by Aeryn Leigh
Chapter Sixty-Six
Nothing Else Matters
Ella opened her eyes. Blinked. Correction. One eye. The other wouldn't open. In the darkness and biting cold, Ella struggled to make out any shapes at all. She raised her right hand and waved it in front of her face. She could barely see it. But her arm felt weird, like its mass grew lighter the closer it got to her head.
Ah. She was upside down. One after the other senses came back. And with it, pain. All the pain. Something was cutting into her right upper thigh and just below her left shoulder. She couldn't move her left arm. Ella tried wiggling her toes. Only the barest sensation came back.
Ella patted along her body with her gloved fingers and found the canvas webbing digging into her flesh. Stuck in the safety straps which lined the two benches.
"Rob," she said, croaking. Ella tried again. "Rob?"
Silence.
Her pocket knife. The Swiss army knife in her left breast pocket of her flight jacket. She tried to reach for it but couldn't, straps barring the way.
And there was light.
Orange, flickering light, in the corner of her vision.
Fire.
Snowflakes swirled in front of her eye, and now she could see a lot better. The fuselage had broken in two, just behind the exit doors, the tail section nowhere to be seen in the darkness. The rest of the Catalina lay upside down, the section they were in. They. On the opposite side, still strapped down securely by Mick, laid Rob. She could see his breath in the cold with every exhalation.
Still alive.
Good. In the large jagged diamond-shaped hole right under him, she could see a section of mangled propeller. The cockpit area had been squashed like a pancake against whatever it was they had smashed headfirst into. Rocks she guessed.
The orange light grew stronger. Ella twisted her head to see. The port radial had torn off, pulverising the fuel bladder where the main wing bisected the fuselage, a dozen feet away the small flame only the size of a fist, began to consume the broken wooden frame around it.
The whole aircraft was wood and with the vapours contained in the fuel bladder the whole thing would light up like a Roman candle.
Scheisse.
Ella twisted and turned her torso, trying to get enough space between her body and the webbing for her hand to pass through. It wouldn't. She put the tip of her glove between her teeth and yanked it off, and tried again. Her fingers found passage, and seconds later pulled the pocket knife out.
Still holding onto her precious glove with her teeth, she flicked open the blade and started cutting into the canvas, first around her thigh, then her torso.
Only with the final stroke did she consider what laid underneath her. She fell two feet onto smashed geodesic framework, and swore a lot more. Ella thought she was in pain before. As blood returned to limbs long gone to sleep, even her heart beating felt like too much movement, every twitch agony.
But she had to move. The fire grew brighter, larger. She focused her mind on one thing: Amelia.
Nothing else matters.
Forcing herself up into a sitting position, she involuntarily screamed, but kept moving. The snow blew into what remained of the fuselage, and she began the search for the survival gear, knowing it would be pointless for her to pull Rob out only to die together, frozen from exposure.
He wasn't going anywhere, but she increased her speed anyway, lifting sections of smashed wood and debris at the rear of the cockpit, where the emergency gear she specifically stowed pre-mission should be.
Helena came out, the case intact save for a major dint, and one of Damage Inc.'s duffel bags stuffed full of supplies and provisions half-buried under piles of snow. She dragged both to the edge of the fuselage and out into the shrieking night, just under the black skies.
The fire spread, hungrily consuming the honeycombs of wooden lattices.
Now for Rob. Ella considered the options. The smell of aviation fuel wafted across her nose.
No options. She slashed the straps from underneath, one limb at a time, and sagged under the weight as he collapsed onto her back, after her outstretched arm cut the last chest strap.
Get outside away from the aircraft. The voice in her head wouldn't stop as she struggled with each step, until Ella found a clear spot to collapse to her knees, still inside the fuselage, Rob rolling off her back and falling into the soft snow.
Get outside. From somewhere deep down she found the energy and stood up, dragging Rob by the arms out from the fuselage and past the burning motor and wing, and into the shrieking darkness until she reached a safe distance fifty yards or so away. The rocky ledge lay on the lee side of the wind and snow. Ella left Rob against the rock face.
Approaching the wreckage, the heat scorched her skin, as the fire began its final runaway conflagration.
No choice. She moved as fast as she could with the pain, keeping her back to the flames and shuffled sideways to the equipment, and got hands on both. Smoke and steam marred her vision, but she stubbornly retraced her steps, out into the night as she smelt burning hair and the centre of her back and calves felt like molten lava and heard the roar of the flames each footstep heavy and ponderous, all the way back to Rob.
Against the backdrop of the Catalina completely on fire, her body now on autopilot opened the olive-green duffel bag and took out the large woollen blanket and spread it out, rolling Rob onto one end and wrapped it around him, his breath white clouds, and snuggled in tight against him, tucking the other end of the blanket around her and through her one eye and frozen snowflakes swirling by watched her beloved Cat detonate as the fuel bladder ruptured and high-octane vapour ignited — then, and only then, did she allow herself the luxury of passing out.
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Garden Beds
"What do you mean he wasn't there?" said Griffin.
"He wasn't there. His parachute cord was hanging cut-off midway, and nothing but a pile of empty brass cartridges and Inquisition corpses."
"Captain, we need to go look for him."
"The quicker we can get this defence set up, Gunnery Sergeant, the quicker we can go look for our mate. C'mon. It'll be sundown any moment." Griffin and Hilda placed the second Browning .50 down as the remainder of the assault squad ran back and forth from the parachuted supplies, bringing material back down to the temporary headquarters just behind the research gate wall. "Come on, lads," said Laurie to Andrew and Moss, as they held each end of a heavy, reinforced duffel bag.
"Damn this is rather heavy," said Andrew, bending his knees, and lowering his end to the cobblestones. The argument about what supplies to bring, and their attendant weight raged for several days once Laurie brought it up, particularly upon what now rested upon the ground.
"You just cannot keep adding things to be taken on a 'what if' basis," an exasperated Ella had said one week before they left.
"I don't like surprises," said Laurie. "This will just be," he paused, taking another sip of his beer, "insurance if you like."
"You are talking about another eighty to hundred kilos you realise? That's easily one more warrior we can take along."
And so, the argument had gone back and forth until Ella relented five nights before departure in their living room hall.
"You want to bring it along, fine. Then find me another hundred kilos of weight saving somewhere else."
"What if I suck in my gut?" said Mick.
Ella had narrowed her eyes before bursting out loud in laughter and German.
Laurie gave a grim smile at the memory. Where the bloody hell was Mick? He pointed at the bag, then at a space just to the rear and left of the stone archway.
"Set it up there. Sandbag it well."
Moss squeezed off another ultrashort burst from the second .50, and the newest line of advancing Inka marines dived into the earth of the officer's private gardens two hundred yards below. Flower beds, small shrubs, and trees, large swathes of manicured lawn — the private garden had it all.
"
How much labour did it take to cart God only knows how many tonnes of dirt up here, just to give a fertile bed for the trees and plants?" said Andrew, peering around the corner.
On either side of the valley all the way to the ocean below were rocky walls hundreds of jagged feet high.
Makes a great chamber for sound, as the .50cal boomed and echoed down the valley, thought Griffin, his mind scattered. "That's a lot of dirt for a pretty garden."
"If they don't start making bloody trenches out of it, it's fine," said Laurie.
"Any sign of Mick?" said Griffin.
"We've taken our first objective," said Laurie. "Now we need to go through the research quarter, building by building. And find him."
A great cheer went up behind them.
Laurie turned around, and saw Mick and Merrion making their way over. Thank Christ, he's alive.
Mick didn't look too good, and as for Merrion — well Laurie wasn't sure what emotions played across the man's face. He's frowning, noticed Laurie, seeing the wrinkles etched across the man's forehead. I've never actually seen Merrion look worried. With that bloke, like Beowulf, everything seemed to be water off a duck's back.
He turned his attention back to Mick who was being congratulated by the rest of the team. Not even at their last stand in the Spanish Civil War, the battle for the airfield, had the man never looked so . . . sombre.
"Captain," said Merrion, coming right up to him, "we need to talk." He looked at Griffin and Beowulf too, and the four walked back uphill through buildings locked tight by the occupants inside, back to the defensive machine gun covering the mountain door.
"You better start making sense Merrion and start making it now," said Laurie through gritted teeth.
Merrion began to speak, but paused. He stroked his chin.
"There was no realistic way off this fortress was there?" said Griffin. "The barracks down there look like they hold a division. Ten thousand men or more."
"I hadn't discounted it," said Merrion finally. "There was indeed always a chance we could perform a lightning raid in and out, in a short time. My sources indicated only a battalion here, nothing more. But . . . getting reliable intelligence from this place is difficult, as you can see. Two-year-old intelligence is all I had." He looked round at their faces. "As I told you back at Fairholm."
Beowulf snorted. "As always, cunning as a fox."
Laurie felt something pop in the back of his skull. As if a white pinprick of cold suddenly bloomed. He breathed out the air he'd been holding tight the last minute, and took a deep breath in. I really should learn to stop giving a fuck. The icy sensations spread like a stream of ice between his skull and scalp.
"Their refinery isn't closest to the top like we planned. Instead it's down toward the bottom through one hell of a lot more areas to control. We don't have the numbers to even make it that far. Seventeen versus ten thousand? Even Beowulf wouldn't take that on," said Griffin.
Beowulf nodded. Eventually.
"By my honour I am not a violent man," said Laurie, "but so help me Merrion, if you don't come clean right now I will throw you right over the wall. And all of it. No half-truths, no half-lies, just everything you know."
"The Republic's First and Proud Army was destroyed at the truce accords the beginning of last year. I saw the mass graves six months later." He stopped. "I was convinced like everybody else they'd been slaughtered down to the very last man and woman, but, now I believe just part of a larger strategy to deceive us." He picked up the waterskin sitting on top of the centre pile, and took a mouthful. "The First and Proud is in there," jerking his head in the direction of the mountain entrance.
"So what? A couple of hundred? A couple of thousand?" said Laurie.
"No," said Merrion. "From what I can gather the entire First and Proud," he paused again, frowning, "less the ones experimented on, the entire army is within those rocks."
"Seven thousand soldiers," said Beowulf, gripping his short axe.
"About that," said Merrion.
Laurie shook his head, trying to clear the cold. It hurt to think now. "So, who were in the burial pits?"
"Civilians? Prisoners? Slaves? All the Inquisition needed to do was strip the army of its uniforms and make civilians wear them. Six months decomposition in open graves would do the rest," said Merrion.
"We ain't getting seven thousand folks out on a handful of boats," said Griffin.
The icy cold tendril reached the bottom of Laurie's occipital and ran straight down the centre of his spine. We are dying on this godforsaken piece of rock. "Even with seven thousand behind us, there's still ten thousand below and once the Inquisition here signals for help, all they need to do is recall just a bloody quarter of the fleet parked outside Fairholm to prevent any escape from here." The cold became just a little warmer. Well look on the bright side. We get to kill as many of the fucks as we can.
"And now, Merrion," said Griffin, his voice like tombstones, "the rest of it."
"Firstly. Marietta's mother is alive. In there. Sarah Versetti. Commander of The First and Proud. And if we don't find a way of getting her out, we might as well not go back."
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Thrice-Wrought Steel
Darkness fell. Clouds covered the entire sky. Nothing moved in the open area of ground and hadn't for a couple of hours. Moss and Hilda shivered, lying prone behind the heavy machine gun on its short tripod, its tip poking through the half-foot-wide metal bars of the closed gate.
Up on the guard tower above, Griffin and Mick sat behind Betty, her barrel poking through one of the handful of open slots in the thick masonry.
"Let me get this straight." Mick rubbed his hands together and blew into them. No matter how hard he tried not to, the images of inside the black building imprinted themselves onto the movie screen of his mind. The siren call of a bottle of hard liquor and oblivion sang, doing bugger all for his nerves. Then, trying to comprehend what Griffin just told him.
"Take your time," said Griffin. "We have plenty of it. Or not." He looked down toward the wide bay, and the countless torches beyond the private gardens, of an entire Inquisition division, waiting, twinkling in the night.
"A dead Republican army is suddenly alive and inside the mountain, including her Mum, and no one knew about it? Fuck me. The plans for artillery shells was only a secondary objective? Marietta instead wanted something bloody else — the blueprints for chemical warfare those bastards used on Republican soldiers like guinea pigs?"
"Yup and yup. Chemical warfare." Griffin rolled the two words around his mouth and grimaced. "Nasty shit. Hasn't been used since the Great War for a reason."
"Mustard gas or something? Christ, whatever you do don't get the Old Man started on that subject. His tales from the First War are fucking harrowing stuff. Gas from artillery shells rolling across No Man's Land like fog and falling into the trenches, men clamouring for gas masks praying like fuck it wasn't broken, skin blistering on contact — ugh." He shuddered.
"Oh, I think he already did." He shook his head. "The captain shouted for a good bit."
"So, the general wants to use it, whatever that 'it' bloody is, on the Inquisition? And deliberately failed to mention that?"
"Seems about right. And whatever that is, it makes mustard gas seem like a damn mosquito bite." He reached inside a pocket and passed his mate a whisky flask. "It's good to have you back." He went to say something more, but stopped. He sighed. "Anyway, they should be finished breaching the last buildings any moment."
Sixteen buildings in the Research Quarter. Thirteen cleared. Beowulf and Laurie stood either side of number fourteen's door. Andrew stood at the rear. Laurie nodded. The five Vikings charged at the door with their newly fashioned battering ram, and the former roof beam of Building One shattered the brown door, smashing it off its hinges and tossing it aside. The five men dropped the ram and split either side to cover, as gunfire rang out.
Beowulf grinned at Laurie, who returned the smile with a blank stare, an
d silently mouthed words. One, two, and — a crash inside the building, a pause — then thuds as bodies of those resisting fell to the floor. The gunfire stopped.
"Clear," said Merrion from inside. They entered, and Merrion stood guard over two bewildered men in white, covered in red arterial spray from the pair of dead soldiers lying at their feet, one with a crossbow bolt through his back, the other with a protruding dagger from his neck.
A puddle of broken roof plaster laid at the rear of the room underneath a hole in the ceiling, the open space full of desks, chairs, papers, and blackboards.
Blackboards covered in artillery designs and schematics. Papers scribbled with notes describing explosive compounds. Laurie waved a random sheaf in his hand. "Bingo. Everything we need to make those dreadnought shell explosives is in here," he said, sweeping his hand around the room.
"It would appear so," said Merrion, coming face-to-face with the taller of the two researchers — scientists, as Andrew and Lucius would call them. "Put them with the others in Building Two."
The scientists left, hands tied behind their backs, escorted by a Viking out into the dark, as Merrion retrieved his dagger and bolt, wiping the blood off on a corpse.
"Fat lot of good it will do for us since we'll be all dead, but hey," said Laurie, dropping the wad onto the nearest desk. He smiled.
Andrew paused rummaging. "Dead, Captain?" He looked down at the sea of paper.
"Yes, Flight Sergeant Bloomsbury. Unless you can find a miracle in all this lot, dead. So, I'd suggest you better get on with it."
They left Andrew and his guard, and walked back out into the cloud-covered night to the last virgin building, and Merrion clambered up its down pipe.