Chapter 4: Turbulence
There were thirteen passengers in the end.
And as they stepped through the doors into the sumptuous cabin of flight BSAA G-AGRE Star Ariel, McPhee shook the hands of every single one of them, looking them in the eyes for clues to their character.
There were five men – European aristocrats, American capitalists, Eastern oligarchs – wealthy and well-connected gentlemen each. But only three of them were accompanied by their stately wives. The other two sported girlfriends that nearly put Judith herself to shame – not that her crimson smile was in any way dimmed as she charged herself into their service.
McPhee watched them alight with well-concealed boredom. Passengers such as this were the mainstay of BSAA's operations. And they were all utterly predictable.
But the other three passengers did catch his eye.
They were younger than the rest – two were obviously military men, like himself – and after he heard them speak, McPhee wondered what business the British Armed Forces could have in Jamaica these days, that they were flying on a contract air carrier in plain clothes.
But the thirteenth passenger made him downright uncomfortable. A solitary man – wearing a long, leather trench coat despite the tropical heat – watchful, and somehow shifty looking. His expensive clothes didn't fit him well around the shoulders.
McPhee disliked him at once, and despite his efforts, the unpleasant stories started playing again in his mind. The lurid, screaming headlines that the papers had splashed about almost exactly a year ago.
The ones about the Star Tiger.
The stories about commercial sabotage, and government cover-ups. About undercover spies being sighted on the Kindley Field tarmac, and secret messages sent across the ocean in locked leather briefcases on the doomed airliner.
McPhee was glad when he could retire to the cockpit with his First Officer Dauncey, and speed down the runway into a smooth ascent over the clear, blue ocean.
At 8:41hrs, the January morning was perfectly calm, and perfectly beautiful. There was nothing ahead but icy blue skies from lift-off to landing – so McPhee took the plane as high as she'd go. And at 18,000 feet above the sea, with nothing but wispy white cirrus clouds for company, the Star Ariel radio'd ahead to Kingston Aerodrome:
I DEPARTED FROM KINDLEY FIELD AT 8:41AM HOURS.
MY ETA AT KINGSTON 2.10PM HOURS.
I AM FLYING IN GOOD VISIBILITY AT 18,000FT.
I FLEW OVER 150 MILES SOUTH OF KINDLEY FIELD AT 9.32 HRS.
MY ETA AT 30° N IS 9.37 HRS.
WILL YOU ACCEPT CONTROL?
For despite their relative closeness to the island terminal they'd just departed, Radio Operator Rettie was having difficulty hailing Kindley Field on the airwaves – and McPhee didn't much like the thought of flying across the blank, blue Bermudan skies under radio silence.
They would be alone enough out there.
But the rolling radio blackouts continued, and even on the long-range frequency, Rettie's messages weren't getting through. In the end, at 9:42hrs McPhee bid him sign over to MRX – the Kingston broadcast frequency – hoping to let the outside world know their whereabouts.
I WAS OVER 30° N AT 9.37
I AM CHANGING TO MRX
But to McPhee's growing concern, Kingston didn't acknowledge.
They flew on for five minutes, ten minutes, fifteen – and still there was no reply from the ground. There was no way at all to contact the outside world now, and McPhee had the terrible thought, as he looked down to the turquoise ocean below, that they could have flown clean off the end of reality out here, and never known.
And nobody else would ever have known either.
Humanity could have wiped itself out and all the great cities of the world been obliterated, and all they would hear out here was the constant drone of the four Tudor engines as the Star Ariel slid through never-ending azure skies.
Without wishing it, McPhee thought back to his vanished RAF comrade, Captain Brian McMillan –flying over this same sea corridor in a dark, January gale, never to be seen again. Exactly a year ago to the day – minus thirteen. Flying low to avoid freezing the 31 on-board in the chill night air, following the Lancastrian Tudor guidance flight which charted the course by celestial navigation. Running low on fuel as they turned straight into a stormy headwind.
But while the stars had allowed the Lancastrian safe passage over the sea, there had been no return home for Brian McMillan or Shiela Niccols. Or anyone else on-board the BSAA G-AHNP Star Tiger.
All that remained of them had been a series of eerie radio messages – picked up by amateur operators all down the US East coast – a pseudo Morse-code of numbered dots, with the letters 'T-I-G-E-R' forever looping.
And the crackling, static, androgenous voice on the airwaves spelling out 'G-A-H-N-P' over and over again.
Until four days later, when even the ghostly messages died.
And never a trace of debris had ever been found.
McPhee shivered, and held his plane high as the blue skies buried the plane ever deeper from the sight and sound of the living, breathing, outside world.
The very air was making his skin crawl – the sun shone right behind them now from the East, and all around the cockpit, the weird, green glow of the ocean sent ripples of shimmering, dancing light into the pilot's blue eyes.
The drone of the four Tudor engines swarmed and swirled around the stuffy cabin, and McPhee shifted in his seat.
The airman's ears were sharp, and it seemed that the pitch of the propellers had somehow altered. Like the rarefied green air was not feeding them enough oxygen, and ever so slowly – they were starting to fail...
He turned to Dauncey, fidgeting at the controls by his side.
"You hear that?"
And then – from somewhere in the passenger cabin – came the shattering wail of a woman's scream...
After what had had felt like an eternity, the fighting outside the Great Hall of Dale finally ceased. And all around her – all the old men, women and children in the great hall – rejoiced in deliverance.
Salvation was theirs.
Sigrid watched the cheering crowd, and hugged her little sister tighter. After gripping her for so long, her arms ached, and her whole body was stiff and sore. But they were alive, and safe now – her brother and sister – and little Tilda squirmed to break free of her sister's smothering embrace.
"Siggy, put me down!"
Her brother glanced over at the two of them and laughed.
"We won! You're allowed to smile now, sis!"
She looked at her brother's happy face and struggled to return a smile. She didn't feel especially like celebrating, and was too tired to try and reciprocate the glee all around her.
She had no idea where their father was, or whether he was unhurt – although she at least trusted in his ability to keep himself safe. He was no stranger to fighting, and the landscape here was his home. He knew all the places to run and hide.
Her more desperate thoughts kept returning to Fili – somewhere out there, well beyond her reach. Had he made it safely to Erebor? Had his party been ambushed before they made it? Was he safe from harm, or...was he hurt?
She needed some answers.
"Let's go and find Dad." She beckoned to her siblings, unwilling to stay another minute in the sweaty hall with all her fears and anxieties. "He'll want to know we're all okay."
Fighting their way through the door, past people flooding out to the cobbled streets in jubilation, Sigrid took her siblings' hands and led them into the flow outside. Everyone was hurrying towards the battlefield site – seeking news of their friends and loved-ones, and the celebratory atmosphere turned tense as they walked further onwards.
As they mounted the summit of a hill and took their first glimpse of the battle site, Sigrid stopped and gasped. As far as the eye could see, there were soldiers – and not just men either.
Where the streets of Dale receded, and the towering peak of the Lonely Mountain sank into the barren, rocky plain, whole armies of the various races of the world were stationed – some at rest, some chasing scattered remnants of the orc forces back towards the eastern extents. While others lay motionless on the ground.
She noticed a large force of dwarves in the middle of the plain, and stood staring in dismay. Where had these people all come from? And why were they here? Was Fili with them?
"Wow, look at them all!" Her younger brother gazed at the scene in amazement. "Do you think they'll all come into Dale now the fighting's over?"
But Sigrid shook her head. "There's no room, Bain. They'll probably go back to where they came from." She glanced up at the mountain, wondering whether it was true. What if the dwarves took Fili with them when they left? What if he never came back to her? She shook her head again, trying to clear her troubled mind.
"Let's get closer, and find Dad."
But no sooner had Sigrid spoke the words than she saw him, trudging up the hill with a limp in one leg and a sword in one hand, a party of men by his side.
There was blood on his face.
"Dad!"
Dropping her hands, her little siblings ran to their father, and Bard dropped his sword to gather them close to him.
"My treasures – you're all safe!"
"We hid in the hall," her brother explained. "It was the only place we could go. What happened? Why did the orcs come back?"
Sigrid saw a shadow flit across her father's face and he closed his eyes, hugging his son.
"Because some dwarves led them here, Bain. But those dwarves were lucky that they weren't left to fight alone – although they deserved it well enough." He opened his eyes, and shared a stony look with his men. "We joined forced with Thranduil's elven army, and repelled the orcs. They won't be back in a hurry. Their leaders are dead."
Sigrid stepped forward, desperate to know more.
"And the dwarves, Dad? What happened to them?" She hardly even dared to ask the question, for fear of cursing her luck. "Do you know what happened to Fili?"
Her father looked up at her, and she saw the sudden concern on his face. He didn't say anything as he stared quietly, and the seconds ticked by.
And in those seconds she knew her world was ending.
And with a blistering fervour, she wished for her father to hold his tongue, and not say the words she feared so much out loud...
For a truth unspoken might still be no truth at all.
"I don't know, Sigrid – I didn't see it for myself. I only know what I've heard."
Sigrid felt her heart stop in her chest. "What have you heard?"
Her father stood up, bidding the men at his sides to head on, and they stole forward without looking her in the eyes.
She stared at her father, feeling the tears starting to form already. "What's happened?"
But her father shook his head. "I'm sorry – I am, really."
He strode across the gap that separated him from his daughter, and took her in his arms. "They say he died by his brother's side, and their uncle along with them. That's all I heard."
Sigrid closed her eyes, and opened them again to scan the battlefield. "Maybe it's not true," she whispered. "Maybe you heard wrong."
Her father regarded her doubtfully. "It's unlikely, Siggy."
But she shook her head, still scanning the battlefield. "I have to find him, Dad."
Her father nodded. "I know, but Siggy – "
She broke away from her father, wiping the tears away. She had to know for sure.
"I need to find him."
Her father nodded unhappily. "We'll be waiting in the old schoolhouse for you. But Sigrid – "
She stared back at her father blankly, his words already growing distant to her.
"Maybe it's best to remember him how he was."
Sigrid turned to the battlefield and ran. She ran from her father, and his pity – and from the curious glances of her younger siblings as they tried to understand what was so suddenly wrong with their steady older sister.
She needed to find Fili, and see the truth for herself. Inside of her was a horrible, tearing pain – and all that stood in the way of it overwhelming her completely was the tiny, frightened hope that what her heart knew to be true was somehow mistaken.
She ran on and on – past the men still filtering in from the fight, tattered and exhausted in their dirty clothes and hardened faces – past the ranks of stern and ordered elves, who observed her with distain and mild irritation.
And after an age of running, she came to the smaller number of dwarf soldiers who stood grimly around the edge of the battlefield, morose and melancholic as they bowed in lamentation.
She turned to the nearest one with a desperate cry, and yanked him around by the shoulder.
"Where's Fili?" She saw the startled glare on the dwarf's face turn to one of curiosity, and then sympathy, as his brown eyes took in her face, and her trembling lower lip.
And wordlessly he pointed the way down towards the little stream that ran below the cliffs, and her heart all but disintegrated then and there.
For as Sigrid followed his hand with her eyes, she saw the silent mass of their dead comrades laid out in rows.
She staggered blindly towards them, unaware of the disapproving glances her presence was already earning, and feeling utterly lost – until she felt a hand on her arm.
She spun around, and saw the dwarf from the beach. The one with the big hat and lopsided smile.
Except he wasn't smiling now.
"Sigrid? What are you doing here?"
The dwarf put his arm around her back, and touched her lightly in concern. "Are you alright?"
Sigrid shook her head, pointing to the dead soldiers.
"Where's Fili?"
And with a sigh, the little dwarf enclosed her with his other arm, and held her as she cried.
She was dimly aware that he was stroking her hair, and making soothing noises in his language – but the words meant nothing to her.
"Can I see him?"
She felt the dwarf release her, and look her in the eyes with a stark directness. She noticed the red marks around his own eyes, and knew he understood her pain.
"I don't know if that's wise, Sigrid. He's not... as you remember him."
She lowered her gaze, and closed her eyes. "He is dead then."
It was more of a statement than a question, but the dwarf answered it anyway.
"Yes. He is. All three of them are."
She shook her head sadly. "I'm sorry."
But he took her by the arm, and led her towards the river. "If it will help you to see him, then nobody here will stop you, Sigrid." He eyed around the rest of the dwarves, huddled together in groups, trying to comfort each other. "We all know how he felt about you."
Sigrid stopped, choking back a sob.
"You do?"
The dwarf nodded solemnly. "Him and Kili were talking in the boat." His face lit up with a short-lived smile, as he remembered his friends. "He said he'd fallen in love with Bard's eldest daughter, and he was going to talk to your father. To ask for your hand." The dwarf reached into his jacket, and withdrew something from an inner pocket.
"Before the battle, he told me that if anything happened to him, to give you this."
Sigrid took the object – wrapped up in a small, blue scrap of wool – and regarded it. It was a small wooden star, with some dwarfish writing carved into the surface.
"What does it say?" She heard her voice breaking as she spoke.
Bofur studied it with some sadness. It's two initials in our alphabet – yours and his. Joined into one."
Sigrid felt her hand shake, and hastily buried the little star in her pinafore.
And without a word, the dwarf led her on, until she saw him – lying before her on the ground, his blue eyes closed now forever and his body lifeless and pale. There was blood on his chest, and on his clothes. His own life's blood, spilled so pointlessly in spite of all her warnings.
With a cry, Sigrid dropped to her knees, and felt her hands rush to her mouth in horror.
She knelt there for a while in silence, and numbly reached out to touch the ashen, waxy skin on his face, feeling the sickening repulsion as her finger met something cold and dead.
She brushed his lips with her finger – the same lips that had promised his return – and felt no breath, no life. Like his face, they were chilled and motionless.
Without thinking, she brought her own lips down to his, to kiss him one last time.
"Why didn't you listen to me?"
Her voice was angry, and sad, and she waited for a time before realising that she would have no reply. She would never have a reply.
She would never hear his voice again.
With some difficulty, she rose to her feet, the tears flowing freely now.
The dwarf took her arm, his own eyes shining.
"Look after yourself, Sigrid. It's what he would have wanted. And don't be a stranger to us here. You'll always be welcome in Erebor."
She nodded dumbly, and felt her arm being squeezed.
And then she was walking away, hearing the mournful lamentations ringing in her ears as she staggered on – back in the direction she thought was the way home.
She didn't know where she was going – she had no plans now. No ideas. No hope. But she wanted to get away from this place, and all these people, before she buckled under the pain completely.
And without looking back, Sigrid fled the scene and ran to her woods in a daze.