Flying the Storm (31 page)

“No.
Go, now.”

But Hammit wasn’
t just going to leave him there. He’d made a promise to himself that he’d get Commander Petrus back safe. Ignoring the order, he ran down the corridor.

As he got closer he realised what the smell was.
It was Commander Petrus. He was holding a huge gash in his belly, and blood and shit was on his hands. The awful mixture covered his clothes and the floor around him.

And then, as he took another step towards Commander Petrus, the lights went out.

Suddenly the only light was a little red dot, bright as fire, above the place where the door was. Even the terminal screen by the door had gone dark.

“Don’t…move,” hissed Commander Petrus, somewhere by Hammit’s feet.
“If you want to live, do not move a muscle.”

This time, Hammit didn’t need told twice.
As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he could see that the little red dot was no longer just a dot. It was a beam. And it was pointed at his chest.

“
Commander Petrus, what-”

“We tried-”
he almost whispered, “We tried to open the door. Stay very still. The others tried to run.”

And look what happened to them
. Hammit’s heart was thumping in his chest so hard he thought it might hammer through his ribs. That red light was watching him, he knew. It was watching and waiting for him to move. His bladder felt near to bursting all of a sudden, and the stink of Commander Petrus’ guts was worse than anything he’d ever smelled.

“How long?” asked Hammit, trying to move his lips as little as he could.

“A few minutes,” wheezed Commander Petrus. “I think.”

Hammit stood in silence.
Every muscle in his body was tensed and starting to ache, but he didn’t dare relax them. He could hear Commander Petrus’ unsteady breathing near his feet, getting weaker. The smell seemed to be getting worse, and the red light burned in the black.

He’s dying
, Hammit thought.
He’s dying and I can’t help him
.

“Engineer,” Commander Petrus whispered faintly. “You have to go back to the aircraft.
Get a message… a message to the
Gilgamesh
. Tell them what… what we found here.”

“I’m not leaving you, sir,” hissed Hammit, his eyes fixed on the red dot.
“I’ll take you back with me.”

Commander Petrus sounded like he was laughing, though it was more of a gurgled wheeze.

“I am a dead man, Engineer,” he said.

No you aren’t
, thought Hammit fiercely.
Not yet you aren’t
. When the red light went out, he would pick him up and carry him out of there. There was a med kit on the aircraft. He could fix him. Just like a piece of machinery, he could fix him.

He couldn’t hear Commander Petrus breathing.
Hammit held his own breath, listening hard.

Nothing.
The corridor was silent.

“Commander Petrus!” he cried suddenly, panic overrunning his sense.
Without thinking he dropped to Commander Petrus’ side, grabbing him by his flight suit and shaking him.

There was an awful humming noise, and a metal clank from above the door.
The red light had followed him to where he crouched. His mind went silent then.

Run,
was all it told him.

He ran along the tar-black corridor, feeling for the open doorway.
Looking over his shoulder, the red light hadn’t followed him. It was still pointing where he’d crouched, at Commander Petrus. Then the corridor erupted as the gun above the door opened fire. The walls strobed with orange light, and through that Hammit could see the mangled ruin of Commander Petrus being hammered with heavy bullets. The gun flashed so fast. A spray of blood, caught in the air as it looped across the corridor. One instant Commander Petrus’ head was there, the next flash it wasn’t. Hammit ran as fast as he could, but he couldn’t stop looking over his shoulder.

The red light moved just as he found the door.
He crossed into the other corridor just in time to see it blast the wall where he’d been, spraying him with stinging scraps of stone.

The blue lights didn’
t come on, but Hammit kept running. He didn’t know where. Then, at the end of the corridor, he saw another red light blink on.

He felt an opening to his right and leapt through it, hurtling headlong into the dark.
Somewhere ahead of him another red light appeared, and round another bend another appeared. And another and another. Each time they opened fire just a moment too late, chasing him through open doorways and around corners with deafening thunder.

He ran and ran and ran, feeling his way with his hands and guessing where the turns were, somehow missing running into a wall, somehow still alive.
His body was pure panic and speed.

Hammit
ran until there were no more red lights. He stopped then, spinning around in the dark, waiting for a bullet to burst him like a wet bag.

But it didn’t happen.
He collapsed to his backside on the stone floor, deaf and blind and lost. But he was alive.

He brought his knees up to his chest then, and huddled against
the wall. Commander Petrus was dead. Hammit was alone in this place, alone in the dark, and the red lights were around every corner, looking for him. He’d never find his way back to the aircraft, not now. Even if he did, he didn’t know how to fly it. He would die there, he knew, in the dark stone corridors beneath the mountain. He would die there and nobody would ever know.

F
or the first time since he could remember, he started to cry.

Warsaw was recovering well, Aiden could see.
The airport wasn’t as busy as Tbilisi had been, but there was certainly no lack of movement about the place. Movement, in a place like this, meant freight was shifting. And that meant money was changing hands, spreading, multiplying.

The
Iolaire
had stopped to refuel, payment for which was handled entirely by Solomon and the fat purse he had carried from Tbilisi. Aiden wasn’t entirely clear about whose money it was; from the way Teimuraz had talked, it seemed a bit like he was sponsoring the whole shebang. In that case, he really must have had a bone to pick with the
Gilgamesh
, from the amount of gold the expedition was costing him. Might be that the warship was harming Tbilisi’s flow of trade with its strong-armed monopolising. Aiden could see how that might be true.

Still, he’d never be one to
complain about free fuel. Payment was more solidly guaranteed than it had been in Armenia. They’d already been given half of what he’d promised, which was a fairly hefty sum, with the other half promised when they delivered Solomon to where he needed to be. In the case of a no-show on the part of the
Enkidu
, they had agreed to get him back to Tbilisi for only the cost of the extra fuel.

It was all pretty cushty, especially
in return for only a couple of days’ work. He had decided it was the kind of job he could really get used to.

Privately,
however, Aiden didn’t think much of Solomon’s plan. It was all a bit too convenient and incredible. But the man seemed to really believe himself, so who was Aiden to talk him out of it? He was paying them for their time regardless of whether they found the thing.

Fredrick had seemed worried that Aiden would turn it down on the grounds that it would mean flying to
Scotland. For the amount of money Solomon was offering, Aiden would have flown to the moon without complaint. Plus, he’d only have to spend a day or two in that miserable, grey place. He was sure he could manage.

A short walk had stretched his legs. He returned across the sun-warmed tarmac to the
Iolaire
, taking in the sight of all the other aircraft around him. Ever since Fredrick had shown him the
Iolaire
, Aiden had been fascinated with aircraft in all their different forms. Though he knew how they worked, more or less, there was still something a bit magical about them. He’d never have said the word ‘magical’ out loud, of course. Fredrick would laugh himself stupid.

He’d been so struck by the
aircraft when he’d first seen it, rain-wet and hunching between cargo containers in the merchant’s yard that even the name came naturally to him. “
Iolaire
,” he’d murmured.
Eagle
. Fredrick didn’t have any better ideas, so it stuck.

Aiden had
even thought the
Iolaire
might have been the most beautiful thing he’d ever laid eyes upon. Now, though, it definitely had competition: the Ukrainian girls in Sevastopol and Sona, to name some.

And
Vika
.

She wasn’t aboard
when he reached the
Iolaire
’s hold. Neither was Solomon, for that matter, but Fredrick was in the cockpit. Aiden filled a pocket of his trousers with nuts and dried fruit from a sack that Teimuraz had provided. It would be good to have something to munch on for the rest of the flight. He wandered up to the cockpit, and flopped into the co-pilot seat.

“Tell me,” he said between mouthfuls of nuts and fruit, “is this what it feels like to have a proper job?”

Fredrick took a swig of the flask that was ever-present in the cockpit. “Close,” he said. “I think most employers would need us to do some actual work, though.”

“Nah,” dismissed Aiden, frowning.
“Being good at looking busy is the key.”

His friend snorted, looking at him
slouching in the reclined chair, scratching his balls. “Well you certainly have that down.”

“I’ll have you know
that I am ever vigilant in that gun turret,” retorted Aiden, indignantly. “At present, I am on what we working fellows call a
smoko
.”

“A cigarette break, you mean? You don’t even smoke.”

“Smoking is not necessary for a smoko.”

“I suppose your union won you that?” laughed Fredrick.

Aiden smiled, continuing the play. “My union is the highly regarded North Atlantic variety, I’ll have you know. It failed to win anything.”

“I’ll drink to that,” said Fredrick, doing so.

The pair sat in amicable silence for a little while, watching the bustle of the airport from the cockpit.

“How’s the arm?” Fredrick asked.

Aiden looked down at it then, lifting his short sleeve and flexing. He’d almost forgotten about it, somehow.

“It was fine till you asked,” h
e replied, only half joking. A dull throb that he hadn’t been aware of started niggling at him.

At least the arm
looked okay, he supposed. The glue dressing had been changed in Tbilisi by Teimuraz’ doctor. The man had told him it was clean and healing well, but that he should avoid heavy exercise with that arm for a couple of weeks. It looked bruised around the edges of the dressing, but that was apparently normal.

“How often do you need to change the dressing?”

“Every three days or so,” he said. Teimuraz had restocked their aid box. The fat dock master had thought of everything.

Fredrick looked uncomfortable.
He was glancing at Aiden, fidgeting with the cap of his flask.

“What?”
said Aiden.

“How are
you
?”

Aiden took a moment to answer. The question caught him off-guard.
In honesty, it was like the arm. It hadn’t bothered him till he was asked about it.

“Fine,” he said, simply.

Fredrick looked relieved. Aiden made himself smile. Unwillingly, his mind was rolling back to the previous week. It felt like he had missed a step, tripping and sliding back down the stairs to where the memories lay.

It was the faces that
lingered with him, mostly. That, and stupid things that shouldn’t bother him, like the clothes they were wearing. His mind somehow had catalogued all of it, every detail, from the slaver with his boots on the wrong feet to Magar in his faded jacket or Malkasar’s blood-soaked cotton shirt. He would find himself wondering what their last meal had been; things like that. Little things. Tragic things.

People had told him it wasn’t his fault. He wanted to believe them… but for almost every death he could find a way he’
d caused it, not even counting the ones he’d killed personally. And he knew now that it would eat at him for the rest of the journey. His appetite left him.

Not long after, he found himself sitting in his turret.
Vika and Solomon had returned from whatever errands they had run, and the
Iolaire
was checked and ready to go. Aiden went through the procedures mindlessly, focusing on the dull pain in his arm. When he concentrated on it, the faces went away. He didn’t have to remember. He flexed the arm to make the muscles twinge. The fresh pain filled his mind, and he welcomed it.

Finally the
Iolaire
lifted off. The airport receded below them and Fredrick hover-taxied to the take-off corridor. Then they were flying, the wings folded out and the engines horizontal, heading west and north so that Aiden faced east and south. The sun shone from a bright point on the ground, gone as quick as it had come, as the
Iolaire
passed through a reflection. Aiden squinted to see what it was that had reflected it, but whatever it had been was so far away that he couldn’t make it out. Probably just a glass windscreen on a car in the city, but the gunner in Aiden was watchful for glints like that. He knew that sometimes that would be all he’d ever see of an attacker.

He
flashed the ranging laser at where he thought the glint was, just out of habit.
Out of range
was the message on the HUD.

Poland passed beneath them, green with farms and forests. Small towns sat in hollows or straddled rivers, with vein-like roads linking them all together.
Not much traffic was travelling on the roads, Aiden noted. Maybe they were as unsafe as in Armenia. From the air, the country didn’t look as ruined as Armenia had, though. But it was hard to tell for sure from so high up. Could be that all the little villages were deserted. It wouldn’t be the only country like that.

Within an hour of Warsaw, Aiden co
uld see sea again to the
Iolaire
’s starboard. The southern edge of the Baltic, he guessed. Soon they would be over Denmark, and no doubt Fredrick would notify them when they were. The pilot had an attachment to his country that Aiden seemed to be free of. When he thought of Scotland, the memories were not the good, warm memories of home that Fredrick would sometimes talk about. In truth he felt more excited to see Denmark again. It was the place he’d first met the
Iolaire
, after all.

He did a wide sweep of the sky above and the ground below.
Absolutely nothing; not even another freighter. That was good. He let himself relax. For no particular reason he swivelled his chair slightly and looked behind him, down into the hold.

There were Vika and Solomon, standing in the middle of the hold.
It took Aiden a moment to register what they were doing.

They were kissing.

Not just kissing, but properly going for it. Hips pressed together, arms locked around neck and waist. They started to pull apart. Aiden panicked and spun back to face the rear.

What the hell
…

She was supposed to be with Fredrick.
She was supposed to be with Fredrick, not Solomon. Was she stringing his friend along? Or had they ended whatever it was they had?

Did he know?

Aiden sat awkwardly in his turret, gripping the control sticks, not knowing what to do. Maybe it was all above-board. After all, there was never really anything
official
, was there? It was entirely up to her who she got off on. None of Aiden’s business. But then…

“Fredrick,” he said, over the intercom.
“I think there’s… something you should know.”

“What is it?”

Aiden paused. How could he say it? What was the best way to put it?

And then another v
oice sounded in his headphones.

“Alright folks, where to?”
It was Solomon, laughing to himself. He must have just gone to the cockpit.

“Nothing, never mind,” Aiden said, directed at Fredrick.
He couldn’t tell him now. He wouldn’t get a chance to say anything until they reached their destination, now. He swore under his breath.

He had an uneasy feeling about it all.
Something about what he’d just seen rang as sinister. He couldn’t say why, especially not when he thought about it logically. He was just protective of his friend. If they were going behind his back with this…

What else aren’t they sharing
?

Aiden couldn’t leave his turret, not while they were in flight.
He couldn’t go down and confront Vika in the hold. And if he did, he wasn’t sure how wise it would be anyway. If they really were up to something, it might just blow up in Aiden’s and Fredrick’s faces sooner.

Frustrated, he held his tongue.

“And there’s Denmark!” announced Fredrick, proudly.

“So it is,” said Solomon. “Not long now.”

Not long indeed
.