Red Devil Down Read online

  First published 2009 in Pan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited

  1 Market Street, Sydney

  Reprinted 2009

  Copyright © Charlie Carter 2009

  Illustration copyright © Russell Jeffery 2009

  The moral rights of the creators have been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

  National Library of Australia

  Cataloguing-in-Publication data:

  Carter, Charlie.

  Red devil down / Charlie Carter.

  9780330425025 (pbk.)

  Carter, Charlie. Battle boy.

  For primary school age.

  Richthofen, Manfred, Freiherr von, 1892-1918. – Juvenile fiction.

  World War, 1914-1918 – Aerial operations, German – Juvenile fiction.

  Fighter pilots – Germany – Juvenile fiction.

  Spy stories – Juvenile fiction.

  A823.4

  Designed by Russell Jeffery, Emigraph

  Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group

  Papers used by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.

  These electronic editions published in 2009 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd

  1 Market Street, Sydney 2000

  The moral rights of the creators have been asserted.

  All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical) or by any means (photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.

  Battle Boy 2: Red Devil Down

  Charlie Carter

  Adobe eReader format: 978-1-74198-640-2

  EPUB format: 978-1-74198-752-2

  Online format: 978-1-74198-584-9

  Macmillan Digital Australia

  www.macmillandigital.com.au

  Visit www.panmacmillan.com.au to read more about all our books and to buy both print and ebooks online. You will also find features, author interviews and news of any author events.

  RED DEVIL DOWN

  CHARLIE CARTER

  CONTENTS

  COVER

  AGENT PROFILE

  COPYRIGHT

  TITLE PAGE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Napoleon Augustus Smythe was in the kitchen with his mother.

  She was putting the final touches to his brother Monty’s birthday cake. Napoleon was munching on the leftover chunks of sponge.

  Monty loved old warships so Napoleon had suggested making a cake in the shape of a Spanish galleon.

  Of course, Captain Smythe had checked the cake to make sure everything was correct.

  ‘You know what an expert Monty is on these ships,’ he said. ‘He’s a stickler for detail. Just like his father.’

  ‘Trust me, Dad, there aren’t any mistakes,’ Napoleon said. ‘I know what a Spanish galleon looks like.’

  His father laughed. ‘What, from seeing a picture in your books? That’s not real life, son!’

  Napoleon smiled to himself.

  He nearly said he knew about Spanish warships because he’d seen a whole fleet of them up close — when the professor had sent him back to the Battle of Cadiz in 1587. He’d even given the order to Open Fire!

  But Napoleon didn’t say anything because all that stuff was top secret.

  No one had any idea that he was Battle Boy 005 — travelling back in time to famous battles so he could spy on the past and solve the mysteries of history.

  While Monty and Caesar had been pretending to be soldiers in the parade at the military base where his dad was stationed, Napoleon had been right in the thick of a real battle with one of the greatest sea captains ever — Sir Francis Drake.

  Napoleon sighed. He wished he could go to a battle right now. It had been a week since his first mission and every day since had seemed so long and boring.

  He thought about the Battle Books stored in the Tome Tower in the basement of the town library. Which one would be next to start humming with all the energy contained inside until it

  open, ready for the next mission?

  As if on cue, Napoleon’s Battle Watch throbbed. A message flashed across the screen:

  ‘Sorry, Mum, gotta fly,’ Napoleon said, licking a big dollop of icing off the mixing spoon. ‘There’s this book at the library that I want. I have to get there before someone else takes it.’

  ‘You and your books,’ his mother said, laughing. ‘Just be home in time for Monty’s party, or it’ll be outright war.’

  Napoleon was soon outside the Special Reading Room at the library.

  He pressed his hand against the rubber pad and let the mechanical eye scan him. Then the door slid open.

  ‘Enter, BB005,’ the door said as he slipped inside.

  Professor Perdu was waiting. ‘This should be a brief mission, BB,’ she said. ‘SimulSkin is ready.’

  The professor was the local librarian, or so everyone thought. Only Napoleon knew that she was in charge of Operation Battle Book.

  He stepped into the change room, undressed, and pulled on Skin, his flesh-coloured body armour.

  ‘Good morning, BB005,’ Skin said as Napoleon stretched the last part over his head. ‘Your mission instructions are to hand.’

  ‘Ha ha,’ said Napoleon as he rubbed his palms together and opened them.

  They instantly became LCD screens, showing details of the mission he was about to undertake.

  ‘Baron von Richthofen, also called the Red Devil, or the Red Knight, was the greatest air ace of World War One,’ said Professor Perdu over the intercom. ‘He shot down eighty planes. You are going to his last battle to find out exactly who shot him down. It’s an important military mystery.’

  A panel slid open in the wall to reveal grey woollen trousers, a dirt-splattered shirt and scuffed boots, worn at the heels.

  Napoleon screwed up his nose. ‘Do I have to wear those?’ he said. ‘They stink!’

  ‘You’re a poor French farm boy,’ said the professor. That’s your cover.’

  ‘Why do I have to be poor?’ said Napoleon. ‘Why can’t I be a count, or a duke or something?’

  ‘Because counts and dukes stand out,’ said the professor. ‘A spy needs to blend into his surroundings. Now, please change quickly. Our window for this mission is closing fast.’

  As Napoleon got dressed, he noticed that his shoes had especially thick soles.

  ‘I guess these are MasterSole Version 4.2?’ he said.

  ‘Version 4.3, actually,’ the professor replied, ‘with Hoplite software installed, plus Turbo Decelerators to help in dangerous landings. We have to slow you down before you get hurt.’

  Napoleon stood up. ‘Hey, I’ve grown.’ He was several centimetres taller.

  ‘That’s the compressed gas in the soles. It’s in small capsules programmed to burst just before landing.’

&
nbsp; ‘And the Hoplite software?’

  ‘Skin will activate that and fill you in if necessary. Right now we need to keep moving. Time is tight.’

  Napoleon liked the new bounce in his step as he left the change room. But he didn’t like the smell of his clothes.

  He tried to say, ‘Disgusting germs probably live in these clothes and I might die before I even get into the Battle Book,’ but he spoke French instead.

  ‘Translator working,’ the professor said as she checked Napoleon up and down. ‘And you should stink, BB. One of your jobs is cleaning pig pens.’

  The professor pressed a button and a hatch opened into the Tome Tower. ‘Book 93 has entered advanced Delta Phase. It could go off at any moment.’

  Napoleon stepped into the glowing chamber and the hatch slammed tight behind him. He went straight to the shelves and looked along the large grey caskets made of titanium and iridium — the Battle Books.

  The one he needed was obvious. Number 93 shook, rumbled and glowed.

  He lifted it down and placed it on the floor in the middle of the chamber. It was almost too hot to touch.

  Napoleon undid a catch on the side and the lid sprang open.

  The chamber filled with the howl of a hundred aeroplanes, and a beam of rich red light shot straight up from the Battle Book.

  ‘Ten seconds till entry!’ Professor Perdu shouted.

  Napoleon was moving faster than he’d ever gone before in his life. The winds of time were hitting his face so hard that he had to shut his eyes tight. He was going back less than one hundred years, so it wouldn’t take long to get there.

  Five minutes later, however, he was still hurtling through time and space.

  ‘Skin!’ he shouted. ‘Something’s wrong! We should have landed by now.’

  ‘Affirmative’, Skin said. ‘Possible malfunction in the GC-Locator.’

  ‘Great timing,’ Napoleon groaned. The GC-Locator was supposed to land him in the right place at the right time.

  ‘It is still searching for the field where the Baron crashed,’ Skin explained. ‘There is a hill nearby where an Australian anti-aircraft unit is dug in. That is the optimum landing position.’

  ‘Did the Australians shoot down the Baron?’

  ‘That is one theory,’ said Skin.

  Napoleon felt a sudden jolt. His stomach lurched and the blood rushed to his head as the Turbo Decelerators kicked in.

  Blue ice-cold flames burst from the back of his shoes, spinning him around so that he was travelling feet first.

  Then a second, more powerful gush of gases erupted from the bottom of his soles, slowing him down for landing.

  But they didn’t slow him down enough.

  ‘Prepare for Level 7 Impact,’ Skin warned. ‘Parachute roll recommended.’

  A moment later Napoleon hit the ground.

  He skidded along, first on his backside, then his front side, then every other side, and finally rolled like a ball for more than twenty metres.

  He eventually came to a stop.

  ‘At least I got the roll in,’ he said as he stood up slowly, rubbing his bruised body.

  He was in a field with some horses. It was early morning and a heavy mist hung low in the air.

  Napoleon waited in the still silence of Epsilon Phase – the time when everything around him froze while the Battle Book adjusted to his presence.

  The mouth of a horse nearby was open mid-chomp, and a bird dangled above a tree.

  Skin’s voice broke the silence. ‘Malfunction confirmed.’

  ‘Don’t tell me the GC-Locator really has stuffed up?’ said Napoleon.

  ‘Affirmative,’ said Skin. ‘We have landed at the wrong time – we are hours early. There is also a high probability we are at the wrong location.’ Skin did some quick calculations. ‘Arrival co-ordinates do not correlate. Undesirable situation imminent.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Napoleon stood and looked around. He couldn’t see anything in the thick mist.

  He could hear something, though. Somewhere in the distance there was a deep throbbing sound. Epsilon Phase had ended and the Battle Book had come to life.

  ‘That sounds like a plane,’ said Napoleon.

  ‘Correct,’ Skin replied. ‘Audio data bank indicates that it is a Fokker.’

  ‘Is that bad?’ Napoleon asked. He didn’t know much about planes.

  ‘Affirmative,’ said Skin. ‘Undesirable situation confirmed.’

  The sound of the plane grew louder, and louder.

  Skin suddenly shouted. ‘Immediate action required. Hoplite software now activated!

  ‘Where? Which way?’ Napoleon’s feet felt glued to the ground. The roar of the plane was so loud that he couldn’t think.

  ‘Execute now!’

  It all happened so fast.

  In one rapid action Napoleon’s legs bent, he crouched, then sprang into the air and dived sideways as a plane thundered overhead.

  ‘What a jump!’ he exclaimed. ‘Can I have the Hoplite for sports day?’

  He landed at least ten metres away and rolled on his back as a bright blue aircraft vanished into the mist

  ‘And did you see that?’ he yelled. ‘It had three wings!’

  ‘Technical term: Dreidecker,’ said Skin. ‘It is a German plane.’

  ‘Did you say German?’

  ‘Affirmative. We are on a German airfield approximately fifteen kilometres from our target destination.’

  A message from the professor suddenly flashed up on Napoleon’s Battle Watch.

  ‘No way,’ said Napoleon. ‘Things are just getting interesting.’

  ‘Interesting,’ repeated Skin. ‘Synonym for engaging and exciting. In that case, additional excitement approaching.’

  Napoleon heard the click of a gun, and turned around.

  Three German soldiers were aiming their rifles at him.

  ‘On the ground!’ a fat sergeant yelled.

  Napoleon considered running. But he was outnumbered. He could see more soldiers in the bushes on the other side.

  ‘Skin?’ he whispered.

  ‘Resistance is futile,’ said Skin. ‘Surrender recommended.’

  Napoleon slumped to his knees. This wasn’t part of the plan.

  The soldiers bound his hands roughly and dragged him away.

  The Germans took Napoleon to their camp, where the sergeant shouted questions at him.

  ‘What is your name? Who are you spying for?’

  Napoleon could understand the sergeant because Skin was translating his words as he spoke. But the sergeant couldn’t understand him. He was supposed to be a French farm boy. If he spoke any German that would make them really suspicious.

  The sergeant poked him with a rifle.

  ‘There’s something fishy about you. And you don’t smell too good.’

  ‘You don’t smell too good either,’ Napoleon muttered.

  ‘We should just throw you into prison,’ the sergeant continued. ‘Or perhaps we won’t even bother with that.’ He raised his rifle.

  Napoleon threw his arms in the air. ‘Please,’ he begged in French. ‘I just want to go home to feed the pigs and milk the cows.’

  The sergeant shook his head, and then aimed his rifle straight at Napoleon. ‘You’re a spy, admit it!’ His finger was twitching on the trigger.

  ‘Heart rate is high, BB,’ said Skin. ‘Extreme stress registered. Try to stay calm.’

  You’re not the one about to be shot, thought Napoleon. He could feel sweat down his forehead.

  Skin could withstand swords, spears and bullets so Napoleon knew he couldn’t be killed. The bullet would hurt and leave a big bruise. But then the Germans would want to know why the bullet hadn’t killed him. They’d toss him into prison, and he could end up stuck in this Battle Book for a long, long time. Maybe forever!

  He’d definitely miss out on Monty’s birthday cake then.

  ‘What do I do, Skin?’ he whispered

  ‘Full evaluation of situation c
urrently computing,’ said Skin.

  ‘Can you compute a little faster?’ asked Napoleon. ‘That trigger-happy sergeant is making me very nervous.’

  ‘Well,’ shouted the sergeant. ‘What’s it to be, you little spy? You’ve got five seconds to tell me the truth.

  ‘What’s going on here?’

  Just when Napoleon was sure the sergeant was about to pull the trigger, an officer appeared.

  ‘Put your gun down, Schmitzenhauser,’ he said. ‘And free the lad at once. Can’t you see he’s just a farm boy? I can smell the pigs from here.’

  The officer looked very important in his flying uniform and shiny boots.

  ‘Perfect timing!’ Skin said. ‘It’s the Red Baron himself.’

  You can say that again, Napoleon gulped.

  The sergeant untied Napoleon reluctantly and left, muttering loudly to himself.

  Napoleon bowed to the officer. ‘Thank you, Baron.’

  Von Richthofen stared in surprise. ‘My pleasure. And since you cannot speak my language, I’ll use yours,’ he said, replying in French. ‘But tell me, why do you call me Baron?’

  ‘Because that’s who you are. The Red Baron. Everyone knows about you.’

  Von Richthofen puffed out his chest. ‘I knew I was famous, but I had no idea that even poor French farm boys had heard of me.’

  ‘Every boy wants to be like you, Monsieur Baron.’ Napoleon was growing braver. ‘We call you the Red Devil.’

  The Baron laughed. ‘I like it.’ He slapped Napoleon on the back. ‘Come. Let me show you my little red bird, then.’

  Fokker DR-1 Dreidecker

  That was exactly what Napoleon wanted. He followed the Baron through the camp to the hangars.

  Soon they were standing next to the Baron’s plane. It was deep red. Napoleon stared as Skin recorded and explained at the same time.

  ‘It’s a Fokker DR-1 Dreidecker,’ Skin said. ‘Only 320 were ever made, and this is the most famous one of all.’