Page 31 of Winds of Death (War of the Alliance #4)
Chapter
Eighteen
F ieran strode between the aeroplanes in the hangar, his new gas mask bumping against his leg.
Around the hangar, the flyboys and flygirls lounged about as they waited on standby.
Beside the far wall, Stickyfingers and Lije consulted the donut recipe and double-checked their ingredients, debating whether they had enough to attempt donut-making.
Tiny gripped four glass jars in his arms, stopping every flyboy and flygirl to attempt to convince them to take some of the sourdough starter off his hands.
Shaking his head, Fieran headed toward where Pip was currently fiddling with something on her workbench near his aeroplane. Her dark brown hair frizzed from her haphazard bun, a smear of grease on her chin.
The wail of the red alert siren blared through the hangar, echoing off the steel and cement in a way that made him wince, even though he didn’t have the sensitive hearing of a full elf.
He spun on his heel and instead ran toward the opposite wall, where one of the mechanics was sliding into the seat behind the spare radio Pip had set up back when they’d first arrived at Fort Defense.
Fieran skidded to a halt next to the chair. “What’s going on?”
“A small formation of Mongavarian aeroplanes is coming over the mountain pass south of Fort Defense.” The mechanic grimaced as more static and voices came through the speaker.
“More aeroplanes! Coming over the Wall into Tarenhiel to the north.” The unknown voice gave the location. Perhaps he was the radio operator on one of the airships patrolling that section of the border.
Fieran did the calculations, mentally finding the spot on a map. He spun, turning toward the flyboys. “Suit up, everyone!”
As soon as Fieran and his squadron had shrugged into their flight gear, orders came from Colonel Dentley for their squadron to stagger takeoffs with Capt.
Fleetwood’s squadron. Capt. Fleetwood would go after the enemy to the south while the Half-Breed Squadron would take on the Mongavarians to the north.
Lt. Hadley’s squadron would remain on station above Fort Defense.
Within half an hour, Fieran gripped the control column as his aeroplane winged over the Hydalla River along the Tarenhieli-Mongavarian border.
Lt. Blair had the spot as his wingwoman since he didn’t trust her enough yet to assign her to anyone else.
Flight B trailed after him while Lt. Rothilion led Flight A in a formation flying several miles inland.
Fieran scanned the skies ahead in all directions. “Anyone spot the enemy?”
“Not yet.” Lije held station above and behind Fieran.
More trees flashed by below, not giving any landmarks for Fieran—or anyone else—to navigate by. Good thing they were sticking by the river, otherwise even Fieran would likely find himself pretty much lost over Tarenhiel.
“Enemy spotted.” Lt. Rothilion’s voice came over the radio, crisp and cool. “They are flying north-northwest.”
“Moving to intercept.” Fieran turned his aeroplane in that direction. He should come up behind the enemy and slightly from the side, cutting off the enemy’s avenue of retreat.
A distant glint of sun on something human-made—certainly nothing elven—provided him a more exact heading. Within another minute, the shapes of aeroplanes appeared out of the brightness of the morning.
Fieran pushed his aeroplane harder as he bore down on a small cluster of Mongavarian aeroplanes.
Strange that there were so few of the enemy. Before, Mongavaria had sent over large raids, trying to wipe out Escarland’s air defenses. Not that those large sorties had ever succeeded in anything but sacrificing Mongavaria’s most experienced pilots to Fieran’s magic.
Was this merely a scouting run? A small bombing run?
Lt. Rothilion swooped down on the lead enemy aeroplane, machine guns blasting.
The Mongavarian shot back, one of the other Mongavarians trying to loop around to come at Lt. Rothilion from the side. Aylia, as Lt. Rothilion’s wingwoman, cut off the enemy.
Fieran took a moment to scan the skies again, searching the rising sun for the telltale dark dots of more incoming aeroplanes. He couldn’t see any, but he’d keep a wary eye out.
As he neared the fight, Fieran released his magic, letting it coat his aeroplane before he blasted it outward. His magic danced over the protective wires, protecting the other members of his squadron.
The lead Mongavarian aeroplanes flared into swift turns, protected by the aeroplanes coming up behind them. Before Fieran could even reach them, the whole group of them had performed a coordinated turnabout as they beat a retreat.
Fieran joined Lt. Rothilion and the others in chasing the Mongavarians back to the border. As the Mongavarians kept fleeing, Fieran gave the order to hold at the border rather than pursue. The small raid might be bait to lure them across the border into a trap.
“Capt. Laesornysh to Fort Defense, the northern raid has been turned back.” Fieran held the button on the control column. “Do we need to assist on the southern raid?”
“No, that one has been turned back as well.” Colonel Dentley’s voice filled the radio waves. “Patrol the border to make sure the Mongavarians don’t come back.”
“Yes, sir.” Fieran acknowledged. He and his squadron had just pulled long hours the day before on another bombing run, but they’d be up for a day of patrols if needed.
Pip meandered through the aeroplanes parked in the hangar.
The large hangar doors were open to let in the somewhat cooler evening air, although the lack of a breeze left the night nearly as sweltering as the late summer day had been.
Strands of her hair stuck to the back of her neck, and she tugged her shirt away from her body, flapping it to try to cool herself.
The bustle of the day had gone quiet, and only a few mechanics still lingered as they cleaned their tools. She held up a hand to Mak but didn’t stop to talk.
She rounded the last aeroplane and finally spotted Fieran.
He was propped against the inner wall separating Bay 4 and 5, his flight cap, goggles, and scarf set beside him.
Despite the heat, he still wore his flight jacket and boots, as if he hadn’t had the energy to take them off.
His eyes were closed, his chest rising and falling as he slept, slumped right there against the wall.
Poor Fieran. Poor all of the flyboys and flygirls.
For the past three weeks, Mongavaria had been sending small sorties over the Wall, usually just far enough from Fort Defense that it would take the Alliance squadrons longer to respond.
Even with additional, new squadrons now stationed along the Tarenhieli border and farther south along Escarland’s border, Fort Defense was still covering a lot of territory.
And, of course, Fieran and his squadron were sent up more than any of the others, thanks to Fieran’s magic.
Yet every time Fieran, his squadron, or pilots from one of the other squadrons chased down the Mongavarians, the enemy only engaged for a few potshots before they turned tail and ran.
Worse, these small sorties just kept coming.
No sooner would Fieran and his men land after chasing down the enemy in one section of skies than another raid would be reported.
All three squadrons here at Fort Defense were being kept busy, nearly constantly in the sky from dawn to dusk.
Occasionally, Mongavaria would overlap so many raids that they’d manage to get in a small bombing run over Fort Defense, usually dropping gas canister bombs.
The change in strategy made far too much sense. Mongavaria had finally learned that sending large waves against Fieran was just a waste of lives.
But this new strategy was wearing everyone thin. They couldn’t catch a break. Couldn’t relax.
Even worse, the Alliance command was still pushing for more bombing runs of their own, and the squadrons had to fly protective formations around the bombers for the long bombing runs on top of having to turn back the Mongavarian raids.
Pip had barely seen Fieran and the flyboys in the past few weeks. There’d been no donut making. No relaxed dinners. By evening, all of them were too exhausted to do more than fall straight into bed.
About the only good news in the past three weeks had been word that the Alliance naval fleet had won a smashing victory over the Mongavarian Navy.
Retributions for the losses at Dar Goranth, or so the newspapers were saying.
At least Fieran’s cousins must be fine this time, for neither of the Generals Ardon had been called away.
Pip halted before where Fieran was sleeping, hesitating as she looked down at him. As much as she wanted to let him sleep, he would wake with a crook in his neck and an ache in his back if he slept the whole night sleeping propped against a wall.
She rested a hand on his shoulder and shook him. “Fieran.”
Fieran’s breathing hitched, and he blinked up at her. “Hey.”
“Hey.” She smiled and held out a hand. “Come on. You should get some sleep. In a proper bed and not just slumped against the wall. You should have already headed there.”
“I was waiting to talk to you.” Fieran smiled in return, though the expression just highlighted the dark circles beneath his eyes. “Are you up for a nighttime walk?”
“As long as that walk is in the direction of your tent, then yes.” As much as Pip wanted a romantic walk with Fieran, he needed his sleep more than she needed time with him. She’d known what she was signing up for when she said yes to courting Fieran while this war was ongoing.
“All right.” Fieran released her hand as he shrugged out of his thick flight jacket.
He wiggled out of his flight boots, revealing the uniform he wore beneath.
After shoving his feet into his military boots, the laces tucked inside rather than tied, he grabbed the pile of flight gear before he held out his hand again.