K. Weiland - Storming

Every now and then, Jael would raise her arm and wave the white scarf Earl had given her. She’d motion him one way or the other. But everywhere they turned, darkness surrounded them. Felt a whole lot like flying in big goldurn circles.

His heart beat so fast it was one great lump of pressure in his throat. C’mon, c’mon , he prayed. This couldn’t all have been for nothing. When a man made up his mind to risk his life in a one-chance-in-a-million venture, he was resigned to dying. But seemed like he was at least owed one chance.

Up ahead, Jael’s scarf flashed, a tiny blur of not-quite-black in the darkness.

Which way this time? He leaned forward and squinted.

The Jenny rocked, but not from the wind. Jael must be wiggling around.

He fought the stick. “Hold still, durn it.”

More wiggling. The scarf flashed again, followed by three more pinpoints of pale—her face and her waving hands.

Oh, for crying out loud… Was she really standing up again, in the middle of this ?

She waved wildly. The faintest buzz of her screamed words wafted back to him.

“_What?_” he shouted.

And then he saw it too: a flash of light, almost like a star. Except there were no stars tonight. Just the infernal darkness of this hammering wind.

Schturming . It had to be. Nothing else would have a light.

He eased back on the stick and lifted the Jenny’s nose. “Come on, sweetheart. Just do this one last thing for me.”

She did it, and she didn’t even so much as balk. With a mighty roar of that blessed Hispano-Suiza, she lifted her snub nose into the storm and chewed right on through the wind. She might be a saucy little tramp most of the time. But tonight she was a warrioress, a Valkyrie.

The light flickered. For an instant, he half thought both he and Jael had only imagined it.

Then it shone out once more, hard and dazzling. It grew brighter and bigger. And then—the great bulk of _Schturming_’s white envelope loomed from out of the clouds.

He squeezed the stick until red-hot pinpricks pierced the cold in his finger bones. He nudged the Jenny down, below the envelope, toward the cargo bay in the bow end.

Just please let the doors be open.

He’d landed there once before. He could do it again. The glimpse he’d gotten inside the ship had showed a long corridor that seemed to stretch all the way through the entirety of the bottom level. It was wide enough—barely—for the Jenny, and it just might be long enough to get her stopped without crashing back out through the other end.

More light—a great square hole of it—flashed, not so bright as the smaller one. He almost forgot to breathe.

The doors were open. And… full of men. White faces turned up in their direction. Half a dozen lined the opening, watching the storm, no doubt.

So be it. Beggars couldn’t be choosers. He lined the Jenny up with the doors and killed the engine. Too much momentum and he wouldn’t be able to hold her steady enough to thread the needle down the length of the bay.

The men in the doorway scattered.

Just as well, since hitting them would have ripped up the wings and the landing gear good and plenty.

The wind clobbered the plane from above, and she plunged straight down, losing altitude. Without the thrust to keep her speed up, she would pitch into a dive any second now.

Just a few more feet. That’s all they needed. “C’mon!”

Her windmilling propeller entered the bay, and for four long seconds, she floated inside the dirigible. Along the ship’s walls, its supplies—boxes, barrels, crates—protruded from the fastenings that kept them from rolling about in the wind and the turbulence. The Jenny’s wingtips had no more than two feet of clearance on either side.

The wheels bumped the floor, and her tail started to sag. Her wheels bounced up, then came back down to skid. A few inches, just a few inches more—and then, bwack! The tail thumped down.

He dared a look over his shoulder.

The howling black hole of the storm engulfed his vision, only fifty or sixty feet back. By the time he looked back around, the rest of his body was already telling him the Jenny had come to a complete stop. A bare thirty feet separated the propeller from the dividing wall in front of them.

All the air left his body in a great whoosh. A wing and a prayer. That’s what that had been. Literally.

Adrenaline and cold shook through his hands, but he made himself yank his safety belt loose and find the revolver in his pocket. Zlo’s men had all either fled for their lives or thrown themselves face down on the floor. Judging from the blood on one’s face and the way his mouth was hanging open, he’d clunked his head on something.

The others started looking up and shouting.

“ Oni zdes !”

Somebody ran to a speaking tube on the back wall and started hollering into it. “ Eto pilot!”

This was where he and Jael advanced from dying in the storm to dying at the hands of indignant pirates. Great.

Hitch stood in the cockpit, braced the revolver in both hands, and cracked off two shots.

The baddies hit the deck again.

“Jael!” he shouted. “Can you move?”

She wallowed around in the front cockpit. This close to the dawsedometer , her pain level had to be near crippling.

He took another shot and maybe winged a guy, judging from the pained cry. He swung out of his cockpit on the far side of the plane and reached for Jael with both hands. “C’mon!”

Her pinched face appeared over the edge, and she let him half-drag, half-swing her over. She landed hard on her knees, and barely managed to claw herself to her feet, using the fuselage on one side and his hand on the other.

Keeping the Jenny between them and Zlo’s men, he backed toward the engine room door in the far corner. “We’ll shut the dawsedometer off. It’s just around the corner. It’ll be all right.”

She managed a nod and staggered after him.

Except it wasn’t all right.

The door to the engine room swung open, and half a dozen men burst out, all of them packing Webley revolvers. One look at the plane in their cargo bay and their eyes got big and their mouths fell open.

Hitch faced them and fired another shot.

The bullet caught one of the men in the side, and he spun around in a spray of blood. The others started shooting back. Fortunately, none of them were very good at it. Bullets splatted and zinged against the ceiling and the walls. A rope holding a wooden crate near the ceiling snapped and spilled its load of potatoes all over the floor.

Jael tugged his hand, pulling him in the opposite direction. “This way!”

They ran to the back of the plane. Lashed by wind from the gaping bay doors, he vaulted over the fuselage behind the rear cockpit. He popped a warning shot at the thugs in the corner, then reached back to haul Jael after him.

She landed in a heap on the floor but started crawling even before he pulled her back to her feet.

She crashed into a door in the wall, fumbled with the latch a second, then shoved it open. “Hurry!”

The men rushed across the room, all of them shouting.

Hitch backed through the doorway and blasted off his last shot. Then he grabbed for the edge of the door and hurled it shut. “Please tell me this thing’s got a lock?”

She struggled to lift a wooden crossbar. “Here!”

Footsteps pounded outside the door. The men roared garbled words. Several shots smacked into the heavy wood, then the doorknob started to turn.

Hitch grabbed the crossbar and slammed it into place. The door opened just enough to bang into the bar before his own momentum knocked it shut again.

Panting, he surveyed the crossbar, then turned back to Jael. “Now where?”