She pauses. “So, if any of you don’t feel like flying today, you may step away.”
Silence. No one moves a muscle.
Dixon nods her approval. “Damn right,” she says, spinning on her heel. “Volleys One through Seven, you’ll form the First Wing. You’re dropping in five minutes. Volleys Eight through Fourteen, you’ll drop in ten as Wing Two. Volleys Fifteen and Sixteen, you sit here and wait in reserve. You’re only to leave this hangar if I give the order, or if I’m dead and the walls suddenly catch fire. Either way, you better be in your cockpits with a spit shine coat, you fucking understand?”
“Cry Havoc!” we answer.
Dixon almost smiles. “Good. Now get to your planes!”
Our tight circle breaks. Heavy footfalls are the only things I hear as pilots race to their aircraft. Five minutes? That’s all we have?
Technicians scramble from plane to plane, loading enough ammo to last a dogfight. I find myself running behind an Austrian who’s frantically searching for his fighter. I vaguely remember him being assigned to Volley Three.
Spotting his craft, I point it out to him. Gasping his thanks, he sprints his way down the hangar. I move from Jackal to Jackal, searching for mine. A stenciled “6” catches my eye. Bounding over a collection of electrical wires, I duck under the wing and grab the boarding stairs.
Ja’el’s there to greet me, feeding a fresh belt of rounds into my left wing guns. Slowing down, I survey my plane, freshly buffed and shining in the overhead lights. Ja’el comes out from under the wing.
“Did you do this?” I ask, pointing at the sparkling fuselage.
A smile breaks across his face. “It is your first combat flight, it seemed only fitting. What I think you’ll find to be more useful is my calibration of your front and wing cannons. I have programmed them to overlap, so that if the 50 caliber cannons jam, you will still have the two 30’s in reserve as you work out the belts.”
I take a moment, standing back before nodding my approval. “Thank you, Ja’el. Please let me know how I can return the favor,” I offer.
Ja’el gives a curt half bow before rubbing his hands together. “Sir, it would be best if you got into the cockpit now. The cranes will be activated soon.” Snapping back to my surroundings, I bound up the ladder. Jumping into the hard plastic cockpit, I feel around for my helmet. As I pull it out from my seat, I glimpse a crudely drawn minuteman with a “6”on his tricorn hat. I suppose I’m Call Sign Volley-Six until I earn one for myself.
“You have 20 seconds before pull up. Ensure you have everything you need before that happens,” Ja’el urges.
In addition to my pre-flight checks, I take inventory of the cockpit: a small med-kit, a grappling hook, a flare gun . . . Essentially, everything I’ll need if I’m downed. Everything except for a real gun . . . I guess I just won’t get shot down today. Shaking away the thought, I strap on my helmet and switch on the comm.
Everything looks clear. My mental checklist zips by. I sing myself all the necessary little rhymes I’ve created to remember everything. The hangar bay whooshes, its massive doors giving way to a gaping hole. This better work.
“You may want to remember this sir!”, Ja’el says, slinging up a compact bag.
“Jesus,” I breathe out. “Would’ve been a sad story if I took off without that, wouldn’t it? Hope I don’t have to use it.”
Ja’el nods, removing the ladder. “Yes it would sir.”
Buckling into my parachute, I slam my cockpit shut. The glass of the canopy traps my breaths as I flash Ja’el the thumbs up.
Ja’el acknowledges me, gesturing towards the main tower in the middle of the hangar. One by one, the other technicians telegraph their readiness to the main tower.
As the last hand goes up, a green light illuminates the hangar. I cringe against the squeal of hydraulics straining to pull the necessary machines into place. Small cranes maneuver over our fleet, hovering above each plane before clamping onto its fuselage. Ja’el climbs up on my left wing, ensuring the clamp is properly locked. Appeased, he jumps over the cockpit to check the other wing, then, confident everything’s in place, he hits a small green button on the clamp.
His feet hit the hangar deck. As the coils whir on either clamp, Ja’el turns back, pressing his index finger to his temple and extending his hand. Assuming this is a gesture of good luck, I return it. Here’s hoping it’s not Urdu for the middle finger.
The crane shudders to life. Ja’el’s grim face disappears out of view as my plane lurches into the air. Grasping onto the controls, I struggle to find my center of balance.
The other pilots turn their engines on, waggling their tail flaps. Frantically, I search for my own ignition and follow suit. The engine roars to life. The force of 1200 horses sends goosebumps prickling over my arms as the Jackal’s power courses from nose to tail. The fighter strains against the clamps of the crane, its engine beginning to pull in earnest.
Despite my lack of belief, I still offer up a little prayer; it’s not going to hurt anybody. With the wing pulling into the center of the hangar bay, I focus on my breathing. It’s the only thing keeping me from panicking. I sift for happy thoughts. Cass’s body presses up against my hands.
I smile to myself. “Now that’s something worth looking forward to.”
“What was that Volley-Six?”
Shit.
The comms are live. “I, um, now this is worth looking forward to!” I stutter.
Despite my horrible delivery, my wing leader Petrowski leaves it.
“You day dreaming right now Baz?” Yeti’s voice pops in.
I see he’s communicating on a different frequency than the one the wing’s using. “I don’t know, man. I’m freaking out.”
“Hey, it’s just your run of the mill 2,000 foot drop . . . or more, if you don’t do it right,” Yeti muses.
“Oh, fuck off man! That’s not useful right now. Where are you?” I ask, gulping in air.
“Hey! Hey. I’m at your 10 o’clock. Big ol’ four painted on my tail, remember?” he says.
“Yeah . . . yeah. I see you.”
One by one, our Jackals line up on either side of the bay. Without warning, my plane tilts forward 180 degrees, locking into position. I almost have a heart attack. I thought the clamps failed. Regaining my composure, I feel for the platforms along the floorboard and brace my feet against them. There’s got to be a better way to do this.
Trying to take my mind off the chasm below, I chance looking at the other pilots. Their cockpits all point downwards as well, appearing almost as if they’re all being dropped in glass tubes. Yeti’s lined up right in front of me.
He smiles. “Hey, if we do our jobs as wingmen, we’re gonna get through it just fine. Plus, have you seen the colonial propaganda they put on our shit? Terrible. We’ve to get us some proper call signs man!”
I laugh before fixating on the abyss below.
Small dots swirl in the ether. Tongues of fire branch out as the first echelon engages. A stalemate looms.
“Yeah . . . It’ll be ok,” I say breathlessly.
“Get a hold of yourself.” The Voice laughs.
“I don’t need your help.” I growl.
Volley-One crackles through the radio. “And . . . We are go!”
To my left, the clamps clang open. Like dominos, the line falls into the sky in a perfect wave. The fighter directly to my left plummets. I have less than a second to grab my joystick and readjust my feet before the lights in my cockpit flash green.
My gut pulls back into my spine, releasing into the free fall. My harness pulls my chest back while I search for Yeti’s tailfin. Keeping a tight formation, we hurtle down in a straight drop. Small clouds flit past as the force of the wind shakes my entire cockpit. The haze breaks, and I finally see the airspace clearly for the first time.
It's not what I was expecting. Our first-response team’s scattered and overmatched. Black and white blankets the area. The bandits have begun reforming their wings
. One group advances to take us head on.
“Break! Break! Break!” Volley-One shouts.
Our formation peels off in all directions, narrowly avoiding the tracers swooping in our direction. One line of fire catches the tail of Volley-Five. His tailfin and flaps separate from the rest of the fuselage, flipping the plane end over end.
Our wing breaks off to avoid the onslaught, but for some reason I can’t move. At this point it feels too late to pull up. Facing them head on is the safest route. They won't be expecting it.
“Baz! Pull up!” Yeti shouts.
I test my hunch.
Flipping open the safety, I pull both triggers. My legs jolt forward from the change in momentum generated by the sheer recoil of the cannons. I've fired a machine gun before, but never four at once.
It's beautiful.
Tracers fill the air as the enemy squadron bears down. At the point of intersection, one of the enemy’s wings buckles, triggering a violent spiral. Shards of debris spark off my propeller, scratching my canopy. The space created by the fallen fighter should be just enough.
Making like a cockroach, I squeeze through the small hole in the enemy line. Wind blasts from the passing planes rock my canopy. The second blast knocks the side of the windscreen into my helmet, ricocheting my head between the panes of glass. Readjusting my goggles, I quickly take inventory to ensure I’m still conscious and flying.
Finding only the scratches on my windshield, I catch my breath.
Volley-One crackles through. "Volley-Six, that was a direct order. You're gonna get yourself killed!"
A second voice drops in. A slight British accent, associated with a pilot I know only as "The Lionheart".
"Bullocks - never turn down a clean kill. Good on you, lad!” he shouts.
Lionheart just congratulated my flying. This is an awful place to get star-struck. Known to pilots and citizens alike for having his landing gear up first, and pulling in hangar last, The Lionheart’s a ship favorite.
My comm scratches back to life. "You seem like you’ve got proper rocks kidda!" Lionheart laughs, "What'd you say to routing these bastards and having a brew on me once this shite’s over?"
And that's when I see it.
A huge mass punches through the cloud bank to the west, the white replaced by a dark shroud. Flashes erupt from its heart, sending black, choking smog tearing through the sky.
A flak burst explodes in front of one of our lead fighters. Only shreds remain.
“Flak! Flak! Flak!” Volley-Seven shouts. “Volley-Two is down! I repeat, Volley-Two is down!”
I shudder.
If I'm going to bite it up here, I don't want it to be like that. My worries are ignored as the number of black explosions doubles. The Artemis cuts through the eastern cloud bank, adding our own flak cannons to the fray. The rising sun lights up our rearing bow as the Artemis turns to fire a broadside.
Satisfied with our apparent confusion, the pirate fighters turn their attention toward the Artemis.
I follow the roaring feline on the tail of Lionheart's Jackal as he veers after the attacking planes. Shaking out a hand, I wipe off the sweat pooling in the lens of my goggles. My body's never felt this kind of G force before; it’ll take some time to get used to.
Time I don’t have.
The Legion’s ship pre-empts the Artemis' turn, bringing its own guns to bear. With the sun glinting off the Legion balloon, I can make out a Jolly Roger painted over the winged emblem of the zeppelin's previous owner. Squinting, I realize it isn’t the classic skull and cross bones. Instead of a smile, the skull sports a grotesque set of pointed teeth, coupled with an equally disturbing sneer. I don't think these people are in the prisoner-taking business.
A volley rips from the side of the Legion zeppelin. Most shells miss their mark, continuing their hurtle toward earth, but several score hits along the Artemis’ hull. One explosion tears a twenty-foot hole into the Living Quarters.
Bile collects at the bottom of my throat.
I rip the splintered wood out of the way. Part of our wall butts up against the bed. I fight, trying push it off my chest, but the heat of the metal bites into my hands. It's still too hot from the impact. Hyperventilating, I search for another way. I’m trapped, unable to help anyone.
I shake it away. This isn’t the time to lose focus. I’m not in that room anymore. It’s not real.
Despite a direct hit deflating one of its balloon compartments, the Artemis fills the sky with smoke and sulfur. Our volley blasts away more of the enemy hull. Our crew’s experience shows. We’ve been at this a long time. A support cable fastening the Legion's balloon to its hull snaps; the wind whipping the one-ton line like a piece of string. I tell myself not to fly anywhere near that side of the ship; a hazard like that will cut a man in half faster than you can blink.
Pushing away the smell of smoke and blood, I bring my focus back to where it needs to be. A fighter flits past with pirate markings. He's close enough that I can match his speed.
The Artemis and Legion zeppelins draw close, trading volleys.
My target notices me. Trying to lose my crosshair, he ducks under the hulls of both zeppelins. We weave through the falling plate metal as it’s blown off from above. I lose my concentration for a moment as a body falls past. It's too far away to see who, but my stomach twists at the thought of having fewer familiar faces aboard the Artemis when this is over.
Rounding the corner of the Legion’s hull, my engine whines as I follow the enemy fighter up the side of the ship. Grappling hooks fire from both zeppelins; both are sure they have the upper hand if they’re initiating boarding actions. Olan’s no doubt suiting up, checking his weapons, his face turned to slate. I need to make sure none of these fighters ruin his party.
The zeppelins engage one another, closing their gun ports. Every crew member is critical. Any volley fired at this distance will destroy both ships anyways.
Tracking my target up the side of the Legion ship, I catch sight of our marines jumping onto the pirates’ deck. Small arms fire trades back and forth. The glint of swords catch the sun as the two factions clash.
I pull hard on the joystick, staying with the bogey as he spins out of our climb. The nose of my plane swings up, wings rattling against the G force. The edges of my vision press in. I’m blacking out. Taking a deep breath, I let my crosshairs follow the target on their own. My hearing goes too. Everything muffles. My shallow breaths are the only thing that remains.
The cabin of the Helios looms back around me. I take my hand out of Sasha’s back. Strings of red ooze onto the floor. Something ignites inside, burning my field of vision back into focus. All sound thunders back at once. I realize I’m yelling.
The plane crosses over for just a heartbeat.
I pull both triggers, blowing the dark form apart.
I must’ve hit the magazine. My cry of triumph turns into one of alarm as the victim’s wing hurtles at me. Throwing down the joystick, I realize there’s not enough time: I’m too close.
I duck as the wing fills the view of my cockpit.
The impact jars the entire fuselage. I can’t breathe. Searing pain tears down my back ripping out most of my stitches. I gag against the shock. But pain means I’m still alive. For now.
Arching my neck, I try to gauge the damage.
A pillar of wind throws me up against my seat. There’s no canopy. It’s been completely shorn off, taking a part of me with it. I can’t fly like this. The metal of my harness snaps up, smashing my googles and knocking them sideways. The gust takes advantage of the separation, ripping them from my head entirely. Holding onto the one strap keeping me in my seat, I struggle to protect my face from the other belt as it slashes wildly.
Grabbing the joystick, I fight to regain control of the plane. My Jackal doesn’t respond. I try my flaps as the plane pitches forward. Again, no response. Looking back at my tail, I see there are no flaps.
There is no tail.
Panic shoots through me
as weightlessness pulls me from my chair. Fabric cuts through my hand as I scrape down the length of the strap. My feet fly out of the cockpit into the open sky. Instinctively, I snatch the grappling hook that falls out after me. The med-kit dislodges too, plummeting into oblivion. I don’t have time to grab the flare gun as my grip fails.
I hurtle towards nothingness.
6
Wind roars past me, forcing water from my eyes. My adrenaline spikes as I try to focus. Think of a plan. It’s hard to chain together thoughts while falling at 150 miles per hour. Clipping the grappling hook onto my belt, I survey the sky below. The Artemis and Legion zeppelins lock together directly underneath me. It’s the only choice I’ve got. Missing them and falling into the hell below is not an option. I’m not gonna die at the claws of those nightmares.
Using the wind to my advantage, I maneuver toward the head of the lengthwise balloons, bracing myself.
I pull the cord.
My head snaps forward as the world pulls away. I grasp frantically at the cords, fighting to regain my position above the balloons. Twisting, I aim for small corridor of space between the two rows of propellers. I’m falling way too fast.
The white of the balloon races underneath me.
I have one shot.
I start sprinting the second my feet hit the canvas. I make it for a few steps, but I can’t keep up with the pull of my chute. A wind gust forces my face on to the balloon, dragging me along its canvas surface. I cry out as my harness begins smoking from the heat. The rushing canvas bites against my bare skin, burning my hands and face.
As I struggle to grab hold of my harness, the wind pulls my chute towards the side of the balloon. Spinning blades whir up at me. In a last-ditch effort, I find the emergency release. I smash it with everything I can muster. The cords tear up over my head, pursuing the chute as it drops over the side of the balloon.
With Eyes Turned Skyward Page 6