Chapter 9

Chapter

Nine

F ieran ran a hand over the canvas stretched over his aeroplane's frame as he waited for his turn to take to the sky. With the entire squadron—both Flights—flying today, he had a long wait as a constant roar of aeroplanes taking off sounded from the airfield outside the hangar.

They'd barely finished assembling the final flyer and installing all the radios and compasses. Pip had even added a small elven light to the dashboard next to the new compass. The light included a sliding wooden cover that could be pushed down to cover the light as needed. Should they have to fly at night again, they could open the cover to illuminate their compass and switches but close it again to prevent being as much of a target.

Most of the aeroplanes had guns mounted. While Lt. Rothilion's elven half of the squadron had the guns mounted on the upper wing with a track to lower it for clearing jams and reloading, the Soarwings flown by Fieran's Flight had the guns mounted on the nose, shooting through the propellers. All the propellers had been reinforced with iron plates to help prevent the wooden propellers from shattering.

They hadn't had a chance to paint the aeroplanes yet, and the tan resin-coated canvas appeared about as boring as it was possible to get.

But the aeroplanes were assembled, and right now that was enough.

A few yards away, Pip inspected one of the newly assembled aeroplanes one last time before she shut the engine compartment hatch, climbed down the ladder, and gave the ground crew a nod to let them know the aeroplane was cleared to take off.

So competent. So good at her job. Watching her did something inside him that he wasn't ready to name.

Pip pushed her ladder across the hanger, halting beside Fieran and his aeroplane.

Fieran grinned at her, pushing away those thoughts. "Come to make sure my aeroplane won't crash?"

"Making sure it won't crash because of any mechanical issues." Pip climbed the ladder and opened the engine hatch. "It will be up to you to get my aeroplane back in one piece."

"Of course." Fieran leaned against the fuselage as Pip inspected his aeroplane's engine.

She finished quickly and closed the hatch. "You're cleared for takeoff."

Fieran grinned and stepped aside as the ground crew converged on his aeroplane to push it from the hanger. "I'll see you when I land."

"You'd better." Pip propped a hand on her hip, giving him a stern look that made him want to do something stupid. Like wink at her. Or brush a strand of her hair behind her ear. Or lean in closer and…

Where had that thought come from? Was it hot in here? He tugged on his silk scarf. It must be all the layers of leather and wool he was wearing. Of course he was roasting while here on the ground.

Giving himself a good mental shake, he tugged his googles over his eyes and strode after his aeroplane.

Once he stepped onto the mossy green of the airfield, Fieran drew in a deep breath of the crisp air, trying to clear his head from whatever that had been a moment ago. The crystal blue sky arched overhead, perfect for a day of flying.

Flying. Everything in him soared yet again, this time with the anticipation of the sky above and sea far below and the wind rushing past his face.

Another aeroplane soared into the sky, joining the cluster of aeroplanes circling overhead.

Fieran climbed into his aeroplane, settling into his seat and plugging the new wire running from his cap into the port Pip and Merrik had created just to the right of the seat.

He flipped the switch to turn the engine on, power flowing from the magical power cell into both the engine and the radio.

The elven moss speakers secured in the flaps over his ears crackled to life with voices.

"…new radios."

"I can hear you."

"What do you think about…"

The voices garbled over each other as various members of his Flight talked at the same time in their excitement to be able to communicate.

Fieran tuned out the chatter as best he could as he let his aeroplane's engine spool up and waited for several more aeroplanes to take off ahead of him. Merrik commanded the aeroplane taking off just ahead of him, leaving Fieran's biplane as the last one .

Once it was finally his turn, the ground crew raced in, grabbed the wheel chocks, and dashed out of the way.

Fieran's heart leapt as his aeroplane rolled forward, gaining momentum. He pointed the nose toward the end of the field, not letting himself dwell too much on the edge of the cliff looming closer.

His Soarwing biplane bumped and jostled over the grassy stretch as it gained momentum. He waited, sensing the moment the air caught his wings before he tilted the control stick and sent his aeroplane hurtling into the sky. It clawed its way upward as he headed for where Flight B circled.

Amid the chatter, another more supercilious voice cut through the garble. "Lt. Laesornysh, channel 2."

Fieran gritted his teeth at Lt. Rothilion's tone as he reached forward and flipped the switch mounted next to the switch for his engine, changing his radio from channel 1 to channel 2. As soon as he did, the chatter disappeared, leaving only a vague static. He pushed the talk button on his control stick. "Changed to channel 2."

Without the chatter, Lt. Rothilion's voice cut sharp and clear. "Tell your motley Flight of humans and half-breed mutts to cut the chatter. The radios are to be used for military matters, not idle chit-chat."

Fieran swallowed back his sarcastic retort at Lt. Rothilion's insult to him and his men. "Will do. Anything else?"

"Take your Flight and circle north and west along the coast. I will take Flight A east and then circle south." Lt. Rothilion's tone was stuffy as he gave the order that put his Flight on patrol over the crucial eastern and southern sea lanes while Fieran patrolled the northern route and the channel between the outlying islands and Kostaria's coast. While it was possible a Mongavarian fleet could circle around to come from the north, they would most likely come from the south or harass the Alliance's sea trade to the east.

But all Fieran could say was, "Understood. Switching back to channel 1."

Little as Fieran liked it, Lt. Rothilion was his commanding officer. At least he didn't have to call Lt. Rothilion sir .

"Flight B, listen up." Fieran finally reached his circling Flight, waiting a beat for their chatter to quiet. "We've been assigned the northern and eastern patrol. Cut the chatter. These radios are for military matters."

A chorus of "yes, sir" echoed through the radio before it fell silent except for the static.

Fieran swung his aeroplane into the position at the fore as the others assembled behind him, with Merrik taking his spot to the side and just behind Fieran.

They flew in silence for several minutes as they crossed the length of Drogenvroh Island. Besides the heavily industrialized southern tip around the Dar Goranth base, the rest of the island was heather-covered hills, rocky crests, stands of trees, and tiny inlets with quaint fishing villages comprised of stone huts and a few docks, places where life for the rural trolls hadn't changed all that much in the last thousands of years.

A few of the trolls working around the docks or tending gardens looked up, shading their eyes as they peered at the very modern aeroplanes flying over their peaceful little villages.

Finally, Fieran's Flight reached the far northern end of Drogenvroh Island and headed north over the ocean. Below, a maze of icebergs clogged the sea, making it difficult for anyone unfamiliar with the waters to navigate close to the island. A few fishing trawlers puttered between the icebergs, a glow of troll ice magic showing how they were finding their way without issues.

Fieran waited another half an hour before he broke the radio silence. "All right. Location check."

He pulled out the notebook, chart, pencil, and tools for taking readings for the sun's location. Keeping the aeroplane steady with one hand, he spread the chart over his legs, took a few measurements, and ran through the calculations both by using the chart and the sun's location and using his biplane's airspeed and the length of time they had been traveling. The new compass also provided a heading.

After giving his Flight time enough, he pressed the talk button on his control stick. "All right, everyone. Sound off what numbers you got."

The radio burst with the various members of the Flight reporting the numbers they got in their calculations all at once.

"One at a time. In order." Fieran had to just about shout over the others.

Everyone paused again. Then Merrik's voice came over the radio, reporting numbers that matched Fieran's. Not a surprise, but also a reassurance that Fieran's numbers were the correct ones. Not that he was doubting himself, but he'd rather check with Merrik.

Pretty Face and Tiny both had the correct numbers. Several more members of the Flight had the correct numbers, but a few didn't. Lije was only a few numbers off.

When it was Sticky's turn, a long pause filled the radio before Stickyfingers spoke, his tone coming across sheepish even over the crackling radio. "Um…"

Not a surprise either. With his lack of formal education, Stickyfingers had barely passed the tests during training and only managed it thanks to Fieran and the others helping him along. Doing quick calculations while flying was still beyond him.

He wasn't the only one. About a quarter of the Flight got the wrong number or hadn't been able to finish their calculations in the time he'd given them.

Fieran made a mental note of those who struggled. After this first patrol, the Flight would be divided up into a rotation of constant patrols around Dar Goranth. Fieran would assign the patrols to make sure those struggling were always placed with more capable navigators.

Packing away the rest of the items, Fieran pulled out the logbook and made a note of his Flight's position and the time. Once that was done, he slid the logbook into the wooden pocket formed in the side of the fuselage beside him.

A few fishing trawlers bobbed on the waves far below among the icebergs, the large white bergs more scattered the farther they flew from Drogenvroh Island. A smudge to their west was the mainland's coastline. Besides that, there was nothing but dark empty ocean.

Lt. Rothilion had sent Fieran's Flight on the useless patrol, but Fieran would make the most of it. His men had been shortchanged two weeks of vital training. They were seriously behind on the number of flight hours they should have, and the near disaster of the Battle over Bridgetown proved how badly his flyboys needed more training. Most of his fellow pilots who had died during that battle had crashed because of their own inexperience rather than the enemy guns.

His men needed practice, and it was up to him to figure out some kind of drills.

Fieran couldn't help a lopsided grin. He was starting to sound like his dacha .

He pressed the talk button. "All right, men. We're going to run a few drills before we continue our patrol."

Now he just had to come up with the drills. He didn't have the personal experience to even know what orders to give.

Keep it simple to start. He could work up from there.

Fieran led the Flight in a series of loops, dives, and climbs. Thankfully, no one stalled, though a few got close and had to tumble before they regained control.

After about an hour of drills, Fieran divvied up the squadron into pairs and sent them off in various directions to extend the amount of ocean his Flight could cover on this patrol. They'd already flown far out to sea in the north as they'd gone through their drills, and he checked that everyone had the right heading before he sent them off.

Fieran and Merrik swung into their route, flying over the rippling waves. Fieran peered over the side, noting the various boats they spotted.

Fishing trawler. Fishing trawler. Oh, an older style, outrigger canoe. Fishing trawler.

After another hour of boring flying, Fieran turned back to the south and paralleled the coast. The rest of the squadron checked in and fell in behind him until all thirty-some aeroplanes returned.

That was a relief. Given the calculation mistakes of earlier, he'd been a little worried a few of them wouldn't be able to find their way back.

As they flew down the coast, the breeze picked up, tossing and buffeting their aeroplanes.

A turbulent gust shoved Fieran's aeroplane into a sudden drop before another smack sent him bouncing sideways.

He braced himself in the cockpit as his shoulders knocked against the leather padding around the edge. He pressed the talk button. "Everyone, give each other plenty of space. We don't want to be knocked into each other with this turbulence."

Fieran fought against the rudder bar and the control column to keep his aeroplane as steady as possible. The closer they got to Dar Goranth, the more intent the wind seemed to be on sending them through the blender. In the calm skies over Fort Linder, they'd never faced winds like these sea breezes.

As they veered toward the airfield at Dar Goranth, a few flyers from Flight A remained circling in the sky, waiting for their turn to land after their patrol.

Fieran started a new circle farther away. "We'll wait for Flight A to finish landing before we start our runs." He set an order for landing, then finished with, "I'll land last."

More acknowledgments came through, along with a little chatter.

One of Flight A's aeroplanes came down for a landing. The wind must have hit it because it skidded sideways and nearly landed on the underground hangar instead of the airfield proper before the elven pilot regained control and managed to salvage the landing.

"Whoo-whee, what a landing. Looks like he nearly ate it," Stickyfingers observed over the radio.

Before Fieran could reply, Lt. Rothilion's voice cut over the radio. "Do not forget that Flight A can hear you."

"Oh, right. Sorry about that, sir." Stickyfingers still sounded far too cheerful.

Fieran would have smacked himself in the forehead if he hadn't needed both hands on the stick to keep his aeroplane under control in the freshening wind.

"I agree with you, Sticky." Aylia's voice rang through the headset, speaking in Escarlish, likely for the benefit of Fieran' s half of the squadron. "That was not Thalanil's most graceful landing."

"Just wait until your turn. The winds down here are quite strong." Another elven-accented voice came over the radio, also speaking Escarlish. Thalanil, presumably.

Fieran could imagine the elven first lieutenant grumbling about how Fieran's mutts were rubbing off on his elven pilots.

But Fieran wasn't about to quell the banter. It would be good for more banter to spring up between his Flight and Lt. Rothilion's. Thanks to Lt. Rothilion's stuffiness, the two halves of the squadron hadn't interacted much, and most of those interactions had been stiff and official.

Once the ground crew wheeled Thalanil's biplane out of the way, another elven pilot lined up for a landing. The aeroplane also crabbed sideways before it touched down.

Aylia's voice crackled over the radio again. "Thalanil was not joking. The winds are fierce. Take care with the landings, Flight B."

"Thanks for the warning." Fieran paused, debating. He didn't want to admit his squadron's weakness over the airwaves where Lt. Rothilion and Flight A would hear.

But his men's safety came first over any kind of pride.

Fieran pressed the talk button again. "Ground radio, switch to channel 2." After the person on the ground radio acknowledged, Fieran switched to channel 2.

A moment later, the voice came again. "Ground radio on channel 2. What is it, Lt. Laesornysh?"

"Could you alert Mechanic Pippak Detmuk-Inawenys to be standing by outside the hangar to use her magic to assist with the landings?" Fieran wasn't sure how badly these landings would go, but Pip's shield might be able to stop an aeroplane from crashing into the cliff or one of the surrounding hills if necessary.

"Will do. Anything else?"

"No, that's all. Returning to channel 1." Fieran swapped back to channel 1 just as the last of Flight A's aeroplanes touched down safely. "All right, Murray, you're up."

Fieran's chest squeezed as Murray lined up for his landing. Now just to hope that all his flyboys survived their first truly difficult landing here at Dar Goranth.

Pip raced outside, her stomach already in her toes. As soon as she stepped from the hangar, a gust of breeze slammed into her so hard that she stumbled.

No wonder Fieran had asked for help in making sure the flyboys landed safely. The wind gusts had picked up even in the past few minutes since the elven half of the squadron had landed.

With the radio tucked in a corner of the hangar, hooked up to the temporary antenna that she planned to rework to extend the range, Pip couldn't talk to the flyboys as they came in for their landings.

She stepped aside as the ground crew wheeled the last of the elven aeroplanes into the hangar.

High above the inland cliffs of the island, the first of the Soarwings lined up into the wind for the landing. A gust came from the side, crabbing him sideways in the air.

Pip called up her magic, keeping it at her fingertips, readying herself for anything.

The aeroplane dropped lower and lower until it skimmed right above the grass at the far end of the airfield .

A gust slammed the aeroplane into the ground hard enough that one of the wheel struts cracked, the wheel spinning away. The broken shaft dug into the ground as the aeroplane toppled over, skidding on the grass. Thankfully it remained upright, coming to a halt after digging a furrow in the grass.

Pip released a breath, even as the ground crew rushed to remove the biplane from the airfield to clear it for the next flyer.

Once the airfield was clear, two more aeroplanes landed badly but safely without her assistance.

Then the fourth aeroplane came in for a landing. Right as it neared the ground, a particularly strong side gust of wind caught one wing and just about turned the flyer onto its side.

Pip threw out her magic, trying to press on the aeroplane without smacking into it with enough force that she caused something to break.

For a moment, the aeroplane hung there, pinned between the competing forces of wind and magic. Then it flipped back onto its wheels, slamming into the ground.

Pip saved several more aeroplanes from crashing before Merrik, then Fieran landed without incident. She finally took a breath, her hands shaking.

Fieran strode through the hangar, slapping each of his pilots on the back and letting them know they'd done well, despite their rough landings. After the mostly smooth landings of the elven half of the squadron, Flight B had looked like a fumbling mess.

But it wasn't their fault. The wind had picked up, and they'd never landed in rough conditions like that before. Frankly, he was just thankful they were alive and all the aeroplanes were in more or less one piece. Or, at the very least, in few enough pieces that it wouldn't take Pip and the mechanics that long to repair them.

"Lt. Laesornysh." Lt. Rothilion's strident tone forced Fieran to halt, even though all he wanted to do was keep walking.

Lt. Rothilion stepped in front of Fieran, a few of the elves from Flight A trailing him as they always did. Lt. Rothilion's gaze swept first over Fieran, then past him to the pilots and slightly damaged flyers of Flight B. "Disgraceful performance this morning. Though one could not expect much better from such a rabble."

As much as Fieran wanted to retort, he gritted his teeth and forced his words back. He could point out that the elves of Flight A had had their full training—two weeks more of training than Fieran's men—plus an additional two weeks of flying experience here at Dar Goranth.

But saying such a thing would only invite Lt. Rothilion to remark on how sloppy the Escarlish Flying Corps must be, if they sent such inexperienced, under-trained pilots to an important base like Dar Goranth.

Worse, it was generally known that elves, as a whole, made the best pilots. They did have slightly superior reflexes and a better head for heights than the average human.

But that didn't make humans inferior. There was a heart—a fire—in many humans that Fieran had rarely seen in the elves. That was not to be underestimated.

Having delivered his set down, Lt. Rothilion sniffed, turned on his heel, and marched away.

As he walked away, Merrik joined Fieran, crossing his arms and speaking in a low tone that wouldn't carry even to the elves with more sensitive hearing. "The insults were unnecessary, but it is difficult to refute him when our showing today was poor."

"Our lack of training definitely showed." Fieran grimaced, also keeping his voice barely above a whisper.

"What are you going to do about it?" Merrik raised an eyebrow.

Fieran sighed, already wishing he didn't have to say it out loud. "Put together better practice routines and figure out how to add them to our schedule on top of the patrol rotation."

"Now you sound like your dacha." Merrik's mouth curved with just a hint of a smile.

"I know. Don't remind me." Fieran heaved another sigh. Growing up, he'd chafed under such rigid practice all the time, both with his swords and with his magic.

He could better understand the necessity of them now. Perhaps his dacha, who had spent his formative years living in an army camp, didn't know any way to go about teaching his children except to fall back on his military-style training.

Then again, Dacha had known for the past seventy years that war was coming. Maybe he didn't know any other way to teach than by military discipline. But he also knew that Fieran and his siblings would need that military discipline once war broke out.

Dacha had spent years preparing Fieran for this. It was time Fieran stepped up and fully took on the mantle of Laesornysh.

But did that mean he had to become as hard and dour as his dacha? Or could he still retain some of his more carefree, easygoing personality?