Havenspur, Thurn
High noon.
Engines growl to a start and the long runway wavers before us. Another afternoon in the sky. We fly over the harbour and practice war games with the naval ships, film cameras following our aerobatics, recording our show to take home to the North. The two allies, Savient and Landore, united in flight. Then we land, pass off the planes to ground crew, strip out of our hot flight suits, and drive down to the water for a swim.
In the evenings, the mail arrives, and I pretend not to get too excited when it’s a letter from Ali. More often, they’re from Leannya. Lengthy reports about school and life in Savient, subtle critiques buried within, as is the Dakar way.
“Thank you for the perfume, Athan, but now I smell like a complete rose garden, so could you send something less fussy next time? I like notes of orange and citrus.”
To which I said:
“Leannya, what are these ‘notes’ you speak of? Musical? Written? If a smell can be a note, then I might be able to send you notes of kerosene and petrol.”
To which I only got a one-line reply:
“You’re not as smart as they say.-Leannya.”
But this lazy schedule isn’t enough for the seasoned pilots growing restless. The absence of skirmishes against the enemy brings boredom to a head the night of my birthday. They think I’m turning twenty-two, and every pilot wants to make sure I celebrate right. Which means getting drunk. Garrick, Merlant, and Wick are conveniently off base, so Greycap produces a bottle of local mezra and promptly offers it to everyone, excited to finally share it around. It tastes like boot polish in flames, but I choke some down.
Too many shots later, a drunk Ollie challenges a drunk Baron to a bet. Baron can’t resist. Even though it’s nearing on midnight and planes are grounded, two of the more sober pilots, Greycap for the Landorians and Sailor for the Safire, fly into the darkness. One charging east, the other west. Up to 5,000 feet and then down in a steep corkscrew dive.
The rest of us wait along the runway flare path, watching navigation lights spiral through the black. It’s a tense few minutes, breaths held, but it’s agile Greycap who lands back on the tarmac first. He emerges from his cockpit and gives an over-the-top bow.
“Landorian supremacy!” Baron announces, taking yet another shot of mezra.
A vexed Sailor lands not long after. It’s difficult to get our fighters to dive that tight. It takes sheer focus. I’m sure I could have done better, but I’ve been working hard to prove myself, to everyone, and especially to Merlant. Not going to throw it away on a stunt like this. Not now that I’m eighteen.
Morning comes and a good number of the pilots on base are hungover in bed. Wick’s furious. “This isn’t a game,” he spits at us. “You can’t be having your reckless fun with rebels lurking in every corner. Are you trying to get shot down and waste aircraft? Waste your own damned lives? And now look at the lot of you—couldn’t fly if you wanted.”
He grounds everyone who’s sick on their feet—Spider, Baron, even Ollie—then marches Cyar and me to the briefing room and waves at Garrick, passing us off like an inconvenience. “Fill them in, would you? At least they’ve got more sense than your first officer.”
Garrick nods, jaw clenched. I’d take a guess he’s less than pleased Ollie got himself into this. “You’re both walking straight?”
“Yes, sir,” I reply.
“Good.” He casts his eyes to the map on the table before us. “You’ve got your first sortie over Hady this afternoon.”
Cyar and I look at each other.
Maybe we should have taken those extra shots.
“Lightstorm’s carrying out a strike on the Nahir-occupied airbase,” Garrick says, “and they’ll be bearing the brunt of the rebel planes. Our job’s to lure some over the sea, to help ease pressure on them. It won’t be as heavy as what they’re facing, but it won’t be easy either.”
He runs over strategy and formations with us, then Merlant arrives at the table.
“Weather’s clearing nicely off the coast. We’re set for two o’clock. I’ve picked my four pilots still able to fly. And I’ve requested Charm as my wingman.”
Garrick straightens from the map, frowning. “These are my rookies, Captain. I’m responsible for them.”
“I understand that, but Officer Helsun is now grounded, which means you’ll be tasked with both. Two rookies is too many their first time up.”
Garrick can’t argue with that logic. “Fine. I’ll take Hajari. He’ll be less trouble, anyway.”
The next few hours pass painfully slow. Why the hell do they drag it out like this? I’d rather have gone straight from the briefing into the skies. I force myself to eat lunch, feign excitement. Cyar can’t see me afraid. I may not have much practice with being a leader, but this seems important, and I know what Arrin would do. Fear’s contagious.
By quarter to two, Filton and Kif are running around my fighter, Filton hollering orders at Kif as they fuel, test the engine. Cyar and I sit on a wood bench, lacing our flight boots. When we stand, the hot tarmac feels warm even through the thick soles.
“It’s going to be easy, Fox. At least we’re not with Lightstorm, right?”
He gives a nervous smile. “Yeah, sure.”
“See you up there.”
“See you.”
Then he’s walking for his plane, and I wish I’d added, “Be careful.”
Merlant marches to each of his pilots, offering final instructions, his gaze alert and determined. Something else I can’t place. He strides over to me, helmet on, goggles resting on top. “Once we’re airborne, Charm, you stay on my wing. Never lose sight of me.”
“Not planning to be anywhere else.”
“Good.” He doesn’t smile.
“Any other advice?”
“If you find yourself under fire, never—and I do mean never—fly straight for long. Understood?”
I nod.
“All ready, sir?” Filton calls.
I turn and he’s waiting by the nose of my fighter. He’s glossed up the wings until they shine, a fresh paint job on the Safire swords. Prettiest plane in the sky, just like he promised.
“Ready, Filton.”
I shoulder my parachute and rest a hand on the wing. Then I jump up and climb into the cockpit. Filton assists with hooking the parachute, the oxygen tubes. My damn hands tremble a bit on the buckles, but only Filton sees. He attempts a smile, his brow furrowed, shoulders tense. He looks at me like he’s memorizing details under pressure. “Be careful, sir.”
This time when the cockpit shuts around me, it’s with a sense of finality. I adjust the gages, checking glycol and flaps. Everything looks good. I prime the engine, faithful propeller kicking to a spin.
Takeoff is smooth and familiar. The same steady voices give us clearance. I follow Merlant’s right wing, and the other four Lion’s Paw planes, including Greycap, lead the formation. We level out at 11,000 feet, my breath coming a little funny through the oxygen mask. My hands sweat in the gloves.
I glance left. Cyar’s not far off, following Garrick. Good to know he’s right there.
The sea below churns with whitecaps as we follow the coastline, and miserable thoughts make the thirty-minute flight feel an eternity. Does Kalt know what I’m doing? Should I have said some kind of goodbye? Maybe I won’t get another chance. Not to mention, I’ve hardly sent Leannya any of my promised letters. And Ali? Can’t I at least see her one more time? That’s not too much to ask, is it?
God, I don’t want Mother to see me afraid.
She never wanted this.
I shouldn’t be here.
I shut my eyes for a breath, so there’s darkness, nothing. Only roaring engine and shaky metal. The memory of Mother in all her gentle glory.
I’m not actually here.
I’m far away and no one can touch me.
Then light again, the world in a sunny flash, and Hady finally appears, a shadow on the horizon.