He responds with a firm grip. “No, pleasure to meet you, sir. I’m only here to keep the engine running smooth so you don’t have to worry at 10,000 feet.” He winks.
“Appreciate it,” I say, laying a reverent hand on the sun-warmed metal. The underside of each wing is painted with a large black sword. Machine guns point from the nose, twin cannons mounted on either wing, and the thick armoured plating from nose to tail inspires courage. This isn’t the tame plane I learned to fly on. This is a weapon.
“Charm, quit daydreaming and get your ass inside,” Garrick hollers on his way by.
As always, he’s a joy to train with.
I run through my rituals quickly—tightening the flight boots, pulling on leather gloves, buckling the life vest—and Filton works his way around the plane, testing each flap with approving comments. Kif follows and nods.
“Everything good, Chief?” It seems like a question I should ask.
He pats the fuselage. “Ready, sir. We tested her earlier, and she gave a little growl of protest after her days at sea. Purring soon enough. I’ll be sure to shine her when you get back. She’ll be the prettiest plane in the sky, I promise.”
His enthusiasm further bolsters my confidence. I’ve really got my own ground crew—two of them, even.
Not bad!
He helps me buckle the heavy parachute, then I climb into the cockpit and settle myself. Everything’s in order. I pump the primer, flick the engine, and she comes to snarling life with a slight jump, the propeller spinning to a blur on the nose. Filton gives a thumbs-up. Then he and Kif place a hand on either wing, guiding me onto the open tarmac. They let go and offer a last salute.
On my own now.
Garrick orders a check-in over the radio. Six pilots altogether in the first flight. We’re flying in formations of three, one plane leading each, and I’m playing right wingman to Ollie for the day. The flank of his plane has three black strikes on it. Three shot down in Karkev.
“We’re first,” Ollie announces.
“Copy that, Leader,” says the other pilot, Sailor, on his left side.
I grip the throttle, ready to release. “Copy that, Leader.”
Control gives clearance and we open up. The planes leap forward, engines roaring, and I barely hang on as my plane hurtles down the runway and fights to be airborne. No choice but to let her have her way. She storms up into the blue like a wild grey horse, streaming smoky wake.
Goddamn, this plane’s fast!
My pulse races and I struggle to keep her flying straight in the wind, wobbling a bit as I adjust to her whims. We climb rapidly. Already at 2,000 feet. The earth below changes to the blue of the sea, naval ships appearing like little toys playing games on the waves.
“Don’t let her push you around too much, Charm,” Ollie says from ahead.
I hear his laughter, which only fuels my determination. Might as well try a quick roll to the right. It’s been too long since my last time in the sky and the glory of it’s overwhelming. Addict ing. I spin away from Sailor, my plane wing over wing before I’ve barely finished the thought.
Incredible!
She’s a creature designed for battle. Cunning and fast, no hesitation anywhere. I’m grinning ear to ear.
“Charm, quit those maneuvers without permission,” Ollie orders. “This isn’t a damn circus.”
“Sorry, Leader.” I swing her back into position off his right side, but not before waggling the wings, just to see how she handles.
Perfection.
9,000 feet. 10,000 feet.
I’ve got her steady now, confidence growing.
“Careful in the wind up here,” Ollie says. “Keep close to me, Charm.”
“Will do, Leader.”
“And watch your slip while you’re at it.”
My slip? I frown behind the oxygen mask. I’ve been accounting for the crosswind just fine, adjusting the rudders. I clench the stick and follow after him.
For our first authorized maneuver, we do a curving dive, one after the other. Sailor escapes critique, but I’m not so lucky.
“Trim yourself, Charm. Airspeed increased too much on that bank.”
It sure as hell did not. I was steady the entire way through, no sideslip to right or left, but I bite my tongue. “Understood, Leader.”
Next a roll at 1,000 feet. Low enough to leave no room for error.
Again, I fail.
“A little late coming off it, Charm. You trying to go for a swim?”
God, I could shoot Ollie out of the damn sky right now!
The formations of three spread out, running through mock fights in rapid succession. I spot Cyar pulling out of the same inverted roll.
“Nicely done, Fox,” Garrick says over the radio. “Speed well-maintained.”
I grind my teeth in frustration. All my moves are perfect. Easy in, quick out. No room for complaint. But the Moonstrike pilots pretend not to see, accusing me of whatever flaws they can find, telling me to get it right or get out of the way. Too much thrust, not enough altitude, light on the trim.
I give up and start doing my own maneuvers. To hell with Ollie’s “no circus” rule.
On my final wingover, I lower my flaps abruptly, slowing and dropping, cutting far too close to him.
Ollie brakes hard. “Good God, Charm! I’m not the damn enemy. Stay clear, would you!”
Serves him right.
We land and I roll to a halt near the hangar.
Filton waves eagerly. “That was a fine display, sir! The squadron’s in top form, isn’t it?”
I jump down from the wing without a word. Across the tarmac, one of the Moonstrike pilots is giving Cyar an encouraging clap on the shoulder, and jealousy burns.
Filton coughs. “I’ll just settle her in, then.” He motions to Kif.
The two of them scurry off and my eyes fix on Garrick and Merlant. They’re conferring together by the base, glancing at us two rookies, then Garrick waves me over.
Watch your mouth, Erelis.
God, not only am I talking to myself, I’m referring to myself as the phantom who doesn’t exist. This is bad.
“What was that flying about?” Garrick asks when I arrive. “You sure you won Top Flight?”
I restrain anger, barely. “There wasn’t anything wrong with it, Captain.”
“That’s not what it looked like from Ollie’s perspective.”
“He’s blind!”
“So you decide to go off and do your own thing?” Garrick shakes his head, rubbing sweat from his red hair. “You going to act like this when you’re frustrated in a dogfight?”
There are a lot of very irreverent things I’d like to say to him right now. They almost snarl free, but Merlant’s silent, steady gaze stops me.
“This is exactly what I said would happen,” Garrick declares. “There’s too much of that pride in him.”
Merlant gives a slight nod.
That pride.
That Dakar pride is what he means, and the conclusion stings.
Garrick stalks off towards HQ, leaving the two of us alone, and Merlant adjusts his red and blue silk neck scarf. “I wondered what would happen if I told them to give you hell,” he explains.
I swallow, throat suddenly parched. “You asked them to do this?”
“An experiment.”
The realization stifles my anger, giving way to shame. “I wasn’t trying to cause trouble, Captain. I was just…” There are no words, no excuses. Merlant has a way of making it seem unnecessary. He’s like Father, but for different reasons.
He shrugs. “You’re just very much seventeen,” he finishes.
“I’m better than this.”
He nods. “I believe you, Lieutenant. And I look forward to seeing it.” He pauses. “And that was nice flying up there. Though that last stunt where you nearly took out your own leader? Save it for battle next time.” He allows a smile, then heads back the way Garrick went.
I stand alone, wondering what they’ll write about me in today’s flight report. “Very much seventeen,” they’ll say, and Father’s fiery displeasure will radiate from across the entire sea. Now it really does feel like I’ve made the wrong move. Loss of airspeed, late off the roll, and smoking on the ground for everyone to see.
That pride.
Those two words burn worst. I have to do better.
* * *