Free Beneath the Dover Sky by Murray Pura

wheels, ailerons, and everything else. Now and then an engine would cough to life, run for a minute, and then be shut down.
    Kipp checked his watch. “Fifteen minutes to go. Zeltner got the first takeoff slot with two of the French pilots.”
    “It doesn’t matter.” Ben stared past the SPAD at the other planes nearby. “The officials time everyone from liftoff. Zeltner could land at Dover Sky five minutes ahead of you or me and it wouldn’t make a difference—not if he’d set off ten minutes before us. We’d win.” Ben pointed with his chin. “There he is.”
    They both stared under the wing at Zeltner, who stood tall, blond, and slender in his three-quarter-length black leather jacket.
    “He’s dressed like it’s the Great War,” grumbled Kipp.
    “Perhaps it still is for him. You know he always regretted not besting Richthofen’s record of eighty kills.”
    Zeltner appeared to feel their eyes on him for he turned and lookeddirectly at the two of them. He lifted the hand holding his leather helmet in half salute.
    They each raised a hand in response.
    “It’s Baron von Zeltner now, you know,” said Ben.
    “I saw that in the paper. When did that happen?”
    “In ’22. Your brother Edward said the Weimar Republic was looking for heroes. He was one of the ones they chose to put on the pedestal. Permitted him to add the “von” to his name. Yet a few weeks later von Zeltner joined a right-wing party the Weimar leadership detests.”
    “Edward is always up on the politics,” grunted Kipp. “He fancies himself the first man in the kingdom in ten years.”
    “What was the name of the party Zeltner joined? The National Socialist…hang on…the National Socialist German Workers’ Party, that’s it. Big name, isn’t it? Your dad and Edward call them the Nazis. Heard of them?”
    “I’m too busy flying mail.”
    “Well,” Ben went on, “they’re a pretty violent lot. They go around and beat up people they don’t like. Their leader’s in prison right now.”
    “Hmm…so von Zeltner’s part of that?”
    “Right.”
    “I know he has a cruel streak.” Kipp slapped his leather flying helmet against his pant leg. “Never pictured him as a thug though. Not his style, is it?”
    “I’m sure he appoints others to do the street work while he sits in an office.”
    “That doesn’t sound like his style either.”
    Ben shrugged. “He looks the same as when we met him in London in 1920.” He leaned on the lower wing and stared at von Zeltner. “Remember that social event for pilots of all sides? He took an interest in your wife, if I recall.”
    “And to yours. Do you think he knows who we are?”
    “Oh he knows.”
    “Then you can be sure he wants to beat you,” said Kipp.
    “And you, the son of the man hosting the race.”
    “But especially you, Ben. He’ll never forget how you tore up his squadron and won the Victoria Cross in the bargain.”
    “Never forget…or forgive.” Ben thrust his hands into his pockets. “This race needs to be won by an Englishman!”
    “Gentlemen! Aviators!” A heavy man in tweed coat and cap stood in the middle of the parked airplanes. “We are about to begin. Your names will be shouted out in groups of three. Those three will take off side by side. Then another three will be called and so on until all twenty of you are up. The winner cannot be announced until time of arrival at the finish line is compared with time of takeoff and the exact amount of flying time is calculated. Obviously the pilot with the shortest flying time shall find himself the winner of the Lord Preston Cup and two thousand pounds sterling.”
    He consulted a sheet of paper. “Remember your destination is the estate of Dover Sky in Kent. Each of you has been furnished with a map. There are large markings chalked out on the airfield there. In addition red, white, and blue balloons surround the landing strip. Do not go below one thousand feet unless you have engine trouble and must