Air Pirates of Krakatoa: Doc Vandal Adventures, #2

By Dave Robinson

When Doc Vandal's cousin is murdered with a bowl of poisonous fish soup, it's not long before Doc and the team are thrown on a collision course with the Air Pirates of Krakatoa!

After Vic escapes a deadly drone attack on the streets of New York City, all clues point to the coffee plantations of Java.

Doc and the team have to fight their way past the Air Pirates' deadly flying wing to get to the root of the mystery. It's a story of international conspiracies, giant robots, and colonial revolutionaries.

Can Doc escape the prison beneath Krakatoa?
Who is Tigress?
...and what about Vic, trapped in the hold of a ship about to explode?

It's all in the second Doc Vandal adventure: Air Pirates of Krakatoa!

• Language: English
• Publisher: KEH Publishing
• Release date: Apr 23, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223329343

Dave Robinson

I’m Dave, and I write. I’m also a father, a reader, gamer, a comic fan, and a hockey fan. Unfortunately, there is a problem with those terms; they don’t so much describe me as label me, and the map is not the territory. Calling me a father says nothing about my relationship with my daughter and how she thinks I’m silly. It ignores the essence of the relationship for convenience. It’s the same with my love of books, comics, role-playing games, and hockey; labels only say what, not how or why. They miss all the good parts. If you want more of a biography: I was born in the UK, grew up in Canada, and have spent time in the US. I’ve been freelancing for the last seven years. Before that, and in no particular order, I’ve managed a bookstore, worked in a pawnshop, been a telephone customer service rep, and even cleaned carpets for a living. As a freelancer, I’ve done everything from simple web content, to ghostwritten novels. I’ve even written a course on trading forex online. I’ve also edited everything from whitepapers to a science fiction anthology. Right now, I'm working on the next Doc Vandal adventure.

Book preview

DOC VANDAL

in

Air Pirates of Krakatoa

by Dave Robinson

A Doc Vandal Publication

Copyright 2017 by Dave Robinson

Cover Illustration by Carlos Balarezo

Cover Design by Queen Graphics

This is a work of fiction. All similarities to any persons living or dead is purely coincidental. All events, locales, and incidents are either purely the product of the author’s imagination or used for fictitious purposes.

The Doc Vandal Series

Against the Eldest Flame

Air Pirates of Krakatoa

Attacked Beneath Antarctica

Giant Robots of Tunguska

The Sunkiller Affair

The Ziggurat of Doom (forthcoming)

Collections

The Doc Vandal Omnibus: Volume One

This work is dedicated to the memory of Kim, sadly gone all too soon, without whom I would never have written a word; to Kyrie, and to my brother Neil, who always believed I was a writer even when I didn’t. Also thanks to the memory of my parents, Lyn and Clive Robinson.

I would also like to thank everyone who has helped me on this writing journey from the moment I first decided I wanted to create my own pulp heroes to the last word I typed; especially those who have read my works and given the kind of feedback you need to get the best out of a story: Brittany Maresh, Jules Ironside, S.L. Huang, Vincent Collins, Jaap Geluk, and Ian Gill.

Any errors are mine alone.

Cast of Characters

Doc Vandal

James Clark Vandal, born January 1st, 1901 in a 43rd Archonate observation post on the near side of the Moon. Raised by alien AIs, Doc has been enhanced well beyond normal human capabilities. One side effect of his upbringing is that he has difficulty understanding some elements of human motivations. He arrived on Earth on January 1st, 1919. In the eighteen years since then, he has become the foremost scientific adventurer in the world. His most famous invention is an artificial aerogel called lyftrium which has made safe lighter-than-air travel a worldwide phenomenon. He lives with the rest of the team on the 87th floor of the Republic State Building in New York.

Victoria Vic Frank

Countess Victoria Catherine Elizabeth Marie Frank, born March 23rd (March 10th according to the Julian calendar), 1909 in Saint Petersburg, Russia. Conceived aboard an airship flying over Siberia at the precise moment of the Tunguska Event, she is the youngest of the core four. After her parents vanished during the Revolution she escaped to England by way of China with her grandmother. Taken in by Doc after her grandmother’s death, she’s a daredevil who serves as the team’s pilot. She’s very much an act first, think later, kind of person.

Augustus Gus Q. Ponchartrain

Gustar was on born October 1st, 1901 in Pongo City West Africa. He walked out of the rainforest after the War and made his way to the United States where he met Doc Vandal at Arkham College in 1921. A polymath, Gus jokes that he has more doctorates than he can count, though in actuality it’s only twelve, and is an expert on hundreds of subjects. In addition to his intelligence and education, Gus also possesses the tremendous strength of full-grown silverback gorilla. He is known to be fond of Earl Grey tea.

Gilbert Gilly Chanter

Gilbert Chanter, born December 17, 1903 in Kitty Hawk, North Carolina. The son of a Baptist preacher, Gilly is Doc and the team’s driver, mechanic, and photographer. He’s also a huge fan of pulp magazines like The Shadow. For the most part he tends to sit back and quietly do his job.

Kehla Ponchartrain

Kehla was born on June 22nd 1906 in Pongo City West Africa. Raised to be the First Hand of Vel, a sacrificial priestess of the Eldest Flame, she was also Gus’s childhood sweetheart. After Gus escaped from Pongo City, she rebelled against her fate and joined a guerilla movement, quickly rising to the position of leader of the movement. Following the destruction of Pongo City in Against the Eldest Flame, she finally married Gus and relocated to New York.

Table of Contents

Dinner and a Movie

Batavia

Plantation by Night

Thrown in the Hold

Showdown in the High Skies

Epilogue

Afterword

CHAPTER ONE

Dinner and a Movie

Doc Vandal rarely visited the Republic State Club, even though he had been a member for years. Generally, he preferred the Adventurers or Explorers Clubs where he was judged on his achievements instead of his bank accounts. Yes, his inventions had made him very wealthy, but they had also taken him on more adventures than almost anyone else alive. Tonight, he was sitting in a private room at the request of one of his very few living relatives; his cousin Cornelius, a man with whom he had almost nothing in common. Realizing he was drifting, Doc let the whir of the projector draw his attention back to his surroundings.

A newsreel flickered against the screen at the far end of the darkened room, showing the black-and-white image a tramp freighter steaming through the South Seas. To Doc's right, Victoria Frank leaned forwards in her seat, apparently fascinated by the image. In a place like this, she looked every inch the Russian aristocrat she would have been but for the Revolution. Tonight she had given in to Doc’s request and worn a dress, though he knew she’d rather be wearing a flying suit. As they watched, the camera panned around to show more than half a dozen small freighters passing through Sunda.

These are the coffee freighters I was telling you about. Cornelius Basingstoke whispered in his ear. Eight ships bound for Batavia, coming through Sunda from the Java sea. Basingstoke had only been the head of the Dutch East Indies coffee consortium since 1935; he was fiftyish, heavy-set and of Anglo-Dutch ancestry. His mother and Doc's had been cousins; although having only met a handful of times the two men were almost complete strangers.

Uh huh, Doc answered noncommittally, his attention on the screen.

A shadow crossed the screen, and the cameraman panned up to follow it. A huge flying wing was coming out of the east, a biplane configuration with over a dozen engines on the upper wing. Even though Doc knew it was an artifact of the film, the silence was eerie. Pursuit planes dropped from the lower wing, first one, then another and another.

The screen filled with empty sky for a moment, the ship must have turned sharply enough to heel over, and then came back into focus. Two of the pursuits were coming in at one of the ships. Two long black shapes dropped into the water, and the planes pulled up.

White wakes cut through the calm seas, drawing lines toward a freighter wallowing in the water as its crew tried to turn the vessel away from the threat. Doc clenched his fists, watching the sailors on their doomed ship. Two leaped from the side, while others worked at a lifeboat, gathered around the starboard davits.

As the camera zoomed closer to the ship, SS Hazelton according to the hull markings, rivet lines and rust stains began to appear. She was an old three-island design, and looked to have seen better days. Whoever was in charge was making full steam, but it wasn't going to be enough.

Two waterspouts covered the screen as the torpedoes struck home.

Basingstoke snapped his fingers and a servant turned the lights on. There you have it.

Doc raised an eyebrow. There I have what?

An idea of what we're up against. Basingstoke gestured towards the dimly visible screen. That happened just last month. We've lost a dozen ships in the past two months, and now we're having a hellish time finding anyone to carry our coffee.

So what do you want me to do about it? Doc raised an eyebrow.

Basingstoke dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief. Well, to be honest, we were hoping that you could do something about the pirates for us.

Wouldn't that be a matter for the Dutch? Vic asked, swirling a glass of wine in her hand. I think they have a cruiser at Batavia.

Basingstoke leaned forward, letting his stomach flow over the edge of the table. Pardon?

Vic wrinkled her forehead. That's piracy in Dutch territorial waters. I don't know exactly where in the Sunda Strait that happened, but there's a Dutch naval base maybe a hundred miles away. Why not talk to them, rather than asking us to look at it when we're ten thousand miles away?

She took a very small sip of her wine. It doesn't make sense.

Doc smiled, Vic had some very good points. Yes, Cornelius, why didn't you talk to the Dutch authorities?

We did. Basingstoke mopped his forehead again. "But they only have a handful of ships. We asked for a cruiser escort, and even offered to try convoys, but all they would give us was a destroyer for a few days. There were no attacks while it was there, so they pulled it back.

The next day, we lost another ship to the pirates. The Dutch fleet just isn't fast enough to get there in time. It was all we could do to hire the cameraman who filmed this. Basingstoke drained a glass of water and then waved a servant over to refill it.

And bring me a whiskey while you're at it!

If you're looking for a hired gun, I'm not it, Doc said. I have enough trouble come looking for me; I don't need to go looking for any more.

I understand, Basingstoke said, but I had to ask you know; the rest of the consortium insisted, your late mother and mine being cousins and all. It was the third time he had mentioned their blood relationship as if it was something that should be important to Doc.

He rang a bell, and the servant opened a door to let a waiter into the room. The young Eurasian carried a large platter with three covered dishes. He kept his head down as he walked over to their table and set up the platter on a set of folding legs.

Here you are, gentlemen, the waiter said, then paused and nodded towards Vic, "and lady.

For your first course, we have a fish liver soup. A true delicacy for the discerning palate.

Without another word, he served the three steaming bowls, and then picked up his platter and left.

You really have to try this James, Basingstoke said, reaching for his spoon. They bring the fish live all the way from the Far East in a specially heated tank. It is absolutely delicious.

Doc nodded politely and reached for his own spoon. The broth smelled wonderful, and tasted even better. The fish had a very light taste that made his lips tingle. No, it wasn't the taste, it was poison, they were pufferfish livers.

He spat out the remaining soup, and upended the table sending bowls and silverware flying as Vic stared at him, her spoon half-way to her mouth. It's poison! Stop the waiter!

A grim smile crossed Vic’s face as she pulled a Walther PPK out of her purse. She kicked her shoes off and ran for the same door the waiter had disappeared through.

Doc turned to Basingstoke, but it was too late. Stark terror showed in the older man's eyes as he fought for breath. Doc shoved his fingers down Basingstoke's throat, trying to trigger his gag reflex, but there was no response, only the look of fear in his eyes. The poison had paralyzed his diaphragm and was racing towards his heart. There was no time to counteract it. All Doc could do was watch helplessly as the poison did its work. He hadn’t liked the man, but he was family and Doc didn’t have much of one left.

I'll find out who did this, Doc promised, watching as the light went out of Basingstoke's eyes.

Vic stormed through the service door and into the hallway just in time to see a white-coated figure dash into the stairwell. She had hated the way Basingstoke had tried to undress her with his eyes, but even a slug like him didn’t deserve to be salted. With her gun in one hand, she hiked up her dress with the other and followed as fast as she could. The pistol was her new favorite toy, taken from a Nazi gorilla in a secret African city they had discovered the previous month. It was almost a standard-issue German pistol; the one big difference was that the trigger guard had been removed to make room for the gorilla's fingers.

Reaching the stairwell moments after the waiter, she charged headlong down the steps taking them two at a time. The anti-slip tread shredded her artificial silk stockings, but since she hated the damn things it wasn't much of a loss. By the time she had reached the first landing the bottoms of her stockings were flapping around her ankles. She made it just in time to see the waiter push his way through the swinging doors and into the kitchen.

Three long strides and a loud rip up the side of her dress had Vic through the doors and into a madhouse. A small army of waiters, mostly Chinese, were crossing in front of her while the kitchen staff slaved away over a row of griddles and stovetops. Above it all the chef bellowed orders in Cantonese, barely audible over the crash of pots and pans!

Coming through, Vic yelled, and then repeated herself in Cantonese as she threw herself after the one waiter moving across the flow.

Using the form that had served her so well on the hockey field she shouldered her way through the waiters, ignoring the curses that followed in her wake. Despite her best efforts, she couldn't gain on the waiter who slipped through the crowd with practiced efficiency.

One of the waiters didn't move fast enough to get out of her way and she hit him harder than she intended. He bounced off her lowered shoulder and into a small knot of his fellows sending platters flying everywhere. Soup and steak littered the floor, turning it into an obstacle course. Vic planted her right foot squarely on a very hot very slippery sirloin and it went flying out from under her.

Seconds later she was face down in hot soup, and surrounded by a wall of glaring waiters. Keeping a firm grip on her pistol, she levered herself back to her feet and ran for the back door. It was still half-open so she just pushed her way through into the alley. No one was there.

Apart from a couple of stray cats digging through the garbage, she was alone. Vic took one more look up and down the alley before turning back into the restaurant.

Vic scowled as she came back into the room. Her dress was a mess with soup down the front and a rip up the side. Her stockings were in tatters. He got away.

She threw herself down in her chair and retrieved her shoes; letting her tattered stockings hang down beside the heels. Too late for Basingstoke?

Doc nodded. Fugu poisoning; you're lucky you didn't eat any of the soup.

What about you? I saw you take a sip. Vic tried to brush bits of food off her ruined dress.

I didn't get much, and I have a stronger constitution than he had.

Doc didn't need to remind Vic how the peculiarities of his birth and upbringing had played in the development of his constitution. As far as anyone knew, he was the only human ever born on the Moon. Vic was one of the very few who knew the truth of his origins. While Basingstoke had been raised by a family of robber baron capitalists; Doc had been raised by three artificial minds on an alien moon base that was older than North America itself.

Anyway, Vic explained. By the time I got through the kitchen he was long gone. When I came back in from the alley everyone was going crazy. One of the chefs, I think he was Japanese, looked to have had his throat slit by one on of his own knives.

Vic reached for her wine, but it was soaking into the carpet. She frowned