"I don't get my money, you don't get my respect, ya hear?"

Tord released an exasperated sigh. Attempting to land a punch on Shostler, who stood about a head taller than him, had landed him in an unsavory position. Being shoved unceremoniously against the rough wooden floorboards with a steel-toed boot digging into his spine was not something he had planned or prepared for when he decided to visit the shop.

In hindsight, he probably should have seen this coming. Shostler was an engineer who was very peculiar about his payment, and Tord had known he would eventually find out about Tord's situation. When bankruptcy was involved, word tended to get out fast among workers. Because while many who worked for Red Army were freelancers who agreed to help here and there, there was a large amount of soldiers who dedicated their whole life to the army and therefore depended on Tord for their paycheck. Which meant a not-so-fun time for Tord if he ever found himself unable to pay his soldiers.

"I told you," Tord spoke into the floorboards, rolling his eyes. "I will get you your money, all in good time." He cringed as the other man pressed his boot harder.

"'All in good time' wasn't part of the deal, norski."

Tord thought frantically. "Um, but did we ever clarify that it was not…part of the deal?"

The other man blinked.

The Norwegian sighed. "Look, Shostler. You are one of my most invaluable assets. I would never cheat you out of a paycheck."

"Uh-huh," Shostler said, unconvinced. "Really? Well, just the other day another one of your most 'invaluable assets' was griping to me about budget cuts and drops in salar-"

"Griping? Who?" Tord asked, his interest piqued.

"Don't remember a name. I do remember, though, he seemed to enjoy chewing his cigarette. Grossest thing, ya know? How does he stand the-"

"Paul." Tord ground his teeth.

"Yeah, that was it." Shostler scratched his head. "Ran into him just at the local bar the other night. He was wasted, poor guy. Must'a recognized my face from a previous mission, 'cause he started complaining to me as soon as I took a seat behind 'im at the counter. Said you demoted him and cut his salary."

Tord frowned inwardly. He hadn't been aware Paul had taken the demotion so personally. It was only a temporary punishment for crashing the plane he'd been captaining – Tord was going to eventually give him his usual rank back. Punishment had been, regretfully in this particular case, necessary. If the other soldiers had witnessed Tord allowing Paul to get by doing such a thing without some kind of repercussions, what would they think of Tord? That he was some kind of feeble invertebrate that could be taken advantage of? No, Paul's demotion had been the only way to go.

Besides, Tord had thought Paul would get a laugh out of his new position as the mess hall's sanitation manager.

With a sinking feeling, Tord realized he would have to give the ex-captain a talk. However much he favored the cigarette-smoking man, Tord couldn't just let him go around spilling beans to anybody with a familiar face. Then, Tord froze. What had Paul been doing this far east a few nights ago? Sanitation managers weren't permitted to go on missions, or even leave the base without scheduled leave for that matter.

"Did he happen to tell you what he is doing in town?" Tord asked, as casually as though over tea, despite having his face shoved against the wooded floor still.

Shostler gave a hearty laugh. "Like I even had time to ask questions! Your little soldier was drunk off his hinges and mumbling nearly incoherently. You should'a heard him."

"Did he mention any names?"

"Sure." The engineer grinned, taking his foot off Tord's back and crossing his arms. "Said your name plenty of times. And some fella, 'Pat'." He waved his hand dismissively. "Now get outta here. But if you still don't have my money next time I see your face…"

Tord scrambled to get back on his feet. He straightened up and brushed his sleeves with his fingers, his cheeks red. Tord didn't need to hear the remainder of Shostler's threat to know the engineer meant business. He nodded to the man stiffly and moved to the door.

"Do not worry," Tord assured the man with as much confidence as he could muster. "I will be back soon, and I will have your payment." He shut the door behind him on the way out and chose not to linger longer than necessary. Picking his way through the rapidly growing blanket of snow, he rushed back to the snowmobile and threw himself down onto the passenger seat. Fat flakes burnt cold as they wetted his face. He blinked to clear them from his eyes and hurried to tug his cap up over his hair.

Patryk watched him from the driver's seat, one hand hovering over the stick shift. "Where to, boss?"

"Closest base," Tord answered after a moment of thought. "Be prepared to fly the helicopter when we arrive, Patryk. We are returning to headquarters."

With one last curious glance at Tord, Patryk turned to the mobile's controls and started the engine. The vehicle roared to life, its headlights flooding the dim terrain ahead. The snow glimmered.

With a press of the pedal, they were off. The snowmobile kicked into drive and, spraying up a shower of snow behind it, pressed over the frozen ground. It shot out from under the convenient overhang provided by the disconnected garage and into the open, where there was no haven from the storm's full might but for the coniferous canopy above.

As it was, the canopy was sparse – a thin patchwork of needles that provided very little shelter from the snow and that would occasionally spill large sheets of ice and snow onto the path before the snowmobile. Tord turned his head and peeked at the driver, who seemed to be concentrating very hard; Patryk frowned and bit his lip as he steered the vehicle, most likely trying to make sure it wouldn't tip as he plowed over uneven, fresh snow. He was squinting, as the snow had only begun to press harder against them since their departure of Shostler's shop – a sign, along with the grey clouds overhead, that the storm was worsening.

Eventually they came upon a rotting shed of a house that seemed to jump out from behind the trees as Patryk took a gradual turn off the sinuous, paved path. The few shingles remaining on its roof were an ashen blue-grey and the paneling on its sides looked as though they'd all been replaced at different times, leaving a mismatched mess of muted whites and peeling paint. There was a small wooden porch that creaked and whined as Tord and Patryk mounted its sinking steps and approached the door, which was adorned with an assortment of heavy-duty locks.

Patryk grabbed the white tarp that rested next to the doormat and hurried off toward the snowmobile to camouflage it from any curious eyes that might come this way off the road. Meanwhile, Tord knocked on the door and waited for a response.

There was a shuffling from the other side of the door. Then with an indignant groan, the door was pulled ajar a few centimeters. It was darker inside, and Tord had to blink to see the soldier who peeked his head in the gap. "Ah, Red Leader!" the soldier said cheerily, and the door swung wide open.

"Thank you…" Tord squinted, his eyes adjusting to the dim room. He stepped in and looked at the soldier's nametag. "Isaac."

The soldier gave him a funny look. "Who's Isaac?"

Tord frowned and pointed at the nametag. The soldier giggled.

"Oh that," he said, shrugging. "I'm borrowing this uniform."

Tord chose not to pry into the matter further and remained silent. Eventually his company was paged and had to leave the room, to which Tord released a small relieved sigh. He sat, sinking into a nearby musty sofa, and waited until there was another knock on the door.

"The weather's looking pretty bad," Patryk said as soon as he stepped in through the door, shedding snow onto the floor and leaving wet footprints. "If I could offer a suggestion, boss?"

"You are going to suggest waiting out the storm?" When Patryk nodded, Tord sighed. "Eh," he said, waving a hand dismissively, "you are always worrying, Patryk. We will be fine."

Patryk frowned, looking slightly annoyed. "But you remember what happened last time, when Paul was flying! It was storming then, too."

Tord perked up at the mention of the other soldier. "Speaking of Paul…" he began. "Have you seen him lately?"

Patryk lowered his gaze to the ground and shook his head. "He keeps avoiding me. Ever since the crash."

"You do not know of his whereabouts, then?"

The soldier shook his head. "Huh?"

Tord silently reset the locks on the door and turned towards the entrance to the basement, all the while with Patryk watching him, the look of worry on the soldier's face intensifying by the second. Before Tord could step away, Patryk caught him by the arm.

"What happened to Paul?" he cried, his voice small.

There was a brief silence as Tord sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "That is what I am trying to find out." Patryk's grip on his arm loosened and Tord resumed his walk to the basement entrance. He looked back at the other man before entering.

"Look," he said, "the sooner we get to headquarters the sooner we can start a search for him."

That certainly broke Patryk's trance. The soldier's expression hardened. He pushed past Tord and proceeded into the basement. "Then let's fly a helicopter."

Tord cast a weary glance at the puddle from the snow Patryk had tracked in before following the soldier down the stairs. The house creaked as the wind outside howled and pressed against it, making the very walls shiver. No, it was not safe conditions to fly. And yes, they were about to depart in a giant flying metal trap.

This is going to be fun, Tord thought as they entered the underground hangar.