The Aviator by Morgan Karpiel

The Aviator
27 Hours Prior to the Attack
    N athan shoved the metal hatch open to the storm, pushing out onto the rolling gun deck of the battleship Avenger . Rain battered his shoulders, sweeping in solid crystal sheets across the teak deck as the giant vessel slid into another deep trough. He felt the sickening drop in his stomach, the yawn of ocean waves swallowing the horizon.
    The Avenger shuddered through her massive bulkheads, steel and water colliding before she bounded skyward, riding on clouds of hard spray to the top of another large swell. Nathan slid off his feet with the hard pitch of the deck, forced to cling to the railing to keep from falling, the thick muscle in his arms and shoulders strained. He swore through his teeth, enduring the bite of the cable in his hands.
    The ship leveled as it neared the crest of the wave and he heaved himself up, heading for the fantail, the gun deck still tilting under the tread of his boots.
    Coming overhead any second, at upward of 150 knots…
    He broke into a run, sprinting under the aft starboard battery, its twin 127 millimeter guns staring out to sea, rain spilling in light waterfalls over their long barrels. The shadow of the ship’s massive stacks fell behind him, the cranes and pulleys of the aft station materializing from the slew of water and swirling vapor ahead.
    Men in oiled overcoats and leather boots leaned against the deck angle, holding onto their harness lines, swaying with the drop and pitch as they raised the airship docking mast against the angry clouds. The mast lifted upward, anchored on heavy hinges, pulled and secured by six winched cables.
    Nathan ducked forward as the ship rolled into another descent, grasping onto the railing around the air mast before Avenger hit the trough. He felt weaker in the drop, as if his grip was a loose and useless thing, his body falling through wet air, stomach rising in his chest.
    The LSO turned toward him in surprise, his face shadowed under the floppy brim of his hat. “Mr. Lanchard! You bloody kidget! Captain will ha’our heads if you go a tippin’ over the side. Did no one tell ya what a fat Navy prize ya’ are now? One o’the men will escort ya back.”
    “Escort someone else. I can hold my own.”
    “With bloody respect, I know you’ve got a strong arm with a line and a wrench, but this is a good team an’ we have all the hands we need.”
    “I built the dirigible that’s trying to come in.”
    “Aye, sir, we know. And that insane business partner o’ yours is the pilot. Hard to forget all that.”
    “The craft is not rated for this wind.”
    The man looked at him as if he were an idiot. “Imagine that.”
    “I’m staying here.”
    Another crew member appeared from the rain, wheezing and breathless, water pouring from his sleeves. He jabbed his finger at the starboard horizon. “Visual at two points off the starboard bow, sir.”
    The LSO squinted into the wind, baring his teeth and scowling. “E’re she comes! Look alive, ya stupid sods!”
    Nathan looked past him, frozen in horror as a dark shape broke through the churn of clouds over the water. It dropped low on the horizon, losing altitude as it barreled toward them, propellers chewing halos of thick vapor, rain shimmering from its rounded silver nose.
    Gilda, of all the stupid things you’ve done…
    She was a good pilot, God knew, but this was her first time with the sleek, torpedo-like shuttle, a prototype just 60 meters in length. He’d designed the craft to be fast and light, with a gondola capable of carrying four people and a detachable 1-ton payload compartment. It was an emergency runner, intended to transport vital personnel and supplies between ships in fair weather. It was never meant for this, its airframe too delicate to withstand the force of a gale.
    Gilda understood that. Even in her darkest, maddest moments, she had to know this was suicide. He imagined her jockeying the engine throttles and the rudder, straining