Flying the Storm

13.





Prosper

Elias Prosper stepped down onto the brown grass that seemed to cover all of Armenia. Behind him the rotors of his aircraft were spinning down; the breeze they created was quite pleasant in the warm air. It was a marvellous view from the top of the hill, he had to admit, across the wooded Azat valley to the Ararat plains beyond it.

The beauty of the hill itself, however, was marred somewhat by the thirty or so corpses that were scattered liberally across it. From the looks of them they had been killed very recently, earlier that day even, and they had quite apparently been surprised, judging by their state: a single boot missing, trousers pulled on the wrong way, even one with no clothes at all. Some of the little tents and shelters, at least on the east face of the hill towards the old fortress wall, still held their occupants, killed where they’d slept, their campfires still smoking and wounds still wet. Presumably that was where the attackers had come from, pushing up the hill from the wall, then down the other side and out on to the extreme spur of the crag.

From the state of the hill, it would have been difficult to say how many attackers there had been. Uneducated guesses could have ranged from a handful to a hundred, but Elias was not uneducated. He knew exactly how many had been here, and he even knew what some of them looked like. The fat Armenian quartermaster had been fairly helpful in that respect. Elias could almost smell his quarry.

Now, as he moved off down the hill, the marines came following from the aircraft’s ramp. They had been assigned to him by the brass on the Gilgamesh, along with the aircraft and pilot. He wasn’t sure he liked the company; they were a vulgar, unhygienic lot with, he knew, a tendency to slow down his work. He preferred working alone, but the brass had insisted that some of their marines go along, and when a customer paid as handsomely as the Gilgamesh, Elias didn’t feel the urge to argue.

The aircraft was not as comfortable as Elias’ own, however the extra space had been necessary for the marines. He wasn’t particularly happy about leaving his own aircraft, the Durendal, on the Gilgamesh either, since he knew very well their reputation for ‘acquiring’ craft to add to their fleet. If they paid as well as they said they would, though, he could afford to buy a new one several times over. He’d already been given his customary advance third, which he had of course stashed carefully, and he could, if he chose to, retire comfortably upon it. However, he was not foolish enough to believe the Gilgamesh wouldn’t hound him if he did: they weren’t renowned for forgiving grudges, certainly not fiscal ones. That, and Elias Prosper was a man of his word. He would deliver the fugitives: he always did.

By itself, it had been a considerable affront to the Gilgamesh’s brass to have two marines assaulted and bested by a pair of unarmed civilians. But for those civilians to have killed two marines, shot down one patrol craft and yet escape unscathed demanded decisive action. No expense would be spared. They wanted the best. They wanted Elias Prosper. And within a day, they’d had him aboard.

A poorly built landing pad sat on the furthest extreme of the crag, perched on the edge of the cliffs. Elias’ pilot had avoided landing there, due partly to the smoking pieces of a destroyed light aircraft scattered across it, and partly to the fact that it did not look sturdy enough for the chunky marine-carrier. Seeing it now close-up, Elias had to agree. More bodies lay here and there around it and the twisted remains of a shed poked through the grass.

A distance behind him now, the aircraft’s rotors had stilled and its engines were quiet. The sounds of the landscape began filtering through to him. The slight breeze rustled the dry grass and made the trees and bushes down in the valley hiss; he thought he could even hear the distant rush of a river. The bass roaring of a waterfall, perhaps kilometres away, underpinned it all.

Then, very distinctly, he heard a shout. He stopped in his tracks, listening. There it was again, an urgent-sounding shout, though he could not make out the words.

The shouting was coming fairly regularly. Elias headed in the apparent direction of its source: the landing pad on the cliff edge. The shout sounded further away than the cliff edge, however, and Elias was becoming suspicious. It was surely too loud and close to be coming from the valley floor.

Cautiously, he stepped up on to the landing pad. Elias was surprised that it felt fairly solid under his feet so he continued forwards, towards the edge of the pad.

He reached the edge of the platform. The shout came from below. He carefully leaned out over the edge. Then he straightened back up, blinking at the vertigo.

It was a long way down, and hanging from a rope tied to one of the pad’s struts was a man.

From his quick glance, Elias had seen that the rope was around the man’s legs, suspending him by his ankles over the yawning drop. Elias knelt down and peered over once more, grasping the edge of the landing pad with white knuckles. The man was only about five metres away, swinging slowly in the breeze. Elias sat down and shuffled back from the edge before standing up and hurrying from the unsettling landing pad. What kind of idiots had built it there?

“Sergeant Rearden,” Elias called, smoothing his jacket.

“Sir?” the powerfully built man came walking over. He looked huge in his body armour. The other marines were spread out behind him, nudging bodies with their boots or looking for loot.

“There’s a man hanging from the far side of the landing pad. I need you to fetch him for me.”

“Sir.” Rearden nodded and spun to his marines, then barked an order. Two of the brutes came forward to the landing pad and clambered up on to it, their assault-rifles slung across their backs. Rearden followed them.

Half a minute later, the hanging man had been retrieved. He lay on the landing pad, his wrists and legs still bound, as Elias walked over to him. The man was murmuring softly, too quietly for Elias to tell the language. His eyes were closed, his lips were dry and cracked and his face was still purple from hanging upside down for most of the day. Elias took one of the marines’ water canteens and stooped to feed some to the man. He spluttered and coughed, but did not attempt to stop Elias. A day in the heat without water seemed to make people appreciate it. Most were willing to do anything for just a sip.

Elias handed the empty canteen back to the marine. The bound man’s eyes were open now, dark brown and bloodshot. Elias ordered, “Cut the ropes.” Rearden complied. The ropes had left bruises and burns on the man’s skin. He looked a sorry state.

Elias tried Armenian. “Who did this to you, friend?” The man stared blankly at him. He murmured something that Elias vaguely recognised as Azeri. It was one of his weakest languages. Reluctantly, he repeated himself in it.

“Armenians. Armenians with a pair of western dogs.” The man now grimaced as he realised the ethnicity of Elias and the majority of the marines. “Sorry,” he said.

Elias smiled. “It’s quite all right; I’d be the first to admit that westerners are dogs. It’s in our blood.” Elias chuckled. “However, if the marines could understand you, they might not be so agreeable. They are the worst dogs of all.”


The man eyed them fearfully. Seeing that they had not understood, he relaxed a little and tried to sit up. He winced as Elias helped him. From the marks on his body, he’d been beaten quite badly before being hung from the landing pad. He clutched at his ribs. Elias realised they were quite possibly broken. He knew this one would not need much persuasion.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Devrim.”

“Do you know where they have gone, Devrim?”

Devrim nodded. “Baku. They made me tell them where we...” he trailed off.

“Where you sell your slaves,” Elias completed. Now he had a location: Azerbaijan. “No need to be shy; I’m not here to persecute you. I don’t care how you make your living.”

The Azeri man looked relieved. “I can help you find them,” he said hopefully. Elias knew that Devrim was probably just looking for a ticket back to Azerbaijan, but he didn’t think it would hurt to have a little guidance. No doubt the man had a vendetta of his own against the westerners. Eagerness, however, was not necessarily a good thing.

“We’d be glad to have you along,” said Elias, smiling. Devrim grinned back, showing a few missing teeth. Unfortunate wretch, thought Elias. He stood and turned to Rearden. “Bring him with us,” he ordered in English, before turning and walking back towards the aircraft on the hill. Two marines stooped to help the slaver up.

Elias was pondering his options. He could, of course, wait at Ashtarak for the fugitives to return from their rescue mission and catch them there, but he wasn’t the type who particularly enjoyed sitting around and waiting. Who knew how long that would take? Maybe Elias would follow the trail to Baku. If they had moved on, he would follow; it didn’t matter. Nothing on this earth would stop him from finding them.

Elias couldn’t help but smile.