Flying the Storm

by Arnot, C. S.

  Either way, it didn’t matter; she’d just be so pleased that he’d thought of her. Anything to keep in her favour.

  He had brothers and sisters, but Fredrick knew he was the favourite. He was the one who’d always wanted to be a pilot. He’d stuck to her like glue as a kid, doing what she did, saying what she said. He was quite happy to admit that he still drew a lot of satisfaction from his parents’ pride in him. It could have been an addiction. Probably some doctor somewhere would have a name for it. He didn’t care.

  He looked over the stalls, just passing the time. Standing right in the middle of the flux of people, he couldn’t help but be distracted by the seemingly endless stream of strikingly beautiful women passing by. Dark hair, dark eyes. Something about that drew Fredrick in. Opposites attracted, he supposed. He decided he was beginning to like the East.

  Something about the Russian language conveyed urgency very well. It was unmistakeable, cutting through the jumble of other languages like a jagged blade. Fredrick cast about for the source of the shouting.

  Two pale white men in the sea of darker faces. Whoever they were, they were in a hurry; shouldering people out of their way as they rushed along the aisle. They were heading in the direction of the air docks.

  He’d bought the present and he’d filled his hip-flask. He’d done what he came to do. Out of plain curiosity, he started following them.

  They took a pretty straight route through the heart of the crowds towards the rows of aircraft, leaving the last of the stalls behind. It was hot on the concrete plaza, and despite its size the place was so crowded it felt claustrophobic. If Fredrick hadn’t been partial to the heat, he might have been uncomfortable.

  The warm odour of tens of thousands of sweating bodies didn’t drown out the smell of spice stalls and perfumeries; instead it mixed with them to create a heady scent that made the air seem thick. Combined with the heat and the closely pressed bodies it felt like he was pushing his way through a viscous liquid, like axle grease or syrup.

  The smells faded slowly as Fredrick followed the Russians out of the crowds and towards the rows of aircraft. Gradually they were replaced by the sharp tang of ‘nol and oily machinery. Smells Fredrick knew. Smells he was comfortable with.

  The Russians cut between a pair of light freighters and took a sharp right on the taxi aisle between the rows. They were almost at a full run, and Fredrick followed as quickly as he could without making it obvious he was following. They didn’t look back, thankfully.

  They turned left suddenly, cutting across another row of aircraft to run down another taxi aisle. Fredrick could feel his forehead dampen with sweat as he jogged along, and was beginning to wonder if this would be worth the effort at the end. What was he even following them for, really? It was none of his business. It could even be dangerous.

  Well, that was it then. Danger drew him in; it always had. He doubted he’d have been much good as a pilot if it didn’t. Curiosity made him run faster.

  One more turn, and the rows of aircraft ended suddenly in a wide open square. In the middle of that square sat a huge aircraft; somehow Fredrick hadn’t seen it on the way down. He knew what it was – there weren’t many models he didn’t know, military or otherwise. It was a Tianlong-class Heavy Lander. The heaviest VTOL craft the Asians ever built. The shape of it was raw power and strength. This was the type of aircraft to carry main battle tanks into combat. Just by its nose was its name, sprayed white in capitalised Cyrillic.

  Sokol.

  Fredrick stopped, agape. He’d seen images of Tianlongs before, of course, scrolling through aircraft identification charts and specs, and he’d known the size of it. But that hadn’t prepared him for how colossal it really was. With a little smile of wonder, he wished he had a camera. His parents would have loved to see this.

  Tearing his eyes from the aircraft for a moment he saw that the Russians had stopped running, halfway across the tarmac to the Sokol. More people were coming from a different taxi aisle: white men, some with guns. Two of them were pulling a struggling woman, clad in a white gown dyed red in patches, towards the Sokol.

  Fredrick’s hands coiled into fists as he realised that it was blood, not dye, on her gown. It didn’t matter what she was guilty of, men should not handle women like that. As a pilot and as a Wingwearer, he was honour bound to do something. He had no way of knowing what the circumstances were, but everything about this screamed injustice.

  But still he stood, planted to the spot, watching as the men dragged the woman in the white gown towards the Tianlong. The pair Fredrick had been following fell in with the others. Above the harsh voices of the men cut the woman’s voice; there was no fear there, no pleading, just raw anger. Fury.

  And then, for a moment, she wrenched against her captors and twisted to look across the tarmac, right at Fredrick. The green of her eyes was clear even from so far away, and her glossy brown hair shone in the sunlight. She was achingly beautiful. Her gaze locked onto him, and though she said nothing her eyes spoke to him.

  Who are you, to stand there and do nothing?

  He couldn’t look away until they had dragged her all the way into the Sokol, out of sight.

  Then he ran.

  Aiden and Tovmas had been sitting in the Iolaire’s cockpit. They peered around the door as Fredrick ran across the cargo hold to the cockpit door.

  “The hell have you been?” demanded Aiden.

  Fredrick frowned. “I went to the market.” He showed Aiden the forgotten rug he’d been carrying under his arm.

  “You went to the…” Aiden stopped himself, clearly angry. Fredrick could see the cords of his arms tighten.

  Fredrick didn’t wait for him to say anything else. He told them about the Russians, about the Tianlong, about the girl in the bloody dress. He didn’t mention her eyes. That memory was his alone.

  “A white gown, you said,” spoke Tovmas, holding a hand out. “The slaves at the auction house wore white gowns.”

  Aiden nodded his agreement.

  “You think she was a slave?” Fredrick asked. It would certainly make sense. It would explain why nobody stopped them from handling her like that.

  “It sounds like it. A runaway, maybe,” said Tovmas. He stood up. “And Russians. The auctioneer said Russians bought the Armenian girls.” His brow was furrowed in either worry or thought, Fredrick couldn’t tell.

  “There could be more than one group of Russians here,” said Aiden. “More slave auctions too.”

  Tovmas nodded, but distantly. “Was she… did she look Armenian?”

  Fredrick shrugged. “Brown hair, tanned skin. I honestly couldn’t say.” He hesitated for a moment. He had to tell them. Anything could help. “Green eyes. I saw bright, green eyes.”

  Tovmas turned to him then. He moved as if to say something, but stopped. He turned and went down into the cargo hold to where some of his men sat. Fredrick saw him beckon Nardos and an older man over, where he talked to them quietly. Nardos and the other man nodded, replying quietly to Tovmas’ questions.

  Fredrick knew then that they were planning an assault. As quick as that, the decision had been made.

  “I saw at least a dozen men,” Fredrick warned. “That aircraft could be hiding a hundred more.”

  “We have sixteen men, including you, Aiden,” said Tovmas, finally. “Will you come?”

  Aiden considered it for a moment. “Yeah, I’ll come,” he said. Fredrick eyed his friend suspiciously.

  Are you trying to make a point?

  Aiden stared back at Fredrick belligerently. Though he tried, Fredrick couldn’t read him.

  “Are you counting me?” asked Fredrick. He had to be involved. Honour demanded it. Those green eyes demanded it.

  Aiden spoke for them, shaking his head. “Fred, we need you to get the Iolaire ready to go. There’ll be a shitstorm following us back up that ramp. We’ll need to leave quickly.”

  Fredrick didn’t like this. His friend was going to go and risk his life without him. He
could see that Aiden was still angry about Fredrick leaving the Iolaire. He hoped that wasn’t what was driving him out there.

  “We’ll need a distraction,” Nardos said. “I don’t want to get into a fight with those enforcers if it can be avoided.”

  Tovmas looked past his men at a bag sitting innocuously at the side of the hold. Fredrick followed his gaze. The bag was slightly open, and the green-painted plastic of a rocket tube poked from it. A leftover from Kakavaberd.

  “I have just the thing,” said Tovmas.

  “That auction house could do with a hole in it, don’t you think?” said Aiden, a smirk showing at the corner of his mouth.

  Tovmas pointed at the three men of the Kakavaberd rocket team, and gave them orders in Armenian. They nodded far too eagerly, grabbed the bag, and left the hold at a fast walk.

  “They will be our distraction,” said Tovmas. “They will fire in twenty minutes, and fall back towards the docks in the confusion. There will be a stampede, I have no doubt, but the security will have its eyes on the other side of the market. Hopefully some aircraft will try to run for it, which will give us some cover from the air defences. Everybody load up!”

  The hold filled with the sounds of weapons being loaded and cocked. Militiamen pushed rounds into magazines and stuffed their pockets with handfuls of the bullets Tovmas had bought earlier at the market. Pre-battle cigarettes were lit. Bottles of liquid courage were swigged and passed around. Men muttered and laughed nervously, with pats on backs and manly jokes. For the second time that day, they were going into battle.

  Fredrick watched it all from the top of the cockpit steps. Soon everyone was ready.

  “Ok, let’s go.” Tovmas clapped his hands.

  The men filed down the ramp in three groups, separated by a minute or so each, weapons concealed as much as was possible. Tovmas led one, Nardos led the second, and Aiden and Tovmas’ old friend were the last to leave. Aiden lingered for a moment at the top of the ramp. He nodded at Fredrick, his face set, and left.

  Fredrick nodded back, but Aiden was already gone.

  Wings cover you, friend.

  12.

  Magar

  Aiden tried to calm his breathing. He knew bullets were about to start flying, and he knew he was probably going to have to shoot at some people. He’d shot people with the twelve-point-seven before, but that was at range and they were usually in the form of an aircraft; not up-close and personal like he was sure this was going to be. With the second pistol he’d been given by Tovmas that day, he was pretty sure proximity was the name of the game. It did feel nicely heavy in his hand though, as he pressed his back against a stack of crates a hundred metres from what had to be Koikov’s giant aircraft, the Sokol.

  A moustached man who introduced himself simply as “Magar” was sharing the cover with Aiden. He opened the bag he’d carried from the Iolaire and produced the bullpup form of an assault rifle. The other militia had sub-machineguns, pistols and shotguns for the raid: they were tooled up for close-range. Not Magar. From his position, facing the rear cargo ramp, Magar could cover the advance of Tovmas’ men right up into the hold of Koikov’s aircraft. Aiden’s job was to make sure nobody got Magar.

  What worried Aiden the most was that if Tovmas and his men took too long, they could very well end up fighting Koikov’s men on one side and the trading centre security on the other. If that happened, he doubted any of them would make it out alive. However, as far as he could see, the vast majority of the security was over in the market itself, where most of the people were. That should buy them a few minutes.

  In the heat of the late afternoon, most folks had taken shelter indoors or in the holds of their aircraft. The plaza was fairly quiet and free of bystanders.

  Magar had set up his rifle between two crates, resting on another pair of crates underneath. From the sides, his weapon was almost perfectly hidden. Somebody would have to be standing directly in front of him to see it, which was good since they couldn’t afford to be spotted.

  Aiden thrust his pistol back into his pocket, and tried to look casual. So far, nobody had paid them any attention: he would have liked to keep it that way. He checked the labels on the crates. Beans, coffee. That was good. Nothing that might have had nasty results when shot.

  Aiden’s thoughts drifted back to Fredrick. Stupid, AWOL Fredrick. It wasn’t even like he’d meant to find the girl; Aiden had been out risking his neck for that. Fredrick had just wandered off to the shops. Gone walkabout. Now he would be the hero, and Aiden would barely get more than a grunted “thanks” from Tovmas. Once again, the pilot would get all the glory. And it seriously sucked.

  “You’re very quiet,” said Magar. Aiden almost jumped. He had no idea the man could speak English. He had a voice like gravel in a cement mixer.

  “Just thoughtful,” replied Aiden, peering around the crates at Koikov’s aircraft.

  “Thoughtful,” repeated Magar, “heh.” He took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and offered Aiden one.

  Aiden shook his head. “No thanks.”

  Magar made a face; suit yourself, and took one of his own. “What are you so thoughtful about?” he asked, fiddling with his rifle’s sights, the cigarette in the corner of his mouth.

  “Pilots,” replied Aiden flatly.

  “Ah,” said Magar. “Pilots.” He lifted his rifle slightly, removed his ragged cap and placed it underneath. He laid the rifle back down, jimmying it around a little. “A particular pilot?”

  Aiden nodded.

  “Every pilot I’ve ever known was cut from the same mould,” replied Magar simply. “Including your friend.”

  “Every pilot?”

  “Every single one.” Magar gave Aiden a serious sideways look. “I hope it’s not the reason you are out here. If you have come for glory and gloating, you are going to be disappointed.”

  “I’m just here to help,” said Aiden, with a fair lump of resentment. Anyway, if he just so happened to impress everyone, where was the harm? It would be an unplanned side effect, nothing more. He fidgeted with one of the loose bullets in his pocket.

  “Good. Well, get your mind on the job in hand, I don’t want to get shot in the ass because you weren’t paying attention.” Magar returned to his rifle sights.

  Fredrick was staying very much at the forefront of Aiden’s mind. If he was honest, he wasn’t doing much to shake it off. He knew it was stupid and petty, but if they’d really been in trouble after the auction house, they’d have had to get into the air quickly. And that meant they’d all be in prison or dead, all because Fredrick went shopping.

  He forced himself to change the subject. “So you know Tovmas well?”

  “You could say that,” Magar replied. “He was my sergeant, in the war. I’ve known him since we were young, though.”

  “You know his daughter then?”

  “Since she was born. She is quite something, that girl. Her and Naira, they were inseparable as children. They were always getting up to some kind of mischief. Strong willed. Too smart.” Magar laughed then, so rough it sounded like a bad cough.

  Aiden didn’t know who Naira was. Magar’s daughter, maybe?

  Aiden was about to ask about Naira, whether she was taken by the slavers as well, when Magar spoke.

  “I can see Tovmas now,” he said, looking along his rifle. Aiden’s thoughts returned to the present. He felt his heart begin to pound. “Just waiting for the signal.”

  “He’ll wave to you when he’s ready, right?”

  “Yes.” Magar cocked the rifle and switched the safety off. Aiden peered around the crates once more. He could see two guards standing near the bottom of Koikov’s cargo ramp. They’d be the first to die.

  There was a sharp, echoing detonation, like a clap of thunder. The screams of thousands of people followed, and Aiden could feel the ground rumble at the impacts of countless running feet. No doubt those who had flown in would try to get back to their aircraft, but the vast majority hadn’t arrived by air.
Distant gunshots started, but it was impossible to tell who was shooting. Could be Tovmas’ rocket team was having to shoot its way out past the security. Or it could be store owners, defending their wares from opportunistic looters. Either way, it sounded like chaos.

  “There’s the wave,” said Magar. Aiden braced himself. He took out his pistol.

  Magar fired four shots in quick succession. Their reports were deadened slightly by the crates to either side. Aiden saw the two guards fall, each punctured twice. He was awed by the efficiency. Tovmas and a group of his men appeared from behind the aircraft next to Koikov’s, running towards the ramp. They were sprinting headlong; weapons slung low, relying wholly on Magar’s cover.

  Another man appeared at the head of the ramp, weapon drawn. Before he could open fire on the charging group, Magar had shot him twice. He slumped and rolled down the ramp, his weapon sliding with him. Magar fired three more suppressing shots into the cargo hold, just as Tovmas and his men reached the ramp. No more guards appeared, and the attackers were inside. The thump and crackle of gunfire followed sporadically as the men pushed deeper into the huge aircraft. The craft had three decks; it could take a while to find the slaves.

  Aiden ducked back behind the crates. He crouched with his pistol up, keeping Magar’s back covered. If anyone came, he’d be ready. Oddly, he wished they would. Some small part of him wanted it. He wanted to be tested.

  He wasn’t waiting long. The sounds of gunfire from the aircraft had died away as Tovmas and his men fought further in, until it was quiet enough for Aiden to hear shouts and running footsteps coming from back along the stacks of crates. He nudged Magar urgently. “People coming,” he said.

  “Well, deal with them,” hissed Magar, returning to his rifle sight. Aiden took a deep breath and, staying crouched, moved off around the crates.

  He reached the end of the cluster of crates and carefully peered around it. There was a group of armed men jogging along the row towards Koikov’s aircraft. At the head of them was a white haired man with a long leather jacket and chrome plated shoulders. Koikov. It had to be.