The Watchtower (Final)

The watchtower rises high above the jungle treetops where well over half the island’s shoreline can be appreciated. It is the command center for their sorties out against the air pirates. It also happens to be the best vantage point for protective cover of their small air wing.

This band of pirate hunters formed out of an amalgam of independent mercenaries and the best pilots from Cape Suzette’s waterfront cargo district. After a mysterious explosion flattened most of the seaplane FBOs, many began to suspect that the air pirates were after more than treasure. Indeed, they’d signed contracts with the governors of imperial mandates to destabilize the islands, steal oil and break supply routes across the region. In order to avoid acts of war, friendly governments also paid handsome bounties to anyone who could undermine this new axis of aggression. A proxy air war was afoot in the archipelagos and atolls and it was up to resourceful groups like these to use any surplus they could nab in Manila or the Dutch East Indies in the rusting stockpiles of the Great War.

This watchtower was found, along with the dregs of some military outpost left unused for 20 years. These three vixens ran the tower. After chopping out two decades of vines and Singapore swallows nests they installed an RDF loop high above the trees up top. Often, a thieving monkey or screeching parrot will burst into their keep - an explosion of feathers or fur that knocks over the liqour bottles and fouls the laundry lines. Beetles the size of a handpaw constantly grab the radio dials and ruin a hard won clear comms channel. The air up there is thick enough to stab with a spoon.

There are many times they are often left alone. The fennec is best at running the radios and df loop, the right most red vixen generally has the best sense of leadership, and has risen to lead this band. She’s glad for the quiet time in the tower because the men - two pilot bears and their idiot fox buddy from England seem to find ways of ruining every constructive minute and effort on the island. The exasperated pilot in the middle is their local air cover that stays behind. Always the reluctant hero, she needs to be asked, no, begged, three times to get up and get in that plane (even after they’ve been strafed by a passing pirate in transit). Usually changing the subject, or breaking the silence, she’ll blurt out “Karnage can just have me” or… “when’s the last time that volcano blew,” (which turned some heads). Most often she’ll sit down after a patrol pattern and simply bark, “where’s the rye.”

Every once in a while, a twig will snap on the jungle floor below, and one of them will lean over, sniffing and listening, ears perked, for a snooping air pirate hit man - or possibly, a fat bear with a practical joke in mind.

~ Thank you to my loyal patrons whose membership encouraged me to focus and complete this work in better time. I can’t wait to start the next piece. ~