Flying the Storm

4.





Tovmas

The next morning, Aiden awoke feeling well rested. Somehow, though he remembered dreams of clawing fingers and crushed throats, he had slept fairly well. Sunlight was spearing in through the portholes, but the cargo hold hadn’t yet become uncomfortably warm. That would come though, he knew. They might still be a thousand metres above sea level here, but judging from yesterday it seemed that nobody had told the daytime temperature that.

After rinsing his mouth out with what the bottle claimed was mouthwash and changing into a fresh t-shirt, he thumbed open the cargo ramp.

The air was hot and the breeze carried a fine dust. He shaded his eyes from the achingly bright sun and looked around. Mount Aragats loomed hazily behind Ashtarak, its distant top gleaming with snow even in the height of summer. The town was in a depression in the vast rolling plains that covered much of Armenia. It sat there, only partly rebuilt since the war flattened it; little shacks and houses poking from clearings in the rubble. The image of the town was blurred slightly by the waves of heat rising from the brown fields.

He squinted down the hill. There was a small figure trudging its way up the road from the town. Male, it looked like. It was still too far to make out whom. Not that it would have mattered much even when they did get closer. Most men he’d seen in the town sported the same bushy moustache and flat-cap combo, like a sort of uniform. Hard to tell one from the other.

“Fred!” Aiden called back to the dim hold. His friend didn’t reply. “Fred!” he tried again.

There was still no response. Aiden went around to the side of the aircraft, and slapped the aluminium skin right where he knew Fredrick’s head would be. The hold resonated with the bang. It had the desired effect.

“Lort!” came the muffled cry from the hold, then a quieter string of Danish curses.

Aiden went back to the ramp. “You awake, Fred?”


“I am now,” grumbled the Dane.

“Good. Someone’s coming.”

Aiden saw a pair of legs swing out from the dark bunk, followed by the rest of Fredrick. He came out to the pad with only his trousers on, his wiry torso pale in the sun. He shaded his eyes with a hand and looked down at the approaching figure, only a little closer than when Aiden had spotted him.

“Who’s that?” Fredrick asked.

“Dunno.”

The figure was walking along the stretch of highway now, heading for the ramp to the landing pad. Definitely male, Aiden decided. Not burly enough to be the barman. Could have been one of the merchants, he supposed.

“Probably just coming for a look at the aircraft. Some people in this town might never have seen one before.”

Fredrick turned and wandered back up the ramp, yawning and stretching. He returned a moment later, still shirtless, carrying his hip flask. He did his customary walk around the aircraft, looking it over, and then clambered up onto the aircraft’s back to stand on the wing root. With a well-practised flick he opened the hip flask.

Morning libations. Every morning, or rather whenever Fredrick rolled out of his bunk, it was the same ritual. Walk around the aircraft, up onto the wing root, splash the port and starboard wings with alcohol – in that order. Aiden couldn’t make out the words today, but he knew them well anyway.

Chord and camber, keep me airborne.

It was something a lot of veteran pilots did, but despite the eagle-wing tattoos on his chest Fredrick was too young for that. Instead, he’d picked it up from his mother.

Fred was never reluctant to tell the stories: she’d been an infantry transport pilot through the last years of the war, earning her own wings in the flak-filled skies of the Urals Offensive. Brutal stuff, apparently, but it had made her one hell of a pilot. Everything Fred knew about flying, he’d learned from her.

The pseudo-religion did make some sense to Aiden, though he wasn’t a follower himself. It appealed to him to worship something tangible, something useful, rather than some formless deity that didn’t seem to listen to anyone anyway.

Eventually, the stranger reached the landing pad. He was wearing a heavy looking coat, but he didn’t seem to be sweating or even out of breath from the climb. It was getting very warm now, too. He also had to be one of the only men in Ashtarak without a moustache. His face looked like it was normally clean-shaven, but for whatever reason it had been left to grow stubble. As he came closer, Aiden saw his eyes were dark and baggy. Tired-looking. He was older than the pair of them.

“Can I help you?” Aiden asked as the man approached him.

He nodded, drawing to a halt, frowning. “I hear you are looking for fuel,” he said. His English was good, with only a hint of an Armenian accent showing through.

“You heard right, friend,” said Aiden. Fredrick came back down the ramp, this time with his shirt on. He stood next to Aiden, arms folded.

“I can get you fuel,” said the man, “If you help me in return.”

“What do you need?”

The man’s eyes gripped Aiden’s then. “My daughter. She was taken by…slavers, five days ago. I have to get her back.”

Aiden felt Fredrick shift. “We aren’t mercenaries,” he said flatly.

The man sighed. “I know. I am only looking for transport, nothing more.”

The pair looked at each other then. “How can you get us fuel?” asked Aiden.

The man waved at the plains around them. “The soil here is not good for growing. It yields enough to feed its people, but not enough to make fuel. Anything we have is brought in from elsewhere. That makes it expensive, and rare.”

“So how do we get some?”

The man sighed, as if he had been interrupted. “Ashtarak is ruled by a council. In truth, though, it is only one man. Azarian, he is called. The rest are sheep who are grateful to sit at his table. What little fuel there is here is owned by the council, and so it is held by Azarian. He is not the kind of man to give fuel away for things like this. It is too precious. More than gold, even.”

Aiden wanted to press his earlier question, but he knew the man would get there eventually. He was just taking his sweet time.

“Your only hope,” he continued, after a pause, “is my brother, Bedros. He is the council… how do you say? Quartermaster? He holds the key to the fuel.”

“And your brother will give us some?”

At this, the man grimaced. “It is too risky, he knows. He wants to help us, but there is no knowing what Azarian would do if he gave the fuel away. No, we must take it for ourselves, if we want it. My brother has told me he will let us in, but no more. He is already risking much by that.”

“You want us to steal the fuel.” Fredrick didn’t sound happy.

“If you want to get away from here, then this is the only way.”

Aiden sighed through his nose. It was never simple.

“Assuming you find your daughter, and somehow we get her back here, what then?” he asked. “Will this Azarian bloke just forgive us for stealing his ‘nol?”

“I think he will have to. It isn’t only my daughter. There are two other women who were taken, and people want them back. Our people do not abide slavery. The town will be with us, then. They would not let Azarian punish us.”

“It sounds like a lot of risk,” said Fredrick.

“It is your only choice. That, or travel to Georgia to buy fuel. The road is not easy, there are many bandits… But if you must, then I suppose it is possible. If that is your decision, then I will trouble you no more.”

The Armenian turned to leave.

“Wait,” said Aiden. Here we go… “We’ll do it. We’ll help you.” He glanced at Fredrick, whose face was unreadable.

The man smiled then. The corners of his eyes had so many creases.

“Thank you, my friends,” he said, coming forwards to embrace them. “I cannot thank you enough.”

They awkwardly took his embrace, each in turn, before he backed off and grinned at them again.

“My name is Tovmas.”

“Aiden,” said Aiden.

“Fredrick,” said Fredrick.

The three men stood in silence for a moment. “So…” said Aiden. “What now?”

“Now I will gather my men.”

“Your men?”

“Yes,” said Tovmas. “The men who will help me to free the girls. Some are their relatives, friends. Others just want to help. From the militia, mostly.”

“And Azarian doesn’t know about this?”

“I hope not,” said Tovmas. “I pleaded with him to send the militia, in a convoy. He told me it was a fool’s mission, and that I should accept that my daughter is gone. I have done everything I can to keep this from him.” His face turned dark again, his gaze shifting to the ground. “He cannot see what has to be done. None of them can, in the council. We need a show of force to stop the raids. Then the other towns will follow us. We could remake Armenia.”

Clearly this man’s ideas extended beyond just saving his daughter. Still, if he could get them fuel, Aiden certainly wasn’t going to complain.

“You say you need transport. Are you sure that’s all you need?” asked Fredrick.

Tovmas’ eyes flickered at the tail gun behind the pair, and then back to their faces. “I was a soldier, once. I do not think I have forgotten everything I learned.”

Aiden didn’t like the sound of that. This man wanted his chance to play soldier again. There was going to be violence. Hopefully Aiden and Fredrick could steer clear of it.


Knowing their luck, though, they’d be standing with their mouths open when the shit hit the prop.

“You have a plan, I assume, for after we’ve refuelled?” Aiden asked.

Tovmas nodded. “I have good information that the slavers are based in the Geghama,” he said, pointing at the distant line of mountains to the south east. “It is maybe, fifty kilometres.”

“How come you need an aircraft then? Would a truck not manage that?”

“Yes, but it would be slower. The roads here are not good, and the slavers might not be reachable by road anyway. I mean to catch these men before my daughter and the others disappear into the east for good. They have a head start, but I think with your aircraft we could catch up with them.”

Fredrick took Aiden aside then. “You realise what we’re getting into?” he muttered. Aiden looked at him. He knew. At least, he thought he did.

“We’ll be at this for days, at least,” Fredrick continued. “It’s not going to be a simple out-and-back. This could take a long time.”

Aiden nodded. “I know. It doesn’t look like we have much of a choice though, eh? I don’t much fancy the trip to Georgia.”

“We are going on his word, Aiden. Only his word. If there’s a simpler way to get ‘nol, I don’t think he’d tell us, do you?”

There was truth in that. Still, he couldn’t face chasing the locals for ‘nol again. They’d made it fairly clear that the fuel was not for them, yesterday.

“Fred, it’s all we have. We’re in a new country; we don’t know its ways. This might very well be the only way we can move on.”

Fredrick ground his teeth. “Fine,” he said, finally. “If it turns out there was a better way, I’ll shove him out the hold myself, once we’re nice and high.” He said the last bit loud enough for Tovmas to hear.

“I have some gold, too,” said Tovmas. “I can pay you for your help.”

They turned back to the Armenian then. Gold was good. “All right,” said Aiden. “How much?”

The man shifted. “With help from the others, I could offer maybe a hundred grams. On the safe return to Ashtarak, of course.”

A hundred grams wasn’t much for hiring an aircraft like the Iolaire. They’d scraped together just under a kilogram combined of gold, silver and copper yesterday, selling their cargo. They hadn’t quite made a loss, but it was still chicken-feed. If Tovmas was telling the truth, though, and he could really get them free fuel, then they might actually turn a small profit on this trip to Ashtarak. Aiden could see Fredrick drawing the same conclusions. His manner changed slightly.

“Lead on, then,” said Aiden.

He walked with Tovmas back down into Ashtarak. The man went round several ramshackle doors, slowly gathering his retinue. Most of them he sent to gather supplies to take to the landing pad. One man, a gruff-looking type of an age with Tovmas, came with them to the northern outskirts.

Just beyond the last of the houses stood a small fenced compound. Inside were a stumpy tanker truck and a big bowser on stilts.

A tubby man in a stained vest came out of the shack by the gate. He nodded to Tovmas, and then walked off towards town without a word.

Aiden watched him go. “Your brother?” he said.

“Bedros, yes.”

First Tovmas went into the shack, and came out wielding a set of bolt cutters. He went to the gate and cut the padlocked chain. It fell away and the gate swung inwards. Tovmas went in; Aiden and the third man followed quickly.

Tovmas bent to check the gauge on the tanker. He cursed.

“He could have at least filled it for us,” he growled.

It took several minutes to fill the tanker from the bowser. Tovmas stood on top of the truck, holding the fat hose in the hatch, while the other man lingered by the gate to watch the road. Aiden stood nervously, hopping from foot to foot. Why did he come with them, again?

The heat was building. The breeze had almost stopped entirely, so the sound of the fuel splashing into the hollow tanker seemed inordinately loud. Ashtarak to the south seemed very quiet, even though it was approaching midday. It was only a matter of minutes, Aiden knew, before somebody found them. Even just the smell of the ‘nol was strong enough to carry across the town, surely.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Tovmas closed the hose valve.

The engine started with a cough. The three of them were packed like sardines in the cab, all awkward elbows and knees. It was the other man, not Tovmas, at the wheel. Slowly, because the tanker didn’t seem capable of speed, they took the road to the north: heading further out to skirt around the town to avoid the council’s militiamen.

Aiden was as uneasy as he thought it possible to be, but the other two seemed perfectly cool. Not a bead of sweat between them, he noted.

After yet another eternity, they reached the landing pad. The Iolaire was milling with people now. He reckoned as many as twenty. From the looks of it, Fredrick had had some of them scraping the Crimean ID from the side of the fuselage. Clever thinking. The licence had been expensive, but they couldn’t afford to wear it now. The rest were loading packs and a few boxes into the hold.

Aiden’s gaze fell to the big stack of weapons by the foot of the ramp. Assault rifles, carbines, shotguns, boxes of ammunition. A stack of thick tubes that he was uncomfortably sure concealed rockets. He climbed down from the cab, still looking at it.

Fredrick came over to the tanker then. “Success?” he asked.

“So far,” replied Tovmas, handing Fredrick the tanker’s hose. “Please tell me this will fit the filling port.”

Fredrick frowned at the nozzle. “This is a bit narrow, so we’re all good.” He unreeled the hose and clambered with some difficulty on to the Iolaire’s back, where he flipped open the port and shouted to Tovmas to turn on the pump. This involved starting the truck’s engine again, which worryingly took a few tries.

Opening the valve only a crack, Aiden watched Fredrick soak a finger and lick it. He gave Aiden the thumbs-up. It was definitely ‘nol.

Nine tonnes of fuel was pumped into the Iolaire’s tanks then, and Aiden did not relax for the entire twenty minutes. He paced the landing pad, watching the town more than he should have, waiting for the militia to come storming up the road with the councillor Azarian at their head.

But it didn’t happen. The Iolaire was filled, and the tanker was moved off the landing pad. Tovmas’ band of followers packed the last of their gear into the hold and settled down for flight. When Fredrick told Aiden it was time to take his seat, he couldn’t have been happier.

He strapped himself in to the bulbous gun turret in the tail, above the raising cargo ramp. He felt the ramp lock into place beneath him, and he switched on the turret’s actuators, giving them a wiggle with the control sticks. The feel of his chair rotating with the gun and the armoured glass made him feel much more secure. This was his home, his element. No prying Armenian councillors or their guards could touch him here.

He set the HUD to its brightest setting, and turned the acquirement knob to reflex. A simple green cross with a dotted circle appeared on the glass in front of him, made to appear distant by the collimating lens on the console. A tap of a button tested the ranging laser. The ruined house in the distance was two point three kilometres away, apparently. A faint ghost sight appeared below the primary reticule, showing that he’d have to raise the gun to hit it. He cranked the cocking handle twice, priming the weapon and chambering a twelve-point-seven millimetre round, though he left the safety on. He prodded the bag that caught the empty brass and links. It was mostly empty, which was good.


It was all comfortingly routine. He was meticulous about his turret. Everything had to be working perfectly. On more than one occasion, his and Fredrick’s lives had depended on that. In his own quiet way, he was fiercely proud of his job.

The Iolaire’s engines started with a whine, rising to a low roar as the wave rotors reached operating speed. Dust and grass flew from the landing pad, even with the engines idling.

“Aiden, we have an esteemed guest flying with us today,” came Fredrick’s voice over the intercom.

“Welcome, esteemed guest,” said Aiden, unable to help a smile.

“Thank you,” said Tovmas then on the second cockpit headset.

“Please note,” continued Fredrick, in an overly official tone, “the locations of the exits, in case of an emergency. Beneath your seat you’ll find no lifejacket or parachute, but you might get lucky and find a bottle of spirits, which is just as good, really. In the case of a cabin depressurisation, which is likely since the cabin is not pressurised, the oxygen mask which is not fitted above your seat will not drop down. In-flight entertainment will be provided by any pirates who may wish to take a shot at us, in which case a delightful pyrotechnic display will commence at the tail of the aircraft. Vomiting aboard the Iolaire is strictly forbidden. You can smoke if you like, though.”

Aiden laughed and shook his head. He was glad the poor souls in the cargo hold couldn’t hear their pilot.

“I will try to keep that in mind,” said Tovmas. Aiden could tell by the sound of his voice that he was smiling, too. “Now, shall we go and find my daughter?”

“I think that would be prudent,” said Fredrick. “Here we go.” Aiden felt the Iolaire lift him into the air as Fredrick opened the throttle. The engines roared gloriously, drinking Azarian’s ‘nol as easily as any other kind. The landing pad and the brown fields fell away beneath him, and as Fredrick turned the Iolaire round to face the east, Aiden saw below a pair of open topped four-by-fours hurtling up the road from the town. Even from his altitude, he could see that the man in the front passenger seat was staring up at them. His clothes were dark, and the grey of a fur pelt was draped over his shoulders.

Azarian.

Then the man and his two cars of militiamen shrunk to tiny specks as the Iolaire sped away from the town.





> Starboard batteries charged and loaded, sir.

- Observation to assign targets.

> Targets assigned, sir.

- Fire when ready, commander.

> Starboard rail batteries, designated targets, fire at will.

> Starboard batteries firing, sir.

- I can feel it.

> My god, sir, look at that.

- My god.