Panache and the Great Hunt for the Acryli-Beast

[Panache]

Panache and the Great Hunt for the Acryli-Beast

A Victorian Tale of Horror told in Chapters

Chapter 19

Ensigns Splash, BEEDEE, and Mender were successful in implementing the Wizard’s modifications and restored the remainder of the ship’s engines online by nightfall. With full power restored and steaming hot coffee plentiful we headed Nor East at maximum speed.

Whilst our journey West to British Columbia had been a leisurely one, in the many days needed to cross back over the vast expanse of Canada there was an air of anticipation and wariness over the ship. Knowing that we had an adversary dedicated to beating us to our goal and willing to destroy us to do so had set the crew and myself on edge. Below us there were trees as far as the eye could see in all directions. It was if we floated above a tranquil ocean of green, yet even this great beauty below my gaze kept returning to the airship’s compass and clock. I studied our charts again and again, as if I would uncover some vital new information as I charted our course. When I was off shift I slept fitfully. The thought that haunted me was of Grant repairing his damaged blimp and beating us to our prize. In my dreams I could see his crazed face laughing at me as he sailed away on the Maple Leaf with the Acryli-beast’s pelt (and his rubber chicken) in his hands. When I awoke there was nothing to be done but shake my head and hold to our course.

We met a fair amount of turbulence this time when we took the Saltire to the altitudes needed to surmount the Rocky Mountains again. In Canada the Rockies are almost twice as tall as in the United States. Where in our last passage I had seen them as awe inspiring, this time they filled my heart with dread. In spite of the heavy rocking of the airship Todd brought us over the mountain range safely.

Next we traversed over Alberta for another 800 miles. These northern plains were crisscrossed with rivers and narrow hard wood forests that flanked them to look like spider webs of green lain across the large flat expanses of almost nothing . After Alberta we passed over corners of the Saskatchewan and North West Territories. The temperature began to drop rapidly and we watched the thick Canadian forests thin and gradually disappear. I was thankful for my foresight in ordering special heavy winter kilts from the Wizard of B.C. These were issued to the crew who found them not only warm and well constructed, but quite handsome. The crotchety old kilt maker had chosen a solid color of rich, masculine, bold maroon for the kilts and everyone thought them quite splendid. The only exceptions being Mr. Splash, Mr. BEEDEE, and Mr. Mender as their new kilts clashed rather badly with their red security tunics, and Todd who insisted on wearing an authentic World War One era German leather flying suit. Even these four had to agree on the handsomeness and extreme masculinity of the maroon color.

Then came the Nunavut Territory as the Saltire entered the Arctic Circle. Monitoring the weather reports on our wireless set, Todd had become very concerned at the possibility of a major storms. As there wasn’t any suitable shelter within several hundred miles for our great airship there was little that we could do in the event of being caught in one save to ride it out. We hoped that Dame Fortune smiled at us and gave us a window of clear skies to complete our quest. Bellow us was stretched a blank wasteland of Tundra and increasing permanent ice. After many days over an almost frozen Arctic Ocean we sighted the shores of Ellesmere Island off our Starboard bow. Which was the third largest island in Canada and our last stop before the final leg of our journey.


McMurdo suggested that the sudden appearance of a huge dirigible over a tiny Inuit village might prove greatly alarming to its inhabitants. Given the high winds that swept over the barren ice covered ground of the North Shore, Todd was very hesitant to bring the zeppelin down low enough to moor her. I decided that this would be a perfect opportunity to utilize our small complement of Sparrowhawk light biplanes . We held 4 such craft in a hanger located on the underside of the zeppelin amidships. Each could carry one pilot and a single passenger. These compact biplanes had a hook located on their top wing, this hook could attach to a sturdy cross-bar (which was in turn attached to a crane arm). The cross-bar could then be lowered below the hangar bay. Once safely clear of the airship the cross-bar was retracted and the airplane would free-fall away from the ship. To recover our squadron the cross-bar was again lowered and the pilot would fly close enough to catch the plane’s hook on it, thus allowing the smaller craft to be lifted back into the hangar, one by one. We were fortunate in that a large percentage of our woodwind section were certified pilots.

With my ribs finally healed from their previous protection, I decided that I would forgo the services of my security detail in speaking with the Inuit Chief. I also thought it for the best to have Todd remain aboard the Saltire with his competent hand at her helm. For my landing party I chose McMurdo whose services were required as a translator. Jake, mainly because he refused to be left behind again (and secretly I hoped would be devoured by a polar bear or better yet a band of vicious though very lost penguins ). And David I brought for the simple fact that I didn’t trust him aboard my zeppelin without my watchful eye.

We all proceeded to the hangar where we took our cramped places in the compact blue biplanes behind the pilots. My personal aircraft (#3) was adorned with a simple pattern of two gold and two silver stars on its top wing, in honor of my beautiful wife, The Flame-Haired Celtic Amazon Goddess. I nodded to signal the sousaphone player in charge of the operation of the crane. One by one the planes were hoisted up and lowered into the freezing wind below. I held on tight to my seat as we were lifted aloft and then descended through the hangar bay opening. We hung there below the belly of the great dirigible as my pilot (a clarinetist) gunned the small plane’s engine. She gave the crane operator a thumbs up and suddenly the aircraft plummeted downward (though it felt as if my stomach was strangely left above) . Soon we were zooming forward and chasing after the rest of our small squadron. Behind us the Saltire appeared smaller and smaller as we drew close to the shore.

It wasn’t long before that we spotted a small collection of some forty Igloos grouped together. I signaled my pilot to land. The rest of the planes followed us in our descent. The Sparrowhawks had been outfitted with skies for landing gear so the flat snowy ground proved no trouble (though a bit bumpy) for us to land on. My clarinetist chose a spot to the West side of the village. There was a light snowfall and as we came to a stop and though we were no more than a couple of hundred yards away from the nearest dwelling, I could see no one emerging from the village to investigate our arrival. I waited for the others to land and disembark. Bidding the pilots to remain with the planes I also advised them to keep the motors warm in case a quick withdrawal became necessary.

As we walked to the closest igloo a large fuzzy form with a slavering maw exploded from beneath a small bank of snow. Before any of us had a chance to react it had charged from its hiding place, knocked McMurdo down, and pounced on him!

In the distance I heard a man yell in disapproval “Wompet! Wompet!”





To Be Continued