Hijacker Strikes
"Hold on, Lamien and I take this one, but what about her?"
Jin-cheol's gaze shifted to Haeta. She met his eyes and, as if reading his mind, shouted out of the blue.
"I'll head to Aiman's uncle! Go on ahead without me!"
Go on ahead and wait. That meant she'd follow right after, right? Before Jin-cheol could ask anything else, she spun around and took off running. True to her Esai blood, her long legs stretched out in powerful strides, vanishing in an instant.
Jin-cheol stared at her retreating figure, chuckling to himself before turning toward the Battle Wing.
"Hop on quick!"
Lamien, already strapped into the cockpit, manipulated the instrument panel and yelled. Shells were crashing all around the encampment, booming thunderously, as the Battle Wing's engines heated up with a piercing shreeee of wind.
From beneath the Battle Wing, Jin-cheol leaped agilely into the seat behind her.
"Ugh, this thing's cramped."
"It's sized for our kind, so obviously—"
Then—BOOM—a Battle Wing right beside them took a direct hit and exploded.
Lamien snapped her mouth shut, her hands flying across the panel as she slammed the long lever on the right all the way forward. The engine's roar, already slicing through the air, intensified, and the craft lurched into motion.
As they moved, the wreckage of the exploded Battle Wing came into view beside them—flames roaring, thick black smoke billowing upward.
Beyond the battleship's cannon fire, the sky buzzed with the drone of swarming bees. Urata's Battle Wings had seized control of the heavens. They had launched a proper surprise attack on the revolutionaries.
Of course, the revolutionaries weren't taking it lying down. The Comintern, parked at the encampment's center, swung its guns into motion and began spewing fire. Other large and small airships rose swiftly, opening fire on Urata's battleships and fighters.
For an ambush, their response was remarkably quick. But from atop the accelerating Battle Wing, Jin-cheol saw it all.
People screaming in panic as they fled, others shredded from the waist down by the first blasts, tumbling across the ground. Pilots scrambling into Battle Wings like him and Lamien. Soldiers with half-mad eyes firing rifles blindly at the sky—bang bang bang. Officers bellowing themselves hoarse to quell the chaos and mount a counterattack.
Smoke and flames, explosions and roars, screams and shouts, the fallen and the rising, the runners and the collapsers.
Taking in the scene, Jin-cheol felt his breath catch, his heart pounding in his ears. Not fast, but steady, surging with some primal thrill, pumping hot blood.
His heart was racing.
"Here we go!"
Lamien stomped the pedal and yanked the stick toward herself. With a pop, powerful thrust erupted from the Battle Wing's rear, shoving Jin-cheol and her back into their seats.
Wincing against the wind whipping his face in the tight cockpit, Jin-cheol twisted to look behind. The field airstrip receded rapidly, a long tail of white smoke trailing from their Battle Wing like a comet.
Turning forward again, nothing obstructed the vast open sky, and Lamien was frantically adjusting the instruments.
Then she shouted, "Jin-cheol! Belt on!?"
He fumbled across the seat, found the belt, extended it with quick hands, and clicked it into the buckle.
Without turning, Lamien checked it on her panel and flashed a thumbs-up.
As Jin-cheol smirked at her chubby little thumb—
"Whoa!"
The Battle Wing's view of the clear sky flipped violently. It had pulled nearly vertical, then executed a brutal loop. Lamien's hands shook wildly on the stick.
They'd barely reached altitude before enemy machine guns rained down—ratatatata.
Yellow tracers streaked past the tumbling craft like pollen in the wind. As the maneuvers grew fiercer, the world spun dizzily.
Lamien gripped the stick with her right, jerking it left and right; her left flew over panels and levers, flipping and pulling endlessly. Through her goggles, her eyes darted everywhere, head whipping like someone with severe anxiety.
Jin-cheol soon spotted the bullet dust clouds everywhere and the sky choked with Battle Wings. Urata's fighters, pouring from their battleship, tangled madly with the revolutionaries' rapid sorties.
Lamien locked eyes ahead and squeezed the trigger. Thump-thump-thump-thump—a Urata Battle Wing's right wing shredded off ahead. It lost thrust and plummeted instantly.
Her right hand wrenched the stick again. A pursuer trying to line up a shot slipped harmlessly below with a whoosh.
Lamien twisted back, caught its tail—heavy gunfire, explosion, crash.
Their Battle Wing rolled through the swarm, tearing flight paths.
Watching her fly and fight from behind, Jin-cheol couldn't help but marvel. He'd been infantry; fighters were just distant support bombers in his wars. Riding shotgun in one was a storm of fury.
Lamien surged forward, triggered again—gunfire, blasts. In minutes aloft, she'd downed three.
She dodged an enemy razor-close and yelled, "Now for the battleship! Hold tight!"
Jin-cheol gripped his belt as her godlike piloting resumed. To him, whose first meeting with her was a crashing plane over the sea, it was absurd. How'd a pilot this good go down last time?
He didn't know she'd already bagged four foes solo then, ran out of ammo evading, and got tagged late in the fight.
Words failed her, but her actions proved it—she banked away from the dogfight web toward Urata's flying battleship.
The canopy wasn't fully enclosed like modern jets, so the much taller Jin-cheol took the wind full-force in the face. His eyes watered and dried, but he scanned the battlefield below.
The revolutionary flagship Comintern ascended, igniting a full broadside duel with the Urata vessel. Urata's ship hovered nearly stationary, pounding not just Comintern but the entire encampment.
Comintern climbed fast, luring fire outward, concentrating all guns on the foe.
Both behemoths belched flames and thunder from main batteries; blue shields flickered across hulls.
Unlike Urata's battleships and fighters, revolutionaries had numerous airships—smaller than flagships but far larger than Battle Wings. These plunged into the fighter melee, blasting main guns and cannons everywhere.
Normally, nimble Battle Wings preyed on lumbering airships—weapons meant little if you couldn't connect.
But revolutionaries had Battle Wings too. They shielded firepower instead of head-on clashes, exposing Urata fighters to blasts or forcing dogfights if they pressed.
Urata outnumbered them, but the ambush yielded a stalemate.
And it all streamed from Comintern's bridge.
Lamien's radio crackled with Comintern command directives. The voice sounded like the Pig Doctor, Miguel.
Gazing at the fray, Jin-cheol ducked sharply. Bullets zipped overhead.
Twisting, he saw three enemy Battle Wings on their tail.
"Lamien! Behind!"
She evaded instantly—sharp climbs, dives, the world spinning.
But the pursuers were aces too. No fatal hits, but they matched her piloting, never letting her shake the tail lock.
They clung tight amid her frenzy, pouring lead. In the blurring view, their tracers bloomed like flower petals.
Jin-cheol huffed at his own ridiculous thought. Not the time, but helpless—he had nothing to do.
"...Nah. Do something."
Muttering, he drew his hip holster revolver—heavy Sandesiya workshop four-shooter, "gift" from Aiman.
Lamien shrieked as he unbuckled and turned. "What the—now?!"
"Tail gunner."
Cocking the hammer calmly, he aimed at the nearest foe. Through its hazy canopy, the pilot's baffled face appeared.
Jin-cheol fired.
The pistol's crack drowned in the aerial roar. But the bullet struck true, shattering the canopy with oversized slug and powder force—glass sprayed forward.
Finally firing this damn thing.
The pilot panicked amid shards; his craft lagged.
The other two hesitated at the absurdity.
Lamien, used to Jin-cheol's nonsense, wrenched into a hard climb instead of freezing.
The airframe shuddered—rrrr—G-forces crushed them like an invisible hand.
Enemies scrambled to follow but couldn't match the hull-chewing turn.
Lamien looped back, locked tails. Her heavy machine gun thundered—thud-thud-thud.
One enemy, riddled, lost altitude and fell.
She swung to the next—but guns clicked empty after two bursts.
"Ah!"
"What?"
"Outta ammo!"
No wonder the heavy rounds. Jin-cheol raised his revolver.
As Lamien evened out for his shot, he fired. Front canopy cracked; pilot spun, grazed in the helmet.
Jin-cheol thumbed again—bang. Leather helmet flew; ears flapped in wind. Neck craned, realizing his near-miss, the pilot's face drained—shaking, he broke formation, diving low.
No need to waste the last round. One foe left, one bullet.
Aiming at the evader—another Battle Wing streaked below, hosing the deserter—ratatata. It burst like a pincushion.
...
In the frenzy, a demoralized enemy was no prisoner—just easy prey.
Jin-cheol's sunken eyes refocused through ironsights. The last pilot had drawn his own pistol, half-turning to spray wildly one-handed.
Sparks flew near Lamien on the stick; she flinched.
Jin-cheol fired. Muzzle flash. Canopy bloodied.
The enemy slumped; craft nosedived.
Jin-cheol watched it fall, broke open the revolver, dumped empties twinkling into the sky—ephemeral amid flames and lead.
"...Where the hell do I get more bullets?"
Reseating, Urata's massive battleship loomed ahead—main guns spitting fire, AA guns shredding approaching Battle Wings.
Holstering, Jin-cheol yelled, "Can we get close?!"
"Obviously! I'll hug it tight—then you're up!"
No docking—just skim and jump.
Exactly what he wanted.
"Going in!"
Lamien plunged into the barrage. Had it not been murder, the tracers were fireworks.
Their craft bucked like a leaf in a gale. No escape from the storm.
But Lamien threaded it fearlessly.
After an eternity in seconds, they skimmed the hull.
"Jin-cheol! Steal this ship—one and we're set for life!"
"?"
Poised to leap, he gaped at her grinning face. This timing for jokes?
Can't resist.
"Yeah? Skip the others—split it fifty-fifty?"
"Deal! I'll retire with Epani on that cash!"
Her instant retirement plan cracked him up. Laughing, he launched from the cockpit.
Wind roared, buoyancy surged, hull rushed up.
He twisted midair, feet down—aiming mid-deck round window. Bridge too hot.
Feet smashed glass like a shell; he tumbled in, sliding to a knee.
Exhaling, he looked up—dozens of ironclad troopers.
...
Some half-armored, others suiting up. Armory or ready room, absurdly.
They froze, staring slack-jawed at the window-crasher.
A fully geared one recovered first. "Wh-what? Who the hell are you?"
Correction—not attacking, just asking. As dazed as the rest.
Recalling Lamien's line, Jin-cheol grinned. "Professional hijacker."
"...Pro—professional what?"
"Hijacker."