Painkiller: Odin's Warriors - Book 2

by Aeryn Leigh

  Ella grinned, gave him the thumbs up.

  Time to see what her baby could do. She opened the throttles, and the Catalina surged forward with whatever the confidence of several thousand horsepower and a shitload of arduous work could achieve.

  Chapter Fifty

  A PRAYER TO THE GODS OF FLIGHT

  THE SEAPLANE MADE A LITTLE JUMP, and another, as it skipped along the ocean. Ella held the steering column in her hands, and let herself submerge into the moment, concentrating on the physical stimuli caressing her body. The engines sounded good, they sure as scheisse felt good, the vibrations coursing through her frame. She stole a glance at the rudimentary control panel, everything looked good. She turned her head and grinned at Rob, he returned it with a broad smile, white teeth flashing. He gave the thumbs up. Ella nudged the throttle an inch more. With a final skip and jump off a shallow wave the Catalina flew into the air.

  Out the back of the aircraft, along the twin side benches, separated by heaped piles of ammunition, supplies, spare MP 40's and assorted war material, Mick and Griffin sat next to each other and exchanged a look.

  "Pay up, big man," yelled Mick, "I told you he couldn't turn down the chance to jump out of a perfectly functioning aircraft."

  Griffin grunted. "Was pretty sure that diving straight down in a one-way glider death dive was more to his taste. Fine," reaching into a pocket and pulling out one of the last remaining chocolate bars taken from the Damage Inc. B-17 bomber. "They ya go, it's yours."

  "Are you ever going to eat that?" said Thorfinn. "It's been passed back and forth so many times I'm not sure it's even edible."

  Mick examined the crumpled Hershey’s ration bar up in front of his face. Yes, it was broken in about six places, the corners crumpled and dinted, but yeah it would still be good. Hell, by this stage, the chocolate ration bar had reached a totemic quality. The last remaining chocolate bar from Earth. Mick tucked the bar away securely in one of his multitude of pockets. He looked back up, straight over the pile of equipment, and at Beowulf smiling ecstatically like a little kid before Christmas, like it's 4 a.m. and he doesn't want to wake the parents.

  The Catalina started a long banking turn, and from their view of the exit door and the cockpit windows, they got the briefest glimpse of the longships as Ella pointed the seaplane straight back at the Viking ships. Ella gave the signal to Rob, who raised his left hand and rang a little brass bell.

  The sign to deploy the towing hook.

  "THERE SHE COMES," said Magnus. Hellsbaene sat ready, both engine coverings off, the pair of Merlin V12's at a steady, rumbling idle. Magnus hoped as long as he lived, he would never get bored of that deep, throaty petrochemical rumbling, the deafening sound of freedom. He opened up the right throttle, then the left, and Hellsbaene moved off, towing the two assault gliders behind her. Once Magnus felt he'd taken up the cable slack of the two trailing assault gliders, bobbing up and down on their flotation devices, in a daisy chain of Hellsbaene, then assault glider number one, then fifty yards beyond that assault glider number two, he pushed the pair of throttles up even more, and the main mast of Hellsbaene groaned, as it took up the strain of the cable from its highest tip trailing all the way back to the nose of the first assault glider piloted by Laurie.

  Even more throttle now. In the first assault glider, the new Hades’ Express, Laurie looked down at the control board. Calling it a control board was a stretch given that there were no display dials or switches or controls on the thin wooden board, but he decided to call it that anyway. The wooden aircraft bounced up and down, then with a short violent snap the glider matched the speed of Hellsbaene in front towing them. He could see the four banks of exhaust sending blue smoke as Magnus nursed the throttles forward.

  With a second violent shudder, the slack between the first and second assault gliders snapped out.

  Now they both were moving at the same speed as Hellsbaene, and he stuck his right hand out the little port window. He saw Magnus wave in response, and the Viking turned around and poured on the throttle once again.

  The sun glare was bad. Not for the first time Laurie regretted not packing his sunglasses on that fateful night bombing raid to Nuremberg, but who knew? The pair of suns reflections off the water was just ridiculous. He held his left hand over his eyebrows, holding onto Hades' Express' yoke with his right, and started praying like hell Ella knew what the fuck she was doing.

  Hellsbaene increased speed further and further as it skipped and bounced over the waves, the reinforced mast still holding. With both throttles at three-quarter power, Magnus felt reluctant to increase their speed further. The main mast was creaking ominously, as it took the load of two fully loaded assault gliders perpendicular to where forces ought to run. In the distance and closing rapidly, the Catalina swooped down, and extended its towing hook underneath.

  Behind aviator sunglasses mercifully cutting out the glare of the sun, Ella's eyes focused on one thing, the tip of Hellsbaene's main mast, and the long red streamer trailing from it. Beowulf pulled out the safety pin, as he stood next to the side exit, and the fifteen-foot-long metal rod fell into position, the foot-wide hook trailing from the rear of the Catalina. The metal cables, forged and interwoven in the factories of Fairholm, should be up to the task, thought Ella. Five hundred yards out, Ella observed that the speed at which Hellsbaene towed the two gliders would not be enough. She waggled the wingtips, the Catalina rocking side to side three times. On Hellsbaene, Magnus saw the seaplane and the prearranged signal. He took a deep breath and prayed to the mechanical gods, breathed out and pushed both throttles to the stops.

  The pair of turbochargers spooled up to an incredible rate of rpm, feeding off the exhaust gases fed from the exhaust manifolds. They in turn pumped massive quantities of compressed air into the intake of the superchargers, and forty-six litres of divine combustion power pulled the sea train faster. Magnus thought he might go deaf even with the wax earplugs. As if Valkyries were descending from the Heavens screaming for battle with a thousand trumpets. The last time the pair of Merlin V12's had been run at full power, it had been during the battle on the Bay of Harmony chasing after that SS Officers seaplane. What a lovely day.

  The Catalina closed the distance. 350. 300. Magnus heard, no felt, the faint sound and tremor of wood splintering behind him. 200. 100. Just a little more he thought just a little more.

  Ella felt her aircraft twitch with a sudden jerk and begin to stall with the sudden load and drag and in that moment opened the throttles wide praying to her various deities and gods of Flight to lift, lift, lift them all up and away.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  COMMIT TO IT

  LAURIE'S ASSAULT glider skipped along the waves, being pulled by Hellsbaene then they were in the air being lifted up by the Cat seventy yards in front of them. That's not so bad, he thought, I was expecting more of a violent jolt. He spoke too soon as it felt like his teeth were suddenly trying to meet the tailplane section as the assault glider towed behind them catapulted out of the water and subjected them to huge G-forces. Laurie grunted and reached down, then pulled the metal O-ring release handle and the tiny rowboat hull which gave them such buoyancy fell away. The glider instantly became more . . . airworthy, lighter, more manageable and wanting now to fly and soar ever higher. He stuck his head out of the small window next to him and saw its pilot release its flotation aid.

  Well there's definitely no going back now. The next time these gliders would touch the ground would be either on water, never to fly again due to aborting the mission, or coming down in a screaming hell death dive upon the enemy’s lair at some stupidly insane angle of attack.

  Laurie really hoped it would be the latter. He itched to wipe the smug smiles off those Inka fucking faces. Being toyed with drove him completely up the wall, and always had ever since a child. If you're going to do something, commit to it, and do it. No fucking around, no playing with it in a cruel and unusual way like he'd seen cats play with winged birds or lizards. If you
have the ability to smash the opponent, smash the opponent. For the first time since coming through that bloody wormhole, he finally felt like he had some impetus and control as to what he was doing with his life.

  Punching Nazi's — or Inkas — all day, every day, well who could say no to that.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  CATCHING SLEEP

  MERRION SWAPPED seats with Rob once the seatbelt sign went off. But of course, there was no sign, or for that matter, anything that remotely could be called safe. Rob lowered his thumb, and stood behind the seats, holding onto the internal bracing strut.

  Merrion cupped one hand to his mouth. "The fort is on the other side of that mountain range, between those twin peaks." He pointed with his other gloved hand, and Ella couldn't help but be impressed, as they approached the vast jagged shoreline of sheer rock face. She'd seen the Himalayas back on Earth, flown over it a few times on cross-country competitions, even over Mount Everest.

  Mount Everest seemed a kid's snow castle next to that. From the many hundreds-of-feet-high rocky cliff wall, at places the sheer granite wall reaching thousands of feet into the air, the mountain range started climbing to their peaks.

  Little to no grass, trees, or dirt. Just rocks, and a few million grey-black seabirds that called those jagged mountains home. The snow started a few thousand feet higher up, and she aimed the Cat's nose for the cleft of the twin peaks, pulling the stick sharp into her gut. The throttles remained at just under two-thirds power, lifting the gliders up nicely with no reduction of airspeed.

  Just how I like it. Power and plenty more of it to spare. The altimeter wound around, ticking off the large numbers arrayed. From the small mirror mounted outside the cockpit, she could see both gliders trailing behind, the rearmost glider being tossed around just a little.

  IN THE SECOND GLIDER, Hilda Steffson fought to keep the glider stable, buffeted by the slipstream of not one but two aircraft in front of her. Not only that, she struggled to keep the ball of anxiety trying to burrow its way into her bowels at what lay ahead if all went well. If she survived the landing.

  She'd be disembarking with the others, and beginning a full-pitched assault surrounded by her blood enemy.

  Hilda chewed her bottom lip, not noticing the blood.

  THE AIR GREW colder as they climbed higher and higher. In the cargo area of the Catalina, Mick, Griffin, and the others could see their breath with every exhalation. Griffin rubbed his hands together. "It's been a while since I felt this," he said.

  "I don't miss freezing my balls off," said Mick. "Sitting in the tail end of that Lancaster was without a doubt the most bloody frigid way to spend a night."

  "Well we don't have to worry about that no more," said Griffin, most definitely being ironic.

  Over the roar of the aircraft and whistling wind through gaps in the airframe, turning the inside of the fuselage into a flute, their ears pricked up with the faint sound of snoring.

  "Bloody unreal," said Mick. "The bugger is asleep. How could he be asleep at a time like now?"

  Griffin's face grew thoughtful, and he used the back of his gloved hand to absorb the drip of his runny nose due to the cold. "A lot of seasoned warriors do, getting whatever sleep they can, wherever they can. Look around us."

  Mick craned his head forward and looked left, then rose slightly from his seat to see across the pile of supplies opposite. Everyone was asleep except for them. "Yeah well I could sleep if I wanted to." He slumped back against the fuselage wall. "Isn't that right, Griffin? Griffin?" Mick muttered as now the only awake person in the cargo deck looked up toward the cockpit.

  Just as the port engine began to stutter.

  "That doesn't sound good," said Rob, as the three of them looked through the port window. Ella tapped a gloved finger on the fuel pressure gauge. The needle dropped to the bump stop and flicked up every second or two barely into the red before registering zero pressure. It remained that way no matter how hard she tapped the instrument. Scheisse. The Catalina began to falter, as the altimeter broke 11,000 feet. Ella increased the starboard throttle, pushing the metal lever all the way to full throttle.

  It wouldn't be enough.

  "What's wrong?" said Merrion, standing on the lower deck between and behind them.

  "Probably the fuel pump again," said Rob. "I'll check it now. He stood up and turned around and carefully step down onto the cargo deck and made his way to the access hatch where the fuel pump he'd fixed at launch was located. He opened the cover.

  The fuel pump for the starboard engine was full of fuel. Ah hell, he thought. Rob made his way back to the flight deck. "Good news is that the fuel pump is working. Bad news is that there must be a blockage between it and the motor."

  "Can it be fixed?" said Merrion.

  "Yes," said Ella. She looked Rob right in the eyes. "It means someone has to climb out on the wing and clear the blockage from the engine mounting."

  "Climb out there?" said Merrion, pointing at the wing. "Outside — whilst flying?"

  "Yes," said Ella and Rob together.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  WING DANCER

  ROB QUICKLY COLLECTED the few tools he would need, and stuffed them inside his flight jacket. He picked his way down the centre spine of the fuselage and opened the sliding door, the buffeting, swirling, icy-cold wind creating its own little hurricanes inside the fuselage. Everybody that was asleep woke up.

  Before any logical part of his brain got there first, he decided to make his way outside the aircraft, getting his upper torso out before he realised there was a much better way. He closed the sliding wooden door. He walked back up to where the fuselage met the main wing, and looked at the geodesic latticework.

  The widest part of the diamond was just enough for a man to slip through. Rob picked up one of the small hatchets on top of the supply pile and swung it into the cloth in between the diamond frame, carving out the section above the wing. He pulled the flight goggles down over his eyes and pulled the woollen neck piece over the bottom half of his face and without any further ado crawled out through the hole.

  The wind nearly blew him off the wing, his upper torso sticking out. With the butt end of the hatchet Rob punctured handholds in the canvas skin, and crawled out toward the starboard engine.

  In the fuselage behind him, Griffin frantically tied a slipknot around Rob's right ankle, the coil of rope by his feet.

  The Wright-Cyclone radial by now had stopped, its propeller freewheeling in the wind. Eight feet between the fuselage and the engine.

  Already, Rob started to lose feeling in his fingertips, even through the lamb's-wool-lined leather flight gloves. Adrenaline and sheer terror drove him forward inch by inch. In the wild buffeting slipstream, the man named after a civil war general by the orphanage he was raised, reached the engine cowling.

  He tried not to look down.

  He looked down.

  LAURIE PEERED FORWARD, not believing what he was seeing. Rob was crawling along the wing toward the stalled motor. It was either fuel or oil, he decided. The Catalina ahead, on one engine at full throttle was steadily losing altitude against the sharp black rocks rushing by below.

  ROB TORE OPEN the section of wing covering and saw the fuel line. He traced the rubber tubing along a little more until he saw the secondary glass fuel filter. Empty. Okay then. Now for the tricky part — holding on with only one hand whilst the other removed the tubing from the nozzle. His gloved hand couldn't remove the tube. Fuck. He put his hand to his mouth and with his teeth pulled off the glove and tried it again. With a firm tug the tubing separated. Now, only his free hand holding the tubing and the glove in his mouth, there was no way to recover the glove. He opened his mouth and the glove ripped away violently in the slipstream, shoved the rubber tubing into his mouth and sucked like no tomorrow trying to clear the blockage, probably because there wouldn't be a tomorrow.

  Rob got slightly dizzy, and felt his hold slipping as the passing wind tried to rip him off.

&
nbsp; With a final desperate exhale, he tried again.

  And was rewarded as aviation fuel exploded into his mouth and almost came out his ears. With the last remnants of mobility, he shoved the end of the spurting fuel line back onto the metal nipple.

  Rob couldn't help but grin as he was blown off the wing, spinning like a leaf.

  GRIFFIN WAS JERKED off his feet by the weight of Rob falling, then the horrible thud reverberating inside the fuselage as Rob slammed into it, and again, and again. Beowulf joined his side and took hold of the rope, as Mick stuck his upper torso out of the geodesic-shaped hole.

  "Pull him back, pull him back," yelled Mick, "just a couple more feet." The two men heaved on the rope, and Mick got hold of Rob's right foot. But there was no way of bringing him back, short of breaking his legs in a couple of places to feed him through the hole at right angles to the fuselage which he smashed into repeatedly.

  Merrion raced past, and unsheathing one of his many knives and in between two startled Vikings and their heads he slashed the canvas skin.

  He ripped away the fabric and stuck his right hand then both his whole arms out, finding Rob's hands. "Gently, gently, feed him through to me." Mick and Griffin slowly eased out the rope at one end as Merrion and other helping hands brought in the battered and unconscious Rob, and laid him flat on top of the supply pile.

  Ella flicked the start button on, and the dead engine kicked back into life, and ever so slowly the Catalina and her two towed brethren regained height, as bitter, icy shards of freezing wind swirled around the holed aircraft.

  Rob had done it. Their cleft between the two mountain peaks lay a few minutes of flight time ahead.