the stick and the Supermarine Spitfire responded quickly, gaining altitude after his strafing run.

Pulling a hard turn he looked towards the base.

He felt his stomach turn.

Hovering above the tarmac was a black helicopter. A rope fell out of its belly and two black clad figures slid quickly down.

"Jennifer!" he said throttling down.

28

Michael Lee and the General listened intently to the radio. It crackled a little before the voice of Captain Georges came over.

"The permitter has been breached! Lockdown the base!"

The General took a step back.

"Are there any guards at all left up there?" said Michael Lee calmly.

The General shook his head, "I don't' know."

Michael Lee turned to Dr Strauss. "See that blip on the radar – that's Casey flying up there. He's making straight for the base. Can you create a tear in time that he'll fly through?"

"In theory, I suppose it can be-"

"Do it," said Michael.

Dr Straus began shouting orders to the team of scientists manning the command centre. The men in white coats worked frantically, the radar operator began shouting out co-ordinates.

"If Casey misses the tear we won't get a second chance," said the General.

"If the base is breached we won't get a first chance," replied Michael.

Both men looked at each other.

On the other side of the command centre Dr Strauss held the lever.

"General, if you won't that tear now is the time."

"Do it" said General Martin.

The Doctor pulled down the leaver and the generators immediately began to power up. The smell of burning electricity filled the giant underground cavity and sparks bounced off the walls. Tiny particles were fired at each other around the huge circuit, building up a massive amount of gravitons – soon to be unleased upon the air above the base right in the middle of Casey's flight path.

Rueben's boots hit the tarmac a second after the National Offensive demolitions man. He signalled for the chopper and it lifted off. In a practiced drill Rueben led the way, MP-5 at his shoulder and slightly crouched. The demolitions man followed directly behind him, an AK-47 slung over his shoulder and a parcel of C4 hanging around his neck.

In front of them a girl wearing blue greased stained overalls and carrying a radio in one hand ran towards the desert.

Rueben lifted his gun and pressed down on the sensitive trigger.

BANG!

The woman in overalls sprawled over and into the bushes.

Rueben and his demolitions man never even broke their stride but kept right on towards the hanger.

Casey saw Jennifer fall. His heart wanted to climb up out of his throat and he gulped. His mouth was dry and the world around him closed in until all he could see was her motionless body laying on the ground.

His brows creased in anger and pain.

He pressed down on the trigger and the six wing cannons spat tracer rounds at the two men in black.

It was too late.

They had disappeared into the darkness of the silver hanger.

He tilted the wings of the _Phoenix II_ slightly and the red dot of his target reticle found the black outline of the Bell 206 Jet Ranger.

He pressed down hard on the trigger and watched the red hot rounds fly in a solid orange beam, tearing apart the chopper before a round pierced the fuel tank and it exploded in a ball of fire.

The burning hunk of metal and flame hung suspended in the air a moment before plunging straight to earth, compressing and breaking up on impact.

The Supermarine Spitfire's engine screamed as Casey pushed onwards towards the hanger – desperate to get to Jennifer.

Then something strange started to happen. The sky in front of him shimmered a little. He felt his ears pop.

"Oh no,"

He tried to pull up, to pull sideways, to pull any which way – nothing worked. He was being sucked towards the ever widening black tear in the sky in front of him.

The National Offensive demolitions man worked quickly, lining the elevator shaft doors with a long thin strip of C4.

"Clear!" he said.

"Clear!" said Rueben.

The soldier detonated the C4 and a perfectly rectangular explosion blasted the centre of the floor away leaving a perfect hole. The steel floor fell away to the bottom of the shaft blocking the fan ducts.

Rueben threw a coil of rope down the shaft and without wasting any time both men abseiled down face first.

A lone USAF guard burst out of the door at the bottom. He pointed his M4 Carbine upwards but Rueben already had him in his sights.

BANG!

The USAF guard fell, his boots holding open the door.

A stroke of luck that would save Rueben precious time.

"Take point," said Rueben when they touched down. "Double time!"

The demolitions man ran down the corridor towards the lone door. When he reached it he didn't even stop but threw his shoulder forward and burst straight through.

Michael Lee holding his Desert Eagle firmly in two hands was waiting. He fired twice, the noise of the large calibre handgun echoing in the cavern.

The demolitions man fell with two gaping holes in his chest.

Rueben jumped straight over his fallen soldier and tossed something small and black towards the particle accelerator.

Michael Lee adjusted his aim and fired four shots.

Rueben spun on the spot as each shot smacked into his body. When he hit the ground he was stone dead.

"Get down!" said Michael.

All the personnel at the command centre hit the deck as the grenade thrown by Rueben bounced along the steel floor.

A second passed.

KABOOOM!

A massive explosion rocked the machinery and debris sprayed all around them.

Above a sprinkler system rained water down upon the command centre.

Michael stood up and surveyed the smoking ruins of the particle accelerator.

Beside him the General was on the ground unconscious and several of the scientists were bleeding red onto their white coats.

Michael made his way to the radar screen and wiped the water and rubble from the screen. The radar showed nothing. No sign of the helicopter and no sign of Casey.

29

Casey squeezed his eyes shut. He felt like a piece of chewing gum being blown into a giant pink bubble. The pressure in his ears squeezed in and out before...

... _POP_

The sudden sound of gunfire was all around him. Bright orange tracer rounds streamed through the air in criss-crossing beams.

Not again

Shaking his head to rid himself of the effects of the Time Tear he took a firm hold of the stick. Black planes were dog fighting in a massive melee.

He throttled down and his engine switched to a more aggressive tone. The controls reacted beautifully to his every touch. Jennifer had done a marvellous job.

Jennifer

Gunfire raked the air beside him and he pulled into a tight upwards corkscrew. The gunfire became less accurate as the _Phoenix II_ easily outmanoeuvred the plane.

He waited for the onboard computer to give him instructions but the screen was blank.

"Not good,"

Out of the clouds on his right three Me109's flying in formation took up his tail. Straight away he saw their red tail fins.

"Not good," said Casey again.

All three opened up at once. Casey had anticipated it and had pulled straight up on his stick just at the moment they fired. The streams of bright orange tracers followed him up into the clouds. The Me109's were up to the challenge and began the steep ascent with him. It now became a matter of which machine was better.

The _Phoenix II_ began to loose speed. The bullets were getting closer.

"Come on baby," said Casey pulling back on the stick until he thought it would break.

The engine spluttered once.

"No – not yet."

One by one the Me109's dropped off and levelled out just as the _Phoenix II_ stalled.

The plane hung for a brief moment before it began to fall tail first back through the clouds and towards the ground. Everything was spinning and Casey couldn't tell what was up or down. On the control board his instruments flickered in confusion.

Casey moved the controls delicately, ignoring everything else.

"Nearly," he said through gritted teeth.

His head was starting to feel the effects of the spinning and he could sense himself blacking out. Mustering all the concentration he could he moved the controls in the direction of the spin. The _Phoenix II_ toppled gracefully forward and into a straight dive.

"Gotcha!" said Casey firing the engine back into life.

Immediately the three red tailed Me109's were on him again.

"Give it a rest guys!" said Casey into his mike as he twisted in an evasive pattern.

"Casey?" came the reply of a familiar voice. "Heir Casey?"

The caller began to laugh. A laugh that Casey knew all too well.

"Hello Hans," said Casey feeling the anger rise in him.

A tracer round clipped his left wing leaving a neat hole.

"Sorry about that Casey. It's dangerous out here – you should have stayed home."

"I think you're in trouble Hans – my engine seems to be working for a change."

All Casey got in reply was an angry barrage of gunfire. He avoided most of it but still took a few hits.

In the distance Casey could see the main dogfight. A swirling tornado of planes, bullets and death. Casey nosed down and headed straight for the maelstrom. Hans sensed what he was doing and the gunfire increased.

"You're not my main mission Hunter, but it would be a very pleasant bonus to kill you."

The _Phoenix II_ entered the fray and instead of just dodging bullets Casey was dodging planes. A British Hawker Hurricane filled the window of his glass bubble and it was only the quick controls of the nimble _Phoenix II_ that saved him.

Behind him the three red tailed Me109's had dropped off to pick at the fringes of the battle. It didn't surprise Casey that this was how Hans would fight, looking for the weaker planes on the edge of the pack that were already trailing smoke.

"Perhaps we'll meet again over the next few days," said Hans.

"Perhaps you'll stick around for a fight one day," retorted Casey as he dodged another friendly plane, then an enemy plane and finally a stream of tracers shot from the belly gun of an enemy bomber.

The _Phoenix II_ suddenly took an enormous hit to the already damaged left wing. White smoke began pouring out of the wound and the controls were unsteady.

Casey had no choice in the matter. He was going down.

Sensing an easy kill the three red tailed Me109s were on him straight away. Casey dove for the clouds and entered the comfort of the thick white blanket. The three red tails disappeared into the same cloud behind him.

He knew this wouldn't last.

The cloud parted and below him Casey saw the white cliffs of the British coastline. Inland a little way he could see what looked like gun emplacements.

Steering the _Phoenix II_ as best he could he made straight for the emplacements. The three red tails emerged behind him, engines screaming and guns blazing.

The _Phoenix II_ was taking hits now.

"Hang in their chap!" came a British voice over the radio.

Suddenly the gunfire from the Me109s stopped. Another Spitfire had fallen in on their tail and had damaged one of them. The red tails pulled off and away as the lone Spitfire made after them. Casey breathed out and concentrated on controlling his stricken plane. Out of the clouds in front of him another Spitfire came down flying erratically. It pulled alongside Casey and he saw the reason it was flying so badly.

The cockpit window of the plane was covered in blood. The pilot's head was wobbling from side to side.

A dead man's plane.

The dead man fell forward onto the control stick and the plane began to go down. Casey had little choice but to keep pace with it as his own plane was losing height. Ahead there was a wooded area with a field. The dead man's plane began to brush the tops of trees. Casey flipped his landing gear down and prayed he'd make the field.

Beside him the dead man's plane struck a tree that was a little taller than the others. The fuselage crumpled and the wings shattered in a mass of splinters and canvas. All that was left of the plane was a long streak of debris in the forest.

Casey held the wobbling stick and actually felt the branches skimming the bottom of his plane. It was like he was flying across a green carpet of death; as soon as he touched it he was gone.

Then the green trees vanished and the field opened up before him. It was a glorious sight and he eased the _Phoenix II_ down on the smooth golden surface. The touch down was soft, he only bounced once. His plane came to a rest next to the wooded area on the far side of the field.

He killed the engine. The quiet calm that followed washed over his exhausted body in a wave. The adrenaline spike was gone and he felt completely spent. After sitting for a few moments not moving the gravity of his situation suddenly dawned on him.

He was in a foreign country and a foreign time. He didn't even have the fake identification papers or correct uniform and he didn't know how he was going to get home.

Worst of all – he didn't know what had become of Jennifer.

30

Casey sat beside the _Phoenix II_ for a long time. Occasionally he would see a plane come smoking from sky, it's engine sounding a death scream as it shot towards earth. He didn't see or hear the crashes, the planes just vanished over the tree tops. All over were thin smoke trails that swerved upwards, the funeral pyres of downed pilots.

As Casey was watching the planes drop form the sky an idea began to form. In his own mind he was repulsed by what he would have to do but at the moment it was the only thing he could think of. He tore branches off nearby bushes and tossed them onto his plane. When his hands were thoroughly sticky with sap and the _Phoenix II_ was completely covered he surveyed his work. At a glance it would do but if a farmer came along for a closer look it would be discovered.

That was a risk he would have to take.

He headed towards the woods at the edge of the field, kicking his way through the long yellow grass until he entered the canopy of the trees. Not much grew under the shade of the oaks except for low lying bushes. There was a game trail that led roughly in the direction he wanted to go so he followed it for a while.

On his own in a completely foreign land he felt very much exposed. The modern flight suit he was wearing made him feel like some alien that had crash landed on another planet.

The trail he was following veered sharply to his right. He left the trail and continued straight on, beating his way through the low lying shrubs. The light began to fail as the sun dipped below the horizon. The sound of falling planes had completely stopped as the battle finished for the day. Planes were returning overhead and Casey could hear them passing over the forest.

If one of the planes found what he was looking for he wouldn't have long.

Picking up his pace he pushed through the forest with a little more desperation. All of a sudden he stopped, tasting the air with his nostrils and turning his head. The unmistakeable smell of smoke.

Like a blood hound he followed that smell through the ever darkening forest. He stopped at the first piece of the crashed plane. It was a wingtip, broken and splintered, the canvas frayed at the edges. Moving a little more slowly Casey continued on. More canvas fragments appeared in the undergrowth and the smell of smoke grew much stronger.

Crouching down so that he could see better he moved along the forest floor, searching for signs of the crash. An unusual item that didn't belong to the forest caught his eye and he moved quickly over to it. Pulling the thing from the undergrowth he soon realised it was the control stick of the downed Spitfire. He touched the red trigger and the black grip. The part in he was holding had once controlled a mighty war bird, the hands of the pilot had used this to fly into battle. Casey felt some sort of affinity with the dead man who had once held the black grip that he now held.

Gently he put the stick back down. As he dropped it he examined his hands and saw that they were covered in a thin film of blood. Quickly he wiped his hands on his legs. Some of the blood would not come off.

Taking a breath he continued on into the woods, now thinking about the dead man he would find, wondering what he would look like.

The smoke was now visible and ahead the trees were damaged. Casey pushed aside a branch and came into a clearing. Pieces of the plane were smouldering everywhere and the stink of fuel stung his nose.

Gingerly he walked around the crash site. There was no evidence of the cockpit except for shattered pieces of blood spattered glass. The engine lay in a solid hunk at the head of the streak of debris. Being the heaviest part of the plane it was also the last to stop, a gouge marked in the dirt from where it struck the ground.

Twigs and leaves cracked underfoot and Casey was intensely aware of his movements. It was as though he was in a church, or a graveyard and any unnecessary noise was forbidden.

Casey stopped where he stood.

A lone boot stuck out from behind a tree.

The dead pilot.

He knew what he had to do.

Forcing himself to walk forward Casey rounded the tree and saw the man laying face down on the forest floor. His body was twisted in a horribly unnatural position, his head was near his waist and his arms were bent around his torso. Holding back the urge to vomit Casey took a few breaths of the fuel soaked air. His head began to feel dizzy but he managed to steady himself.

"OK, you can do this. Start with the boots."

Casey leaned over and pulled off the man's boots. When these were off Casey pulled the man's socks off and saw the exposed cold flesh. Carefully placing the items to one side he worked at the man's harness and equipment, careful not to look at the pale face. The dead pilot had a pistol and Casey put this to one side with the harness.

"I'm sorry pal, I need this more than you do right now," said Casey stripping the man of his suit. His body was stiff and it did not come easily.

The pilot was now completely naked. Casey felt bad about that but knew he would have to do one more terrible thing – perhaps the worst thing of all.

He grabbed the pilot's legs and dragged him towards the fuel soaked ground. Grabbing a piece of smoking canvas he touched it to the fuel and a fire sprung up, engulfing the dead body.

Casey quickly turned his back and moved to where the dead man's belongings were. He stripped off his own flight suit and boots, throwing them into the flames. He then got into the dead man's suit. It was sticky with blood and smelled bad. He put on the socks and boots which luckily proved to be a good fit, although Casey was too repulsed with what he was doing to notice. As he was putting on the webbing he heard the sounds of people beating through the forest.

He held his breath and strained his ears.

A dog barked and Casey's legs moved of their own accord. Struggling with the harness he raced through the forest. Branches slapped him in the face and holes in the forest floor came up at regular intervals causing him to stumble.

Finally he clipped the harness on and ran in earnest. The pistol swinging in its canvas holster that he held in his left hand. The barking of the dogs was getting closer. He tried to run faster when suddenly the ground beneath him disappeared and he was falling.

31

The squadron of red tailed planes flew out of the growing storm and over the channel. One of the planes struggled to keep up, its engine spluttering.

"Hans, I won't make it. I'm going to ditch, be sure to send for me," came the desperate plea from the straggling pilot.

"You should have been more careful, Heir Lopez," replied Hans into his microphone

The red tailed Me-109s flew off, leaving their stricken companion further behind. Eventually they disappeared into the distance.

The lone plane's engine finally gave out and it glided, ever lower, towards the breaking waves of the channel.

32

Casey slid and tumbled down the greasy slope. Clumps of vegetation came away from the loose soil as he desperately clawed to stop his fall. He caught a glimpse of the sky as he rolled and flashes of green ferns and dark dirt. His back hit something hard, a rock perhaps, and he was airborne, limbs flailing helplessly he tried to turn and right himself. He hit the slope again with a thud and the wind was knocked painfully from his lungs.

He was moving ever faster and to him it seemed he had fallen off a mountain. He rushed towards and oak tree stump and somehow managed to only just clip it with his boot. He spun around and was skidding head first. Suddenly the ground ended and he was falling amidst a cloud of loose leaves.

He felt the cold spray of water and then he bombed into the moving rapids at the bottom of the ravine. The water was so cold that it burned. The swirling water sucked him under and helplessly he tumbled amongst the smooth boulders. He felt the urge to breath but knew he would only suck in water. Squeezing his eyes closed he tried as best he could to ride out the rapids. A jagged rock struck him in the abdomen and he opened his mouth and inhaled deeply...

...just as his head broke the surface. One quick gasp of sweet air was all he got. Like a rag doll he was thrown through the foaming bubbles and out over a sheer drop. As he fell he waited for the impact and held his breath.

He landed face first into the bubbling water below. Above him the waterfall pushed him to the bottom and held him there. With his arms and legs he scrambled across the weedy bed. The current was like a cold invisible hand pulling him back down.

Fighting against it Casey clawed at the rocks on the bottom until eventually he was released from its grasp and he bobbed to the surface. Lying on his back he floated in the gentle current sucking in the air. He didn't know how long he floated or at what point he passed out but when he awoke it was to the gentle lap of water rocking his body. He tried to open his eyes but the light was too painful.

"Is he dead?" came the voice of a young boy, the British accent strong.

"He's still breathing," said a young girl.

"How can you tell?"

"Look at his chest, it's going up and down see."

"What should we do?"

Casey tried to wake himself but couldn't. For the moment it appeared he was helpless. He heard footsteps on the stream pebbles and then something poked him in the ribs.

"Don't do that?" said the boy, "What if he wakes up?"

Casey groaned and the footsteps hurried away, growing ever more distant. Slowly strength returned to his body and he gently moved his arm, feeling the soft mud beneath his hand. With monumental effort he rolled over onto his stomach and began to crawl across the rocks until he came to soft grass. Looking up and squinting he saw he was in a field. A cow considered him thoughtfully as it chewed a cud. He placed his head upon the lush green grass. It was soft like a pillow and in an instant he was asleep.

33

The nine remaining red tailed Me-109s came out of the black sky and touched down on the airfield. Hans didn't waist any time getting out of his plane as ground crew rushed out onto the grass.

His high black boots thumped down on the ground and he walked at a clipped pace towards the tents set up on the temporary base. He pulled his black leather gloves off his fingers as though peeling back his skin. His face was clouded with anger.

When he got to the tent he pushed aside the flap and entered into the dark and musty room. A small man wearing a black SS uniform sat at a table with another fatter man wearing a Luftwaffe uniform. The fat man looked uncomfortable in the other's presence and was almost grateful when Hans walked in.

"You may leave us Colonel," said the man in the SS uniform. The Colonel quickly left the room. He didn't like what was going on at his base. SS and Air Force had no reason to mix.

"Take a seat Hans," said the small man shifting aside some maps on the table.

Hans shook his head and stood with his hands on his hips.

"Something bothers you?"

"There's a problem," said Hans.

"Oh?"

"There's a pilot and a plane that could cause trouble."

"Just one man,"

"Yes," said Hans hating to admit it.

"And this plane – it's special?"

"I believe it is,"

"Not unlike yours," said the man smiling.

Hans didn't like being teased and threw his gloves at the wall. "Of all the officers I could have approached I trusted you alone. I've shown you things that the German High Command would kill to know and you mock me!"

The little man chuckled to himself, "Calm down Heir Goebel. I like to test people – and I think you are very worried about this one man. More worried than you would like to appear. If you are worried then so am I. Do you know much of him?"

"I do. He's a bastard Australian from my time. He wasn't' supposed to be here – something must have gone wrong."

"Do not worry Hans. We have people that know other people who can deal with this problem. This Australian, what is his name."

"Casey," said Hans. "Casey Hunter."

34

Casey awoke in a bed. Covering him were crisp clean sheets. He sat up in alarm and looked all around him. The room was small and one window looked out onto the green meadows. His journey down the stream came back to him and he remembered the children. He knew he was on a farm and had probably been brought there by the parents of the children.

The door opened gently and a plump lady wearing an apron came in.

"Good morning sir, I've brought you something to eat," she said holding up a tray. Casey couldn't remember the last time he had eaten and the smell of fresh toast and eggs made his stomach rumble. The lady placed the tray down on the bedside table with a smile.

"Thankyou, who are you?" said Casey.

"My name is Margaret. My husband John is out in the fields but he'll be back soon. Go on – eat," said the woman encouragingly.

Casey didn't hesitate and quickly stuffed the eggs and toast into his mouth. The flavour of the butter was beautiful and the eggs had large yellow yolks.

"The butter was made this morning and the eggs come from our chickens," said the woman.

Casey gulped the milk that was offered in a glass.

He settled back into the bed, the fresh food energising him.

"It's wonderful," said Casey picking up the second slice of toast.

A man entered the room. He wore a tweed jacket and his moustache was curled at the ends.

"Your awake, that's splendid," said the man. "I've notified the RAF. They're sending someone out to pick you up."

"This is my husband John," said Margaret.

Casey swallowed the last of the milk. His eye darted around the room.

"My wife has cleaned your uniform and I've taken the liberty to give your pistol a scrub. You should have seen the mud that came out of it. The ammunition's no good though."

"Where am I?" said Casey.

"You're American," said John sounding slightly surprised. "This is a county not far from Dover, you missed the airfield by about ten kilometres. I didn't see any sign of your plane," said John.

"I crashed in the forest. As I was walking out I fell into a ravine and was washed downstream."

The man nodded and appeared to be satisfied with this explanation. He pulled a pipe from his pocket and tapped it against his lip.

"Jolly good to see you made it then. When you feel up to it join us downstairs."

"I will," said Casey.

The man and his wife left. Casey tried to move and found that his body ached all over. He was alive though. He thought about Jennifer for a while. There was no way of knowing what had happened to her or any of the others. They had managed to send him back and he still had a job to do. An image of Hans Goebel entered his mind and he scrunched up the sheets of the bed in his fists. He would probably never be able to return home, but if there was one last thing he would do on this earth it would be to kill that Nazi who had caused all this trouble.

Casey forced himself out of bed and put on his flight uniform that was neatly folded on top of a chest of drawers. He saw his pistol hanging from the door handle along with the flight harness. He shouldered the harness and headed downstairs.

John was reading the paper and Margaret was making tea.

"Care for a brew?" said John.

"It's a bit early," said Casey.

John laughed, "Tea. Would you care for some tea mister...?"

"My name's Casey Hunter,"

"Would you care for some tea Mister Hunter?"

"Yes thanks," said Casey, although he had never tried hot tea.

Margaret brought him a steaming mug with a shortbread biscuit on a side plate. Casey sipped the beverage and found that it was too his liking. The shortbread was also excellent.

"So how did you come down?" said John.

"Leave the poor man alone, can't you see he's been through enough."

"It's alright," said Casey. "I'm not sure who shot me, there were so many planes up there. I think it was a stray bullet that severed the controls."

"Ah ha," said John knowingly. "And how many of the enemy did you shoot down?"

"None – but I plan on addressing that issue when I get another plane."

"Good lad," said John enthusiastically.

Casey finished his tea.

"Care to see the farm?" said John putting down his newspaper.

"Sure," said Casey rising.

Once outside Casey surveyed the countryside. There was a dirt road that ran off over the grassy hills. On the far side of the property was the stream and on the horizon the forest. It amazed him that he had floated so far and lived.

"I suppose where you come from is a lot different to here," said John.

"Like you wouldn't believe," replied Casey.

John walked around his neatly kept garden and bent over occasionally to pluck at a weed.

Casey's mind was working quickly. Soon someone would be here to pick up a downed British pilot. Instead they were going to find him. That might cause some problems.

In the distance a dust trail grew on the road. John spotted it and stood up straight.

"Ah, some of the Air Force chaps no doubt. They came rather quickly – bet you can't wait to get back up there to shoot down the Hun?"

"Can't wait," said Casey numbly. His hands had begun to sweat.

The trail of dust grew closer and the dull light of the overcast sky flashed on the painted surface of a black car.

Casey took a few steps forward and looked around. If he ran that would only confirm that there was something not right about him and in any event he wouldn't stand a chance of escape. He could feign injury, but he had none. If he claimed memory loss that would only get him so far. The truth was out of the question – he didn't want to end up in an asylum.

_Lie your ass off_ , he thought.

The car pulled up. It had Royal Air Force markings. A young man wearing a pilot's uniform and a big grin got out of the car.

"Hello there," he said cheerfully.

"Hi yourself," replied Casey.

"Australian?" said the man only slightly surprised. "How do you do? My name's Mitchell Grant from the RAF base outside of Dover."

"Casey Hunter, I was based near London – I only just arrived in country. My first mission and I got shot down."

"Bloody hard luck," said Mitchell. "Well come on. Let's get you back to the airfield. We're expecting an attack this afternoon."

John and Margaret saw him off and he thanked them for their hospitality. As soon as he was in the car Mitchell hit the gas and they were bouncing along the country road. Casey sat trapped like a prisoner beside his smiling driver.

35

No sooner had the car pulled up at the airbase Casey was whisked out of the door by one of the four man flight crews. Together they walked along the dirt tracks cut amidst a sea of green canvas tents. Casey turned to ask his driver what was happening but he had disappeared.

"Where are we going?" said Casey.

One of the ground crew laughed. "You pilots are a funny lot," he said, his accent so thick as to make his words only barely discernable.

"Seriously guys,"

The other ground crew joined in the laughter and seemed genuinely amused. Together they walked along the twisted track. Some men reclined outside the tents but most were rushing around wearing half fitted flight suits. Everybody seemed to know where they were going and Casey sensed the mood of urgency at the base.

"Here we are sir," said one of the ground crew.

Before Casey was a field of planes. Some were taking off, some landing and some were burning wrecks. Mostly they were Spitfires and Hurricanes. The men led Casey to a beat up Hawker Hurricane. Bullet holes had only just recently been patched on both wings and the glass still had flecks of grease smudged on it.

"There you go," said another ground crewman pushing him towards the plane. "Good luck,"

"What do you mean?" said Casey.

The ground crew looked like they weren't entirely sure if Casey was being serious or not.

"Look, just get airborne mate."

Under the gaze of the ground crew Casey boarded the plane. The cockpit felt unfamiliar and certainly wasn't as comfortable as the _Phoenix II_. He started the engine. One of the ground crew pulled the chocks from the wheels and another waved him forwards.

Casey looked ahead and saw that there was no real discernable runway, just a straight piece of field with men wandering around on the edges of it. There appeared to be no air traffic control whatsoever. Planes were taking off just as fast as they were able.

He hit the throttle and the engine pushed him forward across the grass. Men scattered in all directions to avoid his plane. The wheels lifted off the ground and he pulled back. It had all happened so fast. One minute he was sitting in a car and the next, without any warning, he was being thrown back into battle.

Once up in the air he scanned the skies. The Allied planes were headed in a generally eastern direction.

Probably London, he thought.

"Is that you there Casey?" said a voice over his radio.

A Spitfire pulled in on his left wing.

"Mitchell?" said Casey.

"Fancy meeting up again so soon!"

"Where are we headed?" said Casey.

"You didn't get orders?"

"Nope. They just told me to get airborne."

"That's it?"

"Yep."

"Well follow me then and stay on my wing. I've been tasked to protect the airfields. God knows why. Hitler's decided our cities are much better targets than our planes"

"Roger that," said Casey. He knew from his mission briefing that Hitler had changed tactics, a decision that was to prevent any invasion of Brittain. Casey also knew that Hans and his team would still try to take out enemy aircraft to regain German air superiority. It was already working if planes were being tasked to patrol the airfields.

As Casey flew he noticed that the Hurricane was not as responsive as the Spitfire, but it seemed to be of more sturdy construction.

Below him the airfield looked tiny. Allied planes continued to land and take off. The fires from the wrecked planes appeared as bright smoky dots. Casey couldn't help but wonder if Hans would look down at him as a bright smoky dot one day soon.

That's not going to happen

Casey gripped the flight stick and scanned the horizon.

"Five of them coming in fast!" said Mitchell.

Casey pitched to the left without even thinking about it and a stream of tracer rounds pierced empty air where he had been just moments before. Five Me-109s roared past in an attack dive, passing within meters of his own banking plane.

"Two of them have picked me up!" said Mitchell.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the small Spitfire weaving like mad through the sky. Following closely were two silver Me-109s.Immediately Casey recognised their red tails.

He pushed forward on the stick and pumped the foot peddles. Soon he had joined the chase. In the lead was Mitchell's Spitfire, followed closely by the two Me-109s and catching up fast was Casey in his Hurricane. The remaining three Me109s had disappeared for the time being.

"Hang in there Mitch, I'm with you."

The Me-109s had managed to weave their way into firing range and were giving the little Spitfire bursts of tracer. Casey could see straight away that Mitchell was an exceptional pilot. The Spitfire avoided all the bullets fired at it and continued to try and evade its two attackers.

Casey took a straighter line in the chase and was able to catch up to the enemy planes. He chose the leader and flipped up his target sights. The enemy machine filled the cross hairs and automatically Casey's finger gently rested on the trigger.

Concentrating for all he was worth Casey tried to hold the same flight pattern as the German plane. In a split second he was handed his opportunity. The enemy stopped swerving and flew straight for just one second. Casey squeezed just as a stream of tracers pierced his canopy letting in the freezing air. Behind him the three remaining Me-109s took up an attacking formation.

Casey still squeezed down on the trigger and the bright orange tracers tore a metallic gouge in the left wing of the Me-109 in front of him. Almost immediately after the successful hit his own plane was peppered with tracer rounds. Chunks of timber and canvas peeled off his plane.

Not again!

To Casey's surprise the Hurricane didn't go spinning out of control – it just kept on flying.

Pulling up Casey headed for the clouds. The three Me-109s followed him up, firing the whole time.

"Thanks Casey, I owe you," said Mitchell.

"Little busy right now Mitch – I'll talk to you later," said Casey as he pushed the plane into a tight downwards corkscrew. Two of the Me-109s tried to copy the manoeuvre and crashed into each other. The once graceful fighters suddenly became a single chunk of twisted falling metal.

"Two down!" shouted Casey.

"Good work," said Mitchell.

The third Me-109 dodged the flying wreckage and dove straight down onto Casey's wounded Hurricane. Casey sensed the danger and began swerving. Tracer rounds were bouncing off and around his plane. It wouldn't take too much more to send him plummeting towards the hard ground below.

"I've got him!" said Mitchell.

The Spitfire came in from the side and above, all guns blazing. The red tailed Me-109 tried to pull out of the attack but it was too late. The six cannons of Mitchell's Spitfire blasted into the cockpit and tore apart the pilot. The plexiglass screen was drenched in blood and the Me-109 drifted forwards and slowly began to spin towards earth.

"I owe you for that one," said Casey.

"Think nothing of it. I can't see the other two – maybe they broke off the attack."

"I can't see them either," Casey took a second to glance at his instruments. "Looks like I'm a little low on fuel."

"Dog fighting uses up a fair bit. I'd say the Hun have gone home to lick their wounds. What say you we head back to base and celebrate our victory?"

"Roger that," said Casey.

The two planes peeled off and headed back towards the airbase off in the distance. Below them three wrecked planes were smouldering in the fields. Army trucks were already making their way towards the downed craft to check for possible survivors.

Looking down Casey knew that there weren't any.

Three kills confirmed – seven to go.

36

Hans Goebel flew his five man squadron back onto German soil. As the pilots touched down they were attended to by special SS ground crew in their solid black uniforms. The Red Tails, as they had become known, were strictly segregated from the Luftwaffe.

Hans jumped out of his plane. The day had been satisfying, with many British kills. His five man team had gone above their target quota.

Twenty kills.

Another fifteen and they would cause an Event Change.

Hans walked with an easy gait back to the flight tent. In his mind he could picture the day the Aryan race ruled all mankind. The sub humans would be their slaves – it was destined to be. It was as it should be. Natural. Beautiful.

He took a seat in a canvas chair that was quickly folded out by a young SS soldier. Hans then unbuttoned his black flight suit and held out his right hand. Another soldier placed a chilled glass of champagne in it.

On the horizon a two black specks could be seen making their way to the airfield. The SS ground crew spotted them and began to make ready the runway. Hans strained to see into the cloud, his eyes squinting.

Only two planes.

Hans put down the champagne and stood up anxiously.

The specks grew larger and the red tails became visible. The engines droned in the distance.

Still only two planes.

What had happened?

Hans knew.

"Shizen!" said Hans and kicked over the chair he had been sitting on.

Casey Hunter was what had happened!

The two red tailed planes touched down and rolled to a halt. The ground crews rushed out and secured them. The pilots began climbing out and Hans walked quickly over to the first of them, Oliver Armene. A Frenchman.

Oliver began to speak when Hans grabbed him by the collar and smashed his fist into the man's face. Blood sprayed out as the pilot's nose splattered. Hans hit him again with his gloved fist and the man's legs buckled. Not content with the damage he had caused Hans held the man up with one hand and struck him again and again as the flight crew watched on, too scared to intervene.

When it was clear that the man was unconscious Hans continued to beat at his face until nothing was left but a bloody pulp. Breathing heavily he let the lifeless body drop to the ground. Hans looked around at the crowd.

"Failure will not be tolerated in my squadron," he said to the onlookers as he straightened his uniform. Hans shook some feeling back into his hand and with two deep breaths he composed himself and walked off the field and into his tent, closing the flap behind him.

37

The Hawker Hurricane and Spitfire landed side by side. They were both awesome machines with smooth lines and an air of grace in their design. Casey popped his canopy and climbed down onto the wing. For the first time he witnessed what damage the Hurricane had absorbed. Each wing was punctured in a dozen places with large holes. The tail rudder was very nearly shot to pieces and the underbelly was shredded.

"Looks like you took a few hits," said Mitchell, his pale complexion was flushed red to match his hair.

"It didn't feel like it,"

"These girls can take a beating like no other plane. The Spitfire's better but much more fragile. You have to worry more about getting shot down in a Spitfire. I once saw a Hurricane have a mid air collision with a German bomber. The wing of the Hurricane struck the tail of the bomber and cut it in half. The Hurricane just kept on flying."

"Amazing," said Casey running his finger around one of the holes.

"Come on then. No more sorties for today – we'll get you squared away for the night and then report for a debrief. For some reason High Command wants every little fight recorded."

Casey didn't like the sound of that. He couldn't afford too many questions to be asked. Mitchell led the way towards the city of tents and makeshift shacks. Pilots and ground crew milled about everywhere in the little laneways they passed through. Men relaxed, drinking wine and playing cards. Only occasionally would someone give a friendly wave to Mitchell.

At last they stopped at a large green tent that looked much the same as the others. Sitting on a chair at the front of a tent and tending to a kettle was a small fat man with a tuft of black hair. On his chest he wore the wings of a pilot.

"Welcome to our manor," said Mitchell. "I'd like you to meet Johnson."

"The name's Casey,"

Johnson stood up and took Casey's outstretched hand.

"Casey's going to be staying the night,"

"Very good," said Johnson and sat back down to tend his kettle.

"Come on in," said Mitchell lifting the tent flap.

Casey bent over and went inside. After his eyes adjusted to the low light he saw that the tent was surprisingly well furnished. On the floor were expensive Persian rugs. There were four cots that were neatly made. In the centre of the room was a fuel heater and stove. On one side of the tent was a wooden cabinet stocked with all sorts of bottles and what looked like crystal glasses.

"Make yourself at home. Take the cot on the end. That was where Miles used to sleep. He died last week so won't be in need of it."

"Thanks," said Casey. A small shiver went up his spine and he wasn't sure if he'd be able to sleep in a dead man's bed.

"Well I guess we'll take some tea and then go and see Command."

"If I could ask a question," said Casey.

"Anything,"

"Where do they conduct repairs? I'm interested in seeing how my Hurricane will be patched up."

38

In a poor district of London on the banks of the river Thames a young boy's hard school shoes clipped across the cobbles. In his hand the boy clutched an envelope. A slow drizzle began to fall and the boy moved faster for it, his breaths coming in short gasps. The people he passed paid him no attention. For the most part they were homeless drunks, lying in the gutters and damming small pools of the thin trickle of filthy water that ultimately ended up in the river.

The boy veered to the right and left the riverbank. The alleys closed in on him. He knew he had to be careful here. The trick was not to stay in any one place long enough to be noticed. Being noticed meant being robbed – and possibly disappearing.

A scraggly haired man emerged from beneath a pile of newspapers. The boy smelt him before he saw him. The creature screamed something unintelligible and ran after him.

The boy risked a look behind him and saw the homeless man closing in. Willing his legs to move faster he twisted and turned through the maze of alleys. The brickwork all looked the same, only the doors and windows were different. He turned to the right and saw a dead end. At the end of the alley there was nothing but solid brick. There were two doors and both were closed. On the next level there was a balcony upon which a miserable looking pot plant was struggling to survive.

The boy stopped, gasping for breath, listening to the bum get closer. He could smell him and hear him, a sickly sweet odour of decay.

There was no where to go.

He was trapped.

His small hand still clutched the envelope.

The homeless man came around the corner and a cruel toothy grin spread across his face.

The boy backed away, his heart beating hard in his chest. He began to have visions of the horrors that would be inflicted upon him.

Suddenly the homeless man stopped in his tracks, the grin vanished.

The boy stepped back and into something.

"You're late," said Van Shielder.

The boy turned around and looked up at the tall man wearing a tailored black suit and breathed out. Van Shielder considered him with cool blue eyes and a flat expression.

"I'm sorry. He was chasing me."

"So I see. Does he know what happens to people who interfere with my mail?"

The boy shook his head and a new fear took hold of him. He desperately wanted to leave. He didn't want to see what was about to happen.

The homeless man shuffled uncertainly from one foot to the other.

"May I have my letter?"

The boy handed him his letter. Van Shielder took another envelope from his jacket pocket and gave it to the boy.

"Run along. He won't hurt you,"

More relieved than ever the boy ran straight past the homeless man and kept going as fast as his legs would take him. When he reached the main street he heard the barely audible scream that echoed through the labyrinth of alleys.

Van Shielder opened up the front door to the room he rented in the poor district. The people there knew well enough to leave him be. There had been an attempt to break into his lodging. One attempt, and only ever one. He had left some of them alive. News spread fast here.

The heavy wooden door swung open to reveal Spartan accommodation. There was a rough wooden bed in one corner, a table and a chair in the other. Aside from the fireplace and coal box there was nothing at all worth noting. As there was no natural light he struck a match and lit a candle on the table, dropping the keys down next to it. He closed and bolted the door.

After a cursory check of the room to ensure nothing was out of place he walked over to the wall near the bed. His hands felt the splintery surface until he located the familiar spot. Pressing down caused a barely audible click. A whole section of the wall popped outwards about two inches. Van Shielder pushed it sideways and the panel slid smoothly away. Inside the cavity an electric light switched on.

There was a room about five feet deep and ten feet long. The interior was painted and new, a stark contrast to the room on the other side. On the walls hung all manner of guns. There was a clothes rack filled with uniforms. Policeman, soldiers, train drivers, sailors. Stacked on the floor were steel boxes, each one padlocked shut.

Van Shielder reached into his coat and pulled out a silenced Luger P08 Pistol and hung it on a vacant place on the wall. He then closed the panel and walked to the bare table and sat down.

The candle burned brightly in front of him and he stared at it for a moment. He took the letter from his pocket and pulled out a stiletto. With a fast movement of his wrist he sliced the envelope open.

He pulled out the letter. In neatly cursive script it began;

Dear John,

I hope this note finds you in good health. The weather over here has been ever so hot--

Van Shielder stopped reading. The initial opening gave him all the information he needed to locate the hidden message. Flipping the letter over he carefully held it near the flame of the candle. Smoke curled up and around the under side. He moved the letter around so that the heat was even on the surface and like magic a dark brown print emerged where once there had been nothing but blank paper. When the invisible writing had been fully revealed he placed the letter down in front of him and read:

Agent Snow Wolf

Operational Directive 26

Target Acquisition and Elimination

Mission Briefing:

Heir Snow Wolf,

Of late we have been experiencing difficulties in our air operations over British Territory. There is one Australian pilot in particular that has been causing a great deal of trouble. He may be using the name Casey Hunter, although this is not confirmed. He would only recently have begun operating in this theatre and was shot down three days ago. This is the only information we have. Confirmation of the mark is imperative prior to completion of the mission objective.

Find and kill Casey Hunter.

Use all means at your disposal. This mission is of top priority.

Good Luck.

Van Shielder smoothed the letter out on the table as he thought about the contents. He was usually given bigger assignments than this. Operational Directive 26. His twenty sixth mission. His twenty sixth kill.

Van Shielder knew he was the best German assassin by far. Why was High Command risking him on some pilot who may well get shot down of his own accord?

What was so special about this one man?

Van Shielder only allowed himself a moment to ponder these questions. He was a professional. He had been given a mark. It was his job to see that mark retired.

Permanently.

He picked up the letter and set fire to the corner. Immediately the paper began to burn. Standing up he walked over to the fireplace and dropped the flaming paper into the pit. His cold blue eyes watched until the note was nothing but ash.

Only one thought was on his mind now.

Casey Hunter must die.

39

Mitchell led Casey to the repair sheds. The meeting with Command had gone well. All they'd asked him was his name and unit. Then they told him to sit tight until arrangements could be made to transport him back. Until then he could continue to fly missions if he chose.

Casey knew it wouldn't take long for them to figure out he wasn't registered anywhere as an allied pilot. He only hoped it was long enough to finish his business with the red tailed Me-109s.

"This is it," said Mitchell stopping at a rusty hanger.

Inside planes were triaged next to each other. Men in overalls worked busily on the damaged aircraft. Casey could see one of the planes was the Hurricane he had flown yesterday.

"Jerry!" shouted Mitchell above the clanking of tools.

A grease covered mechanic slid from underneath the Hurricane and squinted up at the two pilots. A cigar hung from the corner of his mouth.

"Is it safe to smoke in here?" asked Mitchell.

"Hell no," said Jerry.

"This is my guest Casey Hunter. He's come to see the repairs taking place,"

"How's it doing?" said Casey.

"Not bad. The wings have been patched and the wiring's fixed. Some of the hydraulics were a little busted up and I'm still working on it. The frame's intact which is the main thing."

"Mind if I have a look?"

"Not at all,"

"Thanks,"

Casey left Mitchell and Jerry to chat whilst he circled the plane. He noticed that the shed was not locked, but left permanently open. Also the repair patches used for bullet holes were scattered everywhere along with tins of glue and paint. Rubber hosing was also in plentiful supply. The only other thing he'd need to get the _Phoenix II_ airborne would be fuel. He'd seen drums by the airfield but he needed some way of getting it into the plane. He continued to circle the Hurricane when out of the corner of his eye he spotted a fuel drum in the corner. Attached to it was a hand pump.

Casey walked back up to the front of the shed where Mitchell and Jerry were still talking.

"Finished?" said Mitchell.

Casey nodded, "Thanks for your time Jerry. Nice to meet you."

"Good luck up there boys," said Jerry as they walked off.

Mitchell led the way through the tents and Casey took note of the path they had taken.

"Let's get something to eat," said Mitchell. "I'm starved."

The mess hall was busy with pilots discussing past battles and debating tactics. Casey took a table with Mitchell and they were soon joined by Johnson. Casey couldn't help but overhear awed talk of red tailed Me-109s.

Mitchell turned around in his chair and addressed one of the men in the conversation.

"Casey shot down three just this morning."

The man looked surprised, "Three? Well done. None of the lads have been able to get near them. There's talk that they're flying experimental planes. They shot down more than ten of us just yesterday." The pilot leaned in closer and spoke in a lower voice. "What's worse is that two of the lads managed to parachute out – those red devils shot them out of the air."

"You're not serious?" said Mitchell.

The pilot nodded, "I saw it for myself. We all want to get a piece of them but they're too fast – good pilots too."

Mitchell turned back around and sat quietly for a moment. He looked up at Casey and shook his head.

"What's it all coming to? There used to be some sense of chivalry amongst fellow pilots. That's just barbaric," he said.

"I don't think they're regular pilots," said Casey.

"Oh?"

"The last time I saw them they were wearing black uniforms."

"SS?"

"Maybe,"

"That would explain it," said Johnson between mouthfuls of food. "I didn't think the Luftwaffe would let those butchers fly."

Casey shrugged.

After dinner they returned to the tent and Casey sat on the dead man's bed. At the foot of the bed was a steel locker.

"What's that?" said Casey.

"Miles' kit," said Johnson. "We've already gone through it so help yourself to whatever's there."

Casey was a little taken back by this and Johnson must have sensed something.

"I'm not sure what it is the Australians do with a dead man's belongings but us Englishmen have an understanding that when we die our kit is up for grabs. Usually someone sends back the personal stuff to family, photos and the like. As for anything we can use ourselves it's open season."

"Oh," said Casey.

Johnson walked over to the steel chest and flipped the lid.

"He didn't have much anyway. He was only with us for two days."

Casey leaned forward and peered into the box. There was an empty shoulder holster, some scattered bullets for a pistol and a torn map. Gingerly Casey moved aside the map and saw the familiar shape of a Fairburn-Skykes Fighting Knife.

"How did we miss that?" said Johnson.

Casey picked it up and pulled it out of the sheath. The blade reflected the dull yellow light of the kerosene lamp.

"Can I have this?" said Casey.

"Like I said, it's up for grabs," said Johnson.

Mitchell pulled open a flap to the tent and threw himself down on his bed.

"Word is we'll be heading back up tomorrow. They're expecting another daylight bombing run on London."

"Can't wait," said Johnson without any feeling.

Casey strapped the knife to his wrist and lay back on the dead man's pillow for a troubled night's sleep.

40

Van Shielder walked with purpose up the steps to the Royal Air Force central command wearing the uniform of a British Major. The trick, he knew, to impersonating a British Officer was to treat everybody with the utmost disdain and speak with an over accentuated British accent. It wasn't the first time he had used this disguise to gather information.

Once inside the building he brushed quickly past the clerks and walked straight up to the reception.

"I demand to see the list of Australian Pilots based here on British soil!"

The clerk spun on his chair to face him.

"We don't keep those records, you'll have to see the Australians about it."

"Firstly private, you address a senior officer as sir when speaking to him. Secondly you do not tell a senior officer what they have to do."

The private sighed. Sometimes he wished he was at the front.

"Sorry sir," he said, "It's just that we don't keep those records. If you need to obtain them the only way is to go through the Australia's base office."

Van Shielder stood up straight and breathed out. "Private," he began as though addressing a child, "one of those Australian pilots was shot down in _my_ personal plane three days ago. I need to find out who he was to furnish my report as to why he was flying _my_ plane."

The Clerk tapped his pencil on the table thoughtfully. "Shot down you say?"

Van Shielder closed his eyes and nodded.

"If he reported to any of our bases he should be on a list. Give me a moment,"

"Take all the time you need – just get me the name of that infernal pilot."

The clerk left and walked through a door behind reception. He returned a moment later carrying a list.

"There were thirty three pilots shot down on that date. They were from all different areas and it doesn't mention any Australians specifically."

"May I see the list," said Van Shielder snatching it from the man's hands.

His eyes scanned down, reading quickly. He stopped suddenly.

"Where can I find this man?" he said pointing at the list.

The clerk looked at the list, "That report was submitted from our base just east of Bristol, but that doesn't mean the pilot will still be there. The report doesn't even say if he's Royal Australian Air Force."

"Thank you private," said Van Shielder tossing the list back onto the desk. "You have been most helpful."

41

The bugle sounded at dawn and instantly the airbase sprung to life. Pilots rolled out of their cots and aircrew appeared on the fields, unconsciously scanning the pale red sky for enemy planes. The wind sock was gently blowing to the east and there had been no fog overnight. The first rays of the sun were already warming the damp grass.

Perfect flying weather.

Casey was the first one to wake. He hadn't really slept. Mitchell put his feet on the floor and rubbed his eyes. Johnson slept soundly through the entire bugle call. Mitchell kicked him roughly and he rolled over complaining.

The tent flap was rudely thrown open.

"Up and at em' lads. Word is London's going to cop hell today."

"Up em' yourself," said Johnson sitting in his bed, but the man had already moved on.

"Are you flying today Casey?" said Mitchell.

"Try and stop me,"

Johnson placed his head in his hands. "I'm requesting to be moved to another tent. You're both mad."

When they had their flight gear on they joined the procession to the airfields. Already propellers were spinning and the first plane had taken off.

"What are we flying today?" said Casey as they walked towards the airfield.

"Whatever's on the airfield," replied Johnson.

When they reached the landing strip men were forming into small groups. Casey followedMitchell and Johnson who walked towards a group of men lazing about on the field.

"If it isn't the afternoon shift," said one of the pilots smiling.

"Sleeping beauty here held us up," said Mitchell.

"I like to get a good night's rest before killing the Hun," shrugged Johnson.

"Where's the Captain?" said Mitchell.

"Dead," replied one of the pilots. "Died yesterday."

"In battle?"

"In bed would you believe? Says goodnight to everybody nods off and never wakes up."

Mitchell shook his head, "Oh well. Who's running the show today then?"

All of the pilots begun to shrug and rub their heads.

"We were just thinking of following one of the other groups out."

"A fine plan," said Johnson. "This war keeps getting better and better."

As a group the pilots stood up and made their way to the planes. Each man boarded whatever plane took his fancy. Casey walked a little faster and managed to claim a Spitfire. On closer inspection it looked a little worse for wear but then so did all the other planes. He remembered what Mitchell had told him about the Spitfires being fragile and he made sure he had a parachute under the seat.

The ground crew secured their canopies and led them out onto the runway. In a straight line the group of Spitfires and Hurricanes soared up into the air – immediately taking up formation.

In the distance the last group could be seen making a bee line for London. Casey took up a place on the outermost wing. The fields passed under him and he scanned them carefully. He planned on repairing the _Phoenix II_ tonight and would need to find out exactly where it was. After travelling about ten kilometres he gave up and concentrated on staying in formation.

Testing the pedals he immediately noticed the Spitfire had trouble with the tail rudders. That was going to cause him problems later, he just knew it.

"And now over to Johnson for the weather," broadcast one of the pilots over the radio.

"Thanks Thomas," said Johnson. "Well Londoners I have to say you may want to stay underground today. A cloud of Stukkas are forecast for early in the morning and possibly followed by some heavy strafing. The Hun are not predicted to stay around and are expected to dissipate with the oncoming Hurricanes by tea time. Watch out for falling bombs and if you do have to go outside to get the bread and milk make sure you wear a flak jacket."

The pilots burst into laughter over the airwaves.

"Thank you, thank you," said Johnson. "I'm here all week."

"Not the way you fly," came the retort.

The pilots again burst into laughter and Casey found himself joining in.

The planes flew on in silence and the British countryside continued to slide by beneath them.

"Alright lads, look lively. London's just up ahead and it looks like heavy action."

Casey peered through the dirty glass panel and saw the black city skyline. A bright thin ribbon of silver cut the city in two – The River Thames. Over the city was what looked like a swarm of angry bees. Fighter planes fought fiercely as the German bombers tried to punch their way through the defences and deliver their message to the British public.

"I've never seen so many,"

"Stay together and we'll all get out of this,"

The pilots were again silent as they all flew towards possible death. In a mess like that skill counted for too little and luck played a much bigger role.

"I'm having trouble with my engine," said one of the pilots.

No one acknowledged the complaint.

"It's misfiring badly," said the man again desperately hoping someone would say something.

No one did.

"I don't think I can-"

"For God's sake piss off back to base and get it seen to," said another pilot.

Relieved the man pulled out of formation and turned back, leaving the battle behind him. More than one of the other pilots looked on with envy, wishing their own cowardice weighed heavier than their guilt and sense of duty.

Casey himself felt nothing. All he wanted was to bag as many red tailed planes as he could.

The battle grew nearer and even in the cockpit the engines from the hundreds of planes in the air could be heard.

When they were a kilometre away the first stray tracer rounds began flitting past them.

"OK lads, stay tight – we're going in!"

In a line formation the ten planes peeled off and into a dive. Below them the battle was a complete mess. Planes crossed each others paths and air was literally alive with bullets. Casey felt his fuselage peppered with stray gunfire that sounded like the beginning of a hailstorm on a tin roof.

As soon as they hit the battle the formation was split and planes went every which way. Casey pulled on the stick and levelled out, weaving from side to side as accurate gunfire shot over his left wing.

"I've picked up one!" he said.

"Got him," came the voice of an unknown British pilot over his radio.

Casey banked and pulled back, planes from both sides swerved to avoid a collision. An Me-109 flew past and he caught a glimpse of a red tail. Aggressively he switched directions and was thrown about the cockpit as he strained to keep sight of the enemy.

A thin stream of white smoke was coming from the Me-109's engine.

He was wounded prey and had been abandoned by his colleagues.

Casey followed the plane through heavy traffic and soon realised that it was trying to escape the fray.

Tipping his wings delicately Casey moved in for the kill. The Me-109 filled his gun sights and still he waited.

"Just a little closer," he said.

The faster Spitfire gained at every turn the enemy made.

"Gotcha," said Casey pressing down on the trigger. His four cannons blasted an orange stream of death into the plane. Large chunks of metal tore off and skipped over Casey's canopy. He continued to fire until finally the Me-109 tore apart. The pilot's body flew from the wreckage and Casey turned just in time to avoid it.

Looking over his shoulder he saw the dead man spinning towards earth.

"Nice shot Casey," said Mitchell.

Casey looked to his left and saw that Mitchell was on his wing.

"Thanks for sticking with me buddy,"

"Break!" shouted Mitchell.

Instinctively Casey pulled to the right and the two planes broke formation just as a burning German bomber flew between them.

Now on his own Casey tried to gain altitude.

"Still with you, that was close," said Mitchell. "Enemy below!"

Casey pushed forward on the stick and found himself on the tail of another Me-109 – only this one didn't have a red tail.

"Take him!" shouted Mitchell.

Casey manoeuvred in closer. The pilot must have been green because he didn't even try any evasive moves. Remembering what he had been told about killing historical pilots Casey froze.

"What's wrong with you man – shoot!"

"I can't!" blurted Casey.

Suddenly both Casey and Mitchell were strafed from above by the belly gunner of a German bomber. Casey's engine took a hit but kept on ticking over, although it was making a strange sound.

He looked to his left and saw that Mitchell was gone. A little lower was a squadron of three red tails. They were shooting down plane after plane and moving faster than anything else in the air.

Casey judged his dive and turned in on them. The pilots were good and saw him coming. They didn't split formation but banked to the left and waited for him to move in.

"Not falling for that one huh?" said Casey.

He managed to get in behind them and levelled off. The two wingmen dropped back from the leader. In response Casey throttled down as much as he dared and took the man on his left.

The red tailed Me-109 tried to climb out of danger and crossed Casey's gun sights for a split second. Casey was waiting and fired. The bullets flew in a bending arc through the air and struck the canopy. The glass shattered and blood exploded from within, some of it actually spattering on Casey's own plane. The red tailed Me-109 fell from the sky.

Now it was Casey's turn to run.

The other two Me-109's had fallen back enough and were onto him. Casey swerved through the planes that zoomed past and tried to lose his attackers in the mess of battle. They were having none of it and stuck to him like glue.

When they were close enough they started to let him have it in short bursts. Casey flipped over the Spitfire and pulled back. Blood rushed to his head and the world tipped on its end. Below him he could see the city of London burning.

Pushing down the throttle and pulling back on the stick he guided his plane into a steep dive. Kicking the tail pedals rotated his plane like a spinning top.

The two Me-109's tried to copy his dive and one of them collided with a passing plane causing a mid air explosion. The other one avoided the crash and pulled in behind him firing all the way down.

Because he was spinning only the occasional shot hit his Spitfire. When he ran out of altitude Casey pulled up and followed the river Thames to the coast. The red tailed Me-109 was right on him and together they shot over the beaches and towards the headlands.

Tracer rounds flew past Casey's wings and took large chunks of rock off the cliffs that sped by them. The two planes flew low and hard over the ocean as it crashed into the cliff face.

Casey's fuel gauge was showing near empty.

Must have taken a hit in the tank, he thought.

More gunfire struck the Spitfire causing it to wobble.

"Alright pal, let's see what you can do!" said Casey tilting the Spitfire's nose down further.

The Me-109 didn't even hesitate and dove down after him. A stream of bullets kicked up fountains of water, narrowly missing Casey's wing.

The belly of Casey's plane was so low now that he had to rise and fall with the incoming waves. The Me-109 followed him and together they flew up and over the rolling swell.

"That's it – keep coming!" said Casey.

The Me-109 moved in closer.

Casey stole a glimpse over his shoulder.

"That'll about do it," he said and banked sharply towards the cliff, trailing a large wave. The Me-109 didn't even hesitate and followed him in. Casey pulled back and turned out again away from the cliff.

The Me-109 tried to follow but as it reached the rocks the wave struck, sending up a wall of water. The enemy pilot screamed as he flew straight into the wash and was smashed off course into the cliff where his plane crumpled and fell into the sea.

Casey pulled up and looked down to see the red tail of the plane disappear into the foaming water.

He tilted the nose of his plane back towards base and crossed his fingers that he had enough fuel to make it.

42

Van Shielder didn't waste any time. Back at his rough lodgings he slid aside the hidden wall panel and turned on the lights. Searching through his inventory of uniforms he stopped when he reached the Khaki dress of a soldier. Donning the uniform he began to arm himself.

Over his shoulder he slung a pistol holster. Looking at the wall his eyes fell upon his Luger P08. He placed one hand upon it affectionately. Unfortunately he wouldn't be able to take the German made pistol; instead he took a Browning Hi-Power from the shelf. The pistol was heavier than he was used to and felt awkward. He holstered the pistol and searched through the rest of his inventory.

On the wall at the back was an Enfield No.4 Mk I rifle fitted with a No.32 Mk I scope. Van Shielder grudgingly admitted that for once British engineers had done something right. It was a superb weapon, although he'd have to remove the scope so as not to draw attention. Sniper rifles were rarely seen away from the front lines – and certainly not on airbases.

Once he had taken the rifle down he opened a steel box. Inside were all manner of identification papers. He thumbed through them until he found the identification papers in the name of Joseph Black. Joe Black was a fictional British soldier serving upon the Eastern front. Leave papers were inside with the date of return left blank. Opening another box he pulled out ten solid gold coins and a wad of cash.

Van Shielder smiled to himself.

Joe Black was going to pay a friend of his a little visit whilst on leave.

He slammed the metal lid shut and stepped out of the room. Just as he was about to shut the door he spotted a bayonet atop a pile of equipment. He reached in and picked it up.

It was always good to have a blade and he silently cursed himself for nearly leaving without one.

Blades were effective and quiet.

If necessary one could take one's time with a blade- either for information, to send a message....

...or just for the shear pleasure of it.

Van Shielder slid the door shut and left the room. He had one final stop to make in London before he began his journey.

43

Casey flew at a steady pace and was soon over the now familiar English countryside. In the distance he could see other allied planes making their way back to base. The fuel situation seemed to be under control and his plane wasn't handling too badly.

He had time to reflect just how outclassed he had been in the battle. The hotted up Me-109s had it all their way. He needed to get the _Phoenix II_ up and running again.

As he flew over the fields he looked for anything that would give him a clue as to where his plane was hidden. The airbase came into sight and he had nearly given up looking when he spotted a farmhouse. Outside two children were playing and a man in a Tweed jacket turned and waved up to him.

Excitedly he scanned the landscape and saw the river. It wound up and into a forest. Deviating his course to follow its flow he spotted the broken trees. The trees ended and he was flying over a field of yellow grass. Down below, covered and still waiting for him was the _Phoenix II_ – barely a kilometre away from the base perimeter.

No wonder he hadn't see it, he probably flew right over it on take off.

The Allied fighter planes were landing wherever they could. Some of them were in flames and others went down before they made it back. Men were running in all directions around the airfield, some putting out fires and some getting the planes off the runways. Anxious pilots scanned the skies to see who would return.

Casey managed to find a clear patch of grass on the field and guided his Spitfire in. As he throttled down it sputtered and the propeller stopped spinning. Ignoring the problem he concentrated on gliding down. Up ahead a ground crew waved him through and he touched down softly, coming to a stop near the end of the strip.

No sooner had he stopped and popped his canopy were ground crew helping him out of the plane and ushering him off the airfield.

Breathing the fresh air and enjoying stretching his limbs he wandered off and watched as the planes came in. After a while he could tell which ones weren't going to make it. They either flew erratically, their wings tipping side to side or blew black smoke, sometimes with fire licking from the engine.

After watching at least ten planes go down or crash land he retired to his tent. He knew he wouldn't be able to get to the _Phoenix II_ until night had fallen.

44

On a makeshift airfield in Germany Hans Goebel oversaw the repairs to his four remaining planes. The battle had been fierce but it was a successful hunt. Only nine more kills were required for the event change threshold.

Still – he had lost three planes in the last mission. Casey Hunter was out there killing his men.

Hans was forced to admit that Casey was good.

Dangerously good.

Whilst he was alive the mission was in danger. Although that was all about to change. Until then he'd keep his four planes grounded. It hurt his pride badly to do so but the mission was far too important.

45

The streets of London were still busy with traffic despite the frequent air raids. Van Shielder observed the civilians going about their daily business and noted with distaste that they had not given up hope.

_Give them time_ , he thought.

He stopped in front of a Jeweller's store and looked into the window. A young woman came and stood next to him.

"Shopping for someone special?" she asked timidly.

Van Shielder turned and considered the young woman. She was obviously middle class which was not to his taste at all. Still – if he came across her when the Reich's Army looted London he would repay her for annoying him.

A friendly smile spread across his face, "No – although I wish I had such a beautiful young lady as yourself to shop for."

The woman giggled hiding her teeth with one hand.

"Are you on leave?" she asked.

"Alas no," said Van Shielder. "I'm due back at the front – but never mind," he gave her his wolf's grin, "maybe we will meet again under different circumstances some day."

"My name's Mary,"

"Joseph Black – now you'll have to excuse me, the jeweller is a friend of mine and I need to speak to him before I return to the war."

"Good Luck – God save the King,"

"Yes – perhaps," said Van Shielder under his breath as he walked up the stairs into the store.

A bell tinkled as the door opened and shut. Van Shielder reached up and locked it, turning the 'Open' sign over to read 'Closed'.

Inside were cabinets of shining jewellery.

A small man wearing glasses came out from a door behind the counter. In his hands he held a cloth and was concentrating on polishing a ring.

"What can I do for you," he said in annoyed tones.

"Good afternoon Basil,"

The Jeweller stopped polishing.

"Oh, it's you," he said apologetically.

"Just came to ask a favour."

Basil put down the cloth and wiped his hands on his tunic.

"What kind of favour?"

"I just need a message delivered to a friend in Germany – you know how it is."

"I told you before that it's getting dangerous. If they catch me they'll kill me!"

Van Shielder reached inside his overcoat.

Basil stood frozen to the spot holding his breath.

Van Shielder pulled his hand back out and Basil sighed with relief.

"What's wrong Basil, you don't think that I'd hurt you?" said Van Shielder smiling at the small man.

"No," said Basil gathering himself. "Of coarse not."

"I recognise the danger involved," said Van Shielder placing his hand on the counter, "and I pay accordingly."

He removed his hand revealing a stack of ten gold coins. Basil's eyes went wide and he licked his lips.

"This should be enough to see off your debts and have plenty left over, is it not?"

Basil shuffled closer to the coins, like a mouse sniffing the cheese in a trap. His grubby hand reached out-

SLAM!

Van Shielder's hand covered the stack of coins and Basil jumped back. Carefully Van Shielder lifted his hand leaving behind only five coins.

"Half now and the other half when I know my message has been received."

Quickly Basil scooped up the five remaining coins. Van Shielder tossed a piece of folded paper on the counter.

"How will you know if it gets through?"

Van Shielder smiled at the little man. "Do you really want to know?"

Basil looked down at his hands and shuffled the coins nervously.

"Good day Basil," said Van Shielder spinning on his heel.

The bell rang again and the door slammed shut behind the assassin.

Basil stuffed the coins into his vest. He picked up the piece of paper and opened it.The message was coded as usual. Walking into the back room of his shop he reached into a cabinet, pulled out a radio transmitter and connected it to a wire on the desk. Carefully he began tapping out the message in Morse code.

Mitchell was the first back in the tent. He opened the flap and walked over to his cot, dumping his flight gear and pulling off his boots. Blood tricked down his neck but he didn't seem to notice.

"You made it," said Casey.

Mitchell stopped suddenly. He hadn't seen Casey lying on his cot.

"Yes, rather fortunate," said Mitchell not meeting Casey's eye.

He continued to take off his boots.

"You're bleeding," said Casey pointing at his neck.

Mitchell reached up and touched the wound. He pulled his hands away and saw the red blood.

"Just a scratch – I'll live."

Mitchell finally got his boots off and wriggled his toes. He sat quietly staring at his feet until it began to make Casey uncomfortable.

"Some battle," said Mitchell.

"Yeah,"

Mitchell wriggled his toes thoughtfully.

"What happened up there Casey?" he said finally. "You had that German in your sights for a good minute."

"Guns jammed," said Casey flatly. He didn't like lying but he had no choice.

"Bit of bad luck that," said Mitchell.

Casey got the feeling that he didn't believe him.

"Where's Johnson?" said Casey changing the subject.

"Dead – I think."

"I'm sorry to hear that,"

Mitchell rubbed his ginger hair and lay down on his bed.

"Well, at least his nightmare's over," said Mitchell staring at the ceiling. "Somewhere in Germany there's a factory. A smelter pours hot metal into a mould, a machine presses a brass casing, another machine fills the casing with powder andanother machine pushes it all together. Finally some German lass checks the finished product for any defects. Most of the bullets they make go nowhere, but some of the lucky ones end up killing us – I hope the German lass that checks my bullet is pretty. I'd like to think that the bullet that finishes me has been touched by a gentle soul."

Casey didn't know what to say and remained silent. Outside the open tent flap he could see the sun setting. The noise of the airbase vanished as everyone turned in. Mitchell was soon snoring and Casey was left alone with his thoughts.

Jennifer.

He had hardly gotten to know her but missed her badly. He hoped that she was alright but somehow knew she wasn't – in any event he would never know for certain because he was trapped in the past.

The Nazi bastards would pay for what they had done.

Hans would pay.

The sun finally set and the dark blue sky merged into the blood red horizon.Another day had passed. Although Casey was exhausted he knew he had a long night ahead of him.

46

At about midnight Casey rolled off his cot, careful not to make any noise. Mitchell was still snoring as he lifted the tent flap and went outside. A thin fog stuck to the ground but otherwise the night was clear.

Casey made his way through the tracks between the tents, careful to be quiet. In the distance a drunken soldier was singing badly. Another voice yelled at the soldier to be quiet. All over the airfield the lights were out. It was as though everyone had simply abandoned the camp.

He took a left turn and came to the main track. To the right was the Head Quarters, a farmhouse commandeered by the Royal Air Force. Casey turned left again and walked towards the black outline of the rusty sheds.

Suddenly he heard footsteps ahead, crunching on the dirt.

Quickly he moved off the track and between two tents. The footsteps grew nearer and he held his breath. Two men in uniform were talking in low tones as they made their way along the track. They walked past the tent where Casey was hiding and kept going.

Casey was up and moving as soon as he was sure it would be safe. He reached the sheds and peered inside. Nothing moved amongst the black shapes within. Casey went in and began to feel his way around. A damaged Hurricane took up most of the space on one side and he started to search there.

It didn't take him long to find a tin of resin and some repair patches. He placed these near the entrance to the shed and then went back in. He knew the Hydraulics were damaged and he needed some tubing. As he was rustling around on the work bench his elbow bumped a spanner. It fell to the ground making a loud metallic ring.

"What! Who is it – what do you want!" said a voice from within the shed.

Casey froze still.

"I know...what you want...what do you want?" mumbled the voice.

Casey's heart was beating so hard in his chest he was afraid the noise would give him away.

After what seemed forever the man in the shed began to snore loudly.

With the precision of a surgeon Casey felt across the bench. When he moved his feet he did it slowly and carefully. Finally he managed to find a length of tubing and two fasteners. The last item was the fuel pump. It was the biggest and heaviest piece of equipment.

Carefully he unscrewed it from the barrel and awkwardly carried it to the front of the shed. Picking up the resin and canvas patches he peered outside. The road looked clear and he quickly walked away from the workshop and towards the airfield.

The cold air burned his lungs but he was glad to be out in the open again. Mentally he prepared himself for the next part of his plan. If he got caught then it was all for nothing. Hans would cause the Event Change and it was goodbye to the rest of the free world.

Casey conjured a mental picture of Ron.

"You can do it kiddo," he said to himself.

He reached the airfield and found a jeep already loaded with two fuel drums. He tapped the side gently and the drums made full sound. Dumping the rest of his stolen goods into the rear tray he jumped into the driver's seat. The keys weren't in the ignition but he was pretty sure there was no car alarm to worry about.

Pulling out his knife he soon extracted the ignition barrel and had cut both the wires. As soon as they touched the jeep would cough and splutter before springing to life.

Casey took a moment to calm himself down.

"OK," he said to himself. "Do it!"

He touched the wires and the Jeep started straight away. The headlights flashed on lighting up a path through the fog. Casey crunched the jeep into gear and steered for the main road out of camp.

"What's all this about!" came a voice from the direction of Head Quarters.

Casey floored it.

The wheels spun up mud and the jeep took off. Somewhere up ahead men were moving in the darkness.

"Halt!"

Casey knew what was coming next and ducked. A volley of rifle fire struck the jeep and bullets snapped over head. He maintained his course and steered along the road as best he could. The front of the jeep clipped a tent rope and pulled the canvas down. Angry shouts came from behind him and lights began to go on all over the camp. Casey looked up just in time to see four soldiers dive out of the way.

The jeep continued to slide along the road. Up ahead the exit to the base was blocked by a pole. A guard at the gate raised his rifle but the jeep was going too fast and burst through the barrier, knocking the man to the ground.

Casey sat up and steered the jeep along the rough road. Random shots were fired after him but went well wide. In the distance he heard engines starting up.

"Just great," he said.

A farm gate came up on his right and he turned hard. The jeep slid sideways, the wheels spinning in the dirt. The tyres grabbed purchase and pushed the jeep forwards and neatly through the gate. Casey killed his headlights and pulled over.

Behind him three trucks rushed down the main road and headed over the hill. He waited until he couldn't hear their engines before heading off again.

In the dark it was hard to get his bearings. Turning off the main road brought him into a field. In the distance he could see the dark outline of trees. After driving for about five minutes he heard a stream.

Suddenly the ground before him dropped. The front of the jeep crunched into hard dirt and water started coming in through the floor. Casey jammed his foot down on the accelerator but the jeep hardly moved. Instead he began to go downstream, the water getting higher.

"Oh crap," said Casey.

The jeep bumped something and he floored it again. This time the Jeep shot forward and up the bank on the other side. The rough ground of the riverbank gave way to the smooth surface of a field.

Casey risked switching on the headlights and was elated when he saw the outline of the _Phoenix II_ up ahead.

After pulling up alongside the plane he worked quickly. The fuel was his first priority and pumping feverishly he soon had both barrels into the tanks.

The patching was easier but took longer, as it was hard to see in the dark. Lastly he checked the hydraulics. The hose had been neatly cut by a bullet. The controls on the left wing wouldn't work without them. Using his knife he cut a length of tube and repaired the line. Opening up the engine bay hatch he refilled the liquid that needed to be pumped to the controls.

It was a rough job but he hoped it worked.

Just as he was about to jump down off the plane he noticed a light coming from inside the cockpit. He peered in and saw that the onboard computer was alight. After popping the canopy he pulled the computer from its housing and jumped down.

Taking a seat next to the plane he saw that the screen was showing a menu.

He touched the button on the screen marked "Mission Briefing" and a brief synopsis of script appeared. He read it quickly.

_If all goes well Casey you'll be just about to go into battle over Southern England. Target any and all Me-109's marked with a red tail fin. They're the bad guys. From the 21_ st _to the 31_ st _of October they aim to destroy thirty allied fighter planes - a number significant enough to cause an Event Change in the war. Our information tells us there are ten enemy planes in total. You probably won't be able to take them all in one go so head to the airbase just north of London. Australian Pilots were based there and your identification papers should see you out for the duration of the mission._

When all ten enemy planes have been destroyed follow the co-ordinates on this device to the Time Tear.

Good luck.

Casey lowered the computer. The 31st of October was just two days away. Quickly he returned to the main menu on the computer. He touched the button marked "Mission Co-ordinates"

The screen came up blank.

Obviously they hadn't been programmed in yet.

Shaking his head he climbed back up the plane and put the computer in its slot.

Looking out over the field he searched for somewhere to hide the jeep. At the bottom of the hill the fog was thicker than everywhere else.

Casey jumped in the driver's seat and rolled the jeep down the hill. When he was almost at the bottom he got out and walked the rest of the way. Just as he suspected there was a dam beneath the fog.

Walking back up to the jeep he released the hand break and gave it a push. The jeep rolled down the hill and struck the water with a splash. Casey watched until it sank and then began to make his way back to the base on foot.

47

Hans entered the tent ofSS Corporal Muller.

"Any word?"

Muller put down his pen and shook his head. "Casey Hunter still lives."

"When will that change?"

"Our Agent has located him in an airbase near Bristol. He has also requested an air raid on the base tonight. I assume that this is a distraction for the assassination. By tomorrow this Casey Hunter will be dead – I assure you. The Snow Wolf is the very best assassin we have."

Hans allowed himself a cruel smile, "Will he suffer?"

"More than likely," said Muller matter of factly. "Unless we specify an accidental death the Snow Wolf tends to take his time with his victims. A rather disturbing character trait that we overlook due to his efficiency."

"Excellent," said Hans. "see that the planes are ready to fly tomorrow morning. The Reich will rule for a thousand years."

48

Casey awoke the next morning to an empty tent. He rose and started to get dressed when the flap was pulled open.

"The major wants to see you," said Mitchell poking his head in.

"Alright," said Casey trying to remain calm. "I'll just get dressed."

Casey quickly pulled on his clothes and left the tent. Mitchell walked with him to headquarters but didn't say anything. Two guards stood aside and let them pass through the front door.

Inside the main room were five other pilots chattering to each other. Casey noted immediately that none of them were British. Two French pilots were talking to an Australian about yesterday's battle whilst an American and a Canadian were wondering why they were here.

"Attention!" said one of the guards.

The Major walked into the room. All the soldiers except the Australian stood rigid. Only when the others had organised themselves did the Australian make half a show of standing straight.

"At ease!"

The men changed posture and the Major looked down his moustache at them all before speaking.

"Last night someone took a base vehicle for a joy ride. Also some equipment is missing from the sheds. You lot can't be accounted for last night so until further notice you're all grounded.

"Base regulations require all men to be in their quarters from sunset to sunrise. I know that this isn't always strictly enforced – but until I find out who took the vehicle it will be."

The Colonel stood directly in front of the Australian pilot and stared him in the eye. The Australian returned the stare and smiled.

"There had better not be any further night time excursions under my command. Is that clear!"

"No worries boss," said the Australian.

The Colonel turned and left the room.

"Does this mean I won't be able to get shot at today?" said the Australian as he walked out the front door.

The other pilots shrugged and left Headquarters.

"Where were you last night?" said Mitchell as they walked back to their tent.

Casey didn't know what to tell him.

"Do you trust me?"

"I don't think you're in with the Germans," said Mitchell.

"I'm not," said Casey. "Believe me I'm not. It's something else though. Something important and I can't talk about it."

"Alright then," said Mitchell. "I won't ask again – if you say you're with us then I believe you."

"Thanks," said Casey.

Van Shielder drove his car up to the main gates of the airbase.

The guard walked in front of him and signalled for him to stop.

"What's your business?"

"I'm here to visit a friend of mine,"

"Sorry mate," said the guard, "base is closed. Some idiot stole a jeep last night. The Major's ordered that only personnel with official business can come in."

Van Shielder tapped the steering wheel.

"I go back to the front tomorrow, can't I just-"

"Sorry," interrupted the guard. "I wish I could help you but the Major'd have me if he found out."

"Can you at least tell me if my friend is here?"

"What's his name?"

"Casey Hunter."

The guard shook his head. "Don't know him. There's a lot of people here though. I can try and get a message to him if you like."

"Tell him to go to Headquarters at Five O'clock sharp. I'll try to ring him there," said Van Shielder. He put the vehicle into reverse and turned around, heading back down the road he had come.

"Rude bastard," said the guard returning to his post.

Van Shielder parked his car at the base of the first hill he came to. Getting out he reached into the back and took out his rifle. From a pocket he pulled out the No.32 MkI scope and attached it. Slinging the rifle over his shoulder he began to walk up the hill.

He checked his watch.

3:30pm

Plenty of time to get his sights in.

Casey was lazing on his cot trying to think of a way to get to the _Phoenix II_ when one of the base guards opened the tent.

"You Casey Hunter?"

_What now?_ He thought.

"That's me."

"Some friend of yours at the gate said he was going to call you at seventeen hundred at base HQ."

Casey looked puzzled.

"Did he give you his name?"

"No, he just drove off."

The guard dropped the flap and left before Casey could ask him anymore questions. Sitting on his bed he wondered who it could possibly be.

Perhaps they sent someone back to help?

Casey sat pondering the cryptic message.

The only way to find out would be to go to Head Quarters at five O'clock and see what happened.

Van Shielder lay on the ground just below the crest of the hill. A convenient blackberry bush provided all the concealment he needed.

He checked his range.

1000 meters.

A long shot but not impossible.

Wind?

The sock on the runway showed a 5-7 km/h wind blowing to the west.

Van Shielder reached forward and adjusted the scope.

Easing himself into position he placed his cheek against the wooden stock and peered through the crosshairs. It showed a clear shot to the front of the Base Headquarters.

Van Shielder checked his watch and waited.

At 4:50pm Casey pulled himself up from his bunk and walked outside the tent. Getting his bearings he began to walk towards the headquarters building – not knowing what to expect he took his weapons with him.

Too many people were coming and going. Van Shielder cursed under his breath.

_Calm down_ , he told himself, _you will know which one._

His watch hand ticked ever towards 5:00pm.

Two men walking together went up the steps and entered the HQ.

Not them,

He breathed steadily. In through his nose and out through his mouth.

Another man walked towards the building. He was young and had short spiky blonde hair. Van Shielder noticed he was wearing a pilot's uniform. The man looked around before walking up the steps of the building. Van Shielder placed the cross hairs on the man's chest. His finger touched the cold metal of the trigger.

The Pilot walked up the steps and into the building.

Van Shielder breathed out.

He waited.

A minute passed and the Pilot walked out again.

Van Shielder couldn't tell what it was but the pilot looked out of place.

In an instant he had made up his mind.

"So, Casey Hunter. That is what you look like," he said.

He eased his finger off the trigger, reached forward and took the sight off the rifle.

A kill would be possible at this range but he needed to be certain. He would also almost certainly be captured.

Infiltration and a close hit was the only way.

Carefully he crawled back up over the hill. When he was over the ridge he slung his rifle and walked back to his car.

Slightly confused Casey headed back to his tent. At Headquarters there was no message left for him – and the clerk advised him that the phone was strictly for the use of officers.The rows of tents cast long shadows in the rays of the sun. The last of the planes were coming in for the day and pilots straggled tiredly back to their coarse field lodgings.

Somewhere someone took up a tune on the harmonica.

Back at the tent Mitchell was already asleep, his boots thrown to the floor beside him. Casey sat down on his own bed. The camp was almost completely quiet.

Nervously he rubbed his hands together.

The mystery phone call really bothered him.

What did it mean?

He stood up and paced slowly around the tent. His eye caught Johnson's steel kit box. He looked at Mitchell fast asleep.

He looked back at the box.

Slowly he edged towards Johnson's bed and sat down. The steel kit box was only a few feet away. Casey knew it might contain weapons, or other useful items he could use. Stealing was wrong, but dying would be worse. With a sweaty hand he reached out and lifted the lid. Pausing when it creaked.

He breathed out once and flipped it all the way open.

Inside he saw what he was looking for laying right on top.

A spare magazine.

He snatched it out of the box and closed the lid.

Mitchell stirred and Casey slid off the bunk, feeling like a thief, and sat back down on his own bunk.

He rolled over to face the tent wall and pulled his own pistol out. The ammunition inside was clearly ruined from his swim in the river. He ejected the magazine and tossed it under the bed. Quickly he slapped in the new one.

Re-holstering the weapon Casey closed his eyes and fell into a troubled sleep. He knew that tomorrow was his last chance to stop Hans Goebel. He would have to escape the camp.

49

BOOM!

Casey sat upright, sweat beading off his forehead.

"What the bloody hell?" said Mitchell.

The tent was lit up like a light bulb from some fantastic explosion outside.

Silence again.

Both men sat still, listening to each other breath the stale air.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

"Air raid!" said Mitchell. "Head for the dugouts – follow me!"

Mitchell was up and running in just his underwear and bare feet. Outside the tent it was chaos as the whole base came to life.

Overhead could be heard the familiar drone of aircraft and in the distance was the steady thump of bombs landing.

The pilots were crowded in like cattle as they made for the dugouts near the permitter. In the crush Casey was separated from Mitchell.

A bomb landed on the airfield shaking the ground, shattering planes and sending shrapnel through the packed human mass. A brief flash of light followed the explosion. Somewhere someone screamed.

Casey began to push his way to the edge. This might be his only chance to leave the base. The confusion of the air raid would be the perfect distraction.

In front of him amidst the crowd of bobbing heads Van Shielder closed in on his prey. In his hand he held the bayonet so that the blade pointed down and was concealed by his forearm. He calmly pushed through the panicking throng, his eyes never leaving Casey Hunter.

He was mildly surprised when Casey made for the edge of the crowd and disappeared amongst the tents.

_What are you up to?_ Thought Van Shielder, pushing his way out of the massed bodies.

Now that he was away from the crowd Casey moved quickly towards the airfield. Above him he heard bombs falling as another payload was released. He moved until he thought his nerves couldn't stand it any longer.

The falling bombs screamed through the air.

He dove forward just as the explosions rocked the ground like an earthquake. With his ears ringing he got unsteadily to his feet and kept moving. The foul taste of high explosives stung his mouth and nose

Behind him Van Shielder moved quickly from tent to tent, crouched low. He pushed the bayonet back into its sheath and drew his pistol. The bombs and AA guns would mask any shots.

Up ahead an anti-aircraft gun began to fire a steady stream of tracers into the air and a spotlight searched the black skies for targets.

Casey hit the main road of the base and made for the repair shed.

He hit the tin wall at full pace and slumped against it, breathing hard. Along the main track he could see the exit to the base. In the dull light of the explosions he could see that the guards had left it to seek shelter in one of the fox holes near the perimeter.

Sucking in deep breaths he prepared himself for a final dash.

He looked around the corner.

PING! PING!

Casey hit the deck as bullets slammed into the tin shed. He rolled on his stomach inside the building and had his Browning Hi-Power pistol out in a flash.

Van Shielder was surprised at Casey's reflexes.

He moved crouched over towards the shed.

Casey aimed.

BANG! BANG!

Van Shielder dove to the side, a bullet grazed his leg.

Casey stood up and changed position just as another three shots slammed through the tin shed and hit directly where he had be lying down.

Casey waited in the dark under the wing of a plane. Outside the wide shed doors he could clearly see the black outlines of the camp in the explosions of the bombs. His ears strained over the gunfire and explosions for the footsteps of his attacker.

He gripped the pistol tightly. Hans wasn't even man enough to try and take him out in the air – he had to send in a sneak assassin to do the dirty work.

Out of the corner of his eye Casey saw movement. Turning on the spot he fired three times, the flashes from the gun obscuring his vision.

As soon as he stopped shooting he ran for the other side of the building. Straight away shots rang out, smashing into the planes in the shed and shattering glass jars on shelves.

Casey dove forward and rolled over in mid air, firing his gun at the shadows until the slide locked open.

A bullet grazed his coat and he felt the heat from the hot lead as it passed close to his skin.

_Click_ , from the dark.

The assassin had just gone empty.

In a split second Casey was on his feet. He pulled his Fairburn-Skykes fighting knife from its sheath and lunged forward at the shapeless shadows in front of him.

A figure moved from the dark. Casey saw the flash of a blade and only just managed to parry it. A strong hand pushed on his back as he went past and Casey stumbled away.

Turning around Casey saw his assassin for the first time. He was tall and had a cold emotionless face.

"You surprise me Mr Hunter, you're much better sport than I thought you would be."

Casey held the blade of the knife close to him as he had been taught. The two men circled each other. One was a trained killer and the other a superb athlete with supernatural reflexes.

"They didn't mention you would be so hard to kill,"

The assassin lunged forward and Casey baulked at the feint. Van Shielder smiled.

"A little jumpy?"

Casey moved forward slowly and the assassin matched his steps backing away.

"Someone's been training you with the knife," said Van Shielder. "But you hold it a little too close..."

Van Shielder sprung forward with the speed of a snake strike. Casey leaned his body back and retreated. The bayonet cut through his coat and just pierced his skin. Van Shielder pressed is attack with a broad backhand sweep.

Casey ducked and felt the knife brush his hair. Remembering his lessons he regathered himself and moved forwards into his attacker, swinging his own knife towards the assassin's side.

Surprised at the move Van Shielder was caught off balance, but not off guard. He stopped Casey's hand just short of it hitting its mark. Casey pushed Van Shielder on his chest and he fell back into the darkness of the hanger.

"Very good, Mr Hunter," came Van Shielder's voice. "I don't think I've had such a challenge in years."

Casey turned on the spot, following Van Shielder's voice around the room.

Suddenly the Assassin jumped down from the nose of the Hurricane. Casey just managed to turn and see the attack. Van Shielder's bayonet sliced through the air. The assassin fell onto him and both men struck the ground. Van Shielder had the advantage and slashed with an animal like ferocity at Casey's face. Casey moved his head from side to side and the bayonet of the assassin struck sparks from the concrete floor.

A brilliant white light suddenly erupted as the sparks struck an open tin on the hanger floor. Fire burst out showering both men with a burning liquid. Being on top Van Shielder caught most of the flaming goo and Casey looked up at the terrible apparition of the assassin, flames rising up off his clothes and an insane look of hatred on his face.

Casey pushed up as hard as he could and the assassin rolled off him. Ignoring the patches of fire on his own clothes he regathered his feet and stood at guard with his knife.

Breathing hard and almost completely on fire Van Shielder made a wild lunge. Casey stepped to one side and saw that the assassin had overextended himself. As the assassin tried to pull his bayonet back in close Casey stepped forward, grabbing the assassin's knife hand.

Van Shielder struggled to pull back and Casey stepped in. The assassin stumbled off balance. Casey stepped down and under the knife arm of the assassin. He swung his Fairburn-Skykes Fighting Knife in a broad back hand arc. It struck Van Shielder's ribs, slicing through them and puncturing a lung.

The assassin gasped for air but only drew in blood.

Casey released his grip and retreated.

Blood came from the corner of Van Shielder's mouth. Casey looked down and saw blood on his own hands. Van Shielder's legs wobbled as he again made to advance on Casey.

Casey attacked again. Van Shielder moved his knife arm up in a weak defensive gesture. Casey knocked it out of the way with his own knife and slashed once, twice and on the third time struck the artery in Van Shielder's neck. Blood sprayed like a fountain, covering Casey's uniform.

Van Shielder dropped to the floor.

Dead.

Casey patted out the fires on his clothing. He realised that the bombs had stopped falling. He was left in the silence with the dead body of his would be assassin, the British soldier's uniform still burning.

In his hand he held the bloody blade that had done the deed. His own uniform was soaked in the man's blood and he could also feel it on his face and in his hair.

It was at that moment that the guards burst into the grisly scene.

They only took a moment to take in the sight before they raised their rifles.

"Drop the knife!"

Casey was surrounded.

He let the handle of the knife slip out of his hands and the blade rang against the concrete floor.

50

Hans Goebel pushed aside his tent flap and strode out onto the field. He examined his four remaining planes.

Four planes, one kill each.

Victory was in his grasp.

And what of Casey Hunter? Dead probably.

Hans smiled at the thought.

The blood red sky of the morning called to him and he walked across the damp grass of the runway to his red tailed Me-109.

51

The first rays of the sun shone through the grimy glass of the window. The room was small and was only furnished with a bed. The door was closed and two soldiers stood guard outside it. Another soldier guarded the window.

Casey sat up, still in his charred uniform.

He went to wipe the sleep out of his eyes and fumbled with a heavy chain.

_Oh yeah_ , he remembered, _handcuffs_.

He stood up and went to the window. He could see the horizon in the distance. Today was the day. Make or break time and he was shackled in a guarded room. Hans would get his remaining kills and the world would become a Nazi Disneyland.

Casey paced the room trying to think.

He didn't have long.

It was impossible.

The door opened and the Major stormed in.

"Do you know how much trouble you're in?" he asked looking down Casey at his moustache.

"Is it really that bad?" asked Casey sarcastically.

"Do you know what we do with spies?"

_Oh oh,_ , thought Casey.

"They get the firing squad."

"I'm not a spy."

"If you co-operate we may be able to help you."

"I'm not a spy," said Casey.

The Colonel stamped his foot in anger. "There's no use denying it! There's no record of a 'Casey Hunter' with the Australian Air Force. You stole a jeep from a British Air Base and you've killed a British solider. We caught you with the knife."

"He's not a British soldier! He's a German assassin."

The Major laughed, "Unlike you he had papers. His name is Joseph Black.He had a record with our war office. You are the assassin."

Casey shook his head, "No – I'm from the future. I came back to save the war by killing other pilots from the future who were sent back by Nazi's who historically lose. I've only got four more to kill but now I won't be able to because you've arrested me! Now the future is going to be some Nazi Paradise so I sure as hell hope for your sake that you're not Jewish, black, Hispanic, Asian a Gypsie or a homosexual."

The Colonel shook with anger.

"You're not gay are you?" said Casey.

The prim and proper officer stormed out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him.

Casey wiped the perspiration from his forehead. He knew that he wouldn't be believed but it felt good just to say it anyway.

How long did he have until Hans would be flying over English soil? If he had left at dawn then it was about twenty minutes.

Not long.

Think!

Casey examined the room. It was completely bare. Four walls, one door and one window. A single story farmhouse.

He looked up.

Just a ceiling with an electric light.

No manhole.

Just plaster...

Just plaster

Casey examined the bed. It was of simple steel construction.

Perfect.

Getting up he pulled it across the floor as quietly as he could. Gently he pushed it up against he door. He then stood on the bed and reached up for the light fitting. Applying his weight he pulled down. It resisted for a moment before the fitting came loose and the wire peeled away from the plaster. Making sure the light switch was off he pulled the fitting apart. The two wires separated and he carefully tied them to the steel bed frame.

Here goes,

Casey stood on the bed and swung the chains of his cuffs at the roof. A crack stretched across the ceiling and white powder fell down.

The door handled turned and the guards tried to open it.

"He's jammed it, give me a hand!" said the guard on the other side.

Casey swung the chain up again and it crunched into the plaster, making an indentation.

The window was smashed inwards with a rifle. The guard was jumping up to strike out the panes of glass.

Using all is strength Casey swung the chains again. This time large chunks of plaster fell down and the room was filled with white dust. Coughing from the powder Casey saw that the hole was big enough.

The guards on the other side of the door struck against it and the bed moved, nearly causing Casey to lose his balance. The guard at the window was trying to climb the sill.

Casey flicked the light switch on, bounced off the bed and grabbed the exposed ceiling beams. In a moment he pulled himself up into the roof space. Narrow slits of light shone through the thatching.

Below him the guards pushed the door. Without Casey's weight on the bed it opened. They rushed into the room. The first guard grabbed the bed frame as he entered.

Casey heard electricity snap and the guard scream.

Pushing his way through the thatch he breathed fresh air.

A gunshot rang out below him and a bullet smashed through the roof. Not wasting any time he climbed up onto the roof and ran along the length of the house. Below him men had turned to see what the gunshot was all about. He hit the edge of the house and dropped to the dirt.

The Major was waiting for him and raised a pistol. Casey swung his chains upwards and knocked the gun aside.

Then he ran.

52

Hans Goebel guided his super fighters towards the British Air fields. Four easy kills was all he needed. Four dead pilots. Time was critical but he was confident he could do it. His computer was counting down the minutes until he would return victorious to his uncle and take his place of honour in the Reich.

The famous white cliffs of the British coast came into view. Hans switched on his sights and the target reticle glowed red in front of him.

53

Casey Hunter zig zagged his way out of the camp. Bullets popped and crackled in the air around him. His boots kicked up dust until he reached the outer perimeter just as the guard was unslinging his rifle.

Casey ran harder.

The guard fumbled to pull the bolt on his gun back. Casey swung the chain of his cuffs at the guard and knocked him to the ground. A volley of gunfire from behind him slammed into the guard shed.

How he hadn't been hit he didn't know.

Turning away from the main road Casey ran into the fields and towards the woods. The crowd following him now numbered some fifty men. The Major was screaming orders that were half ignored as men ran as fast as they could.

Casey's lungs burned and each breath was strained. The escape effort had taken a huge amount of energy.

He looked behind him.

Not good.

They were close.

As he ran over the next rise in the grassy field he saw the _Phoenix II_ just on the tree line of the forest. Now that he was on the flat and running straight the bullets were getting accurate, he could feel them whistling past him.

Not much further – push it, he thought.

From somewhere within him he found a second wind and pumped his legs even harder. When he got to the _Phoenix II_ he jumped up and onto the wing. A bullet punched a neat hole in the side window as he flipped the canopy.

In a second he was in the seat.

He pressed the red start button.

The engine gave a sick whine.

In front of him the Major was organising the men into a firing line.

Casey tried again – the engine didn't kick over.

"Ready," said the Major.

"Come on!" shouted Casey slapping the start button again.

"Aim!"

The engine spluttered for a moment and then stalled.

"I'm screwed," said Casey pushing the button one more time.

"Fire!"

54

Hans Goebel steered his squadron of four planes straight for the airfields, safe in the knowledge there'd be no pilots capable of stopping him. It didn't take long until he came across the base.

"Follow me in, aim for the tents and pilots. Leave the planes for now," said Hans.

The four planes tipped their wings and began a screaming dive.

Pilots scattered in all directions at the sight of the red tailed Me-109's bearing down upon them.

The gunfire from the squadron came in a wave. On the first run two pilots fell. Spitfires and Hurricanes began to scramble into the air.

Two down, two to go.

Hans checked the clock.

Half an hour until departure.

Plenty of time.

"OK, split up and call in any kills. We need two more but any others are a welcome bonus."

The four planes broke formation and circled the air field for a return run.

55

The engine of the _Phoenix II_ roared to life and the propeller in front of Casey became a blur. A volley of bullets hit the spinning propeller and were sent in all directions.

Saying a silent prayer Casey gunned the throttle.

Shooting out of the bushes Casey steered straight at the line of soldiers as they quickly worked the bolts on their rifles.

He needed more speed or he'd never clear them.

"Ready!" said the Major. Only half the men were.

"Aim!"

Casey pressed the button on the _Phoenix II's_ control stick that he wasn't supposed to touch.

Flames shot out from under the wings as the rockets engaged.

The _Phoenix II_ was airborne.

The line of soldiers flattened themselves on the ground. The Major was too slow and the rockets singed his hat as the _Phoenix II_ passed over and the draft from it's backwash sent him spinning into the bushes.

"Casey Hunter is in the air gentleman!" said Casey over his mike.

The _Phoenix II_ wheeled around and zeroed in on a red tailed Me-109 that was lining up a Spitfire in the midst of takeoff.

Hans Goebel was furious.

The SS had failed him.

Casey Hunter lived.

"You three take out Hunter, I'll get the rest of the kills myself," said Hans.

Looking down he saw the _Phoenix II_ dive on one of his comrades. The red tailed Me-109 was blow to pieces and crashed into the earth below.

"Better make that you two," came Casey's voice over the mike.

"Would somebody kill that boy!" said Hans.

56

The other two Me-109's weren't to be caught off guard so easily.They had the height advantage and dove in behind him, their cannons blazing steady bursts of well aimed tracers.

Casey was ready for them and sent the _Phoenix II_ into a tight roll. The enemy pilots were up to it and followed the move perfectly whilst still firing.

"How much are they paying you guys?" asked Casey over the mike. "Is it worth it?"

All he got in reply was more bullets.

"So it's going to be like that then?" said Casey.

He pulled back on the stick and the _Phoenix II_ soared up into the sky. Now he had the height advantage, but the enemy were still on his tail.

The three planes strove for altitude and speed. Casey was pressed into back into his seat and felt gravity sucking at his body.

"What sort of G's can you boys take?" said Casey tipping the wings of the _Phoenix II_ into a steep dive.

The two enemy planes didn't even hesitate to follow.

Together they all shot towards earth. The speedometer on Casey's dash was at its maximum reading and the needle was still twitching. The blood in his body was pushed to his limbs away from his head. White spots appeared before his eyes and he felt dizzy.

Behind him the Me-109's were having trouble aiming and their shots started to go wide.

"Still with me," said Casey in a strained voice.

His face felt like it was being peeled off and his vision began to black out.

_Breath_ , he thought as his vision was lost.

Behind him one of the Me-109's pulled awkwardly out of the turn and headed straight for the ground.

Casey concentrated on easing the controls.

Blood flow began to return and his vision came back just in time to see the enemy plane crash into the runway below.

Two left.

Other planes had started to get into the air and Hans Goebel was straight onto a Hurricane. His plane was easily faster and it only took a moment for him to line it up and let loose.

The tracer rounds tore into the camouflaged canvas wing of the Hurricane blowing it clean off. The plane spun like a leaf towards the ground. Hans looked over his shoulder and saw the pilot bail out.

Wheeling around he waited for the shoot to open.

The allied pilot dangled beneath the white canopy of the parachute and stared wide eyed at the incoming plane.

Showing no mercy for a beaten foe Hans let loose with all guns and blew the body of the pilot to pieces. The white parachute, now spattered with blood, drifted to earth. Where once there had been a man there was just a bloodied harness hanging in the breeze.

Hans looked at the time.

Five minutes.

One kill remaining.

He pushed his plane into a turn and circled the battle, looking for his final victim.

Try as he might Casey couldn't shake the second plane.

_I'm all out of tricks_ , he thought.

A burst of tracer went past and a couple of the rounds punctured the _Phoenix II_ 's metal skin.

Even though he was weaving as best he could he knew the end was near. It was only a matter of time...

"I'm on him Hunter!" came Mitchell's voice over the mike. A Spitfire came from the clouds firing bullets as it went. The red tailed Me-109 broke off its attack and tried to evade Mitchell's fire.

It didn't do any good.

The bullets ran up along the wing, shattered the canopy and ran up the other wing. The red tailed Me-109 was Swiss cheese. Smoke began pouring from it and it dropped out of the sky with the engine sounding it's death scream.

"Thanks buddy!" said Casey. "I think that makes us even."

Hans Goebel was scanning for an easy kill. There was none. He looked to his left and nearly lost the controls with shock. Casey Hunter had pulled up alongside him in the Phoenix II and was staring straight at him.

"Just you and me now Hans. You can't run anymore."

"I've never run from a fight in my life."

"No, you just rig it so that you're assured to win. Not this time though. Nervous?"

"Let's do it then!" said Hans pitching his plane towards Casey.

It was only Casey's reflexes that allowed him to pull back and avoid a collision. Hans immediately went into a tight turn and Casey followed him. Both planes throttled down and began to circle. Casey and Hans eyeballed each other through the glass roofs of their cockpits as the world spun below them.

"You can't beat me Hunter," said Hans. "I was always better."

"How much time have you got left Hans?" said Casey.

Hans flashed him an angry looked and pulled out of the turn. Casey was on him straight away, both planes diving for the ground.

Hans flew so low that his propeller was cutting the unripened wheat in the fields. Casey was slightly higher. He lined up the red tail of the Me-109 and let a burst go. The red hot bullets shot in a bending line, just missing the right wing of Hans' plane and scarring a long trail in the dirt.

"How does it feel Hans?" said Casey.

The Me-109 pulled off to the right and just high enough to skim the tree tops of the forest.

Hans was sweating so much he was soaked. His hands could barely hold the controls. All thought of victory had left his mind and now he only thought of survival. The clock in front of him ticked down. Two minutes. He followed the directions of his computer as best he could whilst still dodging bullets.

He wasn't going to make it.

The field of the Brauer Metals Corporation had been transformed into a Nazi Parade. All of the National Offensive Soldiers were turned out in full uniform. On the field a one hundred foot long red white and black flag was stretched tight. A giant swastika was emblazoned in the middle of the white circle.

The who's who of Neo Nazi's stood on a podium in front of the massed gathering.

Nazi flags were on display and at the centre stage stood Karl Goebel. He opened a gold watch, a family heirloom that had been taken from a slaughtered Jewish Banker.

One minute and thirty seconds remaining.

Shortly his nephew would appear in the sky above them and the world would have changed forever.

In the audience everyone had turned their heads up in anticipation of the moment.

Casey continued to fire steady controlled bursts at Hans whilst he weaved about the sky.

"Come on you son of a bitch!" said Casey. All of a sudden his engine coughed.

"Not now baby," he said to the _Phoenix II_ – "just a little longer."

Ahead of him Hans straightened his flight.

Casey held his finger off the trigger for just a moment.

What's he doing?

Casey felt his ears pop and saw the air swirl in front of him.

Time had run out for Hans Goebel.

Casey fired on full burst. The smell of cordite filled the cockpit and the cannons on the wings glowed a dull red. The tracer rounds chewed up Han's plane instantly turning it into a fireball of wreckage.

The black tear in the sky took shape.

Casey closed his eyes and felt the change in pressure as he was sucked into the gaping void right behind Hans' flaming plane.

Karl Goebel looked at his gold watch. The second hand ticked towards the twelve...then passed it.

Looking up into the sky he wondered whether the Event Change had occurred.

He didn't feel any different.

The sky swirled above the crowd and a noise like thunder accompanied the burning wreck of the Me-109 that suddenly appeared above the crowd.

The assembled Nazi's tried to scramble out of the way and a panic ensued. Karl ducked down and looked up at his nephew's burning plane as it flew overhead so close that he felt the heat from the flames.

The plane crashed into the earth behind him, throwing up the bodies of any National Offensive Soldiers that got in its way.

Stunned, Karl Goebel managed to get to his feet. There was a trail gouged in the field leading up to where the plane had stopped. Bodies of men were strewn about and the wounded began to scream. He turned at the sound of another engine.

Casey's ears popped and he opened his eyes.

Before him was assembled the Nazi organisation that had started the whole mess and on the podium stood Karl Goebel, outlined by a one hundred foot tall Nazi flag spread out on the ground.

Casey pushed the trigger down as hard as he could.

Bullets streamed from the cannons, chewing up the dirt in a clean path towards Karl Goebel. The old man tried to run but Casey easily adjusted the controls and ran him through with the beam of red hot bullets.

Karl Goebel's torso exploded and he fell to the ground stone dead.

Casey tipped the wings of the plane.

In his sights were the packed masses of Nazi soldiers.

Without any hesitation he began mowing them down.

On a rooftop about three kilometres away from the factory site Marcus James looked through a spotting scope and was stunned at what he saw.

Casey wasn't supposed to be here, it was just supposed to be the enemy.

How had he managed to go through the enemy's portal?

Time enough to think about that later, thought Marcus as he stood up and packed away his scope.

Parked at the bottom of the building was his Porsche 911. Somehow he had managed to convince the agency he might need one- as it turned out he would.

Casey strafed the crowd until he ran out of ammunition. The Germany First organisation was completely destroyed. The ground was a veritable scene of a massacre. The Nazi flag was shredded from his gunfire and stained with the blood of its Neo Nazi followers.

The eye atop the missile silos opened and two LFK –NG missiles shot out. Once in the air the missiles steadied themselves, the bright tale flames fired and immediately they sought out the _Phoenix II_.

Marcus James spun the wheels of his Porsche and took off along the busy German streets. Leaning forward over the dashboard he looked up and saw the _Phoenix II_ flying in a dead straight line over the suburbs of Berlin.

"Where are you going kid?" said Marcus taking a tight turn, the wheels of his care screeching.

Then his heart sank. He saw the two missiles following the _Phoenix II_ and knew that Casey didn't stand a chance.

In the air Casey saw the missiles gaining on him quickly. He estimated he had less than thirty seconds. In the near distance he saw the Tower of Berlin and the Olympic Stadium. He hoped there were no soccer games on today.

The rooftops of houses flew beneath him and he kept a dead straight course.

Twenty seconds now.

The huge shape of the Berlin Tower whizzed by.

Ten seconds.

It was going to be close.

Marcus gripped the wheel tightly as the Porsche hit a bridge. The car left the roadway and was airborne. When it came down sparks flew up from the undercarriage and Marcus struggled to keep it straight.

The tyres finally gripped and the high performance vehicle shot off again. Above him Marcus could see the two missiles nearly touching the rear of the _Phoenix II's_ tail.

He watched for the explosion that would surely come.

Berlin stadium loomed large in the front window of the Phoenix II. Casey popped the canopy and pulled the parachute from under the seat. Leaping up from the seat he put one foot on the wing and pushed off.

WHOOSH! WHOOSH!

The two missiles passed him by, one of them burning his leg. As he fell he saw the _Phoenix II_ leading the missiles away.

BOOOM!

His plane exploded in a massive fireball that actually threw him further away. The shockwave knocked him senseless and he fell to earth, his limbs flailing.

Casey felt cold. There was a noise in his ears like a crashing of waves and his body seemed to have no weight.

It all came back to him.

In a panic he reached for the rip cord but the shackles he was wearing fouled with the string.

The green field below him was spinning and getting closer.

Using the last of his strength he wrenched the cord free. The billowing white material of the parachute flowed up into the air and puffed out.

The falling sensation stopped and he swayed in the wind.

In seemingly no time his boots touched the soft grass and he fell heavily onto the field.

Looking up he watched the Parachute fold itself slowly down onto the grass.

He was completely exhausted.

Marcus pulled into the parking lot of the Olympic Stadium. There was no event on today and it was nearly empty.

He was out of the car and running before it had really stopped. The main entry doors were locked.

Pulling out his pistol he shot twice and the broken padlock fell to the ground. A strong kick saw the steel gates swing open. Once inside he ran up the stairs and saw the parachute of Casey Hunter on the field.

"Unbelievable," he breathed and rushed down onto the grass.

When he reached Casey he looked like he was dead. A quick check revealed that he wasn't.

"Come on kid, we've gotta get out of here," said Marcus unclipping the parachute.

He heaved Casey up over his shoulder and ran as fast as he could towards the exit. As he left the stadium he could hear the sirens in the distance.

Marcus drove the Porsche out of the car park and hit the main road. Behind him three police cars immediately gave chase, their blue lights flashing in the rear view mirror.

"Still with me kid?" said Marcus.

Casey opened his eyes.

"I see you've gotten over your inhibitions about killing folk."

Casey smiled weakly.

"Hang in there, we're leaving this place."

"Jennifer?" whispered Casey.

Marcus didn't hear him over the screech of the tyres. He dropped down a gear and turned hard left, the engine red lining.

Marcus pulled out a mobile phone. He dialled.

"Have my bird ready," he said and hung up.

Traffic flew past as though they were parked cars. The Porsche ate up the freeway. Behind them the flashing lights were growing distant.

"When we stop we'll need to run – you up to it?"

Casey nodded.

"Alright," said Marcus spinning the wheel. The Porsche took off down a narrow side street and came out onto another main road – right in front of three more police cars.

Marcus pushed the pedal to the floor and the engine of the Porsche responded, instantly creating a gap between the police cars.

With the back of his hand he wiped the sweat from his forehead. Up ahead he saw more flashing lights.

Road block.

Spikes.

"Hang on," he said.

Pulling the steering wheel to one side the Porsche slid 180 degrees, the wheels spinning. As soon as it was facing the three police cars it took off again.

Marcus could see the eyes of the driver in front of him, white with fear.

He steeled himself and changed up a gear. The speedometer needle twitched forward.

The police car turned to the left, colliding with another police car. Both of them rolled spraying glass and fuel all over the roadway. A spark ignited and the roadway was turned into a wall of fire.

The Porsche drove straight through the fire and kept going back down the roadway. The final police car managed to turn and give chase.

After twisting through the back streets Marcus came out into the open again. Up ahead was the wide open space of the airport. The service gates were guarded with a steel boom and an armed soldier.

The fence around the airport however was just cyclone wire.

Marcus pulled off the road and up the gutter. The undercarriage banged loudly but the Porsche maintained speed. The car flew into the fence and straight through the wire.

The police car followed with its siren screaming. The guard on the gate picked up a phone and rang for backup.

Up ahead Marcus could see the small jet with two undercover Marine Guards standing at the doors. He needed as much distance as he could get.

The Porsche changed up into top gear and the rev needle and speedometer both reached their limits. The car was being driven as hard as it possibly could.

When he reached the jet Marcus pulled on the handbrake and slid it in sideways. His door was open before the car had even stopped moving.

"Give me a hand!" he said to the two Marine Guards.

The men sprang into action and pulled Casey from the car. Together they all ran up the steps to the jet and the door was closed.

Marcus went into the cockpit. The police were out with their guns drawn and more cars were making their way down the runway.

"Hit it!" he said.

The Pilot pushed down the throttle and the jet took off down the runway. The police cars had set up a road block and were actually taking shots at the jet.

Finally the wheels lifted off the ground and left the police behind them.

Marcus slumped back into the co-pilot chair.

After they had gained altitude he gave some co-ordinates to the pilot.

"I need a drink," said Marcus.

Casey leaned back into the chair. The adrenaline rush was over now and complete and utter exhaustion replaced it. He looked at the ceiling of the plane and then closed his eyes.

Marcus walked into the cabin and approached the bar. He poured two straight scotches and sat opposite Casey.

"Drink this," said Marcus handing him the glass.

Casey opened his eyes and took it.

He raised the glass to his lips and tasted the burning spirit.

"Don't sip it," advised Marcus and threw back his head, tipping the contents of his own glass down his throat.

"Ahhh," he said placing the glass down in front of him.

Casey followed suit and felt the hot sensation of the drink flow down into his body and warm his stomach.

"Better?"

Casey nodded. "What day is it – what time?"

Marcus looked at his watch, "It's the 3rd of February 2008, and the time is 10:10am."

"Only twenty minutes," said Casey.

"What?"

"Twenty minutes since they sent me back, since we were attacked."

"Attacked?"

"Some soldiers attacked the base. I saw two of them go inside. I saw Jennifer fall."

Marcus thought about this for a moment.

"That explains why they didn't respond to my radio call."

"Do you think they're alright?"

"I don't know."

The jet landed on the strip of tarmac in the Arizona Desert. On the runway was the smouldering wreckage of the National Offensive's helicopter. The door to the jet folded down.

Casey and Marcus walked off.

The desert was quiet and a hot breeze blew from the north.

Casey walked over to where he had seen Jennifer fall. On the dirt was a dark patch where blood had soaked into the earth.

He stood there looking down.

"Those German's can't shoot for shit."

Casey turned around and saw Jennifer standing there with a sling on her left arm and a broad grin. Her pretty face was covered in dirt and grease. She ran up to him and threw her one good arm around him, planting a kiss squarely on his lips.

"You did it," she said.

Michael and the General walked out of the hanger and across the tarmac.

"Good work kid, I never doubted you," said Michael.

Two weeks later Michael Lee was called into the Directors office. John Wilkins was already there.

"Take a seat Mick," said the Director. "John's been telling me about an attack on U.S soil and a whole lot of black funding going into something called operation TORTOISE. Any truth to this?"

Michael Lee took a seat.

"I did investigate that operation. It was nothing more than a couple of General's trying to hide budget resources for their own agenda's. As far as I'm aware there's been no attack on U.S. soil."

"That's a blatant lie and you know it," said John.

"What are you accusing me of?" said Lee.

"Alright, alright – knock it off. Whatever happened it's over now. Lets forget about it and move on. I don't want any more talk about black operations or foreign invasions."

Both the men sat silently.

"OK, now get out of here. I've got work to do."

They both stood up and made for the door. John Wilkins stormed out and paced off down the corridor.

As Michael was leaving the Director spoke, "One more thing Mick."

"Sir?"

"Did you plug one of those fascist Nazis for me?"

"I did sir," said Mick showing a rare smile, "a really fascist one."

"Good work Son," said The Director leaning back into his chair with a satisfied smile. "Good work."

"Are you ready kid?" said Ron from the pit area beneath the upper deck of the ship.

Casey zipped up his flight suit and picked up his helmet.

Ron walked over wiping the grease off his hands on a cloth.

"You look different," said Ron.

"What do you mean?"

"Older."

Casey grinned, "I hope not – that's my major drawcard with the crowds."

"Come on then Fabio – they're calling for you."

Casey stood up and walked over the hydraulic elevator and punched the button. As they rose up they could hear the distorted voice of the commentators over the loudspeakers and the dull roar of the crowd.

Emerging into the sunlight Casey shielded his eyes. The runway stretched out before him. Sydney Harbour was alive with boats and the foreshore was packed with people. The roar of the crowd was deafening.

Looking behind him he saw Jennifer standing next to his brand new McDonnell Douglas F-50. Painted down the side of the red plane in yellow letters was written _Phoenix III_. Jennifer was wearing her old overalls and still had grease smudged over her pretty face. In one hand she was spinning a spanner.

"Go get em'" she shouted over the crowd, giving him a wink.

He raised his helmet up in the air and the crowd roared even louder.

Casey Hunter got into his plane and buckled in.

It was time to race.

The End

