Interlude: World War II

                                    

                                          
Location: British Airstrip 
                          
Time: 12:49 September 12 1940
                          
Mission: Air strike on France
                          
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The noon sun reigned over the sky as the pilots scrambled about the airfield. Planes were taking off left and right, and coming back for refuels or debriefs. The airstrip was a chaotic scene. 
                          
At the gates, the guards lounged, thankful that they weren't on the front lines. 
                          
Phillips yawned as the sun beat down on him. Johnson yawned after him. Then Phillips yawned again. Johnson followed again. Phillips yawned a third time.
                          
"Stop!" Johnson yelled at his companion.
                          
Phillips assumed an innocent look. "What?" he shrugged, "I can't help it. You're the one who keeps yawning."

                          
"Yeah, but you started it."
                          
Something rustled in the bushes on the side of the road leading to the airstrip. Phillips looked up suddenly, alerted by the sound.
                          
"Did you hear that?"
                          
Johnson shrugged. "Probably the sound of you being a dumb ass."
                          
Phillips turned to glare daggers at his companion, but eventually let it slide.
                          
"You're probably right."
                          
Two knives flicked out of the bushes and struck both guards in the neck, killing them instantly. 
                          
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Clark walked onto the airstrip with the confidence of an ace pilot. He walked with purpose towards the nearest plane that was being fueled and almost ready to fly. A young boy, barely older than eighteen, was pumping the fuel into the plane. 
                          
"You!" Clark barked at the young boy.
                          
The boy jumped at the sudden scream. He was used to being yelled at by everyone, but not so suddenly. He turned and hastily saluted, forgetting the gasoline pump.
                          
"Sir!"
                          
"How soon till I can be up in the air?"
                          
"Uh, just until I finish fueling, sir!" 
                          
Clark nodded, indicating for the boy to continue. Shyly, he turned back to his work. Clark eyed his plane critically. The model was a Hawker Demon, and Clark knew how to pilot the model. This mission had been a long time coming. 
                          
Finally, the fuel boy disentangled himself from the mas of equipment and lines to let Clark take his seat. Clark assumed a troubled expression and looked at his feet. 
                          
"Where's the gas pedal?" he asked, teasing the boy, then gave him a wink.
                          
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No one batted an eyelash as Clark's plane soared into the air to join the rest of the squadron. The engines roared and he could hardly hear himself think. The wind whipped at his barely protected face and the sparse, but low clouds occasionally masked his vision. 
                          
The airbase was many kilometers from the designated target, so they had a while to go. The once lush fields and forests passing steadily by underneath were lifeless and disturbed. War had ravaged the land. Many planes lay in heaps of scrap and bodies littered the ground. Clark tore his eyes from the mournful sight on the land below as a bang, louder than the engines, echoed through the air. 
                          
A plane to the right of Clark burst into flames and spiraled away as the rest of the squadron dove down under the clouds. Anti-aircraft defenses dotted the ground and flak ripped through the air. A few German planes had already taken off and streaked toward the bombers guarded by the Hawker Demon squadron. Once the fighting started, Clark could accomplish his mission.
                          
He rolled to the left as a German fighter hurtled at him, spewing flak. The German pilot turned his plane in a wide ark to come around on Clark's tail. Glancing back, he  saw the enemy swinging back around and dove into the fight. 
                          
Bright, glowing lines of bullets a scrap tore through the skies as Clark raced toward the mass of the battle. The fighter behind him was slowly gaining. The fighters would have to be merely meters apart for the bullets to have an effect. Clarke sped into the mulling group of planes as yet another enemy pilot disengaged himself from the fight and charged head-on at Clark.
                          
Hunching over, Clark flew the plane directly at the charging fighter with the other German on his tail. The gap closed at an alarming rate, each pilot thinking the other would spin away at any moment. Mere meters from the speeding German, Clark spiraled away, revealing the fighter on his tail. Both Germans had a look of shock for a brief second before they collided and went up in flames. 
                          
Clark didn't have time to admire his handiwork as yet another German plane began speeding towards him. His heart rate quickened again as he charged at 70 meters a second at his next victim. 200 meters. 60 meters. Clark spun away as he pressed the trigger launching a short burst of fire, hitting the engine of the enemy plane. As Clark spun to the left, another British fighter running parallel to his course spiraled to the right, and Clark had to dive down to avoid the potentially disastrous collision. 
                          
As he dove down under the entangled fighters, he spotted his target up ahead. The British squadron leader. He soared back up shooting at the leader as he sped towards him. The British leader, caught unawares, barely avoided the hail of bullets by spiraling to the side. One lucky bullet, however, had hit one of the twin engines. A pillar of smoke started to rise as the leader began to drop in altitude. 
                          
As he began to plummet towards the earth, Clark sped down to follow him. The ground grew closer at an alarming rate. A thick trail of smoke followed the leader through the air and the engine caught on fire. The ground was barely a hundred meters away and the British pilot was able to get his falling plane at a more parallel angle to the ground. He crashed into the soft dirt and slid several hundred meters to a stop. 
                          
Clark gently eased his plane down on the flat plain. The wheels aided the landing, but after several meters, broke off due to the uneven bumpy ground. Clark slid to a stop a hundred meters from his target. He lightly jumped out of the cockpit and strolled towards the crashed plane. Fuel dripped down, coming dangerously close to the eager fire.
                          
Clark drew his pilot's pistol as he drew nearer to the craft. He stepped up to  the plane and peered into the cockpit. A man sat, his breathing shallow, holding his side where a large piece metal had impaled him. The man's face and clothes were drenched in blood, dirt and ash. Clark reached into the cockpit and grabbed one of the three necklaces that dangle around the man's throat. He yanked off the strange medallion and disturbed the shilling necklace with the Assassin symbol inscribed on it. The other necklace was a pair of dog-tags. They read Nathan Frye, British Royal Airforce.
                          
Clark turned and slowly walked away, the necklace dangling from his clenched fist.
                          


                          
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Again, this is pretty accurate in historical details. There were several air raids a day on German occupied French cities and bases.