White Tiger

Meet the white tiger

White Tiger

Chapter 1

I could be a rambler from the seven dials,

I don't pay taxes 'cause I never file,

I don't do bid'ness that don't make me smile,

I love my aero-plane cause she got style,

I'm a tree top flyer...

-Stephen Stills

  They were running through the jungle. Adrenaline was running high, making their strides shaky and halting. Every few feet someone would drop a possession and stop to pick it up, holding up the line. Theirs was not an efficient escape (how many ever were?).  They were a group of 5: a married couple, two children and a national. The national was a man compact in size and of good build; the type who was used to hard work, usually agrarian.  Jose was a brave man.  He had that quality of humility and decisiveness that makes a great leader and was pushed to the front of the crowd every time his talents were called for. Today he was leading a special group who were much loved by the people in his town.

  They were white; American, and being American wasn’t popular here and they were easy enough to spot. These Americans were very special to Jose, they were missionaries who had helped a lot of people in his little town. They mastered the language and wore the local clothes; they had given themselves to the people and now they had to leave, and leave fast. The Americans had protested angrily but he knew what would happen if the rebels got a hold of them. So, leave they did.

  They heard there was still a plane at the strip though there hadn’t been any scheduled that week, but they’d all seen it arrive about 3 or 4 days ago. It was big for their local grass strip and had come in at a steep angle, its twin radials rumbling and roaring as the pilot maintained his steep approach. The locals watched the landing with amusement; something that big would never get back out because the trees and the slope worked against even the smallest and most powerful aircraft; but what amused them most was its extremely garish paint job.

  They could hear the aircraft’s engines running faintly in the distance; it was leaving!  Jose prayed they would make it in time but before he could finish his thought, the engine sound died as first one then the other engine shut down; strange. He heard a distant gunshot behind them then another. His heart rate went up even higher, if that was possible.

  They broke into the clearing that had the honor of being called the "international" airport: A grass strip with a shack to one side. There it was: An old Douglas DC-3 with the strangest color scheme he’d ever seen. It was painted entirely in white with black tiger stripes (he involuntarily let out a laugh).  A door was open on the side near the waist and there was a curious looking post in the center of the door opening. The plane certainly was a site to behold, the engine cowls were spattered with oil and black exhaust soot and there something unusual on the planes underbelly; it looked like a tapered pipe attached to the fuselage with the free end of the pipe pointed downward at an angle.

  Well, they would just have to board and beg for a ride and if worse came to worse Jose would stay behind. He knew the jungle, he could run to any one of a number of childhood hideouts. The plane stood there silently as another gunshot sounded through the jungle; it was closer this time.

  Jose hopped up into the plane followed by the others but they all stopped dead in their tracks; there was no pilot, only a little girl that couldn't have been more than 8 years old, sitting in a seat on the front row with her knees pulled up under her chin;  rocking back and forth and mumbling.  She was Jamaican; with large almond eyes and a head full of braids that cascaded down past her shoulders. Her skin was light coco brown and her features were delicate and angular with a slightly Anglo look about her. She was wearing a white and yellow striped top and bell bottom blue jeans with flip flops on her feet.

  “Where’s our pilot, little miss?” he said. She didn’t respond, just kept rocking.  It was at this point that Jose suddenly realized she was praying:

  “Oh, Lord, please. Have mercy on him.  Let him go this time and have mercy on that no good thief Ansell too because Ansell’s all he got now and he’s all I got now! I can hear them shotting, don’t let ‘em shot ‘im PLEASE!” She spoke quietly in her thick Jamaican accent.

  “It’s okay, little miss, I’m sure he’ll be back soo-“,

  A small digital timer she was holding began to beep and she jumped as if startled. Suddenly her fearful face took on a look of grim determination as she leapt from the seat and began to climb into the cockpit.

  “Whoa now, where do you think you’re going” he said, grabbing an arm.

“You. LET. ME. BEEE!” she screamed as she wrenched free from his grip. There was definitely some iron in that little voice;  hers was a command, not a plea. She hopped into the left seat and immediately began the plane’s starting sequence in expert, fluid fashion as she flipped a switch and set some levers, then looked out the left window while she pressed a button. The left engine whined and began a slow rotation, she held it as she counted 8 blades swing by,"1..2..3..4..." then switched ignition on and rotated it again; this time it roared to life. She then moved the throttle to a position that suited her as she watched the tachometer and oil pressure. Satisfied, she turned her attention to the right engine; the same whine, a backfire and the engine was running. They all jumped when the engine backfired but she remained focused and indifferent as if she fully expected it to bang when started. She checked to make sure there was no forward movement of the plane then climbed out of the cockpit and returned to her original seat where she pushed a button on her timer and waited, praying.

  The small group stood there in gaping astonishment: they could not believe what they were seeing.

  “I think we should leave her alone” the woman said with a dumfounded look on her face. “She seems to be part of the crew”. They all laughed with a wry humor, after all, it hadn’t been an ordinary day.  This scene seemed to fit right in and the laughter eased things up a little as they began to take seats, the woman seeing to her children. Though the rows of seats only ran back to the door, there seemed to be plenty for everyone. On the other side, just behind the door, was a fold-out cot and further back was what appeared to be a small galley which gave it a look that was a mix between passenger and cargo plane…

  After some time had passed, the little girl’s timer went off again;  she leaped back in the cockpit and shut the engines down each in turn and once again returned to her seat where she produced a small radio and spoke into it.  Jose couldn’t make out what she said but her worried look told him that she hadn’t gotten an answer. She tossed the radio down on the seat next to her and resumed her original knees-up position, praying.

  “We haven’t room fer stowaways”, she said over her shoulder in a brisk, business-like manner. “You’ll probably be getting off as soon as the captain comes”.

  The sound of gunfire was getting louder, more frequent, and the single shots became punctuated now by the staccato beat of an automatic. The tension could literally be cut with a knife as Jose heard yelling from the jungle; suddenly a group of four men burst into the open. Two were carrying a rusty metal box and the third was helping/dragging the forth with his arm around the waist of the wounded man while in his other hand he carried an AK 47. He spun them both around in a smooth tango like maneuver and sprayed the jungle behind him with 10 rounds on full auto, then went back to running. They reached the plane and began to tumble in.

  The first one in was a man of Jamaican decent; long back-length dreadlocks and a lithe sinewy build. He had a wide eyed look on his face that told of a man nearing the edge. He physically dragged the second man in with him via that man’s grip to the other side of the box. He dropped the heavy box on the foot of No. 2, (“Ahhhh!”) and disappeared toward the rear of the aircraft. The box looked exactly like an old time treasure chest; caked with mud and not unlike the kind seen in films.

  The second man on was clearly Asian, Malay most likely.  His name was Hai Ho (Whoever named him must have had a cruel sense of humor). Hai winced and dragged the box down the aisle to the cockpit bulkhead in front of the first row of seats where he secured it to the floor with a bungee. He then smiled at the little girl and jerked his head impatiently towards the cockpit. He too looked slightly crazed as he immediately sat down in a seat next to Jose and buckled up; looking at Jose and smiling good naturedly like a business man on a commuter flight while at the same time rubbing his injured foot. The girl meanwhile immediately jumped into the cockpit and began the start sequence again. She was just getting the left engine restarted when the last two came on.

  Through the door came a white man, tall and broad shouldered with a narrow waist wearing a shirt splattered with blood. “A diver’s body”, thought the woman with some guilty pleasure. He stood for a split second with that same piratical look in his eyes, shifting them back and forth as he tried to comprehend their presence.  “A tiger in a cage”, she though, “White tiger”. 

 “Every time I park this crate it gets a refugee infestation! You will go where this craft takes you and you will find your OWN way home from this flight’s point of termination, understood? Most importantly,YOU WILL NOT COMPLAIN!” The man he was holding looked to be Mexican. Wherever he hailed from, it was clear that he was speaking Spanish. The white man mumbled something in Spanish as he glanced at the cot and unceremoniously dropped the Mexican on the floor. The Mexican crawled to the foldout cot and got on it, holding the sides with white knuckles.  He began to stain the cot with blood.

  “ANSELL!” he boomed “Mount the 50!”

“Already dare” Ansell spoke in a silky lilt, coming into view with a large automatic weapon trailing a long belt of ammunition, all of which he began to mount on the post that stood in the middle of the doorway.

 
“I THOUGHT I RADIOED TO YOU TO RUN THE ENGINES!” he boomed forward at the little girl. She had the second one rolling already;  with a bang it was running.

“I ‘ave been!” The stress began to show on her face as her eyes welled with tears. She was shaking as she dove to her seat and began to cry into her hands; she was being exposed to more than her share of stress for a girl her age. Another one of life’s prisoners to fortune who was quickly leaving childhood behind at too early an age yet still had the childish notion that everything that happened in life (good or bad) was normal: she simply didn’t know any better. Starting engines was part of life like playing in the park was part of life because she had no bell curve with which to compare her life to, so, like all children, she played it as it came. Didn’t all little girls know how to start a DC-3?  Her childhood had taken a detour, swept away into this life peopled with maniacs and treasure hounds.

  The white man jumped into the left seat and quickly put on his headset. A quick glance of the instruments revealed that she had in fact run the engines. With the corners of his mouth turned downward, he gave an approving nod to himself. Ansell also had a headset on and was standing statue still in a semi squat position behind the gun sight, waiting in steely lunatic calmness for a target to show up across the strip: in his mind there was nothing in the world but him, the 50, and whoever was fool enough to pop out of that jungle.

Cap’s voice came over the headset, “Don’t shoot the tail off”, A wry crooked grin spread across Ansell’s face as he stared straight ahead, the grin was humorless.

  “Dare day arrre” Ansell opened up with the 50 caliber before completing his sentence.  The sound was deafening as their pursuers dove back into the jungle and returned fire while the passengers held their ears in shock. A small round hole of daylight silently opened up just above Jose’s head. He looked across the aircraft and saw the exit hole above the head of the little girl; she hadn’t noticed and it was probably better that way.

  “Gonna get you”, Ansell was losing some of his steely demeanor, “Pop your head up and I’ll take it off for you”, he hissed as he let out another burst, “You gonna get summa dissss”.

  The captain revved the engines and fanned the rudder to get the plane and tail wheel into position, then he immediately went full throttle. The plane began to lumber down the strip, “Ansell, prepare for the JATO! Get in a seat!”

  Ansell didn’t hear or wouldn’t; the rebels were coming out into the open and becoming targets of opportunity and he welcomed them with a long burst from the 50. They all went down; Some would never get up again.

  “Whoa, whoooa! Eeeeaaase up on dem hammers, Tex!”, the captain said good naturedly, “GET IN A SEAT!” That was Ansell’s last warning, the plane was rolling good now. The captain reached for a switch, flipped it up, and the plane burst forward and began a crazy acceleration. In a second it was well above its stall speed.  Ansell fell backward to the rear of the plane while still firing the gun; Several rounds flew wild as the gun swept forward and up, sending them to land somewhere in the remote jungle miles away. Another second and they were making a near vertical climb that lasted just long enough to clear the trees with a little room to spare. He leveled off just before the belly mounted JATO spent its fuel. The mountains were a different story, he would have to circle around once to get the altitude to climb over them. As they began to bank, the rebels came into full view on the runway below, shooting upward.

  “I got you now! HAHAHAHA!” Ansell had gotten back to the gun and he was now broadside to the rebels. He had also lost any remnant of control he had previously possessed as he swiveled the gun rearward, his dreads sweeping about him like a great black mop: “HAHAHAH!!” bapbapbapbapbap “You got summa dissss didn’t you, HAHAHAHA!” He laughed with a resonant Jamaican baritone. Dust was kicking up among the group on the ground, “He sure knows how to use that thing” thought the man up front, viewing the scene through a cockpit window.

  “Ansell, secure the 50, their guns can’t reach us”. Ansell’s headphones had been jerked off by the cord when he took his tumble backward. He couldn’t hear anything in the open doorway. “ANSELL!”

  The captain tore off his headphones and turned around “ANSELL, STOW THAT DAMN 50!!!”

  Ansell stood in the door for a moment, hands still on the gun: the gun was silent (this brought no small relief to the passengers). The adrenaline was letting him down as his face became expressionless, he cleared and dismounted the gun in slow motion then he once again disappeared to the rear of the plane, with the weapon on his shoulder pointing down, holding the hot barrel with his wadded up tee shirt…

Ansell came forward wearing a serene look that defied recent events; his shirt was back on and he had his dreads pulled back into a ponytail held together with a flowered scrunchy, which raised a wry look from the girl; it was one of hers.  He glanced at the box, slipped in beside the captain and put on a headset. He produced a clipboard from a side pocket and began to run a checklist as Hai went aft to look after the Mex.

  They had leveled off. The little girl (Tonie was her name) unbuckled and grabbed a small pillow which she placed between the seats just to rear of the two men in the cockpit. She then knelt on the pillow and pulled a belt across her knees; apparently it was installed just for her.  Ansell reached back and patted her head like a pet; the Captain also absentmindedly reached back to stroke her braids but she angrily slapped his hand away and put on a headset. The two men were conversing now; smiling in a pleasant manner, extracting easy, head-back laughter from each other; Tonie sat between them in perfect posture with her hands folded in her lap. They were VERY pleased.  After some time, the captain spoke to Tonie and She rose up and ran to the back of the plane, bringing back 2 frosty bottles of Dragon Stout. The bottles were open and she handed one to each of the men and returned to her pillow. They clinked their bottles and drank, then continued their pleasant exchange as if they were sitting in lawn chairs out back of someone’s house in the ‘burbs.

 “They’re drinking BEER and FLYING the PLANE!” the woman moaned. “Oh good Lord we’ve fallen among pirates!” To her this was out of control and way beyond the pale for sanity. This was all lunacy in fine, purest form.

  The men in the group eyed the two in the cockpit with a look of astonishment (and a bit of envy). The plane had no numbers on the tail and was being flown by two men who thought it only proper to have a beer after takeoff. These men were far beyond the edge of anything legal; they transcended legality. They, indeed, were pirates.

Author's Note

Feedback always welcome

Reviews

[Roda86]

The characters grabbed my attention immediately. For a short story, they were well drawn. The action starts and keeps you running along with it. I liked the twist of the pirates at the end.

There are a few little things that could be edited grammatically. Every now and again, the sentence structure seems a bit choppy.

Overall, I enjoyed it and will be reading the other stories by this author.

[Hack1000]

Thank you for your review. I agree with you that the sentences are choppy. I refined it quite a bit but couldn't get the flow that I wanted. I settled for getting the story across. I'm working on chapter 2 right now (The Mex's Repair). I enjoy a nice fluid story myself so look for (hopefully) some improvement in chapter 2. Cheers!