Flying the Storm (18 page)

“Don’t move!” shouted Aiden, advancing towards
him.

“Hold on!” cried the man, his hands held out before him as he backed up
the ramp, “I’m just the pilot!”

“I said don’t move!” shouted Aiden again. The
pilot froze at the top of the ramp, still with his arms outstretched. “Is there anyone else we should know about?” demanded Aiden, still advancing.

“
Just me! Please, take what you want and go. I’m no threat!”

Hesitating, Aiden looked back over his shoulder at the car.
They had to keep moving; the other marines had surely heard the shots.

Two shots cracked from Aiden’s right. He spun to see the pilot fall backwards
, dead. He turned then to see Nardos: a marine’s assault rifle in his hands, the barrel smoking.

“He went for his gun,”
said Nardos, lowering the rifle. Aiden just nodded. His ears were ringing.

Aiden and Nardos r
an aboard the marine transport, past the dead pilot. He had been truthful: there was nobody else to be seen on board. Aiden went straight for the cockpit. Inside, he turned on the auxiliary power supply so that he could use the controls. Then he hit the emergency fuel jettison, and watched from the window as the stumpy wings sprayed fuel from their internal tanks, all over the dry grass beneath them. He ushered Nardos out of the cockpit as he put three pistol rounds into the central console, smashing the screen. His ears were ringing again.

Outside the aircraft, the pair ran back to the shocked driver and his car.
Aiden scooped up the other assault rifle and climbed in while Nardos gently spoke to the lanky driver in Armenian, nudging him back towards the car. The man was clearly troubled by what he had seen. Even through the grease and grime he had gone pale. Aiden supposed he would have, too, if it had happened a week ago, but today he felt no sorrow for the marines.

Though h
is hands were shaking again.

The engine coughed into life and the car sped off once more, following the road around the outskirts of the ruined town.
Aiden and Nardos kept the assault rifles to hand, nervously watching the side roads and tumbled-down streets for any sign of more marines. They couldn’t have had far to go to reach the
Iolaire
. Just a few more minutes.

The jostling and bumpi
ng was making Aiden’s arm more painful. What had begun as a dull ache was now a stabbing pain that seemed to cut right to the bone. It felt as if there was a hot knife wedged between his muscles, slowly working its way deeper into his flesh.

He needed more painkillers. There were still some aboard the
Iolaire
, assuming the aircraft hadn’t been ransacked by the marines yet. Aiden let go of the rifle with his left hand, resting it instead on a roll-bar. He laid his arm in his lap, trying to make it comfortable. The pain eased a little.

Soon the road turned sharply west, joining a straight main road of slightly better upkeep than the previous one, at the end of which Aiden could see the
Iolaire
. It was maybe a klick or so away, perched on the gentle slope up from the town. They were south of the town now: it sat in a depression to their right, straddling the deep Ashtarak gorge. Beyond it, to the north, sat the little cluster of hamlets they had set out from, and beyond that the sloping plains rose up to the distant Mount Aragats, its top crowned with cloud.

Aiden knew that somewhere down in the town, dangerous men were searching for him
. He hoped he had done enough to give them the slip: now he needed Fredrick to be at the
Iolaire
. If he wasn’t, Aiden didn’t know what he’d do. Was it worth heading into town to find him, or should he just take the craft and run? He didn’t want to think about it.

The car crossed a smashed and crumbling highway and the
driver crunched down the gears as the dusty track up to the
Iolaire
steepened. The aircraft had disappeared from view, hidden by the lip of the hill. All too soon, the car pulled onto the levelled pad of earth. The
Iolaire
, at least the starboard side facing Aiden, appeared untouched. The ramp was closed and the landing pad was deserted. Aiden remembered to breathe. He hadn’t realised he was tensing, his assault rifle held in a white-knuckled grip.

The driver, still solemn-faced and staring, switched off the engine. The qui
et deafened Aiden for a moment. Both him and Nardos just sat, their stolen rifles shouldered.

Still nothing broke the quiet. Aiden gathered his courage.
With a sudden start, both he and Nardos leapt from the vehicle. Aiden advanced on the
Iolaire
, his weapon up, his boots crunching loudly across the pad. He peeked around the raised cargo ramp, checking the port side of the aircraft. There was no one there. He saw the hole in the port wing: it was impressive. It had to have been an autocannon shell. They were lucky: if that shell had hit an engine, he very much doubted they’d have made it out of Azerbaijan.

He stood for a moment,
listening as hard as he could through the rush of blood in his ears. The silence was almost profound. All he could hear was a distant bird’s call and the buzz of a fly as it lazily passed by his head.

Aiden lowered his rifle. He looked at Nardos, who was hunched as h
e peered around. Nardos looked at Aiden and nodded.

Aiden flipped open the covering panel for the keypad. He thumbed in the code and the ramp bu
zzed down slowly to the ground. He climbed into the cargo hold. Fredrick’s curtain was open, and the bunk was empty. There was no one in the head or the cockpit. Fredrick wasn’t there.

Shit
.

Aiden stared out of the cockpit glass, angry. The bastard was never ther
e when Aiden needed him to be.

“Aiden!”
came a shout from outside, from Nardos. The tone of it made Aiden’s blood run cold. Without thinking he ran down across the cargo hold and out into the open.

He saw Nardos and two marines. One had a
carbine pointed at Nardos. The other was aiming at Aiden. Before Aiden could react at all, someone hit him in the head, hard.

When the blackness receded, Aiden was on his face in the dust.
His rifle was lying just ahead of him, but as he scrambled for it a boot kicked it out of his reach. The same boot then stamped on Aiden’s hand, grinding his fingers into the dust with its heel. Aiden ground his teeth to stop himself from crying out.

“Ah-ah-ah,” growled a deep voice above him. “Naughty.”

The boot was removed. “You stay very still now,” said the voice, “‘cause I’m just itching for an excuse.”
A rifle cocked above him. Aiden lay very still.

“We’ve got
one of them,” said another voice, not far from Aiden. “Dark hair…. Two locals with him…. Received.” Then the voice announced to its comrades, “We hold them here. Prosper is on his way.”

Aiden could feel the uncomfortable form of his pistol pressing against his pelvis. It was sandwiched between him and the ground, hidden from the marines. They still hadn’t searched him.

Why the hell weren’t they searching him? Shouldn’t they at least bind his hands? These guys were either amateurs, or they didn’t particularly feel the need. And why should they? He was thinner and lighter than even the puniest marine, and three of them had the drop on him, even before you factored in their weaponry. He was in a pretty hopeless position, with his face in the dirt and his hands nowhere near the gun. And now his head was aching. They’d hit him pretty hard.

Aiden felt his choler rise. Things had been going well. He’d only needed Fredrick to be in the
Iolaire
, and they could have just upped and run. Then he reminded himself that those marines had been waiting for them, hidden behind the bloody embankment or something. If Fredrick had been at the aircraft, they’d have both been caught, and things would no doubt have been a hell of a lot worse. From the marine’s radio call, he doubted that they had Fredrick yet. There was still hope that at least one of them might get away.

But not Aiden.
He was caught like a dog in a trap, and it made him mad.

Then, from the town, came the stuttering thump of gunfire. Random and wild, it grew
until it was a cacophony. It was intense. A battle had begun.

Tovmas was furious. As the dawn light broke over Ashtarak, three
half-drunk militiamen had come into his home to arrest him and drag him before the council. Now the three men were dead. One of them couldn’t have been older than eighteen.

The bodies of the men
still lay where they died: two on the kitchen floor and one across the table. Tovmas was pushing fresh rounds into his pistol magazine. He was staring out of his window, his face hard. Azarian had to have ordered it. Nothing else made sense.

“People will have heard the shots,” said Samvel. Tovmas nodded absently. He didn’t turn around. “We need to go, Tovmas. We need t
o gather the men loyal to you.”

“Azarian will pay,” muttered Tovmas. He slid the loaded
magazine back into his pistol.

“Yes,
Tovmas, he will. You can’t do it alone, though,” Samvel came forward, laying a hand on Tovmas shoulder. “You need your men.”

“There may have been more than three sent after me. I need you ready to fight,” said Tovmas, still facing the window and the rising sun.

“I know. I am ready.”

“Are you, Samvel?” Tovmas now turned to his younger friend. “We will kill Armenians today. Ashtarak folk. These three were just the beginning. Azarian will turn the people against me and pull them around him as a shield.”

“I am ready, Tovmas.”

Tovmas merely nodded, picked his assault rifle from the wall and swept out of the house through the open front door. Samvel followed at his heels, switching his rifle to auto.

Tovmas stopped in the middle of the street, his rifle shouldered. Samvel copied his stance, every muscle in his body tensed as he expected shots to begin lashing out at them. Nothing happened, and the street was quiet. Samvel eyed the houses to either side with distrust.
Still nothing. He relaxed a little.

“Go and get the men,” ordered Tovmas. “
Wait for me just short of the square.”

“To
vmas-” Samvel tried to protest.

“
I have to go ahead, alone. Go.”

Samvel stared uncomprehending at Tovmas for a moment, before tipping his head slightly in acknowledgement and running back along the street, disappearing around a corner.

Tovmas closed his eyes for a moment, enjoying the quiet. It might be the last he’d ever hear. He thought of his daughter, safe at home in Ushi. If he didn’t make it through the day, at least there was that.

H
e set off walking towards the town centre, the sun beaming across his path between houses. There was no sign of Azarian’s militia. He must have only sent three. In a way, it was insulting.

The kilometre
or so to the square passed quickly. Tovmas revelled in the sleeping town; it was his home, its people were his people. Here he had a sense of place. But he could make it better. He knew he could. It would taste glory, if it would let him. But Azarian would try to stop him. The old fool couldn’t see that without sacrifice, there could be no gain.

Tovmas slipped into an alley just short of the square, behind a half-reconstructed three-storey building. It had been a block of apartments before the war: some ambitious and well-meaning soul had attempted to rebuild it some years ago, before losing sight of the p
oint and abandoning it. Now it was a shell of brick walls and scaffolding walkways that roughly adhered to the separate stories. Tovmas silently climbed a ladder to the second floor.

Pressed up against the wall,
breathing heavily, he peered through an opening where a window should have been. His stomach dropped.

In the wide town square were
at least forty men. Most were just town militia, arrayed in a huddled crowd along the council hall side of the square; this Tovmas had expected. The rest, towards the steps of the hall, were soldiers. At least, the armour they wore was very similar to what had once been his uniform: infantry of the NAU. Tovmas’ mind reeled. It couldn’t have been… the Union had collapsed over twenty years ago.

Mercenaries.
They had to have been. Mercenaries hired by Azarian to deal with Tovmas and his followers. Anger flared again in his core as he guessed at Azarian’s plan.

Tovmas
could see it now. The soldiers, though they stood casually, were prepared for something. They were too still, each one focused on an entrance to the town square. Unlike the militiamen, the soldiers stood close to cover. The militiamen instead looked on towards the street openings as an excited crowd, unsure of what to expect, but obviously eager to find out. No doubt Azarian had spun his lies to them, painting him as a traitor and a criminal. They probably expected Tovmas to be dragged into the square in chains, with grins on the faces of his three triumphant captors. They expected drama and spectacle: something the militia didn’t often see. Whatever their anticipations, they clearly didn’t expect a fight.

Somehow, he had to convince them that he wasn’t their enemy. He had to show them that he could lead them; that
he could bring Ashtarak glory; that Armenia could be unified once more. He had to show them Azarian’s spinelessness. But how on earth was he supposed to do that, when a heavily armed band of mercenaries was standing ready to shoot him on sight?

Tovmas leaned back in and rested his head against the wall, gazing skywards as he struggled for a solution. His shoulders sagged. He could think of nothing that didn’t result in
the deaths of Ashtarak men. Perhaps he should just hand himself in, to avoid the bloodshed.

Hand himself in, forsake Ashtarak’s hope for glory; forsake Armenia. Yes, a few lives might be spared today, but Tovmas knew the fate awaiting a
broken Armenia would be far worse. It would be consumed by raiders and barbarians; its people slaughtered or taken as slaves just as his daughter was. He couldn’t- he wouldn’t allow it. He had to overcome Azarian. He had to prove his cause.

“Azarian!”
came a bellow from the square below. Tovmas peered around the wall once more. To his horror, he saw Samvel striding towards the council hall, his assault rifle levelled. Streaming into the square behind him was a small crowd of bleary-eyed militiamen. Some of them had gone with Tovmas to Kakavaberd and Baku; the rest were friends of Samvel and him: men he could trust. Men he knew would follow him.

“Azarian!” shouted Sa
mvel once more. “What have you done with Tovmas?”

Tovmas co
uld see the militiamen bristle at the threatening tone. Smiles had disappeared, excitement turned to tension. Weapons were gripped more tightly. Safety catches were switched off. The soldiers too, though facially impossible to read, had shifted their stances slightly. All were staring at the young Armenian who had boldly marched into the square.

Some movement caught Tovmas’ eye. In an open third-floor window of the council hall, a curtain h
ad twitched. Now it was drawn back slightly, revealing the unmistakeable muzzle of a light machinegun. It was pointed at Tovmas’ men. They hadn’t seen it.

“Azarian!
I know you hear me!” Samvel shouted, oblivious to the danger he was in. “Show your face, old man!”

Tovmas knew he had to break silence. He had to let his men know that he hadn’t been captu
red. He had to stop them from doing something even stupider.

Even as he drew breath to call out, he heard the creak of the council hall door opening across the silent square.
Holding his shout, he looked out once more. Azarian had emerged from the council hall, now standing at the top of the steps, illuminated by the slanting dawn light. A smartly-dressed man Tovmas didn’t recognise stood at his shoulder with another pair of mercenaries. They faced Tovmas’ men, squinting across the square at their shadowed forms: the sun was behind Samvel. It might be the only thing that could save him.

“Tovm
as is not here,” said Azarian.

Samvel lowered his rifle slightly. Tovmas could see the doubt spring on the young man’s face. Confidence was visibly seeping from him. The only sensible thing to do now would be turn and flee. But prid
e wouldn’t let him.

“You tried to arrest him! You tried to have him killed!” Samvel
cried, desperation in his words. He raised his rifle again, pointing it at Azarian. Azarian’s men and the mercenaries all had their weapons trained on Samvel and his followers now.
Run, you stupid boy!

“You dare threaten me?” said Azarian, his raven-like face twisting in anger. “The man you follow is a traitor and a war-monger! He would see us all
die for his foolish ambitions!”

Tovmas’ choler rose at this. His grip tightened on his rifle. Hatred burned within him for the old councillor.
The short-sighted coward.

“Put down your weapon, Samvel,” Azarian’s tone was calmer now. “You and your
men can still go home. You do not have to be a part of this. It is your last chance.”

Take the offer, Samvel,
willed Tovmas. But he knew that the young man’s pride wouldn’t let him.

Samvel hesitated. “You’re lying,” he said, his rifle sh
aking. “You’ll kill us anyway.”

Azarian’s face twisted once more. “Fine,” he said. “Have it
your way. Kill them.”

The square erupted with gunfire. Samvel was cut down instantly. Men fell on both sides, pierced and punctur
ed. Tovmas screamed with anger.

He swung round and sent an automatic burst through the curtained window where the machine-gunner was. The
protruding barrel ceased firing and swung skywards, before the bipod slipped and the weapon fell backwards into the room, its operator dead. Then, seeing no sign of Azarian himself, Tovmas opened fire on the fast-dispersing crowd of his men, drawing grim satisfaction as some fell, screaming and jerking. He held the trigger until the rifle was empty.

Magazine changed, Tovmas once again leaned out of cover. The square was a mess of bodies, in the middle of which ran a clear divide where only Samvel’s broken
form lay. The fighting was brutal. It was friend versus friend, kin against kin. Both sides fought with fury, neither pausing to think. Only the mercenaries fired with discipline, well positioned and dug in, showing only their helmets and armoured pauldrons to Tovmas’ men. The two militias, on the other hand, had retreated to opposite ends of the town square, huddled behind what little cover they could find. Slowly, Tovmas’ men were being picked off by the accurate shots from the mercenaries. Tovmas growled and drew a bead on them.

He chose one of the mercenaries closest to him, who though still fifty metres away, had his side exposed as he crouched behind the end of a low wall.
Tovmas placed the sight post just under the man’s right armpit, where he knew there was no armour. Letting out his breath, he squeezed the trigger.

The shot hit where he’d aimed it. Apart from a slight twitch in the mercenary’s clothing and a sudden spasm, there was no
visible evidence of the hit. It was a clean kill. The man fell limply backwards, lying unmoving next to his oblivious comrade who was still shooting at Tovmas’ men. The noise of the battle had covered the shot.

Tovmas adjusted the rifle. The second mercenary’s vulnerable side was hidden by the wall, so he carefully took aim at the man’s exposed face. He fired, but the round was low,
clipping the top of the mercenary’s rifle and spraying shards of bullet into his face. The mercenary leapt back from the wall, screaming, his hands clutching at his wound. Tovmas fired again twice, but lower, at the unarmoured groin. Blood spurted from the bullet holes and the mercenary went down, but not without attracting the attention of his comrades. One of them pointed at Tovmas’ window.
Shit
.

Even as Tovmas dropped to the wooden decking, bullets were cracking through the window. He could hear more smacking into the brick wall next to him like the blows of a
sledgehammer, punching deeper with every hit. He crawled forwards to the next window, and as he reached it the shots penetrated the last layer of bricks, blowing gaping holes in the wall right where he would have been lying. Dust billowed from the impacts and little chips of debris peppered and stung him. He held his rifle tightly to his chest and waited for it to stop.

Eventually they stopped shooting at him. Hesitantly, Tovmas rose to a crouch and shuffled to the ladder, which he slid down as fast as he could let himself.
He surprised himself by how nimbly he landed, and how pain-free it had been, considering his age. Briefly he supposed that adrenaline was a wonderful thing, before running to the open doorway of the apartment block and slipping out into the side street.

Three of his loyal militia were pressed against the corner of the building that met the square, taking cover from the vicious fire fight that still raged across it. Tovmas shouted a greeting to them, and they spun round, fearful and panicked. When they recognised him they relaxed
; relief on their dusty faces.

“We thought they had caught you!” shouted the nea
rest man, over the echoing din.

“Not yet, my friend!” replied Tovmas, slapping him on the shoulder. His own voice so
unded strange and muffled. The loud gunfire had dulled his hearing.