Author's Note- Sorry about the delay folks. I hope the read was worth it though. Just a few hundred more words, and I'll have fifty thousand words! It's amazing to think about! I'm glad that people have been keeping recent on my story, and am honored to have the criticizms and opinions of readers. Again, thank you!

Through The Storm

Chapter 10-

Cambridge's brow glistened now, and he dragged the sleeve of his jumpsuit across it. His breathing had slowed, his heart pounded less rapidly... he was in control again. The winds had violated and manhandled his 'girl,' they'd had their way with his plane. The faithful Douglas had been kicked about like a can in a back alley, but she had righted herself again. The winds were not uncommon for the area, and George knew that. It was just the severity of the gust, and its suddenness which surprised him. Setting his course, Cambridge made sure his plane was on even keel, and then turned for the cockpit door. During the rolling and pitching, this had swung wildly (as Taylor had left it open), and had smacked against the short passageway to the passenger cabin. He leaned out into the passage, and called back to Ireland.

"Jesus, sorry about that!" he apologized. "Are you guys alright?"

Ireland straightened himself out. "Just a bit shaken, that's all... but the folks in back... well..."

Cambridge nodded. "Just as long as nobody's hurt. That was one sucker of a gust."

With a nod, George finished tending to his passengers. He now returned to the cockpit, and checked his instruments. As his eyes began to browse the various dials and meters, Perrine's voice squawked through the headset.

"Excuse me, but Mister Cambridge?"

"Yes, what is it?" he transmitted back.

"How far off are we from our destination?"

Cambridge checked his watch, which he had set prior to the flight. Doing some quick math, he figured their airspeed, distance, and travel time.

"We're about... oh... ten minutes off thereabout. Thanks for bringin' it to my attention."

"Not a problem," she replied. "Thanks for the update."

He nodded to himself. "Sure thing. We'll probably start our descent now, and drop to about a hundred feet off the surface of the water, give or take a few. Make it slow and easy, 'cause there still could be bad fog."

Perrine acknowledged, and the radio was soon quiet again. Setting his throttles, Cambridge then reached for the knob for the aircraft's gyro. Unlike modern aircraft, which can be fixed to an altitude and have a rate of climb set, the Douglas had a noticably simpler system. This system, called the Sperry autopilot, allowed for the pilot to set a heading, and a flight attitude or pitch. Despite allowing for more hands-free flight, the system still required the pilot to be attentive to his instruments.

With the flick of the wrist, the pilot set the plane for a down pitch of five degrees. To avoid overspeed, he idled back to about one third throttle.

Meanwhile, back at Westhampnett...

Trevor Maloney was much less than enthused. In fact, he was quite angry. With a scowl, he stormed down the runway, heading for one of the aircraft hangars. As planned, Maloney had understood the message that had been sent. He had immediately been concerned for his own plans, and had left for the RAF station as soon as time would allow him to depart. He knew not that Sergeant Bishop, this unknown Gallian, an armorer and some boy had left before his arrival.

He had quite frankly, been shafted.

In his absence, he had left his second in command in charge; a ranking officer who had originally been involved in the Warlock program. Certain loyalty was backed by bribery and scandals, bringing the man to his pedistal in much the same way that Maloney had himself risen. It was also by this method that Maloney had kept his career, and avoided prosecution by a special court session held by the League of Nations and the RAF. The man was a rat.

As he continued to stride through the fog, he felt himself being watched. The walls had eyes, he knew, as many stared silently through windows and from behind corners. Upon his arrival, most of the base's citizenry had hidden itself, and RAF Westhampnett had turned into a decommissioned ghost town. Bringing a small group of soldiers, Maloney had already found three of them, and interrogated them thoroughly. A smile began to creep from the corner of his lips, soon turning into a smirk, a sneer, then a grin. His eyes twinkled evilly, and he moved silently as he listened for movement. He searched carefully, focusing his eyes for a moment on the windows of the buildings.

"You had best all come out now!" he called jovially. "No harm will come to you if you cooperate, I can guarantee you that!"

He waited a moment, cupping his ear. He stood stock still, the fog drifted by, and his joints stiffened in the penetrating cold. He stood patiently, waiting ever so long for a sound. A few minutes later, his waiting paid off.

"Piss off ya' fuckin' twat!" someone snapped, their shout echoing through the fog.

Maloney's face remained a mask of glee, but only for a fleeting moment. It then turned, first into a mask of confoundment, then a look of recognition. After that it morphed to reflect rage.

"Mock me will you? I'll have you for that, you stupid bastards!"

He then grabbed for his holster, and popped the snap on it. Fumbling with the safety he yanked out his service pistol, a Webley Revolver, and cocked the hammer. The safety flipped off then, and he aimed for where the voice had come from in the fog. His finger pulsed, squeezed on the trigger. It pulled, and the gun roared.

BLAM, cock BLAM, cock BLAM

The double-action clicked briefly on the recocking of the hammer, audible due to slow and deliberate trigger pulls. He stopped at three shots, the report echoing through the fog. Townspeople nearby stopped, listening to the gunfire. Silence reigned over the base, as though a candle had been snuffed. Maloney flipped the safety on again, and calmly dropped the pistol back into the holster. As he smiled to himself, the sound of running footsteps came through the fog.

"Sir, sir, what the hell are you doing? You just started a bloody war!"

He turned to face the new arrival; one of the men he had brought along. He was sprinting as fast as his legs could carry him, his eyes showing a huge volume of fear. Out of curiosity, Maloney's brow rose.

"What do you mean?" he asked bemusedly.

The soldier skidded to a stop. "We just checked their armory," he said hurriedly, sucking in the cold air. "There was enough weaponry and ammunition to arm every man, woman, and child for at least a quarter mile out from the base!"

"And?"

"It's bloody empty, save for some artillery shells! Every man here is armed, you moron! Even the guns for the bombers and fighters were taken!"

As though to punctuate the soldier's words, a roar of gunfire responded in short order. The staccato rattle of machine guns, submachines, and even the sound of pistols filled the air like a percussion section filled with monkeys. Bullets whined and hummed, spat and thumped. The soldier took a shot in the foot, and howled with pain. Maloney grabbed the man under the arms, and began to drag him for a nearby hangar. All the while, he fired back at shadows which appeared on the rooftops. He missed all, his aim thrown by his struggling burden. Bullets trailed on the ground after him, as though running a stitch into the earth. He was moving slowly enough that any shot could hit himself or the soldier. They were missing him intentionally. Maloney managed to slip around the edge of a hangar, and settle to the ground.

"GOD DAMNIT!" he roared, slamming his fist into the building's wall.

The soldier next to him gasped with pain. "My... my foot! They actually shot me in the bloody foot!" he sputtered in disbelief, his voice cracking with agony.

"Oh, shut up you fucking half-wit!" the Air Marshal spat. "If you can't even take a bullet to the foot without cryin', then it's a small wonder how in the hell you even became a soldier for the commonwealth."

Bullets continued to ricochet off the buildings around them. Maloney took a deep, measured breath, and began to rise to his feet with his back sliding against the damp wall. He withdrew the revolver, dumped the empty shells, and loaded a fresh load into the chambers. Snapping the chambers closed, he then crept to the edge of the wall. The gunfire had slowly begun to subside. With care, he peered around the corner and scanned the rooftops.

"Let's see..." he muttered to himself. "On the rooftops, there are five... two behind that outbuilding..."

As he thought, he pulled the gun and trained it on various targets. What he listed were the distinct silhouettes he spotted in the fog. They lined the rooftops, peered around corners like he himself did, and poked from windows. If one were to compare the situation, it would be much like the movie The Italian Job from 1969, wherein Charlie Croker is surrounded by the Italian Mafia on all sides; the wall next to the roadway, the road, in front, behind, and up the hillside. The men of the squadron, pilots and ground crew alike, all stood or crouched calmly. They too trained their weapons on the corrupt Air Marshal without even a hint of concern.

He was surrounded.

The 'forty-seven' was about seven miles out now, and descending toward a thick pall of grey fog which roiled and seethed menacingly with gusts. The aircraft looked miniscule, almost like a mosquito, against the massive backdrop of grey mist. It seemed almost surreal, as though it were a huge painting.

Such is life in the eyes of a pilot.

During the course of Cameron and Lynette's brief masquerade in a flying drink shaker, Perrine had stayed faithfully on their tail during the entirety of the flight. About half a mile behind, the Spitfire soared through the skies with the same grace of a thoroughbred on the track. She too was stricken by powerful gusts, but the roaring Merlin and it's propeller on the shaft chewed faithfully through the skies, propelling the Spitfire forward with ease.

Perrine had wanted the time to think, as well as establish her contingency plans and explanations. Had she been able to use the autopilot, this would have been possible. The fact was not that the aircraft was lacking of it, or that it was broken. The plane had been fitted with a simple Sperry system, which worked just like the one on board the C-47. It was the fact that the Sperry system had been modified, and jury-rigged to work with another, much newer system which Cameron had pulled from a Cessna. What was simple to one man of one generation... was mind boggling, and complex to the young Gallian girl of this past generation.

"I can't believe... that we're going through with this!" she muttered to herself. "That man is insane!"

Furrowing her brow, she watched as her friends began their descent. Following suit, she pulled on the throttle and adjusted her pitch with the control knob. She then took a moment to gaze over the gauges and lights before her, allowing her eyes to linger on the altimeter before refocusing on the skies ahead through the canopy. With their descent under way, Perrine knew that they were nearing their destination. With a sigh, she settled herself back in the seat, and began to sweep the surrounding clouds with her gaze. It was like descending into a great valley, ringed on all sides by immense cliffs of solid white and grey.

Back and forth... again. To her, it once was beautiful... but after so many flights, the scene occasionally became monotonous to her. Just as some would tire of the view of a great ocean from a ship's bridge, pilots also tired of this sometimes. It was endless, and boring. Her eyes began to glaze over.

An indistinct movement broke the monotony.

Cameron marched his way cheerily down aisle to the forward cabin. Picking his way carefully around Perrine's Strikers, he continued rapidly to where the armorer sat.

"Oh Jaaaaames," he called almost tauntingly. "I've got a surprise for you!"

Coming to a stop, he looked down at Ireland. In a moment, Cameron wore a bemused expression upon seeing James, whose head lolled drunkenly to the side. The armorer was fast asleep where he sat.

"Oi, James!" he barked. "Up now!"

The man yawned, long and drawn out. Licking his lips, he adjusted his position in the seat, and began to talk in his sleep.

"Oh... oh mmmmy Majrrrr... you've had too muchhh... a pint too many."

Cameron stood patiently, awaiting further response. He counted to ten, tapped his foot, and did other assorted things. It was as though the sleeping armorer were defying his orders. After about thirty seconds, his patience wore through. Cameron looked down in thought, but was soon interrupted by a grind of metal. Glancing up, he found Lynette stumbling clumsily across the Strikers in an attempt to join him.

"Oh my, do be careful!" he warned. "Do you want me to help you?"

Lynne laughed uneasily. "Oh, ha ha, nooo I'm fine. I'm almost... oh, oh my!"

She began to teeter precariously, and tried to move. Cameron observed her, and noticed she was having trouble. Looking down, he soon realized what the problem was; she had managed to wedge her foot between the units by accident, and was held at the ankle. Without a second thought, he turned away from James to attend to Lynette.

"No, I'm fine!" she cautioned.

"Just wait, before you hurt yourself," Cameron warned defiantly. "You're going to wind up twisting your ankle out of sorts, and as much as I'd like to carry you around it wouldn't necessarily be all that convenient."

Steadying himself on one of the crates, he extended his arm and leaned across the devices. Lynne gave a gratituous smile, and willingly took his hand as she slipped her foot free. With care, Cameron helped her across to the other side, and soon she joined him.

"Thank you very much."

"Not at all a prob...OUCH!" he hissed with pain, grimacing. "We-we're almost there though... I'm trying to rouse James. Damned shoulder!"

She stared back at him with concern. "You idiot, I told you! Let me get a look at it will you?"

Cameron had already turned away, making his return to the row of seats. Lynne followed closely as he clambered down the aisle to Ireland again. Upon reaching him, the two hovered over the sleeping armorer in thought of how to awaken him.

"I'm being honest, you twit. Let me look at it!"

"It's fine!" he whispered sharply. "C'mon, help me get 'im up."

With a sigh, Cameron sidestepped around the sleeping man, leaving Lynne in the aisle. He stopped on the other side, near the window, and began to scrutinize how James was sitting. His eyes scanned carefully, and locked when a point of interest was found. Tentatively, he began to reach out, eventually grasping one of his shoulders.

"Here's what we do," he began to explain, smiling mischieviously. "You grab that shoulder, and we both shake him and shout. If that doesn't awaken him, then he's doomed."

Lynne glanced up at him. "Huh? Why do that? He'll think we're crashing."

Cameron laughed. "That's the idea. What's better? A man roused and half asleep, or a man thrust awake, scared but aware?"

"You little deviant!" she said scowling. "It's nothing but a dirty trick!"

Cameron grinned. "Nawwww, I wouldn't call it that... It's more of a... innovative reveille, full of creativity and lacking of instrumentation."

"I call it soiling his trousers!"

Cameron rolled his eyes. "If you say so, Lynette. So are you going to do it, or what?"

With a huff, she grabbed the poor armorer's shoulder. "Fine, but when he wakes... I have nothing to do with it!"

"Good. On three then. One... two... three!"

The Gallian's hands were cold, tingling with a ferocious iciness as they wrapped in a death grip around the yoke. She hadn't seen the thing, she sensed it. Her witches powers gave a fluctuation, a pulse back. The thing she had caught but a mere glimpse of was a powerhouse of energy, it throbbed white hot it seemed, and the energy was sustained. To her, it came like a long hot flash, and in response her body became damp in the uniform. The hairs on the back of her neck rose, her eyes scanned like those of a hunter. The rise in temperature was normally dispelled during combat, where the cool winds around her whistled by, and her uniform fluttered violently like something struggling free. Uneasily, the top of her stomach seemed to creep up her throat, joining an already formed lump.

There was something. It was menacing, large, and dangerous.

As she continued to cruise on, her mind seemed to go into a trance. Stiffly, she pulled back on the yoke and advanced the throttles. Her eyes began to moisten, locked open, watching, waiting. Below, Cambridge seemed to sense a change in her position. The Spitfire passed overhead moments later, its engine pitch high, its prop blast making the cockpit vibrate. Confusedly, George fumbled the radio on.

"Hey Perrine, where are you going?" he radioed. "You see something out there?"

Her jaw felt as though wired shut. Taking a moment, it seemed to be an eternity before her mind registered the voice calling out to her. Hand shaking, she began to reply.

"Oh... a-ah..." she croaked. "I... I'm just checking something out. I thought I saw something."

Cambridge nodded to himself. "Aaaaacknowledged, just don't go too far. Don't want you to get lost in this fog bank."

Leaving the acknowledgement behind, Perrine put the throttles to the stops. The Merlin snarled then, its supercharger kicking into full military power as it leapt forward. Looking for her quarry, she began to put her head on the swivel as she plunged toward the mammoth clouds before the spinning prop.

"Please, just let it be paranoia," she thought to herself. "For the love of god let it be paranoia, it was too big!"

At that moment, the clouds before the canopy turned dark. They began to blast apart violently, as though a dog were ripping through white bedsheets. Perrine's eyes widened in recognition as she sped closer and closer toward the titanic object in the clouds.

"NO!" she gasped. "Impossible!"

Perrine sensed her hand moving, as though it were of its own mind. Sluggishly, it pushed the yoke over to the left, and the wings began to dip. As she kept her view trained on the massive anomaly which seemed buried in the clouds, a red flicker caught her attention. She shook her head, blinked, and stared in disbelief.

"Il est si accablant... même pas les grâces de Dieu peut nous sauver," she whispered to herself in Gallic.

It was then that she banked hard, pulling back on the stick. The plane whipped around hard, like a bird sailing through the skies. As she wheeled away, the skies began to redden with a brilliant, almost contrasting light.

"Dieu nous sauver tous," she cracked sorrowfully.

During the time of Perrine's damning discovery, the C-47 had dropped a considerable distance in altitude. From the time of her departure and thereafter, George had kept a keen eye on the dot that was the Spitfire. This being the fact even now, his eyebrow rose as he watched her in the distance, making a sharp bank. Screwing up his vision, he stared silently, leaning into the windshield to get a better look. Just faintly, he noted that the bank was so sharp that the Spitfire was shaking violently, stalling, it's wings flopping crazily.

"A full power turn?" he mumbled to himself. "Th' hell's got her so worked up?"

Settling back into his seat, Cambridge began to relax until a faint blink of light caught his last moment's attention. He froze, back elevated slightly, as though he had been driving at night and had seen something hulking and strange by the roadside. The speck that was the Gallian was beginning to swell, meaning that her speed remained unchecked. Behind her, the clouds were menacing, changing color, glowing, and rolling.

"Monsieur Cambridge!" the radio squawked. "Please, for the love of God respond!"

Hearing the call, George began to fumble blindly for the radio switch. All the while, his eyes remained rooted on the disaster unfolding before the cockpit windows.

"Damn it George, please respond!" Perrine shouted again. The pilot still fumbled hurriedly for the switch.

"Damn you, you little..." he growled as though it heard him.

Drunkenly, he dragged his hand across the radio panel. He felt the lettering, the designs, and the buttons and dials. Soon enough, however, he had his thumb and index finger wrapped over the top of the little metal lever, which he flipped over soon after.

"What's going on?" he asked dazedly. "I can see something happening. The clouds are glowing."

"GET AWAY!" she shouted. "FOR GOD'S SAKE GET AWAY! DESCEND, BANK, FLY, JUST GET AWAY!"

At that instant, a pillar of red light lanced out from the cloud cover. Its glaring blaze of heat caused the clouds to terminate at the "hilt," swirling, not touching, rotating and moving. Without a second of consideration, Cambridge slammed the controls forward. Like a diver taking a leap from the high-dive at the Olympics, the twin-engined transport leapt over the edge of an invisible precipice. If a camera had been mounted on the nose, the viewer would have sworn that the fuselage rippled as though it had itself bent to the curve of airflow. In the distance, a deep screech emanated from the clouds.

Cameron and Lynette were thrown against the top of the bulkhead. The motion was so sudden to them that they could only stare in shock as the floor disappeared, and the ceiling came at them.

"What the..." was the only thing that Taylor could mutter before he hit the roof with a sickening thud. Lynne landed hard, and began to scream in terror and confusion. Ireland, who was effectively awakened, began to shout. This only added further to the bedlam.

"WHAT'S HAPPENING?" he shouted fearfully. "Where's Lynne? I hear her screaming!"

Cameron was pinned to the ceiling, struggling to move. His head had stricken the bulkhead with a heavy force, and a gash had opened on the back of his scalp.

"Lynette!" he called earnestly. "Lynne, where are you?"

Another shriek erupted from her lips, and both men grimaced. Their hearts pounded in their throats, and adrenaline flooded their senses. Cameron stared at the interior of the aircraft, and watched as the world bent around him. While James remained strapped into his seat, the attitude of the aircraft continued to change. Moments later, the Douglas seemed to be almost nose-down. Gradually, the flailing bodies began to slide toward the tail.

"Good God, what's happening?" James shouted. "Are we going down?"

James' confusion went unheard as the others shot toward the rear of the aircraft. Unconcerned for the abrupt end ahead, Cameron began to search the cabin.

"Lynne, where are you?" he called with fear. "By god girl, where are you? Grab on to me!"

He was facing one of the windows now. The cabin was quickly beginning to dim, and clouds were streaming over the outside of the aircraft. As the altitude decreased, snow began to pelt the windows. Bile began to rise in Cameron's throat as he surveyed the situation in his mind. They were descending, nose down. Something disasterous had happened. Their plans were a shambles, there was an icy cold Atlantic below the fuselage, and all this was in the middle of a blizzard. It appeared that the end had come for the three of them.

"Lynne!" he shouted once more. "Where are..."

Before he could finish, something drifted toward and crashed into Taylor. A foot lanced out, and collided with the back of his head. It was Lynne.

"Quick, give me your hand!" he pleaded, blindly groping the body behind him.

Eventually, their hands met. The Londoner's petite and cold fingers laced through his own, and Cameron turned to face her. An eternity had seemingly passed since the start of their fall, and the end seemed bleak for the three of them. If they somehow managed to survive, there was no way in hell that any of them could survive the freezing Atlantic waters of the Strait. Now halfway down the fuselage, Cameron gently shoved off from the wall. Righting themselves hurriedly, he and Lynne soon were facing, upside-down, hands clasped together.

"Lynne!" he said defeatedly. "I'm sorry... that it's come to this."

Lynette stared into his eyes, as Cameron did hers. "What's going to happen?"

Glancing out the nearest window, he was astonished to find a clear sky filled with billions of snowflakes. A low, thick pall of clouds lingered at a low altitude, and massive waves with whitecaps danced over the ocean's surface. In the distance, a fortification could be seen in the strait. This, he assumed, was the base.

"We were soooo close," he said, his tone like that of a man who had placed second, though was still satisfied. "Lynette... I believe that it's best you don't know what will happen."

The young girl's eyes adjusted and softened, and a sadness came over her features. "I see..." she said in sad recognition. "I... understand."

Slowly, the fear began to dissipate. Cameron smiled, and seemed to be accepting of his fate. Lynne could do nothing but stare, like a confused and scared child. The events unfolding seemed so unreal, so unbelievable.

"I think I have something more to say..." Cameron said, the ocean filling the windows of the cabin. "Something to ask of you, as a person, as someone dear."

Her eyes widened slightly, and she stared with an expression of slight bewilderment. "What? What can... what could I possibly do now?"

Cameron smiled, almost grinning. "I don't know how it happened... I know not how I got here, or if I have a purpose... but there is one thing I remember and shall never forget."

"What is it?" she asked, uncaring to their nearing departure.

"Lynette Bishop... no... Sergeant Lynette Bishop, marksman, and pilot of the 501st Joint Fighter Wing," he started reverently, "it is my final wish, not as a protector, or friend... but... as someone who cares most deeply for you, seeing that they may not be blessed with the opportunity again... will you please be mine to hold? Will you please oblige me with the opportunity to be with you to the bitter end?"

Lynette's reaction was surprising, even to Cameron. As their fates brought them closer and closer to death, her reaction was not of shock, or of anger, or of ignorance. She was not surprised, nor was she appalled. Instead, she smiled, and slipped her hands free.

"Given the situation... and the fact that I haven't known a... feeling like this... before... I gratefully accept your proposal, Cameron Taylor."

As the plane came closer and closer to the sea, Cameron swept her into his arms. Burying her face into his chest, Lynne clutched the lapells of his uniform.

"Thank you," she whispered tearfully.