Flying the Storm

14.





Flight

The Iolaire lurched to port and Aiden clung tightly to the handhold strap with his good arm, his stomach in his throat. He disliked being in the cargo hold during normal flight, but just now it was awful. The blanketed corpses of the militia slid around unrestrained. A couple of militiamen didn’t have handholds, so they were flung around the cargo hold with them. Just to add to the confusion, the tail gun was thumping out sporadic volleys, rattling and shaking the whole craft.

Aiden had been told to stay put in the hold, to rest his wounded arm and recover from the fight a little, although in the pitching cargo hold that was easier said than done. One of the militia was in Aiden’s rightful seat, ineptly defending the Iolaire from its pursuers. This more than anything was the reason for Aiden’s discomfort. Tail-gunner was his job, and he hated to see it done badly.

The Iolaire nosed down into a dive. In the hold, the passengers were thrown into free-fall. The unwelcome butterflies-in-his-stomach sensation overcame Aiden as his body no longer felt its weight, and one of the loose militiamen floated past him with abject terror on his face. The man’s eyes closed and Aiden swore he could see the colour drain from his skin.

Then the hovering militiaman vomited. A pale, shivering mass of liquid erupted from his mouth and floated before him, unable to fall. It was both fascinating and disgusting to watch as the globs of fluid spun and quivered in front of the horrified man’s face. He flailed and twisted to get away from it, but it was no use: he had only served to manoeuvre himself under the vomit. The uncaring air gave him no purchase. Aiden knew what was about to happen.

Sharply, Fredrick pulled the Iolaire out of its dive. The floating militiaman slammed face-first into the floor of the cargo hold, and the gobbets of sick splattered across his shoulders and the back of his head. That was when the smell hit Aiden: sour milk and acid. It caught in his throat and he fought back his own compulsion to vomit. It was horrendous. He had to get out of the cargo hold.

Aiden staggered across the floor, avoiding the reeking form of the fallen militiaman, to the gun-pod steps. He struggled up, clinging to the hand rail as the Iolaire surged and bucked, and reached around the back of the gunner’s chair to grab the occupant by the shoulder.

“Out!” Aiden ordered. “Get out!”

The militiaman saw Aiden’s thunderous expression and let go of the control sticks. He unbuckled himself and edged past Aiden, down the steps and into the stinking cargo hold, slipping on the slick vomit. Aiden swung around into the chair and strapped himself in. Through the glass, in the distance, he could see the ominous form of the Sokol hurtling after them. It was well out of range, but it didn’t look to be falling behind. Comms headset on, he said to Fredrick, “I’m back.”

“Aiden, what are you doing?”

“I got my seat back.”

“You should be resting your arm,” said Fredrick.

“Ach, it’s fine,” said Aiden, though it was aching quite badly. “Besides, you need me on the gun.” Aiden fiddled with the gunner’s heads-up display settings. The little green ammunition counter flickered onto the glass before him. 1213. Aiden almost spat. “That useless bastard has pissed away three hundred of my rounds!”

“Your rounds?”

“Yes, my rounds! Koikov’s craft’s not even in range, what the hell was he shooting for?”

“Aiden, Koikov isn’t the only one out there!” Fredrick shouted. “We’ve been dodging a pair of interceptors!”

Aiden swept the gun across the sky. “I don’t see them.” Dread sunk its claws in.

“Well they’re out there. Either above or below: all I can see on the passive is Koikov.”

Great, thought Aiden. Just great. Breathing deeply he started to sweep the sky. It was the clear blue and orange of early evening, and feathery cirrus clouds hung just a couple of thousand metres above the Iolaire. These Aiden squinted at, looking for the outline of an aircraft against the rippled cloud. He could see none. He was starting to worry.

Aiden now pointed the gun down below the horizon, scouring the hilly, beige landscape behind and beneath the Iolaire. Nothing. “Fred, I can’t see anything from here. Can you?”

“No, nothing out front.”

Then Tovmas’ voice crackled over the intercom, “Ten o’clock low”

“I see him now!” replied Fredrick, as the Iolaire banked to port, towards the inbound attacker. “Aiden, get ready for when he passes us!”

“Alright,” said Aiden. He flexed his right hand on the control stick. He flexed the other and winced. His left arm was getting more painful. The bullet had left a half-centimetre wide gash across his left triceps, and though it had been cleaned, anaesthetised and glued shut, he felt as if it was still open to the air.

The Iolaire climbed, then dived, then climbed again as chemical-green tracers streaked past it, zipping away past Aiden’s turret. There was a crescendo howl of engines below as the little attacking craft shot under them, wing-tip vapour trails swirling in the wake. It pulled up hard, climbing to try and regain the Iolaire’s tail, and passed right in front of Aiden’s gun sight.

It all seemed so slow and easy. The craft displayed itself, like a cross, in the middle of Aiden’s HUD. He nudged the crosshair up a little, leading the nose of the sleek interceptor. Then he squeezed the trigger. The three barrels instantly spun into life, the gun roared and a stuttered beam of red phosphorescent fire raced across the hundreds of metres like it was no distance at all. The shells ripped into the nose of the interceptor, obliterated the cockpit and cut down through the fuselage. Its starboard wing and engine sheared off at the root with a flourish of igniting fuel, and it flapped and twisted away in billowing flames and black smoke. The remainder of the aircraft stalled limply and began to fall; flaming pieces of it peeled off and showered around it as it spun towards the earth.


“I got him,” said Aiden, unable to stop himself from smiling a little. He checked the ammo count. 1160. Not bad. He noticed the shooting in the air didn’t affect him the way the shooting on the ground had. He supposed the targets were much farther away, and shaped like machines rather than people. A disturbing thought entered his mind and refused to be shaken off. Was he just getting used to it?

“Excellent,” said Fredrick, “but there’s still another one.”

“Let’s hope he’s as stupid as that guy.” Aiden covered misgivings with bravado.

Through the black spider of smoke left by the ruined interceptor came Koikov’s big aircraft, thundering relentlessly after the Iolaire. It swirled and thrashed the smoke as it passed. Aiden jumped in his seat: it was much closer than before. “Uh, Fred, Koikov’s gaining on us.”

“Shit, we shouldn’t have turned. Can you hit him?”

“He’s still a bit far,” replied Aiden. “Laser says about three klicks.” He nudged the crosshair up. “I’ll give it a go.”

Aiden cycled through the HUD’s settings once more. He set the ballistic reticule to three thousand metres range. A little red circle with a central dot appeared on the HUD, a centimetre or so below the crosshair. Aiden used the control stick to raise the turret slightly, until Koikov’s aircraft sat neatly inside the little red circle: Fredrick was thankfully keeping the Iolaire very steady. Aiden squeezed the trigger.

Once again the gun gave a brief, throaty roar and a red stream of tracer flashed out into the air. Aiden watched as it arced gracefully and dispersed into a shimmering cluster of individual fiery dots, all falling towards the HUD reticule.

Then Koikov’s aircraft pulled up sharply, and the little cluster of red bullets passed harmlessly beneath it. The dots of light disappeared, their compounds spent. 1127.

“Fred, it’s so far away that they’ve got time to move.”

“You sure it’s not just your shooting?”

“Ha-ha,” said Aiden, “but we have to deal with that other interceptor.”

“I don’t see it out here,” informed Fredrick.

“I can’t see it either,” said Tovmas. “Do you think it has gone home?”

“Maybe they bugged out when they saw their friend get iced,” replied Aiden, “but I doubt it. If it was me, I’d want to even the score.”

“Pinging the passive again,” said Fredrick. “All it can see is Koikov.”

Aiden was searching the sky once more. He’d turned off the ballistic reticule: it was just a distraction. He didn’t reckon he’d have time to use it anyway; if the remaining interceptor decided to have a go, it would all come down to reflexes.

A couple of minutes passed. The Iolaire was still flying at full throttle, climbing slightly. The Sokol was still following; it was no longer gaining on them, but not quite falling behind either. Aiden, Tovmas and Fredrick were still sweeping the air around the Iolaire, searching for any sign of the last interceptor. However, when it did eventually come, it was from a perfect blind spot.

Suddenly there was a hammering sound from behind Aiden, back towards the cargo hold. Dozens of bullets punched down through the ceiling of the Iolaire and into the floor. Aiden spun in his seat, craning over his shoulder to see the bright green streaks and flashes of tracers as they lit up the gloom of the hold. Even above the noise of impacts and the engines, Aiden could hear women screaming.

The interceptor howled vertically down past the Iolaire.

“Pull up, Fred!” Aiden yelled into his headset. “Let me get a shot at him!”

“For helvede!” cried Fredrick. “The bastard put holes in my aircraft!”

The Iolaire lurched upwards into a steep climb and Aiden brought his heavy machinegun to bear. He saw their attacker was a distance below and racing along close to the ground, its speed huge from the massive dive. Aiden fired a long burst, but it fell short, slamming into the ground behind the small aircraft, erupting in clouds of dust to mingle with that kicked up by its prop wash.

Aiden swore and adjusted his aim. He was not going to miss it a second time.

The next burst was more accurate. Though much of it missed, several shots pounded the port wing of the interceptor. The aircraft flipped onto its back and ploughed into the ground, exploding in a dirty orange fireball. Its wake caught up with it and obscured the crash site with dust. Aiden gave a low whistle. “He’s down,” he said.

“Great,” said Fredrick, levelling the Iolaire out. They had lost a little of their speed in the climb, and the Sokol was closer than ever. It was now quite a distance below them, however.

“Fred, I don’t think we’re going to shake this guy, he’s pretty determined,” said Aiden, peering down at Koikov’s craft.

“Well, we have to try. We’ve got enough fuel for four more hours at this speed, that’s got to be more time than he has, surely?”

Tovmas spoke, “Koikov’s aircraft is an Asian heavy lander; I’ve seen those things drop infantry and vehicles into combat. Even fully loaded, they have a lot of range. It’s only carrying his crew, so it’s not even weighed down with anything. Assuming they refuelled at Sederek, they can probably go for longer than we can.”

“Fantastic,” said Aiden, dryly.

“If they come a little closer, you could hit them,” said Fredrick.

“They’ll be able to hit us too, then, and they have more guns than us.”

“So we keep running,” said Tovmas. “I must check on the passengers, some might be injured.”

Neither westerner replied. The Iolaire sped onwards; the Sokol followed.

Aiden knew it would be night soon: he hoped they would be able to give Koikov the slip. They were heading northwest, deliberately not towards Ashtarak. Hopefully, if fuel allowed, they could swing back down towards Armenia under cover of night since, according to the silent detector, Koikov did not appear to have radar.

The Sokol could have had passive sensors, however. Unlike radar, these did not emit any detectable signal. The Iolaire had a passive sensor array, but the only thing Aiden knew about its operation was that it sort of magnetically “felt” for objects in front of and behind the craft. It was very short range, only a few klicks at most, and its arcs did not cover the entire space around the Iolaire.

Personally, Aiden wouldn’t have forked out for the sensors, since they were at best unhelpful and at worst misleading, but they were already installed on the craft when they’d bought it, and it would have been extra bother to have them removed. Experimental, the seller had said. End-of-war prototype. No wonder the union   collapsed, if this was the best they could manage.

If Koikov’s aircraft had sensors, Aiden reckoned it was likely that they were better than the Iolaire’s. It wouldn’t exactly have been difficult.

Aiden squinted down at the Sokol. It was about two kilometres away, but he wasn’t going to waste ammo on it if he didn’t have to. Twelve-point-sevens were expensive. Dusk was fast approaching, and the grey metal of the brutish craft was fading into the colour of the landscape below. Soon they’d reach the most southerly of the Caucasus Mountains, leaving the rolling plains and dusty foothills behind. Aiden shuffled in his seat, getting comfortable for what was promising to be a long night.

He yawned widely. The adrenaline of the fight was wearing off, and Aiden was starting to crash. It had been a painfully long day. When he thought back to how it had started, with the battle at Kakavaberd, it seemed like weeks ago. Such a bloody, death-filled day. His mind drifted: the skinny man lying dead in the dust; the surprised face of the guard he’d shot between the eyes; Magar’s lifeless corpse. It was awful. He hadn’t wanted to kill anybody, hadn’t wanted to see anybody die, yet he’d been forced to time and again. Those women had to be freed, he told himself. But after how many dead did it stop being worth it?


Someone touched Aiden’s arm, startling him. It was Tovmas’ daughter, Vika. She looked concerned, caring... gorgeous. She had come to check on his dressing, though how she could see it properly in the fading light Aiden couldn’t tell. She looked at him enquiringly, green eyes seeming to shine even in the dark. He gave her a thumbs-up, though the stab of pain in his left arm stopped him from smiling at her. She smiled at him though, squeezing his shoulder lightly before climbing back down the steps to the dim cargo hold.

Aiden knew the answer to his question. She’s worth as many as it takes.

Time passed. Dusk had well and truly arrived. The green glow of the HUD seemed intensely bright to Aiden, so he fiddled with its settings. As he leaned forward he felt rather than heard his stomach growl. He hadn’t eaten since that morning, and now it was unlikely that he’d get the chance to eat for several hours.

Now that he’d noticed the hunger, it was all he could think about. He couldn’t even force himself to daydream about Vika.

“I’m hungry,” he said.

Nobody bothered to reply.

Aiden sulked. Looking through his HUD, he could still see the outline of Koikov’s aircraft, following just out of range. He wished it would hurry up and get properly dark so they could slip away. The sooner they got back to Ashtarak, the sooner he could find something to eat, the sooner he could get some sleep.

“Problem,” announced Fredrick.

“What?”

“We appear to be using fuel at a silly rate.”

“How do you mean?”

“The port tank is empty,” replied Fredrick, seriously.

“And you only just noticed?” demanded Aiden.

“I just reset the sensor, it had jammed. We’ve probably been leaking since that interceptor had a shot at us.”

“Why hasn’t the self-seal worked?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh great,” said Aiden. “What’s our range?”

“Should be enough to get us to Ashtarak, but we have to turn soon.”

Vast shadowy mountains were passing by Aiden’s turret now, the jagged peaks not far below the level of the Iolaire. They had reached the Caucasus.

“We could lose him in the mountains,” said Aiden.

“My thoughts exactly,” agreed Fredrick. “Tovmas, go and tell our passengers to hold on. It could get a little wild.”

“Ok,” said Tovmas. There was a click on the comms as his headset was set down.

Aiden turned the HUD brightness down to its minimum, and then checked that his seat straps were tight. Outside his turret, the vast deep-blue dome of the heavens was littered with stars. The silhouettes of mountain ridges lined its rim, cutting jagged the boundary between it and the earth; a coastline of the sky. It was a view that never failed to humble Aiden.

But out there, amongst it all still lurked the Sokol. Aiden could still see it, a dark shape that hovered just above the horizon. There was no moon.

“Everyone is ready,” said Tovmas’ voice suddenly. He had returned from the hold.

“Ok, hold on to your lunch,” said Fredrick. The Iolaire nosed down suddenly, diving below the horizon. Then it rolled and banked hard to port, turning from north-west, through west, levelling out heading south-west.

Aiden could no longer see the Sokol. The Iolaire was hugging the side of a mountain, diving down into a valley. Aiden was facing back up to the ridge, his gun trained on the sky above it, ready for any sign of Koikov.

The Iolaire pulled out of the dive, hurtling along just above the floor of the valley. Aiden could see trees, very close, tearing past his turret. He tried not to think about how much they were all relying on Fredrick right then. At that speed a tree would cut the Iolaire clean in half.

“Do you see them?” asked Fredrick.

“No,” replied Aiden. Though suspicious, he relaxed a little.

The Iolaire sped on, cloaked in the night.