The Phantom Airman by Rowland Walker
The Phantom Airman by Rowland Walker
Rittmeister Heinrich von Spitzer, late flight-commander in the German Air Service, was one of the Prussian irreconcilables, who, rather than submit to the peace terms enforced by the Allies after the defeat of Germany, resolved to become an aerial brigand, an outlaw of the nations, and to wage a bitter warfare of violence and plunder against his late enemies.
His proud spirit refused to bend before the conquerors, for the iron shaft of defeat had embittered his soul, particularly against Britain, whom he had ever regarded as the evil genius of the Entente.
One day, when his plans were well matured, he unburdened his spirit to a couple of his friends, kindred souls, men after his own heart, both of them apt pupils of the great Richthofen, who was still referred to by his disciples as "the red airman." They had been engaged that day in dismantling an aerodrome on the edge of the Schwarzwald; to them, at least, a hateful job.
"Comrades," he said, "this peace has ruined us. Germania delenda est, but I will not sit still amid the ruins of the Fatherland. Glorious we have lived, like kings of the air; let us not inglorious die."
"I am with you, Rittmeister. I will follow you to the gulfs," exclaimed one of his companions, named Carl, who had been a famous scout pilot in the Richthofen "circus," and the lightning flashed from the young airman's eyes as he spoke.
"But what can we do against the empires of the world?" asked a Gotha pilot who had raided the English towns a score of times.
For answer the chief turned a withering look upon the last speaker and said:--
"Max, you have faced death a hundred times in the air, and over the British lines. You have thirty enemy machines to your credit, and yet you ask me what can we do?"
"What of it, Rittmeister? Tell us what is in your mind."
"Listen, then, both of you, and I will tell you what still remains for brave men to do. All is not lost while courage and hope remain," and whilst he spoke the German chief drew his two friends away from the half-dismantled aerodrome on the southern edge of the Schwarzwald, to a narrow path that led amongst the trees.
When the aerodrome was hid from view he began to speak once more, huskily at first, as though restraining some pent up excitement.
"I am in possession of a secret," he said, "which I may not tell even to you unless you first swear to follow me on some great adventure."
They both looked at him, not a little amazed and bewildered, and neither spoke for a moment.
"I have chosen you," continued Spitzer, "because I know you to be men of daring and resource. You are both dissatisfied with the condition of things in the Fatherland. Ach Himmel! This occupation of the sacred German soil by the Britisher, the Frenchman and the American is breaking my heart. I will endure it no longer, but I will strike a blow at the enemy before I die."
As he spoke thus, he almost hissed out the words which he uttered, for his voice had now lost its strange huskiness, while his eyes gleamed like the fierce glittering orbs of the tiger about to make its spring from the hidden jungle. Nor was his present madness without its visible effect upon his two companions, for he had strange powers of magnetic influence, this Prussian Junker.
"Donner and Blitz, but you are right, Rittmeister!" exclaimed Carl, the blood mounting to his temples.
"And you, Max, what say you?" and the chief fixed the Gotha pilot with his eyes.
"Ja! ja!" he assented. "I am with you also."
"But the end of this adventure is death!" continued von Spitzer, speaking now more deliberately. "This much I must tell you in all fairness before I proceed further. However much we achieve--and we shall accomplish not a little--there can be no other ending."
"Bah! we have looked too often into the face of that monster to be afraid," returned the scout.
"You speak truly, Carl," replied the chief. "When your machine went down in flames near Cambrai, you passed so close to me that I stalled my Fokker to let you pass, and I saw the smile upon your lips that day as you looked into the face of death. I never expected to see you alive again, but you were saved for this."
Then, amid the gloom of the dark aisles of the Schwarzwald, these two men swore to follow their chief on this last great adventure, as they had followed him during the darkest days of the war.
"And now I will tell you the secret which I hold, and which at present is known only to two other men," said the Rittmeister, and, sitting down about the gnarled roots of an upturned tree, the two airmen listened to the following story:
"You have heard me sometimes speak of a great mathematician and engineer, by name one Professor Weissmann," began von Spitzer.
"Yes, we have heard of him," replied the others.
"He is the greatest living scientist; moreover, he is a practical engineer, and during the last four years he has devoted his time entirely to designing, constructing and perfecting with his own hands, assisted by one other mechanic, a wonderful aeroplane, compared to which neither the Allies nor the Central Powers have anything to approximate."
"Donnerwetter, but why wasn't it ready before?" exclaimed Max. "It might have turned the tide of battle in the autumn of 1918."
"It's no use crying over spilt milk," replied the chief. "It could not be completed before."
"And you say that this wonderful machine is now ready," interposed Max, who had flown every type of machine from a single-seater scout to a heavy bomber, and whose professional curiosity had now been thoroughly awakened by the words of the German ace.
"It is ready, and what is more to the point, it is at my disposal," returned the chief briefly.
"Der Teufel! But where is it?"
"I can lead you to it, for it is less than three miles from where we sit at the present moment."
"Himmel!" exclaimed both the pilots, springing to their feet. "Take us to see it, Rittmeister; we have given you our promise."
"Be calm, my friends; you shall see it to-day. But let me put you on your guard. You must not speak of it aloud, but only in whispers, for the secret of this machine is jealously guarded, and its whereabouts is unknown, save to the professor, his assistant and myself."
"Has it ever been flown?" ventured Max.
"Yes."
"Who was the pilot?"
"I was."
"You, Rittmeister?" exclaimed the amazed airmen.
"Yes."
"And you are satisfied at her performances?" asked Carl, gazing steadfastly into the eyes of his chief.
"More than satisfied. She is the most wonderful and responsive thing I have ever flown. You will say the same when you have seen her, and made a trip or two."
"Phew! take us to see her now; I would give ten years of my life to fly in her," said Max, who was getting almost feverish in his anxiety to see this wonderful thing and to handle her controls; for such is the lure of the air, especially to those who have climbed into the azure and sailed amongst the clouds in the days of their youth.
"You shall fly in her," replied Spitzer.
"When?" asked the eager youth.
"When we start our great adventure," replied the chief.
"And when will that be?"
"To-morrow, if you are willing; all our plans are laid."
"Why to-morrow?" asked the others simultaneously.
"Because delay is dangerous. There is always the danger that this secret, so jealously guarded, and hidden away in the depth of the Black Forest, may be discovered. You know that Germany, under the Peace terms, is forbidden for the present to manufacture aircraft."
"Yes, yes; we know it only too well."
"Well, even now," continued von Spitzer, "the British Air Police have got wind of the thing, and their agents are in a dozen different parts of Germany trying to fathom the mystery of this phantom aeroplane, but so far they have not succeeded. All the same, it is time for us to get away, and that is why I have confided my plans to you to-day. Do you wish to withdraw?" and there was just a faint suspicion of a sneer in the tone of the speaker's voice, as he said this.
"Withdraw? Ach Himmel, no, a thousand times no! I am ready to start to-day," flashed back the ruffled Carl as he replied.
"Gut!" grunted von Spitzer. "Then you shall see this wonderful thing to-night at sunset; I dare not take you there before, and to-morrow, ach! to-morrow, this great adventure will begin."
After two years of marriage, Sadie was finally pregnant. Filled with hope and joy, she was blindsided when Noah asked for a divorce. During a failed attempt on her life, Sadie found herself lying in a pool of blood, desperately calling Noah to ask him to save her and the baby. But her calls went unanswered. Shattered by his betrayal, she left the country. Time passed, and Sadie was about to be wed for a second time. Noah appeared in a frenzy and fell to his knees. "How dare you marry someone else after bearing my child?"
I watched my husband sign the papers that would end our marriage while he was busy texting the woman he actually loved. He didn't even glance at the header. He just scribbled the sharp, jagged signature that had signed death warrants for half of New York, tossed the file onto the passenger seat, and tapped his screen again. "Done," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. That was Dante Moretti. The Underboss. A man who could smell a lie from a mile away but couldn't see that his wife had just handed him an annulment decree disguised beneath a stack of mundane logistics reports. For three years, I scrubbed his blood out of his shirts. I saved his family's alliance when his ex, Sofia, ran off with a civilian. In return, he treated me like furniture. He left me in the rain to save Sofia from a broken nail. He left me alone on my birthday to drink champagne on a yacht with her. He even handed me a glass of whiskey—her favorite drink—forgetting that I despised the taste. I was merely a placeholder. A ghost in my own home. So, I stopped waiting. I burned our wedding portrait in the fireplace, left my platinum ring in the ashes, and boarded a one-way flight to San Francisco. I thought I was finally free. I thought I had escaped the cage. But I underestimated Dante. When he finally opened that file weeks later and realized he had signed away his wife without looking, the Reaper didn't accept defeat. He burned down the world to find me, obsessed with reclaiming the woman he had already thrown away.
I died on a Tuesday. It wasn't a quick death. It was slow, cold, and meticulously planned by the man who called himself my father. I was twenty years old. He needed my kidney to save my sister. The spare part for the golden child. I remember the blinding lights of the operating theater, the sterile smell of betrayal, and the phantom pain of a surgeon's scalpel carving into my flesh while my screams echoed unheard. I remember looking through the observation glass and seeing him-my father, Giovanni Vitiello, the Don of the Chicago Outfit-watching me die with the same detached expression he used when signing a death warrant. He chose her. He always chose her. And then, I woke up. Not in heaven. Not in hell. But in my own bed, a year before my scheduled execution. My body was whole, unscarred. The timeline had reset, a glitch in the cruel matrix of my existence, giving me a second chance I never asked for. This time, when my father handed me a one-way ticket to London-an exile disguised as a severance package-I didn't cry. I didn't beg. My heart, once a bleeding wound, was now a block of ice. He didn't know he was talking to a ghost. He didn't know I had already lived through his ultimate betrayal. He also didn't know that six months ago, during the city's brutal territory wars, I was the one who saved his most valuable asset. In a secret safe house, I stitched up the wounds of a blinded soldier, a man whose life hung by a thread. He never saw my face. He only knew my voice, the scent of vanilla, and the steady touch of my hands. He called me Sette. Seven. For the seven stitches I put in his shoulder. That man was Dante Moretti. The Ruthless Capo. The man my sister, Isabella, is now set to marry. She stole my story. She claimed my actions, my voice, my scent. And Dante, the man who could spot a lie from a mile away, believed the beautiful deception because he wanted it to be true. He wanted the golden girl to be his savior, not the invisible sister who was only ever good for her spare parts. So I took the ticket. In my past life, I fought them, and they silenced me on an operating table. This time, I will let them have their perfect, gilded lie. I will go to London. I will disappear. I will let Seraphina Vitiello die on that plane. But I will not be a victim. This time, I will not be the lamb led to slaughter. This time, from the shadows of my exile, I will be the one holding the match. And I will wait, with the patience of the dead, to watch their entire world burn. Because a ghost has nothing to lose, and a queen of ashes has an empire to gain.
"I heard you're going to marry Marcelo. Is this perhaps your revenge against me? It's very laughable, Renee. That man can barely function." Her foster family, her cheating ex, everyone thought Renee was going to live in pure hell after getting married to a disabled and cruel man. She didn't know if anything good would ever come out of it after all, she had always thought it would be hard for anyone to love her but this cruel man with dark secrets is never going to grant her a divorce because she makes him forget how to breathe.
Her ex-husband declared, "The person I admired most was that legendary racer." She smiled thinly. "Hate to break it to you-that was me." He said, "Jealous I blew a fortune on a world-famous jeweler for Violet?" She let out a cool laugh. "Funny, that designer trained under me." He scoffed, "Buying a dying firm won't put you in my league. Snap out of it." She shrugged. "Weird-I just steered your company off a cliff." Stunned, he blurted out, "Baby, come back. I'll love you forever." She wrinkled her nose. "Hard pass. Keep your cheap love." Then she took a mogul's arm and never looked back.
I just got my billionaire husband to sign our divorce papers. He thinks it's another business document. Our marriage was a business transaction. I was his secretary by day, his invisible wife by night. He got a CEO title and a rebellion against his mother; I got the money to save mine. The only rule? Don't fall in love. I broke it. He didn't. So I'm cashing out. Thirty days from now, I'm gone. But now he's noticing me. Touching me. Claiming me. The same man who flaunts his mistresses is suddenly burning down a nightclub because another man insulted me. He says he'll never let me go. But he has no idea I'm already halfway out the door. How far will a billionaire go to keep a wife he never wanted until she tried to leave?
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