Weston Ochse - Reign of Evil

Then he signed off.

Genaro, who had been following the conversation over her shoulder, straightened. “Ingenious. I read a book once about spies communicating during MMORPGs. What was your plan B if this didn’t work?”

She frowned and hugged her sweater around her. “Carrier pigeon.”

“I think they’re extinct.”

“That says it all.” She sat back in her chair. England had a long history of kings and queens and not everyone found the throne through peaceful means. What was that mnemonic they’d made her learn in order to recall the long line of English monarchs?

Then Preeti added two lines:

She struggled to find the right word, but all she could think of was:

And to think two Irish helicopters, five Americans, a Belgian dog, and Ian were all who could possibly alter this path. She began to cry, big, choking sobs. She cried for herself, she cried for Jerry, she cried for Trevor, and she cried for England… an England who’d embraced her family and every other family, regardless from whence they came.

Lieutenant Patrick Kelly cursed loudly in the cockpit of his Superhawk helicopter. “Seriously? Christmas Day we have to pull some English nit’s balls out of the fire?” He’d planned on a nice afternoon with a gal he’d met off base. She was single. He was single. He imagined getting some ribbon and wrapping himself up as a present so he could gift himself to her.

But then Conor had contacted him through flight control. It was strange at first that Conor hadn’t called him on his cell phone, but he’d explained that there were issues with communications at the current time, which was why Patrick had stood in flight control wearing a headset with an on-duty noncom staring at him while Conor gave him the rundown.

“Get Keith. You two have to meet some friends at Cadbury Castle. You’ll take your orders from Ian Waits. Do what he says until this is all over.”

Keith stumbled out of the hangar, zipping up his flight suit. He gave Patrick a quizzical look as he made his way to his own helicopter.

Patrick shrugged with his hands. He watched Keith’s walk. The kid had been in his pints last night and it was possible he could still have alcohol in his system. He waited until Keith put on his flight helmet and jacked in. Then he called over.

“You okay, brother?”

“Always.”

Patrick paused for a second, then asked, “You sure had a good time last night?”

“Fuck you very much.”

“Keith, I—”

“Forget it. I’m good. Let’s get spun up and over there to see what the hell is going on.”

Patrick had done everything he could. Keith was probably okay. He had the metabolism of a twenty-year-old and could fly circles around most pilots. Actually, he was lucky to have Keith with him. They were to fly Nap-of-the-Earth to avoid detection. Although NOE was unusual outside a combat zone, Patrick had gotten the impression from Conor that England had suddenly become a combat zone. Patrick was eager to find out why.

He’d already prepared the flight plans for their return home to Casement Aerodrome in Dublin. So he’d filed those, which meant they’d have to head north over the Celtic Sea, before heading east to Cadbury Castle.

He glanced over at Keith again and watched him go through preflight. They were more alike than different. They’d both lost family in Northern Ireland and had grown up with war all around them. So when they had the chance to spend time in the south of England, even during the cold, blustery month of December, it was a luxury they didn’t take for granted.

Both Keith and he had been enlisted soldiers prior to becoming officers. They hadn’t known each other when they’d transferred to helicopters, but they’d formed a fast and lifelong friendship in flight school, even if it felt sometimes that he was the older brother in their relationship.

Then they met the Finn McCools. Something in Keith’s and Conor’s files had made the McCools interested in them and they soon found their missions filled with odd creatures and cryptids they’d previously only seen on badly made movies on the cable TV channels. Part of him believed it was just this sort of mission that he was about to embark upon, which went a long way to ameliorate the disappointment he felt at missing his much-anticipated assignation.

The sky was overcast with a ceiling of five hundred meters. Visibility was at five kilometers. It had snowed lightly early in the morning, but the day was now crisp and clear, so flying shouldn’t be an issue.

With preflight done for both helicopters, he called flight control. The engines whined and the blades spun clumsily. But as they gathered speed they took on a slick appearance and the sound rose in pitch.

“FM One, this is Control. All flights are grounded. Repeat. All flights are grounded.”

“Control, this is FM One requesting clearance.”

“Negative, FM One. All flights are grounded.” The voice had been friendly but firm.

Interesting. “Control, we are en route for Baldonnel. Please grant clearance, over.”

“Negative. Stand down.”

He toggled to craft-to-craft mode. “Keith, looks like we’re going to have to make a run for it.”

“What are they going to do, shoot us down?”

Patrick laughed but hoped that it wouldn’t come to that. It couldn’t. Or could it? “Ready?”

“You lead, I’ll follow.”

“Control, this is FM One. Request permission return to home base.”

“Negative. Stand down.” This time the voice was anything but friendly.

“Affirmative, Control. Thanks and Merry Christmas.”

He punched the throttle, lifted the collective, and pushed the stick forward. He roared across the tarmac, his ears suddenly filled with commands to stand down and return to base, but he ignored them like he did most things English.

“Patrick?”

“On your six.”

He reveled in the power of the new Sikorsky H-92s. The military variant of the S-92 and an upgrade over the S-70, the Superhawk boasted more than 3,000 shaft horsepower. Nominally assigned to the Irish Coast Guard, as was his cover status, they were meant for search and rescue. Of course the Ministry of Defence had ordered two extras for the Finn McCools to use. The delivery last year of these aircraft eliminated the need to keep the older ones aloft with spit, bailing wire, and prayers to all denominational deities. Patrick loved the feel of the craft.

The pair of green and white Superhawks flew at an elevation of thirty meters over the windswept empty grounds of Flambard’s Themepark. The Skyraker thrill ride towered over them for a moment; then they were moving on. Patrick switched off his Identification Friend or Foe transponder and had Keith do the same.