Flying the Storm (9 page)

Vika could not tell if the smile was genuine
, or if the hideous scar on his cheek had made his face appear so. He wore strange clothes; his long leather jacket was set with polished chrome shoulder plates, like armour, and his collar rose as high as his ears. She had never seen such an outfit. Perhaps it was the style in whatever strange land he came from. His appearance frightened her. She knew she did not want to belong to this man.

“My friend,”
said a soft Armenian voice behind her, just audible above the crowd. Vika jumped.

“Yes?” she replied.

“Don’t turn around. I’m here to help you,” said the calm, male voice.

“Who are you?”
Vika asked, checking to see if anyone had noticed her speak. The swarming crowd seemed unaware.

“M
y name is Dadash. I’m Armenian.”

“What are you doing here?” Vika remembered sh
e didn’t know where “here” was.

“
I have come to Baku to buy parts for my aircraft,” Dadash replied. Vika’s heart raced. Baku. Azerbaijan. If he bought her, he could fly her home.

“Why are you at this auction?”

“I heard there were Armenians for sale. I couldn’t just stand aside.”

“Will you buy me?” she asked,
desperate.

“I’m sorry, I don’t have enough. You will sell for much more than
even my aircraft is worth.”

Vika’s heart
sank. “So how can you help me?”

“They take weapons away at the door, but I did manage to smuggle something. Lean back against
the bars, and open your hand.”

Vika did as she was told. Still sitting, she slowly
rested back against the bars and slid her hand behind her back. A small cloth bundle was pressed into it. Vika brought the bundle around in front of her and hid it between her legs. It was a short oblong: Vika could tell it was a blade.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“Put it to good use, and don’t get yourself killed. I will wait at the landing precinct with my aircraft. It has four engines and a green painted nose. It’s near the dock facilities, you can’t miss it.”

“But what
about the others?” Vika asked.

“I can’t risk any more than what I’ve done already. Plus,
I’ve seen the others. You look most able to use it.”

“Okay,” Vika repli
ed. She felt sick with nerves.

“I will wait until tomorrow sunset, and then I must go. Do what you have to do before then, or I cannot help you.
”

“Thank you,” she whispered again, standing up slowly and using the motion to slip the tiny bundle into her linen brassiere. She turned round to see Dadash slipping backwards into the milling crowd, smiling at her. He was not a tall man, and his dark bearded face contrasted the bald pate above it. His face was
kind, and Vika felt tears well in her eyes. Maybe she would go home after all.

A loudspeaker announced to the crowd that the auction was starting. The guards went among them, pushing anyone who did not look like they had money
back towards the door. Some protested, but most had been to an auction before and complied without fuss. When they were finished the crowd was depleted, and amongst the remainder Vika could still see the Arabs and the white men. The one with the silver shoulders was looking at her, wearing the same crooked smirk he had worn earlier. His eyes were paler than any Vika had ever seen. She shivered.

The auctioneer now stood on a podium of his own, with an air-projected screen before him detailing the auction. He was a moustached, well dressed, late middle-aged man. He wasted no time in beginning proceedings, addressing the crowd in two languages: Azeri repeated in English. “Good afternoon,” he said, “and welcome to the one hundred and fifty-fourth Sederek s
lave auction. Let us begin.”

The lights in all except one podium were switched off. All eyes
went to the girl within the single illuminated cage. It was Naira, an Ashtarak girl. Vika almost cried out.

Naira was beautiful. Her glossy hair
flowed across her shoulders and down her back; her sharp features were defiant and immobile as she awaited her fate. Back straight and head up, hands balled into fists by her side. Silently Vika cried for her friend. She looked so proud, so fearless.

Let me be as strong when my time comes
.

“Welcome to Sederek Trading Centre, Baku
. We hope you have a prosperous stay. After a long day’s trading, why not take the opportunity to visit Baku and its world-famous comfort establishments. Feel free to take the Sederek-Baku shuttle service from-”

Fredrick
switched the radio off. The
Iolaire
’s engines spun down.

Aiden was leaning against the cockpit doorway, stretch
ing his aching back. The gunner’s chair was not particularly comfortable, but it wasn’t as bad as it used to be. Maybe the chair was slowly moulding his back to its shape.

The flight
hadn’t been too long though; they were in the air for just over an hour, with little more than a couple of interested dog-ear radar blips to keep Aiden vigilant. If he was honest, he preferred it when pirates actually took a pop at them: at least then he could shake some of the boredom.

The usual pirate tactic was to circle at high altitude in a light aircraft until they, or one of their ground-mounted dog-ears spotted something. They
’d dive down, using their height to catch up with their faster target, put a handful of autocannon shells into an engine and force the hurt aircraft to go to ground. Then the bastard would radio the location of the downed craft to his mates, who’d show up in a transport to strip it of anything worthwhile. If any surviving crew resisted, well, the pirates didn’t have many qualms about murder.

It had been tried on
the
Iolaire
a couple of times. Neither pirate had noticed Aiden on the tail gun until it was too late.

Thing was, short of arming your aircraft and staying constantly alert, there
wasn’t much a crew could do against the pirates. Of course, if your aircraft was up to it (and most weren’t) you could fly higher than them and avoid being jumped that way. Then you’d need oxygen, or a pressurised cabin, both of which were expensive to come by in the scrap-and-grease air-trade business.

No, the
Iolaire
, like most other private trader craft, stuck to a relatively low-altitude. Fredrick and Aiden kept oxygen masks for emergencies, but they were rarely used. Aiden hated wearing it anyway; it made his face itch.

“
It’s a busy place,” he said, looking across the landing pads to the bustling hordes beyond. It was a sweating multitude.

“
Too right,” replied Fredrick, sinking back into his seat, lifting his feet onto the console. He took a swig from his beloved hip-flask and flicked the cockpit fans on. “How long is Tovmas going to be?”

“
Until he finds that auction, I suppose. Hopefully won’t be long.”

“
This place is huge though,” said Fredrick. Then, tipping his flask upside down meaningfully, “And I need a drink.”

Aiden frowned.
“We can’t leave the
Iolaire
. I somehow doubt Tovmas and his boys have peaceful intentions. We need to be ready to go.”

“
I know,” said Fredrick. Aiden yawned, and climbed down the four steps to the hold. Two of Tovmas’ men were sitting there, playing cards. They looked up at his entrance, and one of them nodded in acknowledgement.

He
nodded back. It was a simple sign, but there had been a noticeable change in the way Tovmas’ men treated the two westerners since Kakavaberd. The attitude had gone from surly to amiable, despite the six blanket-wrapped bodies in the hold. Spirits were higher. There was a lot more respect. Hell, sometimes it even looked close to
gratitude
towards Aiden and Fredrick, for hauling them all over the Caucasus and having saved their arses on that hilltop.

An hour later, Tovmas returned with his men. He was carrying two canvas bags which
he deposited on the floor of the cargo hold. Aiden was sitting on his bunk, flipping through the phrasebook.

“
Shopping?” asked Fredrick, standing at the entrance to the cockpit.

“
Yes,” was all Tovmas said as he began opening the bags, taking out cloth-wrapped bundles and handing them to some of his men. As the bundles were unwrapped, Aiden caught the blue glint of steel in the dim cargo hold.

“
You bought guns?”

“
Yes, submachine guns and pistols,” Tovmas replied, unwrapping his own weapon. “We won’t get within half a kilometre of that auction with the rifles. We salvaged some from Kakavaberd, so we only needed eight.”

“
I only count seven,” said Aiden, looking around him.

Tovmas reached into a bag once more and produced the eighth bundle.
“This one is for you.” He held it out to Aiden.

“
Wait, me? Why?” He didn’t take it.

“
You are a rich white merchant, looking to buy a concubine,” Tovmas said, proffering the bundle again. Fredrick hooted with laughter.

“
Hold on,” Aiden protested, “I don’t remember agreeing to any ground work!”

This time Tovmas laughed.
“We look too Armenian, my friend,” he gestured at the scruffy, mustachioed militia. “No one would believe we’ve got the money to buy a slave.”

Tovmas tosse
d Aiden the bundle. Reluctantly he unwrapped it. It was a pistol: snub nosed and highly polished. “So why do I need a gun?”

“
We’ll need as many armed men as possible once we’re inside. I do not even know if they’ll let you in with it; in fact I doubt they will. But you can pick it back up once we’ve dispatched the security,” Tovmas was smiling.

Aiden hoped it was a joke.
“Now hold on, you’re going to shoot the place up? In the middle of a busy market? Attacking a ruined fort full of slavers in the arse-end of nowhere is one thing, but shooting up a market full of civilians is,” he ran a hand through his hair, “
not
the same.”

“
My friend, there will be no shooting if we can avoid it. The weapons are for two purposes: precaution and leverage. If I marched in there unarmed and demanded they hand over my daughter, do you think they would give her to me? I don’t think so.”

“
Fred!” said Aiden. “What do you think of this?”

“
I see his point; it was always going to get nasty. But if my aircraft gets shot up, I hold you, Tovmas, personally responsible,” said Fredrick.

Tovmas nodded:
of course.

“
Our
aircraft, you mean, and I’m touched by your concern for me,” Aiden snorted. He ran a hand through his hair again, exasperated. “How the hell do I get talked into these things?”

“
Thank you, my friend.” said Tovmas. “I have one more thing for you, from my
shopping
.” He tossed Aiden one of the canvas bags. Inside it was an old, white woolen suit jacket. Aiden held it out before him, and shook his head.

“
This looks old enough to be pre-war.” said Aiden.

Tovmas looked unfazed.
“You have to look wealthy, and it’s a lot better than what you’re wearing.”

“
Thanks,” he said sourly, trying the jacket on.

Under the morning sun, the
air above the concrete landing plaza was rippling with heat. Beyond it, crowds milled and swarmed; thousands upon thousands of people chatted, haggled and bartered at the countless stalls and warehouses. It seemed to Aiden, as he weaved through the bazaar behind Tovmas, that a person could find anything they wanted right there in Sederek Trade Centre, no matter how rare or morally dubious it was.

He
’d been outside for only a few minutes, but already his armpits itched with sweat. The tattered suit jacket he wore wasn’t made for the Azerbaijani summer. All he wanted to do was find some shade to sit in, maybe with a cold beer, and put his feet up and relax.

But
he’d once again been dragged into somebody else’s fight. Seemed to him that he just couldn’t avoid trouble, no matter how hard he tried. Even in Sevastopol it had been Fredrick, not him, who’d wound up those marines, but it was him who had to get them out of it. He still couldn’t quite believe they had got away with nothing worse than a few bruises.

The men who took on the
Gilgamesh
and lived. It had a bit of a ring to it.   

His
stomach churned as he thought about what he was about to do. The deception he was fine with: he’d done a fair bit of that in his time. What worried him was how tooled up Tovmas and his boys were. They were quite clearly expecting trouble, even if Tovmas wouldn’t admit it. If a firefight did break out, Aiden was pretty certain they’d be outmatched anyway: he could see that amongst the crowd there was a fair presence of heavily-armed security on patrol. The way those guys were geared they looked more like mercenaries than policemen.

He
wasn’t sure if they were just private security for the Sederek Trade Centre, or something external: government enforcers, maybe. If Azerbaijan even had a government; Aiden didn’t know. Either way, he doubted they’d take the Armenians’ side when the shooting started.

If it all goes to hell
,
he thought,
just get back to the Iolaire
.

As they turned off the main promenade of the market
and down one of its side streets, Tovmas pointed out the warehouse they were aiming for. Aiden’s pulse stepped up a notch. He wished he was back in the
Iolaire
, like Fredrick and the two men Tovmas left, secure in his armoured-glass gun pod or sitting in the comfortable cockpit.

Fredrick was probably half-asleep by now, dozing in his seat with the cooling fan
s on, the lucky bastard. And yet, if they managed to pull this off, Fred would get all the glory. The pilot always bloody did. 

They stopped in a queue before the warehouse. Aiden looked behind him, but Tovmas
’ men who had been following had disappeared. Only Tovmas, Nardos and Aiden were standing in the line. The other two looked unconcerned about this, so he assumed it was part of the plan.

The queue crawled forwards. The people on either side of
him, locals most likely, were excitedly jabbering away. Clearly a slave auction was something of a spectacle.

Eventually Aiden and the other two reached the front of the line. Two burly guards with assault rifles were acting as doormen, frisking each entrant and confiscating anything that could be used as a weapon. Aiden heard Tovmas mutter something under his breath.

Nardos did the talking, being the only fluent Azeri-speaker. The guards looked at Aiden as they listened, eyeing his strange attire. Probably pinning it on him being a Westerner, they frisked Aiden and the others, confiscated the weapons without fuss, and waved them through.

It was cooler inside; Aiden felt the sweat on his neck go cold. He shivered involuntarily. Ahead of him stood rows of strange cylindrical cages, each with a woman inside, illuminated by lights on the bars. Some stood, some sat, some crouched. All wore similar white, short dresses: more like long shirts, really. Every last one of them was beautiful
; each had the same distant, resigned expression which somehow made them even more alluring.

Aiden
’s pulse quickened at the sight of them, and he felt a little disgusted with himself.

Strange music with a distinct beat played from unseen speakers, and more than one of the local crowd were dancing drunkenly before the cages. Drinks were being sold at a bar to one side of the auction house.
He reckoned most were here for the show and the booze, rather than to actually buy slaves.

He
almost laughed. No matter where you went, people were all the same. It was a simple human response to an inhuman situation.

Tovmas was
hurriedly walking around the cages, checking each for his daughter. It didn’t take him long to get round them all. When he returned to Aiden and Nardos, his face was ashen. He looked defeated.

“She isn’t here. They aren’t here.
”

According to the captured slaver at Kakavaberd, the girls had been flown to Baku just
the day before the rescue party had shown up. The slavers left at the old fortress were waiting for a transport aircraft to return, to take them back east. Their organisation was leaving Armenia. Locals were becoming a problem, getting wary. There were plenty of other ‘districts’ to be exploited elsewhere, anyway. It seemed Tovmas’ daughter was one of the last to be taken.

“What
now?” asked Aiden.

“I... I don’t know.
” Tovmas shook his head.

“I’ve got an idea,” said Nardos. “This establishment probably has records, yes? Their sale will have been in the last couple of days, so I’m sure we can
persuade
somebody to let us have a look.”

Aiden thought for a second. “
No, I would imagine a lot of buyers like to stay anonymous. But if there are regular customers, somebody will know their names, even if it isn’t written down.”