By mid-1937, this ragtag crew of mercenaries had established a base of operation on a hideaway of an island long abandoned since the great war. It was devoid of indigenous occupants, but the remains of some great war patrol outpost remained. It came with fuel tanks, a fuel dock, water infrastructure, some cliff-mounted ramshackle barracks hidden in the trees well above the sandy hidden coves, and a watchtower with a 270-degree view of the horizon. From this base, they’d answered the call of codified telegrams offering bounties on the air pirates (task), in some unnamed governments’ hope to break their collaboration with the Otter empire (purpose). Through backroom meetings with a government intermediary, who worked more like a mule or bagrunner than a legitimate covert officer, they received modest pay to cover food, fuel, ammo, and some repairs (those which Wildcat and Rebecca could not handle themselves).

Often, they would pay visits to surrounding way-point islands – especially those that served cross-pacific flights. Typically, these hosted enormous backup fuel depots – outsized for the tropical island community they would serve. Fire for Hire’s visits were a blessed delivery of money, protection, and assurance; these “check-ins” were rare moments of peace for fuel depot owners beset by the pirates. protection rackets. Any depot that dared help Usland travelers or from the far side of the Pacific would meet a swift and explosive end. Of course, serving the expanding Otter territory was compulsory.

The weary and isolated rabble of Fire-for-Hire had grown to some 20 or 30 planes, depending on allegiances and locations (and probably the ferocity of an ambush). At one island they took an especially long time marking up their best map according to the word of locals who “know” which way the pirates would retreat. As ever, an argument ensues between the British vixen who leads them, the lay about con artist from Yorkshire, and Kit. This time, the Yorkshire lad had a plan – that definitely would work. His vixen counterpart was pounding the table with her paw fist in frustration that his plans never work. Rather than listen, he just donned his headphones to scan the RDF signal to begin their search.

With a STARTLING explosion that sent a shockwave across the harbor, four air pirates rang in their presence, first seen lunging over a mountain pass to the East. They dove straight for Fire for Hire’s mooring. Our vixen screamed and spittled, “TAKE OFF YOUR HEADPHONES!” Clearly, whatever plan they had was promptly abandoned.