Page 28 of Stalk the Sky

“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.

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