Air Pirates of Krakatoa (Doc Vandal Adventures Book 2)

by Dave Robinson

  “You professionals don't have a clue!” She reached down to pull Ming to her feet beside her. “If we listen to you we'll all be back in the water and she can't swim!”

  The doctor stepped back and reached for the speaking tube. “You have to calm down, or I will call the marines.”

  “I am calm.” Vic took slow breaths, trying to slow her heart. “But we're all in danger as long as Sumatra is alongside that freighter.”

  It didn't look like the doctor believed her. He had that expression most doctors reserved for people who claimed they really were Napoleon Bonaparte. He did put the speaking tube down, though. “Now, can you tell me who you are and what you were doing on that ship?”

  “My name is Victoria Frank, I'm an associate of Doc Vandal. Doctor Li and I were kidnapped from the Van Houten estate by her former fiancé, a man named Feng. We awoke as prisoners on that ship, made our way to the deck and finally abandoned ship when we saw you.”

  At that moment the hatch opened, and a naval lieutenant stepped through. After saluting the doctor, he turned to Vic. “You and your companion are to come with me.”

  Vic paused a moment, looking him up and down from his polished shoes to his stiff-brimmed cap. He looked just like one of the young courtiers who used to come calling on her grandmother when they were in exile in London. The ones who spent half their time talking about a counter-revolution and the other half trying to get engaged to her before she turned thirteen.

  “Only if we’re finally going to see the captain.”

  “Uh, pardon me.” He stuttered, his ruddy complexion turning even redder, but didn't move.

  “Pardon you for what?”

  “You can’t see the captain in a towel. It’s not appropriate.” From the way the lieutenant was looking at her, the towels certainly didn’t seem inappropriate for him.

  “So you’re more worried about his delicate sensibilities than our dignity?” Vic tilted her head so she could look down at the lieutenant, who was an inch or two shorter than she was. “You can either escort us to the captain or you can watch everyone on this ship die when that bomb over there explodes. Pick one.”

  “I’ll take you to the captain but please get dressed first.” The lieutenant got the words out in one quick breath, but his eyes never left Vic’s towel.

  Vic flicked her fingers at him. “Can you please turn around, so we can get dressed?”

  He gave a humph, and turned around slowly. The doctor followed suit, but with far more grace. Ming handed Vic a shirt and a pair of dungarees, and the pair quickly dressed. The denim was rough against her skin, but clean and dry, making it a welcome relief after the soaked clothes she had worn overnight.

  “You can turn around now.”

  The lieutenant was the first to respond. “Follow me.”

  He led the way out of the compartment and down an almost empty companionway. Once away from the medicinal smell of the ship's surgery, the mix of sweat and oil that marked a warship in the tropics came to the fore. The thing that caught Vic's attention the most was the lack of urgency. Sailors were walking, not running.

  The lieutenant led them up a ladder and she was able to get a look around. One of Sumatra's boats was tied up alongside the freighter, and there were a handful of sailors and marines visible on her upper decks. Sumatra herself seemed almost on a completely peaceful footing, with sailors holystoning the deck beneath the barrels of the forward guns.

  Ming bumped into her from behind, and Vic smiled down at her before picking up her pace.

  The lieutenant quick-marched them along the outside of the superstructure, then stopped at a door and knocked.

  “Come in.”

  The lieutenant opened the door and stepped back, gesturing for the two women to enter. Vic led the way, finding herself in a small office, facing an officer seated behind a small desk. A window to her right gave her a good view of the foredeck and the sea ahead. The officer had captain's rings on his wrists, and dark hair parted near the middle. Unlike most of the other Dutchmen she had seen, he was pale. He waved them to a seat as the lieutenant closed the door from the outside.

  Before he could speak, Vic leaned forward in her chair. “Captain Doorman, you have to get your men back from that freighter and pull away before it explodes.”

  He pursed his lips and then slapped the desk. “You are here to answer my questions, not give me orders.” Doorman took a deep breath, and then turned to pour himself a glass of lemonade. He drained the glass, and refilled it before turning back to the two women.

  “Now,” he said curtly. “I have some questions for you; starting with who are you, what were you doing on that freighter, and what can you tell me about the dead Japanese soldiers my men found on board?”

  “As I told your surgeon…” Vic began.

  “I am not the surgeon, and he is not here,” Doorman interrupted. “Answer my questions.”

  Vic took a breath. “My name is Victoria Frank, I am an associate of Doc Vandal. My companion is Dr. Li Ming, formerly of Batavia. We were kidnapped by her former fiancé, who left us tied up on that ship to die. The Japanese soldiers were working with him, and I had to kill them when we escaped.”

  “I don't know where you get these stories, Princess, but I need the truth,” Doorman snapped.

  “Actually, it's countess,” Vic muttered.

  “What?” Doorman glared across the small compartment. “What did you say?”

  “My title, it's countess, not princess. I rarely use it, but if you insist on using one, I'd appreciate the correct one. Lady Frank will do.” Vic met his glare with one of her own. She just caught Ming's expression with her peripheral vision, but kept her focus on the captain across the desk.

  “And you conveniently have no papers.”

  “My passport is being held by customs officials at Batavia, as is Dr. Li's.” Vic forced herself to lean back in her chair; a fight would only get them killed. Taking a deep breath, she channeled her grandmother’s lessons before starting again.

  “We may have started off on the wrong foot, Captain. Please, just call me Vic.”

  Captain Doorman took a long sip of lemonade. “Pardon my manners, Lady Frank, Doctor. Permit me to offer you some lemonade.”

  Vic nodded her thanks as the captain poured them lemonade in tall crystal tumblers.

  “Once again,” he asked. “What happened on the freighter?”

  Vic took a sip of the tart lemonade, letting the cool drink flow down her throat as she considered her answer. “It was essentially as I told you. I would be happy to tell you more, but please let's get everyone away from that freighter before the bomb in her aft hold blows up.

  “Come on Captain, you know that freighter has the same kind of control system as the automaton that ran wild in Batavia last week.” Vic took another sip of her lemonade.

  “We were kidnapped when we saw what Van Houten and the Japanese were doing on his plantation.

  “There were oil wells all over.”

  “Oil?” Doorman scribbled a note in a small book on his desk. “Van Houten has oil?”

  “Yes, I saw the wells myself.”

  He methodically capped and pocketed his pen and then flipped his notebook closed. “Unfortunately, I still need to deal with you, especially since you are a self-confessed murderess.” He picked up his lemonade tumbler and swirled the drink inside it. “I may have to arrest you, if not turn you over to the Japanese for trial.”

  Ming gasped.

  The whole ship rocked as something exploded just off her bow. Water fountained up over the prow, sluicing down the deck. Vic watched in horror as one of the sailors on the foredeck was washed overboard.

  “Captain! We're under attack.” The lieutenant burst into the compartment. “It's the air pirates!”

  Doorman shoved back his chair and rose to his feet. “Sound battle stations. I want flank speed and all crews to their guns.”

  As Vic followed him out the door, she saw the pirates' flying wing on the
horizon.

  #

  Doc was the first one onto the main deck, with Ilsa close behind him. The whole craft shook as it turned for its takeoff run. Both pursuits hung on their launch hooks, engine covers strewn on the deck. They were the only people on the deck, which surprised Doc.

  “Shouldn't there be more people up here?”

  Tigress shook her head. “The flight crews are probably strapped in for takeoff.” She gestured upwards. “Even with a ship this big, you don't want people moving around…”

  “…Before you're in the air.” Doc finished her sentence. “How long do we have?”

  “If he does a steep climb, no more than five minutes. Maybe twenty if he's going for altitude.”

  Ilsa remained silent, padding over to sniff at some of the access covers.

  “What's the quickest way to the control room?” Doc asked, looking around.

  “Up the elevator, and then forward to the ladders for the main bridge. You can get to the engine room through the support pillars.”

  “And weapons?” Doc didn't want to kill anyone if he didn't have to, but the numbers weren't in their favor.

  “Might be something in one of the cockpits.” Tigress gestured toward the nearer pursuit.

  Doc smiled. Maybe there was. The cockpit was open, with the machine guns clearly visible on the floor. It was only the work of a couple of minutes to strip out one of the guns along with a belt of ammunition.

  Tigress cocked her head to the side. “You want to carry that?”

  “It was the first gun I could find.” Doc shrugged. A Type 89 machine gun was more than he really wanted to carry, but he wanted enough rounds to help even the numbers.

  “It's your back. Just don't blow too many holes in my ship.”

  “I'll do my best, but I can't promise anything.” He hefted the machine gun to his shoulder, feeling the strain in his back. “Not that it's really your ship right now.”

  Once again, he took the lead. “Are you sure there aren't stairs?”

  “There are, but you don't want to take them. Most of my crew's a foot shorter than you are.” She looked him up and down. “There's room for you and and Ilsa in the elevator.”

  The wing lurched and then settled out as it got up on the step.

  “Come on,” Tigress hissed, leading the way to the elevator. “We need to get up there before takeoff.”

  Doc reached the elevator first, and pulled the lever to draw it down to their level. Nothing happened. The cage hung in place, clearly visible, but not moving. He tried again, but still nothing. The lever moved smoothly enough, but that was all.

  “What's the problem?” Tigress caught up to him, leaning on Ilsa.

  Doc gestured upwards. “Elevator's disabled.” He looked aft. If the original kitchen and dining rooms were still present, they might have left the dumbwaiters. “Do you know how much they changed the original plans building this?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I've got an idea, but I don't know how accurate the plans I saw are after all the changes they had to do to turn this into a warcraft.”

  Tigress nodded. “I know there are dumbwaiters in the arming room behind the hangar.”

  Doc smiled. “Good, that's what I thought.”

  Balancing the machine gun on his shoulder, he headed for the rear of the wing. The mess hall was empty, with rows of workbenches bolted to the deck. A massive window illuminated the compartment from above, showing the darkening sky. The dumbwaiters were built into the wall in the front of the compartment.

  Doc moved towards the nearest one, just as a telltale shudder told him the wing had left the water.

  “Hurry up.” Tigress kept looking around the compartment, one hand securely buried in the fur on Ilsa's back.

  No sooner had she said the words than she had to grab for one of the benches as whoever was at the controls threw the wing into a steep climb.

  Doc grunted, leaning forward to keep his balance as the wing stabilized into its climb. The dumbwaiter in front of him was surprisingly large, the opening was three feet square and about eight feet deep. “Looks big for a dumbwaiter; small for bombs though.”

  “They send them down in parts and assemble them here.”

  He poked his head in and looked around. The dumbwaiter was made of some light metal, aluminum or magnesium perhaps and shone a dull gray in the light. There was a small hatch in the top, held in place with a latch. Leaning the machine gun against a workbench, he flipped the latch open. Sticking his head through the hole, he saw two cables running through a complex pulley before leading upwards into the darkness.

  “Hold my gun,” he whispered to Tigress and pulled himself up through the hatch. The edge scraped his back, but he ignored the pain. Slowly he levered himself up onto the top of the dumbwaiter. Tigress followed his lead and poked her head up through the hole.

  “What are you doing?” She asked harshly.

  “I’m going to pull you and Ilsa up in the dumbwaiter.”

  “Don’t be an idiot,” she snapped. “I’m in better shape than you are; I can climb up the cables myself. Stupid white man. I don’t care what kind of superman you’re supposed to be.”

  Tigress set the machine gun and ammunition in one corner of the dumbwaiter and quickly coaxed Ilsa into the chamber to lie down. The great cat eased into the middle of the dumbwaiter, and curled up like nothing more than a giant house cat completely filling the available space.

  Tigress gave him a thumbs up with her free hand and then squeezed through the opening to balance on the roof of the dumbwaiter. Once on top, she rose on her toes so she could whisper in his ear.

  “I will let you pull Ilsa and your precious machine gun up, though.” She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Now give me a boost and I’ll lead the way.”

  Doc made a stirrup with his hands and smoothly boosted her up over his head. A moment later, tension on the cable told him she was on her way up.

  Pain tore through his back as he took a grip on the cable and pulled. Grimacing, he moved his hand and pulled again, digging his fingers into the rope. The shaft was barely bigger than the dumbwaiter and the angle of climb had him half lying against the wall. Every pull ripped his back twice, once from the weight, and again when he slid along the shaft.

  Even with both angle and the mechanical advantage, it was still the equivalent of a four-hundred-pound vertical deadlift. Doc took measured breaths, his lungs burning in his chest. At the same time, his stomach rumbled, reminding him again that he hadn't eaten since dinner at Van Houten's the night before. It hadn't been noticeable at first, but now that he was inside the structure there were thirty thousand horsepower shaking his teeth.

  He felt the sound more than he heard it, no two of the twenty engines were quite in sync, but as long as they were at full power they were safe from discovery. The hangar level was two decks high, and then there were two more above that, so he had about thirty feet to lift. The first level went easily, but by the second he was beginning to slow down. They were passing the armory, and Doc got a clear view of a dozen torpedoes in their racks, and what looked like folding wings on the bombs at the forward end of the compartment.

  His arms ached, and a trickle down his back told him he had reopened some of his wounds.

  Doc only had one deck to go when the wing lurched and leveled off. The extra weight slammed into his shoulders as the shaft went vertical. Without the help from the takeoff climb, he had another two hundred pounds to lift.

  “Ugh.” The weight drove the breath from his lungs.

  “Are you all right?” Tigress called down from the top of the shaft.

  “Uh-huh.” Doc focused on the lift. One hand over the other, repeat. New sounds echoed through shaft, but they didn't matter. Nothing mattered except one more pull.

  “Be. Ready. To. Have. Ilsa. Jump. Out.” He called down between pulls as the got closer to the uppermost level.

  “Ready.”

  Three more pulls, that was all
he needed. Digging his bloody fingers into the rope he forced the dumbwaiter the last few feet upwards. The electric motor that normally powered the hoist was right in front of Doc, its heavy casing forcing him to lean back and pull at arm’s length. He squeezed in between it and the top of the shaft.

  “Go!” Doc called hoarsely. The dumbwaiter leaped beneath him as Ilsa leaped out. He let go of the rope and shuffled toward the edge of the shaft, watching as the dumbwaiter dropped, revealing the opening. As it fell, he leaped forward, barely missing the edge of the shaft as he ducked and rolled into the room.

  A dozen guards burst into the compartment from stairs at the far end, brandishing rifles and machetes. Ilsa charged with a roar, as Doc twisted over to where Tigress held the machine gun.

  Leaning back against the bulkhead to steady the weapon, she clipped the belt into place and pulled the charging handle. Some of the guards had broken past Ilsa, heading for Doc and Tigress. who walked the machine gun across the oncoming horde with a short burst. Gunfire echoed across the compartment as her rounds cut the legs out from under their attackers. In a matter of moments, they were down and the ammunition belt was finished. The last link was still bouncing across the compartment when Doc charged forward.

  Ilsa was mopping the deck with her opponents, moving too quickly for them to get a shot off, and their machetes were proving no match for her claws. She smashed one's ribs with a single blow, then bit down on the head of another, and then shook the body into the chest of a third. Doc dropped another with a nerve pinch on his way through to the stairs, scooping up the man’s rifle as he passed.

  Six steps took him up the stairs to where he could see the control room.

  “Drop the gun.”

  Van Houten stood in front of the huge bay window that made up one entire wall of the compartment. It was at least eight feet high and twenty-four feet long, assembled from a dozen panes of glass. His suit was perfectly pressed, and there was a smile on his broad face. He looked bulkier than usual, and held a small black box in his hands. Gilly, Gus, and Kehla were at the controls of the wing, with strange metal collars wrapped around their necks. A liger even larger than Ilsa sat on his haunches behind Doc's friends. It too wore a collar with a black metal box on the back. A dozen rough looking men, all barefoot but armed to the teeth lined the walls.