With Eyes Turned Skyward

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With Eyes Turned Skyward Page 2

by Gregory Stravinski


  The Helios veers to the left, dipping towards the crash site. The clicking sounds of Micolo and I readying our guns echo through the cabin. Red flares are bad. Well, I suppose they’re a net positive, since the pilot’s alive enough to fire it, but their color indicates severe injuries or immediate peril.

  Or both.

  I track the flare, following it to the ground as it marks our makeshift LZ. Another reason why I’m glad I’m not a pilot: you have to be a hell of a shot if you’re ever blown out of the sky. Wherever your flare lands is where you get picked up, otherwise, it’s almost impossible for us to find you in the dense foliage. Just pray there’s no wind that day.

  We’ve almost arrived to the fire fight. Sasha moves to keep us out of it, skimming along the tops of the trees. I can feel Micolo tense as both friend and foe swoop around us, continuing their dance.

  “I want guns silent unless necessary,” Sasha barks, sensing our anxiety.

  We don’t want to provide any more incentive for a bandit to take notice and fill us full of holes. Taking my eyes off the red pillar of smoke, I glance back at Chet. His eyes keep straight forward and he’s not smiling anymore. I bet if I were to say something, he wouldn’t even hear me.

  A shockwave hits the Helios. Rocking back to center, I see a fighter split in half and engulfed in flames. I sigh in spite of myself: now that’s two pilots we need to save.

  Chet senses my disappointment and grabs my shoulder again. “It’s alright Sage, that one had pirate markings,” he reassures me. I try discerning his pupils from his dark irises. “He can burn as far as I’m concerned,” Chet says with uncharacteristic curtness.

  The explosion may not have been from one of ours, but it sparks the attention of one of the other enemy fighters. It breaks from the melee, making a run at us.

  Micolo’s been waiting for this. “Guns hot, marking craft at 4 o’clock high!” he shouts.

  Before he can get a good bead on the target, tracers start whizzing past the Helios. Looking back at the bogey, I see small bursts of fire spout from its nose. Two rounds slam against the Helios’s hull, prompting Micolo to fire back even though he doesn’t have a clear shot.

  Thump, thump, thump, thump!

  The high caliber rounds do their job, but only succeed in fending off the fighter. Tracers lead the enemy plane close enough that the pilot decides there are more vulnerable targets than the heavily armed Helios.

  “Gold Squadron, this is Reaper. Running retrieval along the treeline. Picked up a bogey. Assistance requested,” Sasha relays over the comm.

  “I see you Reaper! Keep your current vector. Mantis engaging.”

  A black and gold fighter dives out of the sky, gun barrels white hot and hissing. Despite the amount of lead our pilot puts in the air, she doesn’t score any significant hits on our assailant. The two planes swerve off, chasing one another as a second pirate dives to join the fray. Mantis buys us some time, and we spend it throttling the rest of the way to the LZ.

  As I suspected, we’re confronted with a mission critical issue. The foliage where the flare burns is so thick we can’t land. Sasha pulls Helios in as close as she can, flipping the propellers upward into a hover.

  “Poor bastard’s gonna have to climb,” Chet says, hunching back into the cabin to get the double knotted rope.

  Chet’s about to tie a second knot to secure the rope to the strut when I notice something that catches my breath. The trees about 300 feet in front of us are parting in a rapid fashion. It’s a bigger disturbance than anything human would make. Before my imagination conjures what kind of creature’s taken interest in us, an explosion lights up the sky.

  “It seems our angel’s luck has run out,” Micolo says grimly. Holding a pair of binoculars to his eyes, he watches the fireball plummet towards earth. “No parachute . . . ”

  Micolo turns off his comm, whispering a short Italian prayer to himself.

  The disturbance in the trees can no longer be ignored.

  “You guys, movement left flank!” I caution.

  My grip tightens on my gun, readying to face whatever’s so eager to greet us. Above the gunfire of the planes swirling around us, I hear smaller pops.

  Our pilot bursts out of the brush. Sprinting, he indiscriminately fires his pistol behind him as he runs. A pack of mire wolves explodes out of the brush behind him, eager to catch up to their meal.

  Such disgusting animals. About the size of a large dog, these otter… rat things have adapted to the hostile terrain over time. With their thick, oily coats, they thrive in the swampy forests. Whoever had the gall to call them “wolves” when they were first discovered must’ve been quite the romantic. Our stricken friend probably interrupted one of their dens. Worst of all, their dense, matted fur presents another danger to our pilot: it makes the pack creatures largely resistant to conventional bullets.

  Similarly disgusted, Chet drops the rope. “Let’s go! Get as much distance between them and yourself as you can!” he yells.

  If we can get enough room, I can mow the animals down and make this a much easier job. It doesn’t seem that we’ll get this chance though. The mire wolves seem to sense their quarry is closing in on freedom, and redouble their efforts.

  Out of ammunition and out of options, the pilot rips off his helmet, hurling it at the pack in a last ditch effort to create some space. The helmet catches the lead wolf in the snout, causing it to stagger, but only momentarily, just long enough for it to shake off the impact. The pilot jumps as high onto the rope as he can, doing his best to climb despite his exhaustion. He’s not going to make it if we don’t do something fast.

  “Take this thing up Sasha!” I cry.

  “What? He’s not even in the cabin,” she bristles.

  “And he’s never going to get there if we don’t put some altitude between us and those things!” I shout back.

  The wolves are close enough to almost hear them trying to pull in air through the slits they have for nostrils. If it weren’t for the engines, we’d be treated to the horrible sucking sound.

  Sasha starts pulling the Helios away while I abandon my gun to help Chet drag the pilot up. Not to be denied, the mire wolves lunge at the rope. Chet shouts as one particularly spirited canine throws itself towards its meal. Tapping the last of his energy, the pilot kicks his foot around, connecting with the wolf’s jaw.

  Stunned, it falls back to earth.

  The pilot gets close enough for me to grab one of his shoulder straps. Between the two of us, Chet and I manage to pull the drained pilot into the cabin.

  I twist around in my seat. “We got him! Let’s go Sasha!”

  Wasting no time, Chet begins his preliminary scan for injuries. “What’s your name sir?”, he asks the dazed man.

  “Airman First Class Carter . . . Jake Carter,” the pilot replies in between shaky breaths.

  Micolo throws up his hands victoriously. “I am good!”

  Chet grins, looking back to Carter. “Well Mr. Carter, we haven’t saved your ass yet. So look sharp.”

  Our window of time is closing. We’ve begun attracting more flies. The reason why I get hazard pay begins now. Time to earn it.

  “Left gun up!” I warn, flicking the switch on my console. “See you topside!” I quip to Micolo.

  The hydraulics kick in, lifting my gun and me up over the cabin and onto the top of the Helios. I have 360 degrees of coverage from up here, but also a much better chance of getting shot outright. There’s no protection whatsoever - unless you count the gun in front of me.

  Our game of stealth is over. Everyone in the sky’s fully aware of our presence and now we’re as much a target as anyone else. Weapons free. Pulling both triggers on Talia, I let the recoil course through my body. The sound’s deafening, but reassuring. A wall of lead is just as good as armor plating.

  The same plane that came after us before wants another go at bringing us down. He comes in low, but takes his time aligning his sights. The image of the pilot he killed flashes
through my mind. He won’t have that pleasure again. The vibrations alone threaten to tear my arms out of their sockets, but I pump as many rounds in his direction as Talia will allow. The lead and angle connect. His propeller flies up and over his fuselage. The nose of the craft rips apart, exposing a convulsing engine blowing out bursts of flame. The plane twists, exploding in an oblong shower of metal. Satisfaction pulses through me.

  “Good shot kid.”

  The pleasure is short-lived. Who said that? It didn’t come from the radio.

  Before I can detect the source, a second pirate takes the first bandit’s place and bears down on us. Rounds ricochet off the top of the Helios, curling me up into a ball. A pop and a hiss flare out from the tail. Something squirts free of its piping.

  The pirate streaks by, turning its nose to line up for another run.

  I pull up my com. “Everyone ok?” I shout.

  Sasha answers, “We’re more worried about you Baz!”

  “No holes yet!” I assure her.

  The roof of the plane is no longer a good place to be. I hit the console button repeatedly, trying to return to the safety of the doorway, but my chair makes no effort to move.

  Something’s wrong.

  Scanning the ship, I see honey-colored fluid squirting from of the side paneling. They hit the hydraulics. I guess I’ll have to do this manually. I kick out the safety pin holding me up. My stomach flips as my seat gives way, crashing back down to its original position inside the cabin.

  “Our time’s up. We need to get out of here!” I yell.

  “Working on it; the controls are fighting me. I can’t bring the nose up!” Sasha growls back, struggling with the joystick.

  The pirate comes straight for us, head on. Neither I nor Micolo can push up to the roof to cover the front or back of the Helios. We’re defenseless against the coming attack, and to make matters worse, I’ve slid into the path of the spurting hydraulic fluid. It’s hot and obviously something that shouldn’t be coming into contact with bare skin, but at this point, I have more pressing things to worry about.

  Deciding whether or not to try angling away from the rupture or just abandon my chair all together, I instinctively duck as another wave of bullets rips through the cabin. A second spurt of hydraulic fluid shoots out, catching me in the face and neck.

  Spitting, I try to wipe it off when I suddenly notice the taste iron. That isn’t right. I look down at my hands. They’re slick with red. Panicking, I check myself for entry wounds. I don’t think I’ve been hit, but adrenaline has a tendency to lie.

  Then the pilot’s seat catches my eye.

  The large red hole torn through its middle stops every other thought process. No . . . this isn’t how it’s supposed to work . . . Jumping out of my seat, I run to the cock pit. It’s red. All of it.

  The left side Katz’s face is covered in blood.

  2

  Katz trembles silently.

  Swallowing my panic, I look to the left. Sasha stares back at me, unblinking. A hole leaks from the center of her chest.

  Blood pumps past my ears. It’s so loud it blocks out the rest of the battle and everything else that’s happening. I glance back into the cabin. Airman Carter writhes on the floor. Chet tries holding him down as blood spurts from Carter’s left thigh. Micolo’s dinner-plate eyes dart frantically, the gun in his hands firing burst after soundless burst into the maelstrom engulfing us.

  Chet locks eyes with me, shouting something I can’t hear. Shaking my head, I look at him helplessly.

  “Get in the damn cockpit!”

  Chet’s voice breaks through, forcing me to find my senses again. I look down at Sasha.

  “I’m sorry Lieutenant,” I whisper.

  I pull her out of her seat by her flight straps, doing my best to push her back towards the cabin. My hand slips. The exit wound on her back sucks around my arm. Slick, torn innards clasp my fingers.

  Choking back bile, I stop. Taking a deep breath, I wipe the gore off on the seat back and continuing trying to position her through the separation and back into the cabin. Chet grasps her by the straps and places her next to Carter.

  Settling into the slippery pilot's chair, I look down at the instruments below me. I have no idea how to fly a Helios. First things first - I need to clear the windshield. I grab the cuff of my flight suit with my fingers and spit on it. Pressing the damp cuff up to the windshield, I scrub away the blood. It doesn’t come off easily. It's already starting to congeal, but I’m able to create a big enough window to see where I’m going. Glancing at Katz, I notice she’s still trembling. She’s locked herself back into her own world. She’s been trained for combat, but seeing her friend get shot through the middle was one stressor too many.

  I take a hold of her hand. “Katz! Katz, look at me,” I plead.

  My voice seems to pierce the barrier. She slowly turns her head in my direction.

  “Katz, I’m going to need your help with this. I don’t know how to fly this thing, and you’re our only hope for getting back home.”

  She says nothing.

  I tighten my grip on her hand. “Katz, will you help me?”

  She shuts her eyes, squeezing out a tear. It rolls silently down the side of her face, inscribing a white path through the spattered red. She nods, but still says nothing. Then, instructions start trickling out. Haltingly at first, but as she drags herself back to reality, they become a steady stream. With Katz’s guidance, I pull the Helios out of its downward spiral.

  It takes a few tries, but with great difficulty, I’m able to fill the windshield with a view of the Artemis again. Katz takes over the throttle. We’re flying towards the Artemis as fast as the Helios can carry us, but I’m worried the ship can’t take the speed.

  A loud pop and a rush of air from behind my head signals that something I can only assume is vital has broken its seams. Despite the ebbing flow of hydraulic fluid and the new trail of smoke erupting from the tail, we’re still on course to The Artemis and maintaining speed.

  Taking notice that the Helios’ doomed spiral has been averted, several pirates renew their attacks on us. Tracers flit by the cockpit. I grit my teeth, tightening my grip on the joystick. Pressing my back against the damaged upholstery; I can’t help envisioning the large hole ripping through my chest.

  If I can’t keep calm, none of us are getting home.

  I keep repeating this is in my mind, over and over again, clumsily ducking and maneuvering the Helios through pirate fire. We’re not alone in our escape. The Goldies form a “V,”, streaking in force after the bandits. Planes from both sides begin breaking off, initiating their own duels.

  That’s when I see a small cloud descend from the underside of the Artemis. A buzzing, red, amorphous form.

  “Perimeter breached. We’re dropping now.”

  The voice belongs to Captain Adrian Baltier, leader of the Southeastern Seaboard Chapter of the Red Swans.

  The high rolling mercenaries have committed their craft to the fray. I pound the dashboard, laughing as relief washes over me, but it’s quickly replaced by frustration. The Merchant Class of the Artemis couldn’t be bothered to join us earlier? Maybe then Sasha wouldn’t have had to die.

  “Where the hell have you been?” I shout.

  “We followed our orders,” Baltier quips back. “A perimeter was established. The perimeter was broken. We’re dropping now. Simple as that.”

  “Well thanks to your ‘orders’, we have one wounded, and Reaper is KIA.”

  “In that case, advise Admiral Khan to pay for a larger perimeter next time. Otherwise, it’s not my problem. Engaging,” Baltier states, diving into the battle.

  The Red Swans surge, allowing our Goldies to peel off and set a course for The Artemis. Their power is terrifying. The sons and daughters of the Merchants often opt to purchase their own top-notch equipment, rather than use the stock of the Artemis. Their fighters are varied and effective, but leave it to them to wait until the fight’s almost over
to come to our rescue.

  The pirate in front of me explodes in an onslaught of flame as a Red Swan bursts through the wreckage. I don’t recognize the pilot's emblem, but I can see her pump her fist, hollering. More pirates peel off, the numbers turning against them. Some bug out entirely. Self-preservation’s a powerful incentive. The Swans eagerly begin their pursuit. That's when I notice the voice whispering in my ear.

  “I’m . . . ry. I . . . so sorry.”

  I look back into the cabin. Carter cradles Sasha’s head in his lap, rocking her back and forth. His voice is being picked up by her comm. I feel bad for the kid. He can’t be more than twenty. He’s going to take this with him for the rest of his life.

  He and I both.

  Fighting the joystick, I listen to pieces of the Helios tear away. The Red Swans split up, criss-crossing past my windshield. The sound of high caliber cannons fills the cockpit. One by one, the pirates who’ve stayed to fight either explode or plummet to earth. To my surprise, one of the pirates actually scores a critical hit on a Swan. The tail of the aircraft blows off, tumbling the fighter end over end. As it falls, a small figure places their feet on one of the arched wings before throwing their body as far away from the doomed aircraft as possible. Once they clear it, a chute opens. A piece of my mistrust for the Red Swans chips away. Just a small one.

  Another Helios drops from the Roost. Our other team realizes we’re in no position for further rescues.

  We’re almost to the hangar bay when I smell something burning. We’re starting to turn sideways. Looking back the port side of the Helios, I notice our left rotor’s spinning much slower than our right one.

  “What do we do?” I yell over at Katz.

  She runs over the diagnostics, rapidly tapping her finger on the console. “I’m going to put the remaining power into getting us enough altitude to coast into the Roost,” she says, nervously biting her lip, checking all of her controls again. “We only get one shot at this. Do you think you can do it?”

 

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