READY FIRE AIM
Created by John Picha
INTRODUCTION
Can you imagine a time without computers, the Internet, or TV? Telephones were connected to walls by wires, and a “cell” was a place to put bad guys. The daily news was delivered by a paperboy, not a cable. Laptops were where children sat to tell Santa Christmas wishes. Magazines were presented on pulp, not iPads. Entertainment in the airwaves was received by vacuum tubes in a wooden radio, the centerpiece of the family room. And no one left home without a hat.
In October of 1942, men went to war as women replaced riveters in factories. Mary Marvel landed in Fawcett Comics, Screwtape wrote letters, and children began reading Little Golden Books. In the theaters, a fawn named Bambi lost his mother, Mrs Miviver explored class divisions, and Cagney became a Yankee Doodle Dandy. On the radio, Spike Jones lampooned Der Fuehrer's Face, Kay Kyser Praised the Lord to Pass Ammunition, and NBC debuted People are Funny.
In Europe, World War II escalated. The German army attempted to enslave the people of Stalingrad with advanced military might, but the partisan forces resisted the brutal military occupation with a fury that ebbed the Axis tide. Eventually, the war would cost the Soviets a 10th of their population.
In the US, over 5 million Americans enlisted or were drafted in 1942. Volunteers deemed 4F were left to resolve their guilt stateside, while deferments were offered to the sons of the connected or to men necessary in their civilian activity, like cops. They had a city to protect from its citizens…
CITADEL CITY, 9 OCTOBER 1942
3:23 AM
Officer Kirk of the Citadel Police force, feels adrenaline tugging at the leash of his better judgment. He holds his position against the interior wall and scans the other twenty officers lining the darkened, 6th floor hallway of the Winchester Arms apartments. He looks for the familiar face of any other beat cop like himself, who has been shanghaied into this hastily assembled detail, but the high collars of specially ordered urban-flak-vests, and the wide rims of civil defense helmets painted black, cloak the men’s identities in deep shadows. All badges and civilian uniforms are hidden beneath the additional combat equipment, and Officer Kirk wonders what kind of cops surround him. He knows that a group of policeman is called a squad, but this gathering feels more like an army.
Each man clutches a sleek, Reising Model 50 submachine gun, with a cyclic firing rate of 550 rounds per minute. Earlier this year, these proven man-stoppers had been requisitioned by the Coast Guard, then partially diverted to the Citadel police. Now, in the olive painted hallway, twenty well-oiled Reising barrels point at the sturdy walnut door on the left. According to the stakeout team, their target is behind it.
The target’s name is Niles Weiss, the broker, and he's been on-the-lam since 1934. About an hour ago, the police got a lucky tip and assembled an assault team from available men. Many of them want their names attached to this celebrity collar. None of them have any intension of letting him slip away again, regardless of the cost.
Anticipating the order to invade the premises, Officer Kirk digs the hobnails of his jackboots deep into the interlocking zigzag pattern of the carpeting. His eyes dart from silent figure to silent figure, not really knowing where the order to ‘go’ will come from. He tries to tamp down his excitement with controlled breathing as the pulse in his gloved finger throbs against the trigger-guard of his weapon. He thinks, “The quality that made Wyatt Earp an exceptional lawman wasn't his skill with a six shooter. He was uncommonly cool during a shootout. That, kept him alive and prevented him from looking like a fool.”
Kirk takes another calming breath and reminds himself, “Don’t think with your gun… Keep your mind one step ahead of the present.”
BA-SLAM
Suddenly, the walnut door collapses inward, and all bodies are in motion. Someone yells, “HE'S GOT A GUN!”
BRAKKA BRAKKA BRAKKA
The machine gun fire is deafening, as Officer Kirk is swept into the river of dark figures rushing toward the doorway. But something catches his attention, so he breaks from the ranks for a better look. Through the window at the end of the hallway, he can see a member of the stakeout team in a building across the street. He's revealed his position and is frantically signaling to the team in the hall.
BRAKKA BRAKKA BRAKKA
Using his full arm, he violently points in the opposite direction of the assault. Kirk realizes, “They reported that the subject was in the room on the left, but their vantage point is the reverse of ours. When they said, the room on the left, they meant our right. Shit! We’re invading the wrong apartment!”
BRAKKA BRAKKA BRAKKA
Now, Kirk is alone in the hallway, and though he tries to warn the others of the error, his words are drowned out by machine gun fire and breaking glass. He turns to face the opposite door, then rushes it, throwing all his weight into it.
KA-SLAM
The wooden frame splinters as the heavy door pops open. Kirk stumbles into the room in time to see the subject disappear through a secret passage in the wall. As Kirk cautiously approaches the hidden hatch, he can hear the other peacekeepers yelling across the hall.
“HOLD YOUR FIRE! HOLD YOUR FIRE!”
“It's not Weiss! It's just some colored guy!”
“Is he dead?”
“No, but we tagged him a few times!”
“What about his gun?”
“It was a slipper!”
“I guess, we should get him to a hospital?”
“Where the hell is Weiss?”
Kirk yells to them, “HE'S IN HERE!” He rips open the hidden panel. The cubbyhole is unoccupied, but it reveals a rough-hewn bridging tunnel, connecting to the long, brass garbage chute. Worrying he's about to get shot in the face, Kirk quick-peeks into the opening, then takes a second, longer look. He sees movement in the light at the end of the tunnel, five floors below him, in the street level garage.
The rest of the men stampede Kirk with weapons drawn. He throws his hands up, as he yells, “DON’T SHOOT!”
One of the larger men, grasping a smoking gun, demands, “Where is he, soldier?”
Kirk points and says, “I saw him go down there.”
He shoves Kirk out of the way to inspect the escape route. It reminds him of the large cowlings on a ship decks. Hoping to get the drop on the subject, he hops in, dangles his jackbooted feet into the tube for a moment before letting go. If he were only dressed in a traditional police uniform, he would have slid right down. Unfortunately, he gets stuck due to the extra gear he's packing. Looking like an angry Pooh Bear, he rages at the rest of the unit. “I'm stuck. Get me the Hell out of here!”
Laughter rolls through the group, as two sycophantic subordinates grab at his flailing arms to tug him from his confined fix.
Frustrated at the debacle, Kirk pushes his way through the rubberneckers, abandoning the unfolding chaos for the hallway, where the entire mess began to unravel. He bolts to the window at its end and opens it. The cool night air finds all the patches of his exposed skin, as he climbs out onto the fire escape. Corroded rust blisters on the aged metal stairs, rupture into crumbs under his boot heels.
As he rapidly descends level to stairs, level to stairs, he can't help but notice glaring safety violations along his route; metal fatigue, cracked welds, and decapitated anchor bolts. The vibrations from his descent increase to a wobble, nearly causing him to lose his footing. Stopping to steady himself, he realizes rust flakes are showering him from above. The other cops have exited the window and are following him down the rickety, metal cage.
Fearing it will collapse under their combined weight, Kirk opts to bypass the stairs altogether. He slings his Reising and climbs over the metal hand railing to a drainpipe that follows along side the fire escape. He slides down the pipe and building, hobnails shredding bricks as his momentum rapidly increases.
Nearing the ground, he releases the pipe, then strikes the cold sidewalk with a thud and tumble, rolling him in front of a set of red double-doors. From behind them, Kirk hears an unseen engine racing in the parking garage. It gets louder and louder as the sound barrels down in on his position. The doors vibrate.
VRROOOOMM KA-BASH
Kirk barely rises to his feet before diving away from the nightshade-blue juggernaut that explodes into view. Its heavy chrome bumper batters the doors off their hinges. High beams appear to levitate the doors up and over the sturdy body of a 1941 Buick Century Series 60 Touring Sedan.
SKREEEECH
Whitewalls scream as the car turns sharply onto the side street. From the fire escape above, police draw their weapons and fire wildly.
BRAKKA BRAKKA BRAKKA
BRAKKA BRAKKA BRAKKA
Kirk rolls to the wall for cover as the bullets rain down, chipping street bricks and sidewalk concrete.
SKREEEECH
The swift Buick swerves onto Hegira Avenue, escaping around the corner building. The gunfire from above ceases and Officer Kirk staggers to his feet as a fog of breath escapes from him.
Then, from out of the shadows, a large, second car emerges like something from a dream. It glides toward Officer Kirk with the confidence and grace of a shark across a dark, tranquil bay. The polished, black body reflects the city lights, slowly slithering over the streamlined form, like glowing quicksilver. As the mirrored driver-side window passes Officer Kirk, he’s jarred by his reflection, a faceless soldier occupying the streets of his city.
Unknown to Kirk, on the other side of the one-way glass, Pandora Driver gazes at him from the dark confines of her car-of-tomorrow. The vehicles night-vision glass peels away the shadows, revealing every detail of his dashing, black-Irish features. He has an aquiline nose, thick black brows, and 5 o’clock shadow that’s darkened passed midnight. She stares into his boyish eyes for a moment that lingers like a photograph in her mind. She thinks, “Call it curiosity or call it a decadent pleasure, but I love to spy on cops.”
Static crackles and whines as she adjusts a radio dial from the long dashboard of glowing lights. She thinks, “Tonight, I've tuned into the only radio show that broadcasts at this late hour. Thanks to the unique transceiver in my car, I’ve been eavesdropping on dispatches between Precinct 13 and its patrol cars. For the last half hour or so, I've monitored the progress of their top-secret operation at the Winchester Arms. I may not be the world’s greatest detective, but there are enough clues for me to piece together a story.
“From the excessive gunfire above, and the scene I just witnessed at the door garage, it's not to hard to figure out something went wrong. I know of the guy they are looking for, everyone does, and I got a good look at the driver, who nearly flattened that cop. It was Niles Weiss.
“I'm not sure if finding him after all those years is proof of police competence or incompetence, but there are skilled investigators on the force. That's the main reason I cop-watch, to learn from them. What are their methodologies? What do they look for? How do they operate? Over the past few years, I’ve discovered many unexpected things about them, and I want to know more.
“I may not be the world greatest detective, yet, but I am a unique problem solver with some special tools of my own.”
VROOOOOMMM
Kirk watches the mysterious, black car speed up and disappear around the corner of Hegira Ave in pursuit of the Buick Century 60.
Then, his trance is broken by an oafish blow from behind. The rest of the cops have caught up to him. Surprisingly, the fire-escape held the weight of the entire phalanx. He watches the stragglers round the last landing and stairs like a railway marble game, emptying to the sidewalk behind him.
A deep voice within the angry posse orders, “To the squad cars, men!”
Kirk starts running with the group, but he feels hampered by the restrictive gear. He stops and thinks, “Got to get rid of this goon-suit, so I can move again.”
He sheds the dreary layer of gear to reveal his proud police blues below. Shiny brass buttons adorn his wool four-pocket coat. A Sam Browne belt with shoulder strap totes a holster. The wide collar accentuates his broad shoulders. A polished gold badge with a raised star shimmers over his strong heart. Feeling freed, he stretches and tastes the cool night air of the city he’s sworn to protect.
“Time to stop playing army and get back to being a cop.”
CLANK
He drops the black CD helmet next to the discarded gear. Kirk bolts toting the Reising and a web belt packed with ammo. He thinks, “Best not leave these for some kid to find on the way to school in the morning.”
The beat cop quickly gains on the militarized mob, but he runs outside the pack. They all race around to the front of the building, where four black sedans wait at a long concrete planter, like horses tied at a water-trough. The 1937 Studebaker 4-door Dictators have been customized by order of the Mayor. Of course, the cost was rolled over to the taxpayers.
Each car has been fitted with 10 gauge steel armor throughout the body, guaranteed bulletproof up to 45 caliber. The windows are 1 inch thick and sport chrome gun ports. The multi-ply tires have inner-liners for puncture reduction. Sturdy chrome sirens are mounted to the front fender nacelles. And each of the front doors is adorned with flying gold shields that read, “CITADEL POLICE DEPT”. The phrase “To Protect and to Serve” hovers over the emblem like a halo.
As they arrive at their Dictators, it's quickly decided that two men will use one of the cars to deliver the wrongly wounded apartment-dweller to the hospital. While en route, they will decide what he did wrong to get himself shot.
The rest of the men, including Kirk, anxiously crack open the remaining Studebakers suicide doors and jump in. Since there are more passengers than seats, a few good men are relegated to riding on the running boards. Three drivers hit their starters. Beneath horizontal chrome toothed grilles and triangular hoods, 217 cubic inch inline 6 engines roar to life. In unison, the overloaded cars rock backwards into a one-point turn, then peel out down Hegira Avenue.
BRAKKA
A few eager shots are fired into the night sky, signaling the mechanical, metropolitan Calvary rides. Over the 2-way radios, a confident voice orders, “Follow that Buick!”
The cool night air sucks the warm sewer stench, perpetually brewing in the bowels of the city, up through gutter grates. The sparse traffic of the hour is spilt between night owls, ending their day, and early birds, beginning theirs. Loaded drunks spill empty bottles of booze from taxicabs then fumble to their front doors. Elsewhere, milkmen deliver fresh bottles to metal boxes outside the homes of children still dreaming in bed.
VROOOOOMMM
The Buick Special slices between the cusp of yesterday and tomorrow. The rushing wind beneath its undercarriage, rips settled moisture from street bricks into the air, leaving a trail of mist. Seconds later, the suspended vapor sprays the split windshield of the mysterious car in hot pursuit.
VROOOOOMMM
Inside, Pandora Driver straps herself in and prepares to ram the 4,000 lb getaway car. She scans the road ahead, looking for a vacant stretch of street. One arrives. She clenches her teeth as her gloved hands grapple the steering wheel. She stomps the accelerator of her weapon on wheels, and bears down on her quarry with the force of a freight train.
VROOOOOMMM
Suddenly, a passenger appears in the rear window of the Buick. It's a redheaded woman with frightened green eyes and a tight gag biting her mouth. Pandora realizes, “He's got a hostage!”
Seconds before impact, Pandora stomps the brakes with both feet, and swerves to abort collision.
SKREECH CLA-BANG
The hurtling car skids into a spin that's stopped by white walls and rims slapping against a high sidewalk curb. Sparks spit at the impact. Pandora struggles for, and regains control of her unwieldy vehicle, then continues her pursuit from two car lengths behind. She thinks, “Leave it to a monster to use a human shield as an insurance policy. Time to switch to plan B.”
She yanks a small lever out from under the dash. It causes something mechanical to happen beneath the floor pans. Then, she centers her car-of-tomorrow behind the Buick Special and thumbs a red trigger. A metal puck ejects from between her front wheels. It sparks a trail as it skips across the street bricks, before disappearing under the Buick with a clink. Pandora Driver reduces speed, letting her target breakaway. She thinks, “Now you can run, but you can't hide.”
She relaxes behind the wheel for a moment…then the Dictators arrive.
WEEEE-OOOOU
WEEEE-OOOOU
Three squad cars descend like gangbusters. Fender mounted sirens wail and flash, like red ray-guns, blasting the back of Pandora's car-of-tomorrow. Eager armed officers, hanging from doors, shoot around the moving obstacle at their target ahead of the pack, Weiss' Buick.
BRAKKA BRAKKA
A wobbled shot shatters the get-away-cars rear window, forcing the hostage to duck. Witnessing the close call, Pandora jerks her steering wheel to shield the Buick Century from the three squad cars. The 5-car pursuit procession weaves around horse carts, paper trucks, and L track supports.
Lobo, the square-jawed driver of squad car 13, activates a window-mounted spotlight and shines a bright white beam on Pandora's car. He notes, “It's got no plates”, before cueing up his PA system. He grabs a microphone from its dash mount. In a booming voice that echoes down the narrow street, he yells, “PULL OVER!”
In rebuttal, a woman's voice invades the interior of the police packed car, via 2-way radio. “Gentlemen, this is the big car in front of you. Niles Weiss is not alone in his…”
Immediately, Lobo switches from PA to transmitter and angrily interrupts, “THIS IS A PRIVATE POLICE CHANNEL! GET OFF IT, NOW!”
She responds, “Listen to me for a second. Weiss has…”
Lobo cuts her off again, “NO, YOU LISTEN ME, LADY! YOU'RE OBSTRUCTING JUSTICE!”
She tries to talk over him, “...tied up…” but is blocked by his domination of the airwaves. Spittle douses his mic as he rages, “GET OFF THE RADIO AND GET THE HELL OUT OF OUR WAY!”
“...no...”
“CARS 10 AND 21, OUR COMMUNICATIONS HAVE BEEN COMPROMISED.”
“…but…”
“SHE'S AN ACCOMPLICE. IT'S SOME KIND OF TRICK! IGNORE HER!”
“…I repeat…”
“RIG FOR SILENT RUNNING!”
“…to get hurt…”
“AND FOLLOW MY LEAD!”
“…asshole…”
All three cars switch go radio silent. Lobo addresses his passengers directly, “I don't have time for this! Blast that bitch off the road!”
BRAKKA BRAKKA BRAKKA
Studebaker running boards aren't the best shooting platforms during a high-speed chase, but that doesn't deter the clinging Reising wielders from firing wildly from the bouncing and swerving vehicles.
BRAKKA BRAKKA BRAKKA
Sparks explode as a hail of hot bullets rain down on the car-of-tomorrow till clips are empty. To reload, the shooters stick their weapons through the open windows where their partners quickly swap spent clips for fresh ones.
BRAKKA BRAKKA BRAKKA
Observing from the back seat of car 13, Kirk thinks, “I always wondered if the Lone Ranger used silver bullets, so he'd be more cautious how he spent them.”
He sets his unfired Reising on the floor, then removes a Colt 45 from his holster and thinks, “The other guys razz me about my wild-west weapon of choice, but I like its weight and think the long barrel is easier to aim. Plus, when using a revolver, you've got a limited number of bullets, so it forces you to carefully consider when to use them, and where you want to put them. Each bullet has to count, and I want to know where all mine end up. Bullets don't stop till they hit something.”
BRAKKA BRAKKA BRAKKA
Hundreds of rounds are fired. Many spark as they bounce off the black cars heavy hide, while others vanish into the night.
BRAKKA BRAKKA BRAKKA
The steed pulling Tom Haskell’s milk-cart rears as a wild bullet embeds into its leg joint. Later, it will be put down. Another round creates a glass spiderweb as it pops through a bedroom window, before stopping in a crib. A volley of lead shatters the block long display window of a five and dime, sending twinkling crumbs of glass tumbling into the street. Another splits the plank of a closed newsstand before entering the back of old Freddy Phillips as he leafs through a fresh Western Story pulp magazine. A streetlight globe explodes as a high shot passes through it.
Bullets riddle the quarter panels of Pandora Driver's car, in hopes of hitting a shrouded wheel. Through her rearview mirror, she watches the bloodthirsty keystone cops descend upon her. She does her best to protect the hostage in the Buick, from them, as they jockey to outflank her.
BRAKKA BRAKKA BRAKKA
The car-of-tomorrow is far faster than the three Studebaker Dictators. If this were a race, she'd leave them in the dust. Unfortunately, this contest is a matter of out maneuvering one another for the advantage, and she is out numbered 3 to 1. As she swerves left to block car 13, car 21 guns the engine for the open lane on the right. As she cuts back righ