Flying the Storm (26 page)

Then a bandit’s arm appeared over the end of the wagon’s cargo trailer. Aiden spun the
Balaur
to point at the new threat, and just as the man’s torso appeared over the lip he gave the trigger its pull.

The gun jumped hard against its track with the most ear-
splitting explosion and a flash nearly the width of the wagon. The bandit disappeared in a mist of red scraps, pulverised by the load of shrapnel.

Aiden stared, horrified. The adrenaline of earlier was still there, but it seemed to pale now
before the revulsion of what he’d just done.

Swallowing dryly, he shouted for
Ileana below, and felt a fresh shell press into his hand. His voice sounded muffled and distant, and even the sounds of fighting had become dulled. He wondered if his ears were bleeding.

With surprisingly steady hands Aiden reloaded the
Balaur
, and this time took aim at the lead raider. Well, aim was maybe a strong word.

The shot blew a hundred holes in the bandit vehicle and riddled the occupants with
pieces of metal. Engine dead, the car listed driverless into the side of one of the convoy trucks. The driver of the truck nudged it away with a slight swerve, and the punctured tires did the rest. The car rolled to a sharp halt and the following raiders had to swerve out of the way.

Realising the threat, many of the bandits
turned their attention to Aiden. Shots hissed and snapped through the air around him, and a few whined from the armour. He ducked into the hatch, shouting for another shell.

Instead of a shell, Aiden felt
Ileana’s hand pull him away from the hatch.

“Too dangerous!” she cried. She was right. The sound of bullets overhead was terrifying.
He hadn’t noticed.

Aiden clambered off the ladder and went back through to the cab.
Through the windscreen he could see the two scout vehicles on the road ahead, driving at full speed towards the convoy.

As they drew closer, the scouts opened fire. Orange flashes strobed; the heavy machinegun on one of the vehicles thump
ed a stream of lead and phosphorous past Malkasar’s wagon.

They passed by braking, tyres screaming, still firing with every gun they had.
Craning to look, Aiden saw a couple of the raider vehicles shredded by the fusillade. The others, though, were shooting back.

The firing only intensified as the scouts and the raiders passed each other: the fight became briefly, brutally close range.
Then, as they slowed, the scouts turned around and came chasing after the raiders from behind.

For a moment, it looked as if the fight was turning. It looked as if the raiders were breaking and about to run.

Then there was an explosion, and the scout vehicle with the machinegun disappeared in a filthy ball of flame and twisted metal. The only scout vehicle now was the little unarmoured car that Aiden had given Malkasar.

“Shit,”
he said. “Malkasar…”

“I saw in the mirror,” said Malkasar.
“They must have a big gun somewhere. I don’t understand. Why don’t they break?”

“They do seem fairly determined,”
agreed Aiden, looking out of the window at the carnage following the convoy. He began reloading his pistol magazine.

Absent-mindedly, he noticed his hands weren’t shaking. In fact, the whole situation felt almost… normal.

Suddenly there was an almighty bang. Aiden, Malkasar and Ileana were pitched a few centimetres into the air by the jolt, and the engine beneath their feet howled like a wounded animal.

Malkasar stamped on the accelerator. The engine didn’t respond; its howl was falling in pitch, and the wagon was gradually slowing.
He began to curse in his mother tongue, whatever that was. Ileana grabbed her shotgun and leaned out of the window to fire a couple of shots at the raiders. They responded in kind, as bullets rattled from the armoured door. She ducked back in, racking in another round.

Now, with the lead vehicle dying, the surviving private merchant vehicles
and Malkasar’s other two wagons overtook it. They passed, one by one, fleeing as best they could. Malkasar was shouting insults at them as they passed.

“Cowards!” he said, finally, as the wagon ground to a halt.
A couple of raider vehicles chased after the fleeing merchants, but the majority braked and swerved to stop in a ring around the wagon. Aiden counted five raider cars. Two had roof-mounted machine guns. One truck carried a bandit with a brutal anti-materiel rifle in the back. The bandit was grinning beneath his mucky goggles. He cycled the bolt of his rifle.

The last scout car
drew up beside Malkasar’s wagon. The two guards were holding their hands up, weapons tossed down. One was bleeding from the abdomen. The exposed engine hissed and ticked.

Aiden and the other two dropped from
their seats, huddling in cover.

A megaphone squealed
and the amplified voice that followed was horribly familiar. “Come out, Aiden. Come out and the rest are free to go.”

Malkasar and
Ileana turned to look at Aiden then, confused.

“This was for you?” asked Malkasar, no anger in his voice, just
incomprehension.

Aiden didn’t say anything. It couldn’t be… he’d left that bastard and his marines to die in Ashtarak. They couldn’t have – they
shouldn’t
have been able to get away. Koikov or Tovmas’ men would have killed them all, surely.

And yet, as he glanced out of the cracked windscreen, the fair haired head of Elias
Prosper stared back from the passenger seat of one of the trucks.

“Come out peacefully,
Aiden. There’s a good fellow.”

Aiden shut his eyes and tried to think of a way out. There was none, other than
that offered by the bounty hunter. Not if he wanted Malkasar and his daughter to live.

He
swore under his breath as he got to his feet, his pistol dropped on the floor. He went to the door of the wagon and opened it. Before he left he looked back at Ileana, crouched in the corner with her shotgun. Her eyes were brown like Sona’s. Pretty eyes.

He
climbed down out of the wagon, half expecting to be filled with bullets before his feet landed on the dusty highway. All that met him, though, was silence.

And
then the megaphone. “Good lad.”

Two bandits came forward, pushed him to the ground and grabbed his wrists, twisting them behind his back. There was a sting as a cable tie was yanked tight.
Then they patted him down as he lay on the road, pulling him to his feet as they finished. He was shoved roughly into the back of one of the trucks.

Across from
him was a bandit, bleeding great glugs of blood from his mouth, hands clutching fumblingly at his chest. He looked at Aiden, unreadable. The man was dying, surely he knew that. He was probably in shock, his brain slowly shutting down. But still he looked at Aiden. Aiden stared back.

Somewhere in the man’s body, something finally gave. He choked a little, his eyes rolled, and his neck went slowly limp like a deflating bag. Finally, his head hung loose, the last of the blood pooling in his lap.

It was one more person who had died on Aiden’s account.
Oddly though, Aiden didn’t care much. He’d seen so much death, now. The thing across from him was just a corpse, nobody he’d ever known. Nobody worth mourning.

The truck he’d been bundled in started to move. The windows were covered in flaps of steel as crude armour plating, so Aiden couldn’t see out.

Then, as the truck gathered speed, he heard the guns start again. It was fierce, automatic fire. Under it all was the regular bark of a shotgun, and though it was so faint he might just have imagined it, he could hear a high, terrified scream.

Aiden
howled in pure incoherent rage. He pounded against the walls of the truck with his feet and fought his restraints so hard his wrists were slick with blood.

“Leave them
alone
!” he screamed. “Leave them alone!” His scream broke into racking sobs, and his pounding became weaker.

They
’re killing them
.
The bastards are killing them
.

The driver of the truck cared as little as the corpse across from him.

Fredrick flipped
slowly through the pages on the monitor. It certainly looked like Solomon was telling the truth.

In all honesty though, he wasn’t reading the documents thoroughly. He was hoping that there’d be some pictures somewhere, since if he could just
see
it he told himself he’d have a better chance at understanding it. Words like ‘radiation-hardened circuitry’, ‘specific impulse in atmosphere’ and ‘Medon armour with spall countermeasures’ meant very little to Fredrick. Though he didn’t understand them, the words were still working to convince him that maybe – just maybe – Solomon knew what he was talking about, and that his story was credible.

He quite possibly had been an
engineer for the Union, back in the war. Maybe he had indeed worked on a classified project; one that might just prove useful in downsizing the
Gilgamesh
’s absolute power. But it was hard to tell. It all seemed a bit too good to be true. A little bit far-fetched.

“So you see what it is?” encouraged Solomon, sitting across the table from Fredrick. The bar was fairly quiet in t
he middle of the afternoon. Solomon didn’t seem too worried about people overhearing their conversation.

“Oh yeah
,” Fredrick lied, taking a swig of his beer and doing his best to look academic.

Solomon leaned on the table with his elbows. “The
Gilgamesh
was only the first. This, my friend,” he said, tapping the monitor with a calloused finger, “this was, and still is, the state of the art. This is a second-generation aerial warship.”

Fredrick looked up from the monitor then.
A second
Gilgamesh
. That didn’t sound like a good idea
at all
.

Solomon took the monitor from Fredrick. He flipped pages across the screen, looking for something. “Here,” he said, and handed the monitor back to Fredrick.

On the monitor was a picture – a technical drawing. The object was long, roughly rectangular, and would have been almost unidentifiable as a warship if not for the engine nozzles at the stern. The next few pages were different aspects of the ship: from behind, above, at an angle. It had four small engines around a single large nozzle in the centre of the stern. Fredrick wondered what that was for. The
Gilgamesh
certainly had nothing that huge.

Then he zoomed in on one of the images, at a detail on the hull. It was a gun turret, one of several, faceted for radar-deflection.
Assuming the craft was as large as the
Gilgamesh
, this gun was massive. Its barrel would be almost fifty metres long. That didn’t make sense.

This lead Fredrick to realise that it must actually be much smaller than the
Gilgamesh
. A tinier, more compact ship. In the corner of the drawing was some text. Some meaningless numbers and a single word. Or, at least, some letters.

“
Enkidu
,” said Fredrick. “Is that its name?”

Solomon grinned then. “That’s right.
You see the theme?”

Fredrick
didn’t get it, but he nodded anyway.
Enkidu
. It suited it.

“And you’re going to what? Build this?”
He was still sceptical.

Solomon laughed. “No, it already exists. People say it was the
Gilgamesh
that bankrupted the Union, but they are wrong. It was this.”

“So where is it? Who has it?” And why hadn’t Fredrick heard about
it?

“Nobody has it. It was never launched. As far as I can tell, it was finished two days before the Armistice. Then the money ran out, and you know what happened.
Everybody for themselves. It was abandoned in its hangar.”

“Which is where?”

“Now that is the ultimate question,” said Solomon, sitting back. “I’ve been working on that one for a long time.”

Fredric
k’s curiosity had been kindled. “I thought you said you worked on this project?”

“I did.
Control algorithms, mostly. But that didn’t involve me actually
seeing
the thing, or even being anywhere near it. I’ve been tracing old communications to and from the build site for years now, following the trail of crumbs. And now I think I know where it is. At least, I’ve narrowed it down to a few dozen square kilometres.”

The beer bottle was empty, but Fredrick took a
swig anyway, absorbed. “Where?”

“It’s in t
he west of Scotland.”

Fredrick snorted. “My gunner won’t be happy about that,” he said, indicating to the barmaid
that he’d like another bottle.

Solomon looked
at him, his eyes narrowing a millimetre. “Why’s that?”

“Well, he’s from Scotland. As far as I c
an tell he doesn’t want to go back.” The barmaid brought over another cold bottle, opened it and set it in front of Fredrick. He gave her a few coppers. “Thanks,” he said, winking. She blushed a little, and smiled back.

Solomon turned down the offer of another drink. “
If he is just your gunner… will he not follow your orders?”

Fredrick snorted.
“It’s not that sort of arrangement. I might fly the
Iolaire
, but he won’t let me forget it’s half his.”

“You couldn’t convince him to do this?”

Fredrick considered that for a moment. “Well, I probably could, since there’s decent payment on offer. He won’t be keen on going back though, I warn you now. Family problems, I think.”

Fredrick was enjoying the conversation, despite its looming purpose.
It was probably the beer.

“I met him in a bar in Esbjerg,
” he continued, mostly just because he felt like talking, “where the fishing boat he was crewing had taken shelter from a storm. We got to talking about business, and I told him my plan to buy an aircraft and try my hand at freight-hauling. He decided that was a good idea. He sold his share of the fishing boat when they returned to Scotland, and caught a ship back to Esbjerg. Been working with him ever since.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

Solomon took a swig of his own drink.
“Well, hopefully this expedition won’t take more than a few days. A week at most. Then he can go where he likes.”

Fredrick nodded. The beer was good.
Cold and almost sweet.

He thought about how to convince Aiden. The money would go a l
ong way towards that, without doubt, but whether it’d be enough… To him, it seemed like a fairly slim chance that they’d even find this thing, let alone find it in working order. Then they’d have to figure out how to use it to put an end to the
Gilgamesh
. Aiden would see these problems. It was a monstrous task carrying a lot of risk. Who was even going to fly the thing, even if they did find it?

If Fredrick was to convince Aiden to join in this, then he’d have to convince himself first.
That, ironically, was the only thing he was absolutely sure of.

“As soon as the repairs are finished, I will go
back to Armenia to pick him up,” said Fredrick.

If he’s still alive
, he thought.

The bastard had to be.
Tovmas and his boys ought to have sorted out the last of the marines, surely. Aiden would hopefully be waiting patiently in Ashtarak for the
Iolaire
to return. He’d be keeping himself amused with the fine woman Fredrick saw him bag at the party.

But somehow
that just didn’t fit. Aiden hated sitting on his hands. It’d be just like him to do something stupid, like try to follow the
Iolaire
.

“We
ll, I hope you can convince him,” said Solomon. “This really is our best hope.”

It was that, for sure.
At least, it was if it was true. But if Solomon was paying them anyway, he supposed it didn’t matter much if it was all a pile of horse shit. Money up front, and he’d let the man do what he liked.

The sum offered was enough for the pair of them to live comfortably for a very long time. Either that, or expand their business a little.
Another aircraft, maybe. Or a boat to carry bulk goods. Something like that.

Fredrick looked at the documents on the monitor again.
It all looked official, authentic. But how on Earth would he know? He was only a pilot, not an academic.

“So once we have this
Enkidu
, what then?” he asked.

“Then I will use it to cripple the
Gilgamesh
.”

“How?”

Solomon took the monitor and chose a page, showing it to Fredrick. It was an extensive list, headed ‘Armament’. Topping the list was an ‘M-Gigajoule-class Lorentz (Rail) Gun’. Two of.

“Those babies w
ill gut the
Gilgamesh
bow-to-stern. All it would take is a single hit to the reactor or the repulsor, and it’s gone. Each gun can manage three shots a minute, for a short period. That’s six chances a minute to hit a very big target.”

“But the
Gilgamesh
has rail guns too. I’ve seen them.”

“Not like this it doesn’t.
The
Gilgamesh
’s guns are an order of magnitude smaller. It wasn’t built to deal with an enemy like this. Against dispersed, numerous hostiles armed with missiles and smaller electric weaponry, it absolutely dominates, just like it did against the ATC. But not against this. It won’t even see the
Enkidu
coming. See that ugly nose? It’s covered in superconducting cells, as close to black-body properties as it is possible to get, at IR wavelengths and longer. It catches radar and laser radiation and fires it from cells on other faces of the hull, reflecting virtually nothing. To the
Gilgamesh
, it’ll just look like empty sky. Until it gets close.”

Whatever that meant, it sounded impressive.
A stealth ship. That was certainly a big advantage.

“And you know how to use it?”

Solomon nodded. “I do. Where the
Gilgamesh
needs a crew of thousands, the
Enkidu
carries only twelve. It can be operated by a single person, if necessary. Just about everything is automated. To a certain extent, it can even repair itself.”

“Bloody hell,” uttered Fredrick.
It was a serious piece of kit.

If it exists
.

“So do you trust me?” asked Solomon.

“Friend, in this business I have learned not to trust anybody. It’s nothing personal. And I certainly don’t trust this
Enkidu
. Aircraft are supposed to have wings.”

“Ah.
Traditionalist? Bernoullist?”

Fredrick
shook his head and showed him the top of his tattoo.

Solomon nodded.
“Wingwearer. That figures. But aren’t you a bit young?”

He hated that. Every time someone heard he was a wearer, it was always the same. “Well, I’m not an original, if that’s what you mean.”

“Parents?”

“
Yeah. Mother. Infantry transport, combat drops, that sort of thing. She taught me to fly. Built me my own simulator when I was eight. I don’t remember ever not wanting to be a pilot.”

“Well, congratulations. Not many people get that chance these days. All the best pilots are vets, and they don’t usua
lly like teaching young people.”

“Understandable.”

Solomon laughed. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

There was shouting on the street outside the bar. Fredrick leaned out of the open window, looking for the source. People were flocking out of shops and bars to the road, wat
ching expectantly to the south.

In the distance, coming towards Fredrick along the road, was a convoy of trucks.
A great cloud of black smoke followed it, coughed out by their engines. Wisps of flame licked out from under the bonnet of the lead truck.

As they drew closer, Fredrick could see damage. Bullet holes and shrapnel scars peppered the skin of the trucks, and as they passed him, he could see that some of the cabs were spattered with dried blood.
The engines groaned and rattled unhealthily as the convoy pulled to a halt in the great open plaza near the airport. Some good folk were running to them, helping the injured.

Fredrick had left the bar, with Solomon not far behind. He stood on the plaza now, close to the trucks. A man clambered clumsily down from one of the cabs, bleeding from a leg wound. He collapsed against the front wheel arch, slumping to sit
on the tarmac. Fredrick looked inside the open cab. There was another body in there, dead from several bullet wounds.

“What happened?” Fredrick asked the injured man.