Young Writers Society

                                                        PORK EPIC#4

Lionel Fortner stood at the entrance to the cargo hold in his abominable steam mobile.

          He stood with the posture of a born domineering leader, managing through years of habit to affect a purely contemptuous gaze. There were many paths to becoming a respected leader, and in Fortner’s youth the one he had found himself on was fear and intimidation. Unfortunately, he had stuck to it.

          Half a dozen helicopters with a corresponding number of pilots sat in the broad cavern, all the supply crates stacked against the wall so that the contraptions had space in the middle. The ceiling had been withdrawn to allow them to fly out.

          Fortner cleared his throat.

          “I must again impress upon you the value of the Pines Titan,” he told them. “One way of describing it is that it is worth more than all of you combined.”

          The stone-carved expressions on the pilot’s faces did not betray whatever emotions they may have felt at this frank debasement.

          “Yes sir,” they replied quietly. Their eyes were concealed by the thick goggles strapped over them. Each of them wore gleaming black helmets and grey suits.

          Contented with what, for Fortner, was the only acceptable reply, he continued.

          “Your ‘copters have been stripped of their guns. The plan is simple: strike towards the airship, feint below it, then manoeuvre your crafts to the top and land there. There is a ladder on top that descends between the two inner gas bags into the gondola.” Fortner’s briefing reflected his ill-got knowledge of the ship’s design. “Be prepared to use your swords and crossbows on captain Bullworth and his men. When you've captured the ship, fire a flare.”

          “Yes sir.”

          “Off with you, then!” Fortner snapped. He turned and heaved his bulk back towards the front of the vehicle where he could watch the ensuing coup.

          With that command the engines of the helicopters roared into life. A thick, steadily loudening buzz erupted as the rotors began spinning faster and faster. The pilots strapped their seatbelts, signalled to one another and lifted one by one out of the cargo hold.

          The helicopters were small, simple crafts; they were composed of a single seat, a steel-encased engine, two small rotors on either side (for aerial rotation), and a single, major rotor that could be tilted in the directions of the compass in order to steer. For their appearance and overcompensating noise they had been dubbed ‘bees,’ and while originally designed by Fortner himself, these models were ironically of a superior Pines make.

          A two-row formation condensed the six helicopters, and in unison they accelerated towards the massive airship like flies descending upon a buffalo.

Pines and Lola spilled into the gondola close behind Jules.

          “Tell Harvey to fire up the furnaces, find Bullworth, and come back with the lot of them,” Pines shouted at Jules, already completely immersed in the commanding, proactive persona that had proved his saviour in numerous high-risk business deals and financial crises.

          Then he whirled on Lola with an expression on his face she knew all too well.

           “You’re not putting me out of the line of fire simply because I’m a woman, Mr. Pines!”

           Pines grinned a frightening grin. “Oh, I’m not taking you out of the line of fire—you’re going to be the cause of it!” With that he hustled her along to the end of the gondola, where, in between the two unconcealed catwalks leading to the sleeping quarters and engine room, was a ladder descending into a cosy alcove—containing a gunner’s seat and a machine gun. Pines managed to safely deposit the half-resisting Lola.

          Lola groaned with the realization that she had certainly gotten what she wished for. Pines quelled her meagre protest and seated her in front of the machine gun. As if anticipating her question, he fiddled with the weapon for a moment before setting her hands on the handles used to swivel it.

          “It’s all ready. Just aim and shoot!” Before she could say anything else he hurried up the ladder. She saw him run across one of the catwalks and then he was gone. Wide-eyed, she stared at the lethal hunk of metal with its trail of shells hanging out the side, waiting to be fire.

          “Easier said than done,” she murmured angrily.

          She looked along the barrel. Then she saw them: six black smudges, moving towards her against the backdrop of green fields down below. Already, she could hear the vague hum of their rotors. From her brief experience in Pines’ workshops she recognized them for what they were. She felt a heavy sensation in her stomach, as if fate were slowly closing in around her, tumbling unstoppably towards a crux.

          Lola wrapped her clammy hands around the handle grips. Could she really shoot them down? Even as she deliberated she could see them growing closer and closer. Mr. Pines had entrusted her with this job! And if he told you dance naked and sing a song? another part of her asked angrily.

          There was only a minute or two until they reached the airship. Lola’s heartbeat pounded in her ears.

          “Oh dear,” she groaned.

Victor Scarl rode at the head of the helicopter formation.

          His long pink ears flapped against the smooth helmet in the wind. Picturesque farmland stretched out beneath him, and before him hovered the airship. Despite the circumstances the essence of the job was nothing really out of the ordinary for him and his team. He was a hardened mercenary, having worked for both the government of Lod and the governments of its enemies, and countless private contractors.

          Out of all the private contractors, however, Fortner was the most irritating and despicable, a man who he could tolerate only for the large sum of money that he had paid him.

          Part of his exhilaration with the mission was escaping that infuriating man’s presence.

          His blood was up, and higher than usual. This was more than just his usual raid, or the typical guard assignment. The wind was hammering against his face; there was the vibration of the helicopter beneath him, their wild buzz and the thick but not unpleasant aroma of fuel. This was it, the king of all raids; a daring assault for the newspapers and for the storytellers. It was just him and his team, closing in on the daunting immensity of the airship, seeming infallible for all its size but sure to be conquered nonetheless.

          There was just no feeling quite like it.

          Silence greeted them from the airship. Victor found this peculiar, but did not mind. It was not impossible that the airship had no defences, after all, it was otherwise beyond reach and, as far as he knew, was just an exploration craft.

          They drew closer. The bulk of the airship began to dominate his sight. Peace continued undaunted.

          Just then, the deafening reports of gunfire opened up. Brilliant flashes of orange light appeared at the ship’s gondola. Bullets suddenly blazed through the air around him. A steady rat-a-tat-a-tat-a-tat-a-tat-a-tat filled his ears as the machine gun’s ammunition continued spraying around them. Chaos seemed to obliterate the harmony of their approach.

          The formation shattered, the helicopters weaving as bullets bombarded them. Victor signalled frantically for evasive movements while bullets exploded past him. One of them ricocheted off the metal casing of the engine, tilting the helicopter dangerously. He barely managed to correct it.

          “Hell and hell!” he cried, though his words were drowned in the erratic din. Their carefree assault had just become a terrible contest to avoid the killer downpour.

          Victor drove the helicopter forward. He was going to board that airship!