Children of the Storm, Part 2

An adventure in the world of The Ace of Redwater Bay

I made a quick job of rushing back to the hotel and changing into my leather pants. I also grabbed my flight bag, goggles, pilot cap, and pistol along with a spare magazine. I finished buckling my shoulder holster and throwing on my jacket as I ran down the hotel stairs and out into the street. I had also made sure to tie the scarf Essie had given me. Weaving my way through traffic and the pedestrian crowd, I headed for the harbor with all due speed.

A skeptical portion of my mind wondered if I was rushing into something again. I was a newcomer in a foreign land. I barely knew any details about this job. In fact, I realized that I didn’t really know much about anything. I didn’t know this city. I didn’t know how things worked here. I didn’t know Harold.

My impulsiveness is what had landed me in the mess that had become my life. Here I was at the ripe age of twenty-four without a steady source of income. I had been unjustly kicked out of the Aubrein air force. My fiancée had subsequently abandoned me, and most of my family wanted nothing to do with me. All because I had impulsively done the right thing.

My grandfather’s words came to mind. He had said them as I was about to be promoted to wing commander. “Connor, good leaders follow two important rules. The first is to take charge. The second is to do the right thing.” I’d rarely had issues with the first rule; I’d occasionally rubbed other guys the wrong way, but I was almost always able to smooth things over. The second rule was a different story. It seemed like every time I fought for the right thing it landed me in trouble. Defending bullied cadets. Challenging our superior when he put the squadron through a punishing sortie schedule. And then that business with my father-in-law-to-be.

I brushed the memories aside. While I did not control the outcomes of those situations, I did control my own conduct, and I stood by what I had done. I judged Harold a man of good character. Perhaps it was because he had no problem bypassing protocol if it meant saving lives. Plus, this job might open other opportunities.

I passed the Freelancers’ Bureau and kept going down the hill toward the harbor. I was feeling good about my time and was in good spirits until I reached the street just before the entrance to the docks and stopped dead in my tracks. A small group of rough types stood to one side, smoking cigarettes and conversing. They accosted several people that walked by but let them go without incident. Were they looking for something or someone? Several of them sported the same tattoo I had seen on Larry. It didn’t look like he was with them, but he could still be nearby. I didn’t know if they were looking for me, but I wasn’t curious enough to find out. I waited until their attention was diverted to another hapless soul and made my move. I pulled my cap down lower on my forehead and strode forward, keeping my eyes fixed on one of the planes tied to a dock just past the entrance. I passed through the entrance without them noticing and let out a sigh of relief.

I followed the signs for pier fourteen and found the Wainwright TP-6 tied off. It was a flying boat with a parasol wing and a set of overwing push-pull engines on either side of the fuselage.

What are those, you ask? A parasol wing sits several feet above the fuselage supported by a series of struts. It’s great for amphibious aircraft because it has lower drag when compared with a biplane, it provides better pilot visibility, and it reduces the amount of spray that might get on the engines, a problem unique to seaplanes. A push-pull engine configuration means you have two engines, one facing forward, one facing backward. While they aren’t great for landbound aircraft thanks to induced rotation, they’re perfect for seaplanes to give them the extra push to get out of the water and they provide decent stability. Plus, it helps to have a backup should one engine stop working. Unfortunately, there are some disadvantages such as increased complexity and higher gross weight. Alright, enough technical mumbo jumbo. Back to the story.

The TP-6 could hold up to eight people including the flight crew. While primarily mail carriers, I knew the Aubrein Sovereignty Air Force had used a couple of them for coastal reconnaissance against the Masir Sultanate.

Harold was conducting his pre-flight inspection when I reached the plane.

“Ready to go, boss,” I said as I approached.

He looked up from his clipboard and then glanced at his watch. “Good. Inspect the cargo. Checklist is in there.” As a courtesy, I opened my jacket and showed him my holstered Tooley 1911. He nodded with approval. “Smart. Might need it.”

“Oh?” I said with one eyebrow raised.

Instead of answering, he grunted and went back to his inspection. I frowned at him, but did not press the issue. I could ask about it during the flight. I tossed my bag into the open hatch near the front of the plane, moved to the cargo area at the back, and began checking the contents. Emergency equipment such as flare guns, an inflatable raft, provisions, and a first aid kit took up a sizable portion of the compartment. There were also a number of replacement engine parts, a large toolbox, cans containing various fluids, and a pump for removing water from the plane. I recognized the pump from an image in one of our textbooks at flight school. As I moved one of the first aid kits, I spotted a rifle and a shotgun, a couple of boxes of ammunition for each, and a crate of grenades. While the guns and bullets were not unusual-one never knew what dangers they might have to face-the grenades surprised me. What kind of trouble was Harold expecting, especially if he thought the additional weapon I brought might be needed?

“Finished?” He called out from in front of the plane.

I closed the cargo door. “All done. Everything is secure.”

“Check fluid levels and review the route.” He glanced at his watch again. “Need to hurry.”

“Do we need to pump water?”

“Already done.”

“Roger.”

I headed to the open side door, climbed in, and made for the cockpit. I settled into the first officer’s seat. After checking the oil and hydraulic gauges, I opened the window and gave Harold a thumbs up. He nodded and opened the right front engine compartment and began messing with a contraption I’d not seen before. To my surprise, he opened a cylinder and loaded a shotgun shell into it. He replaced the cover which I now noticed had a small round cap in the middle.

He picked up a mallet and struck the cap. A loud bang startled me as tufts of smoke burst from the engine and the propeller started to turn. When it looked like the propeller started to slow, Harold cursed and smacked the engine on the side with the mallet. Then the engine caught and roared to life. He moved to the other three engines and performed the same procedure. I had heard of shotgun starters, but I’d never seen one used. Most of the newer models had moved to electrics.

I closed the window and began studying the flight map. I didn’t know the region all that well, but the route he had marked out seemed reasonable enough. We were headed to an island roughly five hundred miles away, well within this aircraft’s range; we could make it to the island and back on one full tank of fuel.

Harold untied the rope and climbed into the cockpit. We finished the remaining pre-flight checks in short order and began moving away from the docks. As we taxied through the waterways, I took note of the control tower’s location and paid attention to how Harold handled it all: communication with the tower, navigating the water taxiway, and how he performed takeoff and initial climb. Some of it was familiar, much of it not. I’d have to learn it and become proficient if I hoped to make a new life out here.

With light headwinds and sunny skies, we had the ideal conditions for an afternoon in the sky. I looked out the window during our climb to cruising altitude and took in the city and surrounding area. I had seen it from the airship, but that was from about six hundred feet. While this gave me a decent view of Port Sauval, it did not afford much beyond that. In the TP-6, I could see everything from thousands of feet above sea level. From here, I took in all of Redwater Bay, the body of water directly north of Port Sauval that opened to the Mér. Several smaller towns and settlements dotted the land along the wide coast.

I then saw the entirety of Harpshaw Island, named after the Aubrein admiral that had ousted the pirates from the area over a hundred years ago and opened it up for global trade. Much of the island was forest and high cliffs. It surprised me how little Port Sauval took up. Finally, we climbed high enough that I could see a fair number of islands that formed the Rougissant Archipelago. Even from this altitude, I could see dozens if not hundreds of waterfalls scattered across the archipelago’s islands. The term “rougissant” meant “roaring”, so given because of these waterfalls all over the place.

Harold had me take control shortly after we leveled off so he could bounce the route against local weather conditions and fill out more details in the plane’s logbook. The TP-6 was a lot slower and heavier than the planes I was used to. It was also older and noisier, and it shook a lot more.

“Fill me in on the situation. We’re headed for an island, right?” I asked after Harold had finished making route adjustments. “I take it they weren’t on a ship?” One of the reasons why seaplanes were the preferred mode of transportation was due to the prevalence of red coral, a sharp, indestructible form of coral that sliced open ship hulls, metal and wooden alike. Red coral liked to grow to within a few feet of the water’s surface. Consequently, planes and flatbottom boats worked better than ships with a deep draft. The presence of red coral is what gave Redwater Bay its name.

“Right,” he replied with a nod. “It’s a place called l’Île Affligée. One of our crew took them out a week ago. Last communication late this morning was a distress call. It came in patchy before it cut out completely. From what we gathered, the plane was damaged and couldn’t take off. Also, the storm was building up faster than expected.”

“Why did you need a freelancer? No one else available?”

He nodded again. “The other crews are out on jobs or on personal leave. Getting a contract was faster.”

“Contract?”

“Slang for freelance pilots.”

“Noted.” I then remembered the crate of grenades in the cargo area. “I noticed you had explosives in the back. Expecting trouble?”

Harold made a face. He took a long moment to reply. “Things happen on those islands. People killed in a power storm are usually done in by lighting, or the winds cause their plane to crash.” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Then there are stories of people who have been torn to pieces.”

“What? Like an animal attack?”

Harold shrugged. “No one knows. Some of the pilots say they’re ghosts or demons.”

“But you don’t think so.”

He shook his head. “Believe it when I see it. One of the scientists on this team thinks that living creatures that are exposed to a storm for a long time and survive are changed somehow. It’s what they’re trying to study out here.”

“Seems awfully risky.”

He gave me a sidelong glance. “Living is risky, kid. You should know that being in the Aubrein Air Force.”

“True,” I conceded. “So, you’re saying we’re going to have to deal with some...thing when we find the research team?”

“I’m saying I like to be prepared. With power storms, there are any number of things that can go wrong.”

I tilted my head to one side. “I'll be honest, Harold. Fighting creatures was not something I had in mind when I accepted the job.”

“Would you have said no?”

I considered that for a moment. “Probably not, but it would have been good to know beforehand.”

“Seeing as you’re former air force and watching how you dealt with Larry, I figured you could handle just about anything we might come across.”

“Oh, well, gee thanks,” I said with some sarcasm. “Your confidence is reassuring. I’ll be sure to remember that when a demon starts chewing on me.”

“Relax,” he said. “I’m sure we’ll be fine. Besides, the demons will probably go for me first. Your scrawny butt would just be a snack to them.”

“Yeah? Well, then I should have plenty of time to get away while they chew on your fat ass.”

We eyed each other and then broke out into laughter.

When we finished, Harold said, “Okay, you passed. You’ll fit right in with the other pilots, kid.” He relaxed and leaned back. “My turn to ask questions. What’s your story?”

“Not much to tell,” I said with a shrug. “Grew up in a family of military men-turned-farmers and loved planes as a kid. Joined the Young Cadets as soon as I turned fourteen and spent the next ten years learning and working as a pilot.”

“Wife? Girlfriend?”

I hesitated and shook my head. “Neither, and I’m not saying any more on that subject for now.”

He grunted and gave me a sympathetic smirk.

“What about you?” I asked.

“A wife, a boy, and a girl,” he said and then didn’t elaborate further.

After a few seconds of awkward silence, I said, “Well done. Good to see a pilot with a stable family. Would that we were all so lucky.”

He grunted and then said, “I suppose.” He seemed to think for a moment and then asked, “What brought you to Port Sauval? The Aubrein Air Force is supposed to be a nice gig.”

“Just looking to start a new life.”

He narrowed his eyes at me as though trying to read into my mind. I stayed focused on flying and monitoring my instruments.

“I guess you’re on the level,” he finally said as though he’d just reached a conclusion.

“That’s good I guess,” I said.

“Just be careful when you’re chatting up women in the city.”

“Well, yeah, that’s true anywhere.”

“You need to understand that in Port Sauval, people tend to be a bit more...passionate than elsewhere. There’s a decent chance they’ll stab or shoot you without so much as a warning.”

My eyebrows went up. “Duly noted.” I then considered my next words for a moment. “By the way...about the pay. We never finalized the terms.”

He frowned at that. “You’re right, we didn’t.” He rubbed the back of his head, a nervous gesture. “My fault. I was...in a hurry. We have a going rate of two dollars per hour for co-pilot contracts. If we have to fight something, Mac might toss in a hazard bonus. We’ll talk with him when we get back.”

“Fair enough.”

We spent the next couple of hours in relative silence, chatting only occasionally about the flight and a little about Port Sauval. Harold told me about some of the major players on the island. McCormick Shipping, who Harold worked for, was a mid-sized outfit with half-a-dozen aircraft of all sizes and twice that many pilots on staff. Their main competition was the biggest company on the island, Red Star Transportation Services. They had over twenty aircraft in their fleet along with a large number of small boats that could handle the red coral.

We also talked about the challenges of flying boats and other seaplanes. He told me there were indeed a fair number of nuances to consider when taking off and landing on water versus dry land. While I likely wouldn’t have to worry about it on this job, he had said, I’d have to become comfortable with those nuances if I wanted to make it in Port Sauval.

Just as we came within ninety miles of l’Île Affligée, it was 16:37 local time. The sun was creeping closer to the horizon. Off in the distance ahead of us, a gray smudge appeared in the sky.

When I pointed it out, Harold said, “Power storm. I’ll take over here in,” he checked his watch, “twenty minutes. We should be about fifty miles from the island at that point.”

“Isn’t that a bit close?”

Harold shook his head. “Power storms are different from regular hurricanes. Their effects on the weather in nearby areas are restricted to a few miles outside the edge of the storm. Once you cross that threshold, it changes immediately and violently. It’s one of their many mysteries.”

“Have you flown in one of these storms before?”

“Once,” he said grimly. “And I’d hoped never to do it again.” He undid his restraints. “I’m going to double check for loose items. It’s going to get bumpy.”

I nodded and felt for the clasp of my shoulder holster to reassure myself that it was secure. As the storm-smudge grew large, I began to realize the scale of the thing. It was huge and mean-looking. Even at this distance, I saw purple lightning crawl across the swirling dark gray clouds. A sinking feeling settled into my gut the closer we drew to the storm.

“I’m taking control,” Harold said at the designated time.

“You have control,” I said and released the yoke.

The storm was now well and truly gigantic, looming over us like an angry titan. We had dropped altitude to two thousand feet as we neared l’Île Affligée. The island was shaped like a broken cigar; about seven miles long and a mile or so wide.

“Strange,” said Harold as we drew closer.

“What is?”

“The storm couldn’t have been close enough this morning to affect their communications like it did. The storm would have to be on top of them for that to happen, and that was hours ago.”

“Huh,” I said looking out at the wall of swirling dark clouds that marked the edge of the storm. “Looks to be about ten miles out right now.”

“Indeed,” he said. “Start looking for them.”

I reached down into my flight bag and retrieved a set of binoculars Harold had set aside for me. As we drew near, I used them to begin searching for a Wainwright TP-9, the more advanced and supposedly reliable version of the TP-6. According to Harold, Mac had bought the TP-9 to replace the TP-6, but it hadn’t measured up to the sales pitch.

The place looked like a rocky, barren wasteland of steep hills and drastic cliffs. Mottled gray and black patches covered most of it. Incredibly, the island still had trees, but they were unlike any I had ever seen. The trunks and branches were black like coal and had leaves that alternated between silver and shimmering violet. I scanned up and down the coastline until I spotted something glinting near a beach with a gradual incline.

“Found the plane,” I said. “Just past the bend in the island.” I rattled off my estimated distance and coordinates.

Harold nodded and began his descent to land. The edge of the storm was closer now; it had crept a few miles nearer by the time we began our approach. Winds began to buffet the plane. Nothing severe, but enough to rattle the structure and make some noise.

The sea was a little choppy as the bottom of the TP-6 leveled off and Harold eased it into the water. I let out a sigh of relief and realized my shoulders had been tight during the entire landing, and no wonder. I was comfortable in airplanes. I’d even flown in adverse conditions before. But this island, this storm, they instilled a sense of dread and unease I’d never felt before. The light in the sky had dimmed as though in permanent twilight.

Harold taxied the plane close to the TP-9 and we immediately saw why it hadn’t left. The engines looked as though they had exploded. Black streaks stained the wing, and the cowling was melted and charred. Most of the rest of the plane seemed intact and unaffected.

“Check the plane,” Harold said. “I doubt anyone, or anything is onboard but have your gun ready just in case.”

Anything? I thought.

I opened the hatch and climbed atop of the TP-6. Once the TP-9 was close enough, I stepped across and almost slipped on the wet, slick fuselage. I caught myself and hunkered low for stability. I made my way to the hatch, which was already open, and peered inside. It was dark within, and I couldn’t see much. A pungent odor wafted up through the opening. It was one I recognized but could not quite remember. With my gun trained ahead of me, I slipped inside. As my eyes adjusted, I began searching the cabin. Much of the emergency equipment was still onboard. I then made my way to the cockpit. The odor grew stronger the closer I drew to it. Then I saw what made the odor. Both cockpit seats were occupied with the dead bodies of the TP-9’s crew.

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