The Price of Flight – part twenty-one
After my brush with that emissary of Pestilence called Covid-19, let's get back into it now my enthusiasm has returned.
There is an Arms Race going on between two superpowers. This could be called the Syrrittan Flying Sheep Crisis, where Klatch and Ankh-Morpork are in a staring contest while the rest of the Disc watches to see who blinks first.
V0.2, clearing up and tidying and little spot rewrites.
Currently (August 13th 2020) Britain has been battered by humungous thunder and lightning for two nights. A net result of this is that I woke up this morning to no internet and no broadband and a poorly home hub.
Fortunately I work in faults management for a major telecoms player and I know the drill. My phone still worked, so I rang around and discovered there are mammoth systems outages around the country today and several major cities, including mine, are currently not at home to Internet provision. Major service outages over London, Manchester and Glasgow/Edinburgh. In tech terms, distribution centres are MSO'd, either burnt out or flooded. I know Manchester's are underground and near a river/canal network, so bets?
Ah well. I still have Word. And can crack on with the story – don't know yet when I will be able to post! So I am notifying my readers that there may be suppositions here, especially in the footnotes and usage of languages such as Finnish where I have a sketchy grasp, that I am as yet unable to fact-check, and may turn out to be dependent on my tricksy memory. (Vaguely recall "juuu" is "yes") Also I know from "Scandinavia and the World" the thing about Brother Finland and his knife. Just not sure of the spelling of "puukko".
The night of Friday 7th Grune into Saturday 8th Grune. The Thaumatological Park, Ankh-Morpork, shortly after eleven '-clock.
"Wow!" Ponder Stibbons breathed, as two Watchmen carefully brought in the captured Klatchian listening device.
"Just stole that." said the wiry little pilot-Witch, with the startlingly white-blonde hair. She grinned, happily. "So you can take it to pieces, Penguin."
"I won't ask how." Gertrude replied. She was studying the device thoughtfully.
"Got you a Klatchian carpet, too. It's in the wagon, outside."
Gertrude stiffened. She turned, slowly.
"You got their carpet? You brought it into the university?"
"Juuu. We deliver you the machine first, then the carpet is a battle-trophy. We take that to Air Station. One more for the fleet. Give it a dye job, and it is ours."
"Ponder, grab a thaumometer." Gertrude said, urgently. "And some sort of knife."
"Got one." Kiiki said, and brought out the wickedly sharp, slightly curved, puukko knife. She tested the edge on a thumb.
"Juuu. Sharp." she said.
Gertrude was running.
"Kiiki. Where's the wagon? When we get aboard, turn it round, and drive away from University property. Quickly. I'll explain later."
Gertrude and Ponder scrambled into the back of the Watch wagon. To Ponder's relief, the hastily rolled Klatchian carpet was just sitting there, inert. The manic-looking Kiiki leapt in with them.
Gertrude slapped the dividing panel with her hand, a cue to the driver to speed up and get moving.
"So. Is going to explode?" Kiiki asked, looking down curiously.
"Give me a hand unrolling it." Gertrude snapped. "Kiiki, well done for stealing this. Olga did hint there was a mission planned. But did nobody tell you Klatchian carpets are fitted with tracer spells and homing devices? You managed to get this. But once they realise it's been stolen, they'll activate the trace spell. How's it going to look if they realise the Watch knocked the carpet down and stole it? Or if the tracer shows it's in the University?"
"Ah. Good point." Kiiki agreed.
They unrolled the carpet together.
"And if the homing spell activates, and it decides to fly back to the Klatchian Embassy. Then they figure out who stole it…"
"Cover blown." Ponder agreed. He tried to ignore the swaying and bumping of the wagon and ran the thaumometer over the carpet. Suddenly, it pinged.
"Just here." Getrude said. "Underlay side."
They flipped the carpet, with some difficulty. Ponder tested again. Gertrudeheld out her hand for Kiiki's knife, then made a neat incision at the site of the ping and withdrew a piece of parchment. It had a spell written on it in Klatchian script.
"Anyone got matches?" she asked.
They threw the burning parchment out of the cart. The ashes would soon be lost on an Ankh-Morporkian street.
Some more searching with the thaumometer revealed that the tracker spells were hidden in tassels at each end of the carpet. Gertrude deftly cut these off.
"Wait." Kiiki said. "We are on… Soregoyle Road. There is tanning works here. Wait for me."
She took the tracer tassels from Gertrude and nonchalantly leapt out of the moving wagon. Gertrude and Ponder saw her climb a high fence. A few minutes later she reappeared, catching up with the cart.
"Well?" Gertrude said. Kiiki grinned.
"They are now dunked in shit, in the tanners. If they fly back to owners, or if Klatchians go search for them, will be covered in paska. Good joke, hey? Now I can take carpet to Air Station and give it to the Ryssä for her Juul."
"If anyone asks us." Ponder said, slowly, "some dubious-looking men, you know, the usual, came to the University and tried to sell us what they claimed was a magic carpet. As we don't deal in stolen property, we sent them away again. We saw them going in the direction of Wood Bridge and Soregoyle."
And later on, they got a closer look at the Klatchian listening device.
The night of Friday 7th Grune into Saturday 8th Grune. On the borders of Klatch and Syrrit.
Two silent figures moved in the shadows of the night, exploiting the patterns of shadow and the cover to be found in the low scrubby almost-sand-dunes. They took care to avoid the bored-looking sentries, posted at intervals around the military base. The encampment had all the look and feel of a temporary forward base, laid out in a makeshift hurry not very long before.
They conferred, in the minimum of words.
We've seen all we can. This is definitively the place. We have an idea as to how it is laid out. We've made an estimate as to numbers. Now we need to get back to our camels and return to the Whistlestop.
And after a while, two nondescript looking travellers began to make their unhurried way back through the arid semi-desert, riding truculent camels in the direction of the Whistlestop. A Klatchian military patrol barely spared them a glance.
We should be back by ten." Semyon Romanoff remarked. "Sooner or later there should be another comms flight. If I know Cousin Olga, she is going to make a point of getting flights in and out."
His companion considered this.
"And the sooner the Guild gets this information, the better. If we can get more people on the ground here, they'll know exactly where to go, now."
Sebastian Bakewell (Licenced and Articled Assassin, Welcome Soap House, now Authorised Dark Clerk) looked reflective.
"I wonder who they'll send?"
Semyon considered this.
"It would make sense to use people who have perhaps been here before. The Guild of Assassins must have people with knowledge of this area? Assassins get everywhere, after all."
"You'd be surprised." Sebastian said, shrugging. "This place has never been considered that important. Ever. And nobody here, much, can afford the Guild's services. No interest or reason to take an interest. Nothing happens."
"Until now." said Semyon.
They rode on together.
Sebastian was trying to remember. Something he'd heard, or read, somewhere. Just before the Directorate had posted him out here…
Ankh-Morpork, Widdershins and slightly Hubwards of the city. Morning, Saturday 8th Grune.
The land technically belonged to the neighbouring City Zoo. The Zoo Trust had an option on adjoining farmland, with an eye on future expansion. As a result, on its Widdershins side the land was still green and unspoilt, not yet swallowed up by the City's urban encroachment. For the moment, this green space was rented out to tenant farmers and smallholders who had been promised a notice period and adequate compensation if the Zoo needed to develop.
The one exception was a long narrow strip of land, immediately adjoining the Zoo on its Hubward side, which had indeed been Developed. A high double security fence, topped with barbed wire and enjoying an additional defensive ditch, separated this from the public Zoo. The justification was Security Of The City and Eminent Domain.
The two principal parties involved, women who had known each other for a long time, had both made the best of it and they'd been pragmatic in coming to an Agreement that was more binding than City legislation and decree. One had agreed that given the nature of the things going on here, there was no earthly way of keeping it a discreet secret, and she therefore she wasn't even going to try. The other had said, on behalf of the Zoo Trust, we've got the expertise you need here. It makes sense for your operation to be close to mine, so you can call on my expertise. And in the circumstances, you'll understand about my building a Viewing Station, so that people will pay to watch? What you are doing is spectacular. It draws interest. And anything you really do have to keep secret – well, people are going to be too busy watching the show to ask about other stuff. We all win. Everybody benefits.
Road access was from an entrance wholly separate from the Zoo. Only authorised people got past a manned gatehouse. Which had a road-block, one of the red-and-white striped sort that a guard physically lifts, just by the sign that said in large letters
ANKH-MORPORK CITY WATCH AIR POLICE.
ZOO AIR STATION.
RESTRICTED ACCESS AFTER THIS POINT.
The guardhouse was permanently manned and the point about "Restricted Access" was rigorously enforced. The perimeter fence was patrolled continually.
This morning, the usual goofers and air-nuts were crowded onto the viewing station that Doctor Smith-Rhodes had so thoughtfully provided. Aviation nuts with no discernible additional interest in animals paid entrance fees to the Zoo, just to spend hours on end, standing here, and watching. They had iconographs and notebooks.
Captain Olga Romanoff had thought long and hard about the iconography thing. But she had reasoned that people would take iconographs anyway. And the things they were iconographing were hard to hide. She had sighed and said "nichevo", whilst noting the Zoo Shop was now selling a lot of iconograph refills for ink and paper for all makes of machine.
The Zoo Air Station was built around a long flat strip that necessarily went on for a long way, the best part of a thousand yards. About hallway down its length was the brick-built Control Station, with its adjoining Clacks tower built larger and higher than was the norm. Clustered at one end were Tek-sheds, hangars, storage sheds, and equipment garages. These were necessarily built to a larger scale than usual. A dispersal area for the air vehicles was part of the set-up. This was necessarily larger than a casual observer might have expected.
In fact, everything here seemed overscale, gargantuan.
Mrs Heidi Smith-Rhodes, the Deputy Zoo Director, had gained space on the viewing platform for herself and a group of Assassins' Guild students who were doing optional Saturday morning classes here. She reasoned they could watch here for an hour or so, perhaps longer, as an exercise in observation and reporting. She would report back to the Guild herself, later, as something seemed to be happening over there; there was a definite sense of excitement and purpose among the ground crews. Besides, she'd never really seen this before. She'd always been in other places when the Air Station was active, in the way that thrilled the air-anoraks, and which provoked excited speculation in the papers.
Her students were looking up. She followed their gaze, and registered a sudden flurry of broomsticks up there. Three of them, the usual Watch all-purpose ME109, going by the size and speed.
All eyes followed them as they swooped down the length of the runway and came to rest by the control tower, where salutes were exchanged.
Olga's here, Heidi thought. And that's Irena. I think that's Sergeant Popova with them.
Some sort of parade was going on; a group of the new Air Watch Auxiliaries had fallen in, just off the runway. They looked as if the uniforms they were wearing, in a sort of drab grey-blue, were new and scratchy and unfamiliar. In the background, the ground-crews, mainly Dwarfs with some Goblins, were unhurriedly working away at getting some sort of crane in operation, a massive thing that looked like an industrial gantry meant for hoisting seriously large parts a long way into the air. Like the ones at the docks, which had a foot straddling both sides of a ship's berth, which could lift large heavy things off the dockside, then transport them sideways along the horizontal gantry, until they were directly over a ship's hold.
Directly over something, anyway.
"This is how they get them up there." she heard an air-anorak say, excitedly. "They can carry tons of weight. But you have to get the weight evenly distributed over its back."
There were gasps of excitement as more ground-crew came out of a hangar with a horse-drawn flatbed cart. The thing on the back was massive. Four people could easily fit inside. The cart was manouevred underneath the gantry, and nimble little goblins leapt up after it.
"Wow. They're using a full load!" she heard the air-anorak exclaim.
Heidi wondered if this was to do with Syrrit. It was an interesting line of thought. She carried on watching as the load was secured by its lifting rings, and rose into the air, ready...
"All ready for you, ma'am. We're getting on with pre-flight loading, as you can see." the senior Tek said.
"When will they be ready to fly, Sergeant?" Olga asked the Dwarf.
"On schedule, ma'am. Within the hour."
"Horoscho." Olga said.
She turned to the squad of Air Auxiliaries, and performed a commanding officer's inspection, looking each one in the eye for signs of nervousness and unreadiness. Then she stood back.
"Gentlemen." she said. "For the past four months since you were recruited and selected, you have been alternating training here with duties in the Control Room as Plotters. Some of you have seen the Forward Air Station in Chirm. Those of you who have been here for longest will have attended the Memorial Ceremony at the main Air Station, for those we lost in combat and air accidents."
Olga let this sink in.
"You volunteered to serve in the Air Watch. I do not mind admitting, and you will have perhaps sensed this for yourselves, that there was, and still is, a lot of resistance among my pilots to the idea of having Wizards in the Air Watch. It is probably no secret that we had to be ordered to accept you as probationary Air Watch members."
Olga paused again. These were young Wizards. Recent graduates from Unseen. Ponder Stibbons had conferred with her on selection of applicants, and had helped weed out those he considered to be unsuitable, or unfit, or far more interested in using the available hardware to zap great big holes in things whilst being located at a suitably great height from which to deposit said zapping. Preference had been given to physically fit young men, who, as Sam Vimes had acerbically said, could be relied upon to be able to do more than run fifty yards before collapsing in a wheezing asthmatic heap.
And they had been kept busy, learning how to Plot accurately, about care of their air vehicles(1), how to strip, maintain and reassemble a repeating crossbow, how to fire it accurately on ground ranges, and then – the difficult bit – how to fire it from the air without causing collateral damage to anything else in sight. Olga's instructors had knocked this into them, emphasising they were here to be aircrew, so that a fully trained pilot-witch could be released for flight, and if you went up as air-gunner to a witch flying a two-seater, she could be reassured she had somebody trustworthy and reliable in the passenger seat behind the defensive armament. They'd also been sent out on regular Watch foot patrols, each accompanying an old hand. Vimes had insisted on this; he wanted them to be reliable Watch auxiliaries, too, or there'd be no point.
Olga studied the eight young men in front of her. She smiled slightly.
"I have spoken to your instructors, and they agree you are the best. Today, you pass out of your flight school. You are going on your first active mission. Do the job well, and you will get respect. Come back from that, and you are no longer recruits. You are Air Watch."
There was a sudden, loud, trumpeting noise.
"Ah." Olga said. She did not look round. "On cue. Before I dismiss you, this is Acting Lieutenant Popova. She will be commanding the Heavy Squadron, and will be flying with you today. She will assign each of you to a pilot and a crew, and brief you in the operating plan. Good luck, gentlemen."
The Patrician's Palace, Ankh-Morpork
Vetinari looked up from the papers he was scrutinising.
"I rather fancy that by tomorrow, all this will have been resolved, Dumknott." he remarked.
"Or else we are embroiled in a major war, sir."
"That cannot be ruled out." Vetinari agreed. "Although I have high hopes for Captain Romanoff finding a bloodless way to come out ahead in the confrontation she will shortly be having with the Klatchians. In fact, I am banking on it."
"This is a high-stakes game, sir."
Vetinari smiled.
"Indeed, Drumknott. But never bet high stakes until you are sure of the outcome. Ideally, never bet until you are sure the dice are loaded in your favour. And I have a throw of the dice in reserve, due to be made in the early hours of Sunday morning."
"Loaded dice, sir?"
Vetinari steepled his fingers.
"But of course. Loaded with the best available weaponry."
"Two members of the Smith-Rhodes family?"
"Necessary, Drumknott. An attempt was made on the life of one member of that remarkable family. The saying is that if you kick one Smith-Rhodes, the whole family feels a bruise. And the Smith-Rhodes family taking independent retribution was a complication I considered this situation really did not need."
Vetinari looked reflective.
"I decided to harness this completely understandable response to the needs of the City, via a Guild contract with well-defined limitations written into it. The fact Mrs Mariella Smith-Rhodes-Lensen is one of only two currently active Assassins with experience of operating in Syrrit was also a consideration."
"And Barakh-ibn-Cadram?" Drumknott asked.
"He will very soon cease to be a problem, Drumknott. And it will not be Ankh-Morpork who can be held responsible. My information is that a very Klatchian solution is being prepared. By Klatchians who are as alarmed at the prospect of all-out war as we are."
The Air Station, Ankh-Morpork.
With great and obvious fanfare and showy preparation, a flight of MIG-21's took off. Watching journalists had been primed by being allowed to watch the battle-brooms being fuelled with magic and ammunition. A Klatchian carpet had, unaccountably, been permitted to get close enough to get a good view, before being aggressively turned away by the standing patrol enforcing the exclusion zone.
-Valkyrie wing in the air, Fat Duck Control. Moving to Dispersal air base, estimating time of arrival at Forward Air Base dispersal is forty-five minutes at cruising speed. Over.
"Fat Duck Control to Valkyrie. Roger on that. Hold snails and slimy soft cheese, but if you can bring back bottle of Chateauneuf du Grand Prêtre d'Om, I'd be grateful. Over. "
-Valkyrie to Fat Duck Control. I'll do what I can, but dealing with the crapauds is always a diplomatic nightmare. Syren's ordered me to be nice to them, and not too obviously Überwaldean. They apparently get sensitive about that. Over.
The six battle-brooms, flying low and relatively slow, had been seen to head off Turnwise, in the direction of Quirm.
Once out of sight of the City, Hanna gave the order to her flight-Feegle.
A few objective seconds later, they popped back into Disc space over the Forward Air Base at Chirm quite a long way Widdershins of the City, where they landed to await further orders.
Behind them, the clacks channels carried frantic messages from the Klatchian Embassy in Ankh-Morpork for local diplomats and agents to find out where the Air Watch had established a base in Quirm.
The Assassins' Guild, Filigree Street
Lord Downey re-read the communication he had received. Letters from this source arrived rarely, and by a means of their own that was outside the Guild's normal channels of communications. But when one arrived on his desk, he paid attention to it.
He had discussed the content with the Dark Council. On one level it was clear enough: a courtesy message as between professional equals.
But he didn't know nearly enough about the when or the how. And especially about the why. And especially the who.
The first couple of lines had been a greeting to a brother in the Craft.
Under the wavy flame-dagger symbol of the Hashishim of Mount Inhalat, the rest had read
Our concerns are as one, that there is no war between our nations. Thus, on this occasion, we will not interfere with your Guild's proposed action in Klatch, as this is intended to avert war. We wish you every success, Offler willing.
But in return, we will be carrying out a mission of our own in Ankh-Morpork. This is also with the intention of averting war. We do not expect to be impeded in this. In advising you of this, we are reciprocating your courtesy.
In the Brotherhood of Assassination
The Aga Khuka of Inhalat.
The mailing carried the Aga's personal seal. It was genuine.
Vetinari had been advised, of course. Just so the Guild could say due diligence had been applied. If it came to it. Afterwards.
The Patrician had apparently smiled slightly and replied
Let them proceed. V.
Downey wondered who the intended target was.
The Zoo Air Station.
The business of preparing for the mission continued. Olga Romanoff had flown back to the main Air Station to prepare her own part in the flight; she had gone over timings and strategies with the Heavy Squadron's pilots, and had informed them Red Star would remain in overall command in Ankh-Morpork whilst the mission was on.
And each of the Heavies, in turn, was manouevred under the gantry whilst a large thick quilted blanket was spread in the right place to support the weight of the fighting compartment and the aircrew who would occupy it. Ground crew, both Dwarfs and goblins, then secured the massively broad and thick girth strap and additional tack that would hold things firmly in place. Equipment panniers were slung in the right places, with attention paid to balancing and spreading the eight appropriately and evenly.
The aircrew were given a final briefing. Two invited civilian guests arrived to join the flight. Acting-Lieutenant Popova shook hands with both and explained what, if all went well, was about to happen.
Then, as the crowd from the Zoo's viewing platform watched intently, the wheeled staircases were brought up and the crew of each Heavy took their stations, the air auxiliaries mounting the steps with their repeating crossbows slung over their shoulders. Once inside, they mounted them on the firing posts. The two guests, one who was carrying equipment of his own, were helped into their positions on the designated Heavies. Feegle Navigators went up with the pilots.
And then the green Ready flag went up at the Control Tower, and the Heavies, one by one, began their stately take-off runs. With a full load, it had to be a long take-off run, demonstrating the need for the long runway.
One of the Heavies threw back his head, raised his tusks to the sky, and trumpeted a long exultant roar. His wings unfolded as he gained speed.
"Jumbo Flight to Control. This is Mother Hen advising you we are getting airborne at ten-thirty a.m. Ankh-Morpork time. Will reach Transition height at angels three in approximately forty minutes. Over."
-Red Star Control to Jumbo. Message received, Jumbo. Good luck and happy hunting. Over.
The first operational flight of the Heavy Squadron had begun.
At the main Air Station, Olga Romanoff sat her stallion and watched the clock for her own cue to take off. Ranged around her on the flight deck, other pilots also awaited their cue. The timings for this one had to be absolutely spot-on.
Her passenger sat behind her. Olga had flown an unscheduled mission to Rimwards Howondaland to pick her up. Olga had emphasised that the mission was potentially dangerous and called for both a show of force and a lot of bluff. But Lord Vetinari had suggested that a journalist from a neutral country, who could then give her independent account of the mission in her own unique voice, would be a very useful thing to have at this moment. To forestall any accusation that the Ankh-Morpork Times might not be the most neutral party in this business. He had even suggested a name, in fact. Olga had sighed and detoured to pick up a very eager and enthusiastic journalist, one who had met her before and who knew Olga Romanoff was a name that positively guaranteed a scoop.
"What a story!" her passenger squeaked.
"Look. At least pretend to be a diplomat I'm ferrying to Syrrit?" Olga asked, patiently.
I'm the bait. Olga reminded herself. Suki van der Graaf is in no danger. If all this works.
Olga reached for the Mark Two Omnicon in her top pocket. The outer casing, once smooth to the touch, now felt rough and unfamiliar to her fingers. But she respected that Gertrude and Ponder and Eddie had really put themselves out for this and they had done really well to have even a dozen ready for this morning, in so short a time. Olga had told them to leave the work to others, I'll have the Omnicons come to you in batches as and when, other people can do the work now. Go and find beds to sleep in. That's an order, Technical Sergeant Schilling. Olga had also been shown the captured Klatchian apparatus. How it worked, and a few ideas Ponder had had as to how it could be countered. She had stored this information up for future reference.
She fervently hoped the shielding, and the other thing they'd been able to work in to no more than three of the modded Omnicons, would work.
If not, we deal with it. We go back to the old method of control and command. Hand gestures, shouting and just having a pretty good knowledge of each other.
A little later, Olga took off. As agreed, this would involve complete Omnicon silence. Wee Mad Arthur made the Transition at angels three.
The Whistlestop, Syrrit.
Olga Romanoff popped into Discworld space again about a thousand feet above the Whistlestop. She steadied Raduga Desh, took a deep breath, and took her bearings.
The first thing she noticed was that she wasn't alone. She'd expected that.
Showdown over Syrrit!
(From the syndicated report filed by Suki van der Graaf, Roving Reporter)
The very first thing I saw, when the marvellous Feegle art of the craw-step had done its work, was that the very air above the conquered and occupied land of Syrrit was full of Klatchians. I counted a good fifteen magic carpets, the ubiquitous two-seater fighter of the Empire's Air Force, and maybe thirty of the seemingly ridiculous but lethally effective flying sheep, each with a villainous-looking and well-armed pilot,
Anyone questioning the utility of sheep as a weapon of war should bear in mind that these were all rams. The military weapon called the "battering ram" did not get its name by accident. And these were the famed Flying Sheep of Syrrit, tamed to the saddle, and directed by pilots who while small men, were wholly at one with their mounts, a cavalry of the air. I remembered I was carrying an iconograph. I began taking pictures. Many of them will be illustrating this article.
And against them, one noble Pegasus and his mistress, the redoubtable Olga Romanoff, commander of Ankh-Morpork's Air Watch and veteran of the air war over Lancre. But how could one woman, even one renowned as the greatest flier of our age, stand against such odds?
"This is what I wanted, Suki." Olga said. She didn't sound worried at all. "I made sure they knew the exact time we'd be arriving. Gave them time to prepare."
"Are they going to let you land, though?" Suki asked.
Olga shook her head.
"Nyet. I didn't expect them to. Look at the way some of them are trying to block me from underneath."
"So what happens now?" Suki asked.
Olga was counting down the seconds.
"This." she said.
Suki jumped as two Watch brooms, standard model ME109's, popped into existence. They flew into protective positions to either side of Olga, blocking the flying sheep from getting to close to her stallion's wings.
"Parrot and Lancre Punch have happened." Olga said, simply.
Suki noticed each broom had a Feegle navigator, who was standing on the staff making threatening gestures at the Klatchians.
"But those aren't your combat brooms?" Suki asked. Olga thought she sounded disappointed.
"Nyet. The twenty-ones and the two-six-twos are far too fast to keep station with a Pegasus. Besides, Sophie and Robyn haven't had conversion training for the fighters yet."
Olga kept up an easy forward pace, heading towards the Whistlestop, trying to pick out the diplomatic quarter. The escort brooms kept pace with her. More of the flying sheep got below them, blocking any possible landing path.
"They're behind us too." Suki said.
"I know. Banking on it." Olga replied. "Wait…"
And again, Olga counted down.
Suki sensed, then felt, fast-moving shadows passing over her. She looked up and glimpsed a fast-moving something.
"Those are the Twenty-Ones." Olga said, laconically. "Valkyrie Wing. Hanna von Strafenburg's command."
Suki craned her neck and saw the Twenty-Ones , higher up, starting to fly a lazy wide circle that managed to encompass all the sky occupied by Klatchians. It was a statement and a threat.
We can outfly you.
Showdown over Syrrit!
Captain Olga Romanoff explained to me that a large proportion of the Klatchian fliers had been lured close to earth to physically block her from landing at the Whistlestop and if possible to seek to mob her out of the sky. Her immediate close escort, two young, keen and resolute Air Witches, was there to prevent this. While she was luring the Klatchian flyers to earth, her most seasoned combat flyers, on the very best battle-birds, had entered Syrritan airspace at a far higher altitude. Not only faster, better armed and with previous combat experience – but with the height advantage which is all important in air warfare.
"What do you see up there behind the Twenty-Ones?" Olga asked me.
I squinted up into the relentless glare of the sun.
"Nothing." I admitted.
Olga smiled.
"Exactly. Up there is my best sniper and her wing-mate. White Death and Drop-Bear. Their job is to get as high as possible, put themselves in the sun, and if necessary, intervene, as a nasty surprise for the Klatchians."
I gathered that "putting yourself in the sun" is not quite a figure of speech. It means putting your warbird between your enemy and the sun, so that all they see when they look up is painful glare. Then you attack from this unexpected angle.
I watched, with bated breath, as the two most powerful Air Forces in the world squared off, like boxers before a fight, watching, observing, measuring each other up. This was a true Klatchian Stand-Off in every sense of the word. It was as if I was observing the last seconds of the world's peace ticking away, before fireballs were launched and combat began…
Olga, knowing there was no point in trying to land, flew a steady circle round the Whistlestop, aware of crowds looking up from below. Sophie and Robyn matched her to left and right, and she was aware of the flying sheep clustering underneath to block her landing. The circling fliers overhead also seemed to be moving with her, keeping her at the heart of things. She smiled to herself. She had suddenly become the fixed point for up to eighty other air users. Everything was revolving around her.
And then one of the magic carpets, larger and more ornate than most, detached itself from the squadron and flew towards us. A passenger on the carpet, a high-ranking person, from the look of his clothing, deigned to hail Olga with an upraised hand, an imperious gesture demanding her obeisance. She looked back at him, every inch a Romanoff, one of the Imperial family who ruled Rodinia for so long. Olga bade the escort on her right to fall back a little way, and the carpet fell into step with the Pegasus. Negotiation was about to happen.
"My Lady Romanoff?" the Klatchian called. Olga gave him her most imperious stare. "You can see that there is no point in your trying to land. I will not allow that. And as you can see, my forces outnumber yours. I can summon up more units. You have been hard-put to raise more than a dozen. If that.I am guessing that what you have here is the entirety of your available force. You have nothing more to send. Therefore I am graciously allowing you the opportunity to return, unmolested, to Ankh-Morpork. In your position, I would take that gratefully."
"Prince Cadram ibn-Cadram." Olga replied, cooly. The Klatchian's mask slipped for a second, then he resumed his air of superiority.
"My answer to you is Nyet. No. A diplomatic communication flight will land here today. My escort is here to see that this will happen. Your government has been so advised." she replied.
The Klatchian laughed.
"I am giving you every opportunity to be reasonable, Lady Romanoff. You would not like me if I became unreasonable."
"Prince Cadram, I do not like you when you pretend to be reasonable. So do not waste your breath. This diplomatic flight will land. You failed to stop two of my pilots earlier this week. Do you think you can stop us today? When we are present in force?"
"Do you really wish to start a war, Lady Romanoff? And why is that woman taking iconographs? I forbid her to do this!"
"I'm a journalist." Suki said. "A writer of news. I'm here to chronicle history in the making. Now scowl for the iconograph, please!"
Suki, by some happy chance, caught exactly the moment when Cadram looked over Olga's shoulders and past the Pegasus, and his eyes widened in surprise and growing doubt. Olga felt a disturbance in the air behind her and heard an elephant trumpeting. She smiled.
Below her, sheep-riders looked up and started to do double-takes. Then scrambled out of the way.
Olga thumbed her Omnicon to transmit, praying the Teks had got it right.
"Syren to all units Desert Storm. Move to amber alertness and remember Rules of Engagement. Syren out."
She watched the carpet. Cadram and his crew were watching the three improbable, but very big, flying elephants. Each carried a version of the sort of fighting castle that war elephants toted on the ground. This in turn had alert-looking air gunners who were behind big, wicked-looking repeating crossbows. And at least two were being trained on Cadram.
In one of the other fighting castles, there was a tripod camera. This was engaged in taking lots of pictures.
Suki waved at Otto Chriek of the Times. She also recognised Sacharissa Cripslock, a passenger on one of the other Osibisi. This was coming down low, and moving into a landing run just outside the diplomatic quarter of the Whistlestop. A space was opening up for it to land, and the cheering crowd could be heard from this height.
"Prince Cadram?" Olga said. "you are looking at my Flying Fortresses. That was the diplomatic mission. I was the decoy. And you fell for it." she said.
She relished the look of fury and rage on his face, a spoilt brat who has not got his own way.
"This parley is at an end!" he shouted. Olga thumbed Transmit.
"Syren to all stations Desert Storm. Stand by."
Cadram extended a finger and pointed. He said something in Klatchian to his carpet crew. An obvious Flight-Wizard who had been fiddling with a device nodded.
And Olga felt the magic, fired from such close range, like a punch in the chest. She rode the pain and forced herself not to close her eyes. She hoped Ponder and Gertrude had been right…
Suki went "Jislaaik!" as she saw the fire of the magical force bounce back from Olga's upper left chest, straight back at the Klatchians. Cadram went sprawling back on the carpet as it buffeted him, striking straight at the box-like device the crew were manipulating. There was a flash of octarine fire, and then something inside the box went up in flames and smoke.
Olga blinked the tears of pain from her eyes and realised she was likely to be carrying a bit of a bruise for a while. Then she remembered to switch her Omnicon back on.
-Syren? This is Greygoose. What the Hells did you do? Over.
Olga looked round the sky. The Klatchian Carpets were in disarray. Many had crewmen trying to put out sudden fires. Others were heedlessly jettisoning the now useless and smouldering comms boxes. Several were streaking downwards, obviously in flames.
"Syren to all stations. Took a hit. I'm okay, bit of bruising."
She gathered herself. They'd tried to burn out the Omnicons again. She'd have to tell Ponder and Gertrude their defence had worked. And the other thing that Ponder had suggested had worked too.
"Syren to all stations. Codeword: sheep-worrying. I repeat, sheep-worrying. Over."
There were joyous whoops as the Air Watch moved into action. Olga had been clear about this: use no conventional weapons. No crossbows. no swords, no fireballs. But Tiffany Aching had given her an idea. She'd run the idea past the resident sheep expert of the Air Watch, Robyn Myers. Robyn had grinned and said "let's give it a go". "So therefore, people, line up for an issue of a special and unique weapon…"
With the carpets in disarray and only the flying sheep to deal with, Olga stood back and watched as her pilots each selected their target and went into attack runs. She reflected that Tiffany Aching had been very clear indeed on not physically harming, hurting or injuring any sheep in any way whatsoever. Olga was prepared to respect this to the letter, as it came from her superior in Witchcraft.
However, she had tried to answer the question. What worries, panics and terrifies sheep? Apart from wolves?(2) What can really induce a sense of existential dread in a rather stupid creature made of mutton?
Olga had remembered an Octeday roast dinner at the Aching family home, when she and Tiffany had been novice witches in the same coven. The heavenly taste of roast mutton, cooked the Chalk way…
She watched as Robyn Myers chased down a sheep-rider. Robyn flew alongside, unhurriedly unscrewed the lid of the jar, and threw the contents. The vinegar-smelling green gloop slathered itself over both rider and sheep. For a fraction of a second, nothing happened. Then the sheep's eyes widened in fear and panic, it bleated loudly and the rich smell filled its nostrils, then bolted uncontrollably, trailing a rider who was still trying to get the stuff out of his eyes, nose and beard.
Olga heard Robyn calling
"Present from Rangiwangi, you bastard!"
And she grinned.
Mint sauce bombs.
How to creatively worry sheep.
Olga realised she had one last thing to do.
She pursued the stricken carpet of Prince Cadram, with Suki behind her taking iconographs, and drew level with the Prince, who was berating the luckless crewmen who were stamping a fire on board the carpet into a smouldering burn. They had jettisoned their interception box, Olga noted. She unhurriedly unscrewed the lid on a bottle of mint sauce.
"Cadram?" she called, weighing the jar in her hand and assessing the range, She waited for him to turn towards her.
Just in time for him to get a jar of mint sauce full in the face. As green glop dripped down his face and onto his clothes, Suki took a picture.
Olga Romanoff grinned, and went to marshal her forces.
This had been a good day.
TO BE CONTINUED. With lots more bangs, screams and loud noises. Rivka will be responsible for many such sound effects.
(1) this involved a lot of work with shovels, big buckets and wheelbarrows
(2) Taking Angua von Überwald up as aircrew had been vetoed, too.
Notes Dump: The ground dispersal area where spare parts are stored in a dusty neglected hangar, on the off-chance they might be needed to get a story up in the air.
Nothing this time due to internet outage.