Flying the Storm

11.





Guns and Gowns

“Fourteen silver,” said Fredrick, “and I’m doing you a favour.”

The merchant turned and spat in the dust behind the stand. “Twenty,” he repeated stubbornly.

“Pah,” dismissed Fredrick, turning to leave. He knew the game. He took a step away, careful not to move too slowly.

“Ok, eighteen,” conceded the merchant. Eighteen still wasn’t fourteen, but it was in the right direction. Fredrick came back to the stall.

“Fifteen,” he said. He had to give some ground. At this stage, every little concession he made would seem disproportionately generous to the seller.

The man lifted his strange little hat and scratched the bald patch it had concealed. He sighed. “Seventeen is as low as I can go.”

“All right,” said Fredrick. From thirty down to seventeen. His grandmother would be proud. “Deal.”

The merchant couldn’t help but grimace as Fredrick handed over the paltry little pile of coins. Reluctantly he wrapped the little rug in paper and passed it to Fredrick.

“Thank you,” said Fredrick, taking it under his shoulder and turning back out into the aisle between the stalls.

He’d enjoyed that. It was much more pleasant than flogging their cargo to the Armenians had been. Those people were tight. They were so convincingly uninterested you’d have been forgiven for thinking they didn’t even want the thing they were haggling for. The only sure way to know they were attracted at all was the fact they’d come all the way out to the landing pad to look. Even then they’d taken their time about it.

Anyway, his mother would like the rug he’d bought her. Or maybe she’d hate it. Something about its pattern appealed to Fredrick, though.

Either way, it didn’t matter; she’d just be so pleased that he’d thought of her. Anything to keep in her favour.

He had brothers and sisters, but Fredrick knew he was the favourite. He was the one who’d always wanted to be a pilot. He’d stuck to her like glue as a kid, doing what she did, saying what she said. He was quite happy to admit that he still drew a lot of satisfaction from his parents’ pride in him. It could have been an addiction. Probably some doctor somewhere would have a name for it. He didn’t care.

He looked over the stalls, just passing the time. Standing right in the middle of the flux of people, he couldn’t help but be distracted by the seemingly endless stream of strikingly beautiful women passing by. Dark hair, dark eyes. Something about that drew Fredrick in. Opposites attracted, he supposed. He decided he was beginning to like the East.

Something about the Russian language conveyed urgency very well. It was unmistakeable, cutting through the jumble of other languages like a jagged blade. Fredrick cast about for the source of the shouting.

Two pale white men in the sea of darker faces. Whoever they were, they were in a hurry; shouldering people out of their way as they rushed along the aisle. They were heading in the direction of the air docks.

He’d bought the present and he’d filled his hip-flask. He’d done what he came to do. Out of plain curiosity, he started following them.

They took a pretty straight route through the heart of the crowds towards the rows of aircraft, leaving the last of the stalls behind. It was hot on the concrete plaza, and despite its size the place was so crowded it felt claustrophobic. If Fredrick hadn’t been partial to the heat, he might have been uncomfortable.

The warm odour of tens of thousands of sweating bodies didn’t drown out the smell of spice stalls and perfumeries; instead it mixed with them to create a heady scent that made the air seem thick. Combined with the heat and the closely pressed bodies it felt like he was pushing his way through a viscous liquid, like axle grease or syrup.

The smells faded slowly as Fredrick followed the Russians out of the crowds and towards the rows of aircraft. Gradually they were replaced by the sharp tang of ‘nol and oily machinery. Smells Fredrick knew. Smells he was comfortable with.

The Russians cut between a pair of light freighters and took a sharp right on the taxi aisle between the rows. They were almost at a full run, and Fredrick followed as quickly as he could without making it obvious he was following. They didn’t look back, thankfully.

They turned left suddenly, cutting across another row of aircraft to run down another taxi aisle. Fredrick could feel his forehead dampen with sweat as he jogged along, and was beginning to wonder if this would be worth the effort at the end. What was he even following them for, really? It was none of his business. It could even be dangerous.

Well, that was it then. Danger drew him in; it always had. He doubted he’d have been much good as a pilot if it didn’t. Curiosity made him run faster.

One more turn, and the rows of aircraft ended suddenly in a wide open square. In the middle of that square sat a huge aircraft; somehow Fredrick hadn’t seen it on the way down. He knew what it was – there weren’t many models he didn’t know, military or otherwise. It was a Tianlong-class Heavy Lander. The heaviest VTOL craft the Asians ever built. The shape of it was raw power and strength. This was the type of aircraft to carry main battle tanks into combat. Just by its nose was its name, sprayed white in capitalised Cyrillic.

Sokol.

Fredrick stopped, agape. He’d seen images of Tianlongs before, of course, scrolling through aircraft identification charts and specs, and he’d known the size of it. But that hadn’t prepared him for how colossal it really was. With a little smile of wonder, he wished he had a camera. His parents would have loved to see this.

Tearing his eyes from the aircraft for a moment he saw that the Russians had stopped running, halfway across the tarmac to the Sokol. More people were coming from a different taxi aisle: white men, some with guns. Two of them were pulling a struggling woman, clad in a white gown dyed red in patches, towards the Sokol.

Fredrick’s hands coiled into fists as he realised that it was blood, not dye, on her gown. It didn’t matter what she was guilty of, men should not handle women like that. As a pilot and as a Wingwearer, he was honour bound to do something. He had no way of knowing what the circumstances were, but everything about this screamed injustice.

But still he stood, planted to the spot, watching as the men dragged the woman in the white gown towards the Tianlong. The pair Fredrick had been following fell in with the others. Above the harsh voices of the men cut the woman’s voice; there was no fear there, no pleading, just raw anger. Fury.


And then, for a moment, she wrenched against her captors and twisted to look across the tarmac, right at Fredrick. The green of her eyes was clear even from so far away, and her glossy brown hair shone in the sunlight. She was achingly beautiful. Her gaze locked onto him, and though she said nothing her eyes spoke to him.

Who are you, to stand there and do nothing?

He couldn’t look away until they had dragged her all the way into the Sokol, out of sight.

Then he ran.

Aiden and Tovmas had been sitting in the Iolaire’s cockpit. They peered around the door as Fredrick ran across the cargo hold to the cockpit door.

“The hell have you been?” demanded Aiden.

Fredrick frowned. “I went to the market.” He showed Aiden the forgotten rug he’d been carrying under his arm.

“You went to the…” Aiden stopped himself, clearly angry. Fredrick could see the cords of his arms tighten.

Fredrick didn’t wait for him to say anything else. He told them about the Russians, about the Tianlong, about the girl in the bloody dress. He didn’t mention her eyes. That memory was his alone.

“A white gown, you said,” spoke Tovmas, holding a hand out. “The slaves at the auction house wore white gowns.”

Aiden nodded his agreement.

“You think she was a slave?” Fredrick asked. It would certainly make sense. It would explain why nobody stopped them from handling her like that.

“It sounds like it. A runaway, maybe,” said Tovmas. He stood up. “And Russians. The auctioneer said Russians bought the Armenian girls.” His brow was furrowed in either worry or thought, Fredrick couldn’t tell.

“There could be more than one group of Russians here,” said Aiden. “More slave auctions too.”

Tovmas nodded, but distantly. “Was she… did she look Armenian?”

Fredrick shrugged. “Brown hair, tanned skin. I honestly couldn’t say.” He hesitated for a moment. He had to tell them. Anything could help. “Green eyes. I saw bright, green eyes.”

Tovmas turned to him then. He moved as if to say something, but stopped. He turned and went down into the cargo hold to where some of his men sat. Fredrick saw him beckon Nardos and an older man over, where he talked to them quietly. Nardos and the other man nodded, replying quietly to Tovmas’ questions.

Fredrick knew then that they were planning an assault. As quick as that, the decision had been made.

“I saw at least a dozen men,” Fredrick warned. “That aircraft could be hiding a hundred more.”

“We have sixteen men, including you, Aiden,” said Tovmas, finally. “Will you come?”

Aiden considered it for a moment. “Yeah, I’ll come,” he said. Fredrick eyed his friend suspiciously.

Are you trying to make a point?

Aiden stared back at Fredrick belligerently. Though he tried, Fredrick couldn’t read him.

“Are you counting me?” asked Fredrick. He had to be involved. Honour demanded it. Those green eyes demanded it.

Aiden spoke for them, shaking his head. “Fred, we need you to get the Iolaire ready to go. There’ll be a shitstorm following us back up that ramp. We’ll need to leave quickly.”

Fredrick didn’t like this. His friend was going to go and risk his life without him. He could see that Aiden was still angry about Fredrick leaving the Iolaire. He hoped that wasn’t what was driving him out there.

“We’ll need a distraction,” Nardos said. “I don’t want to get into a fight with those enforcers if it can be avoided.”

Tovmas looked past his men at a bag sitting innocuously at the side of the hold. Fredrick followed his gaze. The bag was slightly open, and the green-painted plastic of a rocket tube poked from it. A leftover from Kakavaberd.

“I have just the thing,” said Tovmas.

“That auction house could do with a hole in it, don’t you think?” said Aiden, a smirk showing at the corner of his mouth.

Tovmas pointed at the three men of the Kakavaberd rocket team, and gave them orders in Armenian. They nodded far too eagerly, grabbed the bag, and left the hold at a fast walk.

“They will be our distraction,” said Tovmas. “They will fire in twenty minutes, and fall back towards the docks in the confusion. There will be a stampede, I have no doubt, but the security will have its eyes on the other side of the market. Hopefully some aircraft will try to run for it, which will give us some cover from the air defences. Everybody load up!”

The hold filled with the sounds of weapons being loaded and cocked. Militiamen pushed rounds into magazines and stuffed their pockets with handfuls of the bullets Tovmas had bought earlier at the market. Pre-battle cigarettes were lit. Bottles of liquid courage were swigged and passed around. Men muttered and laughed nervously, with pats on backs and manly jokes. For the second time that day, they were going into battle.

Fredrick watched it all from the top of the cockpit steps. Soon everyone was ready.

“Ok, let’s go.” Tovmas clapped his hands.

The men filed down the ramp in three groups, separated by a minute or so each, weapons concealed as much as was possible. Tovmas led one, Nardos led the second, and Aiden and Tovmas’ old friend were the last to leave. Aiden lingered for a moment at the top of the ramp. He nodded at Fredrick, his face set, and left.

Fredrick nodded back, but Aiden was already gone.

Wings cover you, friend.