Flying the Storm

by Arnot, C. S.

  The flight hadn’t been too long though; they were in the air for just over an hour, with little more than a couple of interested dog-ear radar blips to keep Aiden vigilant. If he was honest, he preferred it when pirates actually took a pop at them: at least then he could shake some of the boredom.

  The usual pirate tactic was to circle at high altitude in a light aircraft until they, or one of their ground-mounted dog-ears spotted something. They’d dive down, using their height to catch up with their faster target, put a handful of autocannon shells into an engine and force the hurt aircraft to go to ground. Then the bastard would radio the location of the downed craft to his mates, who’d show up in a transport to strip it of anything worthwhile. If any surviving crew resisted, well, the pirates didn’t have many qualms about murder.

  It had been tried on the Iolaire a couple of times. Neither pirate had noticed Aiden on the tail gun until it was too late.

  Thing was, short of arming your aircraft and staying constantly alert, there wasn’t much a crew could do against the pirates. Of course, if your aircraft was up to it (and most weren’t) you could fly higher than them and avoid being jumped that way. Then you’d need oxygen, or a pressurised cabin, both of which were expensive to come by in the scrap-and-grease air-trade business.

  No, the Iolaire, like most other private trader craft, stuck to a relatively low-altitude. Fredrick and Aiden kept oxygen masks for emergencies, but they were rarely used. Aiden hated wearing it anyway; it made his face itch.

  “It’s a busy place,” he said, looking across the landing pads to the bustling hordes beyond. It was a sweating multitude.

  “Too right,” replied Fredrick, sinking back into his seat, lifting his feet onto the console. He took a swig from his beloved hip-flask and flicked the cockpit fans on. “How long is Tovmas going to be?”

  “Until he finds that auction, I suppose. Hopefully won’t be long.”

  “This place is huge though,” said Fredrick. Then, tipping his flask upside down meaningfully, “And I need a drink.”

  Aiden frowned. “We can’t leave the Iolaire. I somehow doubt Tovmas and his boys have peaceful intentions. We need to be ready to go.”

  “I know,” said Fredrick. Aiden yawned, and climbed down the four steps to the hold. Two of Tovmas’ men were sitting there, playing cards. They looked up at his entrance, and one of them nodded in acknowledgement.

  He nodded back. It was a simple sign, but there had been a noticeable change in the way Tovmas’ men treated the two westerners since Kakavaberd. The attitude had gone from surly to amiable, despite the six blanket-wrapped bodies in the hold. Spirits were higher. There was a lot more respect. Hell, sometimes it even looked close to gratitude towards Aiden and Fredrick, for hauling them all over the Caucasus and having saved their arses on that hilltop.

  An hour later, Tovmas returned with his men. He was carrying two canvas bags which he deposited on the floor of the cargo hold. Aiden was sitting on his bunk, flipping through the phrasebook.

  “Shopping?” asked Fredrick, standing at the entrance to the cockpit.

  “Yes,” was all Tovmas said as he began opening the bags, taking out cloth-wrapped bundles and handing them to some of his men. As the bundles were unwrapped, Aiden caught the blue glint of steel in the dim cargo hold.

  “You bought guns?”

  “Yes, submachine guns and pistols,” Tovmas replied, unwrapping his own weapon. “We won’t get within half a kilometre of that auction with the rifles. We salvaged some from Kakavaberd, so we only needed eight.”

  “I only count seven,” said Aiden, looking around him.

  Tovmas reached into a bag once more and produced the eighth bundle. “This one is for you.” He held it out to Aiden.

  “Wait, me? Why?” He didn’t take it.

  “You are a rich white merchant, looking to buy a concubine,” Tovmas said, proffering the bundle again. Fredrick hooted with laughter.

  “Hold on,” Aiden protested, “I don’t remember agreeing to any ground work!”

  This time Tovmas laughed. “We look too Armenian, my friend,” he gestured at the scruffy, mustachioed militia. “No one would believe we’ve got the money to buy a slave.”

  Tovmas tossed Aiden the bundle. Reluctantly he unwrapped it. It was a pistol: snub nosed and highly polished. “So why do I need a gun?”

  “We’ll need as many armed men as possible once we’re inside. I do not even know if they’ll let you in with it; in fact I doubt they will. But you can pick it back up once we’ve dispatched the security,” Tovmas was smiling.

  Aiden hoped it was a joke. “Now hold on, you’re going to shoot the place up? In the middle of a busy market? Attacking a ruined fort full of slavers in the arse-end of nowhere is one thing, but shooting up a market full of civilians is,” he ran a hand through his hair, “not the same.”

  “My friend, there will be no shooting if we can avoid it. The weapons are for two purposes: precaution and leverage. If I marched in there unarmed and demanded they hand over my daughter, do you think they would give her to me? I don’t think so.”

  “Fred!” said Aiden. “What do you think of this?”

  “I see his point; it was always going to get nasty. But if my aircraft gets shot up, I hold you, Tovmas, personally responsible,” said Fredrick.

  Tovmas nodded: of course.

  “Our aircraft, you mean, and I’m touched by your concern for me,” Aiden snorted. He ran a hand through his hair again, exasperated. “How the hell do I get talked into these things?”

  “Thank you, my friend.” said Tovmas. “I have one more thing for you, from my shopping.” He tossed Aiden one of the canvas bags. Inside it was an old, white woolen suit jacket. Aiden held it out before him, and shook his head.

  “This looks old enough to be pre-war.” said Aiden.

  Tovmas looked unfazed. “You have to look wealthy, and it’s a lot better than what you’re wearing.”

  “Thanks,” he said sourly, trying the jacket on.

  Under the morning sun, the air above the concrete landing plaza was rippling with heat. Beyond it, crowds milled and swarmed; thousands upon thousands of people chatted, haggled and bartered at the countless stalls and warehouses. It seemed to Aiden, as he weaved through the bazaar behind Tovmas, that a person could find anything they wanted right there in Sederek Trade Centre, no matter how rare or morally dubious it was.

  He’d been outside for only a few minutes, but already his armpits itched with sweat. The tattered suit jacket he wore wasn’t made for the Azerbaijani summer. All he wanted to do was find some shade to sit in, maybe with a cold beer, and put his feet up and relax.

  But he’d once again been dragged into somebody else’s fight. Seemed to him that he just couldn’t avoid trouble, no matter how hard he tried. Even in Sevastopol it had been Fredrick, not him, who’d wound up those marines, but it was him who had to get them out of it. He still couldn’t quite believe they had got away with nothing worse than a few bruises.

  The men who took on the Gilgamesh and lived. It had a bit of a ring to it.

  His stomach churned as he thought about what he was about to do. The deception he was fine with: he’d done a fair bit of that in his time. What worried him was how tooled up Tovmas and his boys were. They were quite clearly expecting trouble, even if Tovmas wouldn’t admit it. If a firefight did break out, Aiden was pretty certain they’d be outmatched anyway: he could see that amongst the crowd there was a fair presence of heavily-armed security on patrol. The way those guys were geared they looked more like mercenaries than policemen.

  He wasn’t sure if they were just private security for the Sederek Trade Centre, or something external: government enforcers, maybe. If Azerbaijan even had a government; Aiden didn’t know. Either way, he doubted they’d take the Armenians’ side when the shooting started.

  If it all goes to hell, he thought, just get back to the Iolaire.

  As they turned off the main promenade of the market and down on
e of its side streets, Tovmas pointed out the warehouse they were aiming for. Aiden’s pulse stepped up a notch. He wished he was back in the Iolaire, like Fredrick and the two men Tovmas left, secure in his armoured-glass gun pod or sitting in the comfortable cockpit.

  Fredrick was probably half-asleep by now, dozing in his seat with the cooling fans on, the lucky bastard. And yet, if they managed to pull this off, Fred would get all the glory. The pilot always bloody did.

  They stopped in a queue before the warehouse. Aiden looked behind him, but Tovmas’ men who had been following had disappeared. Only Tovmas, Nardos and Aiden were standing in the line. The other two looked unconcerned about this, so he assumed it was part of the plan.

  The queue crawled forwards. The people on either side of him, locals most likely, were excitedly jabbering away. Clearly a slave auction was something of a spectacle.

  Eventually Aiden and the other two reached the front of the line. Two burly guards with assault rifles were acting as doormen, frisking each entrant and confiscating anything that could be used as a weapon. Aiden heard Tovmas mutter something under his breath.

  Nardos did the talking, being the only fluent Azeri-speaker. The guards looked at Aiden as they listened, eyeing his strange attire. Probably pinning it on him being a Westerner, they frisked Aiden and the others, confiscated the weapons without fuss, and waved them through.

  It was cooler inside; Aiden felt the sweat on his neck go cold. He shivered involuntarily. Ahead of him stood rows of strange cylindrical cages, each with a woman inside, illuminated by lights on the bars. Some stood, some sat, some crouched. All wore similar white, short dresses: more like long shirts, really. Every last one of them was beautiful; each had the same distant, resigned expression which somehow made them even more alluring.

  Aiden’s pulse quickened at the sight of them, and he felt a little disgusted with himself.

  Strange music with a distinct beat played from unseen speakers, and more than one of the local crowd were dancing drunkenly before the cages. Drinks were being sold at a bar to one side of the auction house. He reckoned most were here for the show and the booze, rather than to actually buy slaves.

  He almost laughed. No matter where you went, people were all the same. It was a simple human response to an inhuman situation.

  Tovmas was hurriedly walking around the cages, checking each for his daughter. It didn’t take him long to get round them all. When he returned to Aiden and Nardos, his face was ashen. He looked defeated.

  “She isn’t here. They aren’t here.”

  According to the captured slaver at Kakavaberd, the girls had been flown to Baku just the day before the rescue party had shown up. The slavers left at the old fortress were waiting for a transport aircraft to return, to take them back east. Their organisation was leaving Armenia. Locals were becoming a problem, getting wary. There were plenty of other ‘districts’ to be exploited elsewhere, anyway. It seemed Tovmas’ daughter was one of the last to be taken.

  “What now?” asked Aiden.

  “I... I don’t know.” Tovmas shook his head.

  “I’ve got an idea,” said Nardos. “This establishment probably has records, yes? Their sale will have been in the last couple of days, so I’m sure we can persuade somebody to let us have a look.”

  Aiden thought for a second. “No, I would imagine a lot of buyers like to stay anonymous. But if there are regular customers, somebody will know their names, even if it isn’t written down.”

  “You’re right. It’s a small chance, but it’s the only one I see.”

  Tovmas did not look much heartened. Aiden looked around himself. Through the crowd he spotted an unlabelled, unguarded door near to the bar. He nodded towards it. “What about through there? Fancy a look?” Tovmas nodded quietly.

  After a little persuasion, the door opened. Nardos went first, followed by Tovmas and Aiden. Inside was a strip-lit corridor running along the length of the warehouse side, terminated in a fire exit at the far end. Half-way along was another door, leading off to the side. It was there that Nardos, Tovmas and Aiden halted, and Nardos pressed his ear to the door. The three stood in silence for a short while, barely breathing as Nardos listened, his hand raised to halt them.

  Suddenly, he held up three fingers, and counted down slowly to one. Then with speed he barged open the door, colliding hard with something on the other side. Whatever it was instantly gave way and the three men piled into the room. The obstacle had been a person. He was a smartly dressed, moustached man, now sprawled backwards on the floor. He was dazed and groaning, his tie flung backwards across his shoulder.

  Nardos was on top of him before he could regain his senses.

  He clamped a hand across the man’s mouth. “Hello, friend,” he said. “We need to ask you a couple of questions.” The man’s eyes went wide, and he tried to shout. Thankfully, Nardos had muffled it.

  “You shout and we’ll kill you. The only way you will survive this is if you answer our questions truthfully. Got that? You understand English now don’t you?”

  The man nodded, breathing heavily through his nose. He was helpless and he knew it. Aiden shut the door quietly. There was no key for the lock. Tovmas was walking around the room, which appeared to be an office, flipping papers and opening drawers. Aiden crouched next to the captive, trying to look as menacing as possible. “Where’s the key for the door?” he demanded.

  The man’s eyes flickered to his jacket. Aiden rifled through the pockets, producing a small brass key. “Perfect,” he said. “I think we’ll leave this unlocked just now, I imagine we’ll have to make a fairly sharp exit.”

  “Now,” Nardos said, “at your auction yesterday, you sold some Armenians, didn’t you?”

  The man tried to protest. Nardos struck him across the face. This time he nodded, whimpering. Blood trickled from his nose.

  “So tell me everyone you sold them to,” said Nardos. He moved his hand an inch from the man’s mouth.

  “But I can’t! It’s all anonymous!” he hissed.

  “Bullshit,” spat Nardos.

  “By the way he’s dressed, I’d say he’s fairly high up the tree,” said Aiden. “I’d guess he’s the bloody owner or something.”

  “What are you then?” demanded Nardos.

  “I...” he glanced at Nardos’ raised fist, “I’m just the auctioneer!”

  “Then you can tell us exactly who bought the women.”

  “They don’t tell me that!” he squealed.

  “Bullshit,” Nardos said again, and once more back-handed the man in the face.

  “Look what I found,” said Tovmas, walking over from the office desk. In his hand was a pistol. He pointed it at the auctioneer’s groin. “I’ll shoot your balls off one at a time until you tell us who bought them.” He cocked the hammer. Aiden decided to leave them to it and headed over to guard the door. He really didn’t want things to get messy. Not that he thought the auctioneer had the guts to hold out any longer.

  “You will ruin me! If I pass on names, no one will trade with us again!” the auctioneer pleaded.

  “What will ruin you more? Giving up the details of a few clients, or getting your balls shot off?” Nardos asked.

  “I’m losing patience,” Tovmas said, eyeing along the gun sight, judging where the testicles were.

  “Ok, ok! I’ll tell!” The auctioneer caved. “There were three buyers the day the Armenians were auctioned: some Russians, Iranians and a Baku business. The Iranians only purchased one, probably a concubine for their boss. The city business bought two for a harem, and the Russians bought the rest to sell elsewhere.”

  “We need names.”

  “I don’t know the Iranians or the Azeris, but I spoke to the Russians after the auction. They stayed at the bar for a time. I caught one of their names...,” he paused, mumbling to himself, “Koy...Kroy....Kroikov. Koikov.”

  “Koikov. You’re sure?”

  “Yes. He was distinctive looking, long leather jacket, silver s
houlders. Scar on his cheek.”

  “Which side?”

  “I can’t remember.”

  Tovmas raised the pistol. “Which side?”

  “I can’t remember! Please! I’m telling the truth!” The man held his free arm out, shielding his face.

  “I believe him,” said Nardos. “Did Koikov have an aircraft?”

  “Probably, most of our clients do. His will be big; he seemed to have a big crew, along with the nine slaves.”

  “Is he still in Sederek?”

  “I do not know, maybe. It could be that he wants to buy more slaves.”

  Nardos thought for a second. Tovmas said, “And what about the other buyers? The Iranians, and the locals?”

  “Like I said, I don’t know the Iranians. The Azeri business is the Paradise Harem, in Baku. That’s all I know, I don’t even have an address.”

  “Well, if that’s all you know, we no longer have a use for you.” Tovmas switched off the pistol’s safety catch with a metallic click.

  “No, please! You said I would live if I helped you!” begged the auctioneer. His eyes were wide with terror. The blood from his nose had matted his moustache. Aiden felt sorry for the old man pleading for his life. It was like watching the skinny man dragged from his house in Zovashen, all over again.

  “Lads, come on!” Aiden interjected. “We have to go before somebody checks up on him. The auction is supposed to start soon.”

  “But I haven’t decided what to do with this piece of shit,” replied Tovmas, toying with the pistol.

  “If you shoot him, someone will hear. Not a good plan.”

  Tovmas looked irritated. He said something in Armenian to Nardos, who replied in a calm tone; quiet, but stern. They had a short argument. Finally, Tovmas lowered the pistol. Aiden allowed himself to exhale. Maybe they’d get out of there without killing anybody. That’d be nice. “Find something to tie him with, we can’t just let him go running to the guards,” he said.

  Tovmas stooped down and took the auctioneer’s belt. Nardos covered the man’s mouth once more, and pinned his arms with his knees. Then Tovmas knelt down next to the man, wrapped the belt around his neck, slipped the end through the buckle and wrenched it as hard as he could. The auctioneer went purple, his mouth gawping like a fish as he fought for a breath. His legs thrashed wildly, but Nardos kept him down. Gradually, the man was dying under Tovmas’ iron grip. He yanked the belt just a little tighter, and the man finally went limp. His chest was still and his eyes were closed. Tovmas let the belt fall.