Flying the Storm

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.

Aiden cocked his pistol, just like Tovmas had shown him. He couldn’t get all of them, he knew. His magazine held fifteen rounds, but there were a lot of men with Koikov and Aiden didn’t know how many shots it would take to put even one of them down. That was if his pistol even worked at all: he’d never fired it.

If they kept running, they’d pass right by Magar without seeing him. Aiden could wait until they were in front of Magar’s rifle before springing the trap. Somebody had once told him that the trick to an ambush was letting your target go right past you before you jumped them. It made sense to him. He’d wait till they passed.

Aiden moved back round to Magar’s side. “Let them get past us,” he said to Magar. “We’ll shoot them in the back.” Magar nodded, switching his rifle to automatic and changing to his spare magazine. A cigarette still protruded from the corner of his mouth. The sound of running and barked orders was only a few metres from them now, on the other side of the crates. Magar lifted his rifle and climbed up to rest it on top of the stack. Aiden pressed himself against the corner of the stack once more, his pistol ready. He took aim. Koikov himself was obscured by his men, so Aiden lined up his sights between the shoulders of one of the rearmost guards.

They were twenty metres away when he fired the first shot. It struck the man in the back and he went down like a sack of grain. Magar let rip with his automatic rifle, his bullets tearing into the group of men with spurts and sprays of blood. The group spread out; running and diving in all directions. A few of them went to ground, lying down to shoot back at the ambushers. Some were already dead.


Aiden kept firing. His shots weren’t accurate, but a large group of men within twenty metres was a target that even Aiden could hit. Some of his bullets went wild, ricocheting from the concrete or flying harmlessly off towards the big aircraft, but most were hitting home. Bodies twitched and flailed as the rounds impacted.

The pistol’s slide locked back, its barrel and chamber smoking: empty. Aiden didn’t have a spare magazine. Magar had stopped firing; Aiden could see him reloading. He swore, ducking back behind the cover of the crates as he fumbled for the magazine release catch. The magazine slid out into his left hand and he stuffed the empty pistol behind his belt. Picking a loose bullet from his pocket he began re-loading the magazine, one shot at a time. Bullets hissed and snapped around his crate, some punching into the wood and throwing out clouds of coffee powder. He didn’t know how many of Koikov’s men were still left out there, but there were far too many shooting back at him for his liking.

Magar’s rifle began barking again. Aiden could hear screams from its targets, and the return fire withered slightly. He loaded an eighth round into his magazine. That will have to do. It wasn’t ideal, but the thing was taking so bloody long to load. He slid the magazine back in and released the slide forward. He popped back out of cover, pistol up. The muzzle bumped into the nose of one of Koikov’s men. The man’s eyes went wide. Aiden squeezed the trigger and shot him through the bridge of his nose. The body fell backwards, eyes still wide and skull split. Aiden stood for a moment, in shock.

Him or me, he told himself, it was him or me.

Not far beyond the dead guard lay several more, sprawled and bleeding on the concrete. Only two of Koikov’s retinue were in cover and shooting back, and their shots were mostly wild. They weren’t stupid enough to move from cover while Magar was watching. Koikov himself was nowhere to be seen. Aiden moved away from his cover, carefully and slowly, keeping his pistol trained on the little loading truck that the two men were hiding behind.

Aiden reached the truck. He crouched by its rear wheels, gathering the courage to move around it. A couple of shots rang out from the other side, but neither was aimed at Aiden. Nothing but panicked blind-firing, Aiden convinced himself. Slowly he slid around the rear end of the truck, his weapon out and ready.

Aiden spun around the corner, firing again and again into the man before him, his eyes tight shut, expecting the hammer blow of a bullet at any moment. The pistol stopped firing. Aiden opened his eyes. It was empty again. Seven bullets he’d put into the chest of the guard in front. As the dead guard fell away and revealed his comrade behind, Aiden saw the muzzle of a sub-machinegun rise towards him.

The remaining guard’s ankle split with a sickening crack. Blood and bone spattered across the concrete by his feet. Magar had got an angle on him under the truck. The man went down, screaming. As he hit the concrete, another rifle shot burst his chest. His screaming stopped. Aiden collapsed against the truck, and for the third time that day he wanted to be sick.

Regaining some composure, he shuffled over to the fallen guard and prized the sub-machinegun from his clenched fingers. He felt the man’s pockets and pouches for ammunition, and found a pair of spare magazines. He pocketed these with some difficulty and moved off back to Magar.

Magar flicked his dying cigarette away as Aiden arrived. He produced another from the packet and lit it in a single motion. “Thanks for the help,” said Aiden.

“No problem,” grunted Magar, pushing six-point-fives into a magazine. “Remember to count your shots next time.” Aiden nodded. He felt like he was shaking.

Shock?

Magar looked at him for a moment, then handed him a bottle. “Have a drink. It will steady your nerves.” Aiden took a swig. It was vodka. He looked at the bottle- Crimean. He’d brought this batch to the town only two days ago.

What a long two days it had been, too. In that time he’d seen more death than a sane person ever should. He was desperate to get back to the simplicity of flying and selling. No more killing people or being shot at, just straight and narrow hauling. That would have been nice. He took another swig, handed the bottle back to Magar and began reloading his pistol.

A few minutes passed. The gunshots inside the aircraft had stopped now and Aiden hoped Tovmas would hurry up and get out of there. There was still no movement in the cargo hold. In fact, the whole air dock had gone quiet. He strained his ears, listening as hard as he could, but his hearing had been muffled by the gunfire. It was so dulled that he didn’t notice the big, carbine-wielding enforcer until he came blundering into their clearing in the crates.

Aiden was quicker than the enforcer. His sub-machinegun spat out a burst and the big man fell, his carbine firing wildly into the air. Magar spun round, his assault rifle shouldered. For a moment nothing happened. Aiden looked at Magar.

Suddenly a tremendous volley of fire tore through the crates all around them. Aiden threw himself to the ground along with Magar, covering his head with his arms. Both men were peppered with coffee powder, bean paste and wooden splinters as they made themselves as flat as they could. The whip-crack of supersonic bullets passing centimetres above Aiden’s head was petrifying. These weren’t pistol or sub-machinegun bullets; these were high-powered assault rifle bullets meant for killing at hundreds of metres, but the shooters were no more than ten metres away. The rippling cracks of the gunshots were deafening. Terror gripped Aiden.

Oh God, he thought, I’m going to die here.

The bullets stopped. The sound of gunfire was still there, but it was no longer aimed at Aiden. Beyond it all he could hear more gunshots, quieter and from further away. Shouts and screams came drifting through the din. Aiden raised his head a little. Magar was still lying on his front, his rifle shouldered and sighted.

The close gunfire stopped. Aiden could still hear shouts, but they were from a distance.

“Magar,” he hissed, “will we take a look?”

Magar didn’t reply. He was still looking down his sights.

“Magar,” Aiden repeated. No response. Aiden shuffled over to him. He shook the man’s shoulder. Magar’s rifle fell loosely to its side and his head flopped down on top of it. The rifle’s cheek rest had been holding it up. The cigarette had fallen from his mouth. Magar was dead.

Aiden recoiled. Now he noticed the blood-soaked hole in Magar’s side: an exit wound in his ribs. He got up into a crouch, still staring at Magar’s motionless form. He was alone now, surrounded by Koikov’s men and the enforcers. Despair crept in.

Breathing quickly and fumbling, Aiden changed the magazine of his sub-machinegun for a fresh one. He stood up to his full height, sub-machinegun hefted in one hand; his nine-millimetre pistol in the other. If he was going to die, he would at least take some of the bastards with him. He glanced up at the sky: clear blue, a lot of aircraft taking off. Tensing every muscle in his body he strode out from the cover of the crates.

Tovmas was standing over the corpse of an enforcer, his weapon levelled at Aiden. His followers were behind him, along with a number of white-clad girls. Bodies of enforcers lay scattered around the crates. Tovmas’ face softened with recognition and he lowered the gun. “Aiden,” he said. “Are you alright?”

Aiden lowered his own weapons. “Magar’s dead,” he said. He saw Tovmas’ face fall.

They were friends, then.


He put the pistol behind his belt. His hand was shaking. Why couldn’t he stop it? Then he noticed the blood dripping from his fingertips. He could feel it running down his arm. Warm and sticky.

Tovmas reached for him. “You’ve been hit, Aiden.”