The Backup

by K. P. S. Plaha

When A5609 calls for backup, I’m not expecting the level of mayhem I’m witnessing from the dew-frosted windscreen of my bridge. The Somali pirate ship that A5609 has been chasing has breached their hull. Screams and orders from both ships are being drowned by the roar of their engines and the explosions.

I pull the throttle back, allowing my ship to hover on auto-pilot, and bark into the communicator: “This is B9913! Your backup as requested, Wes. Where are you?”

Before he can reply, I see him. Abseiling between two ships flying at nearly 10,000 feet is not for the faint-hearted, nor for the unfit. But Wes has always been the maverick, taking chances, some almost illegal.

Flying at lower orbits than commercial jets, our flying ships — or “flips” as they are fondly called — are an odd chimaera of flying machines. They look like ships of old, made buoyant by a zeppelin-like dirigible balloon, and propelled by an aircraft-like engine. The power of these engines is regulated so as to limit their overall altitude and speed.

Regulated for the Air Patrol, that is. The pirates have it easy with their state-of-the-art jet engines; as powerful as those of modern airliners. That, in a nutshell, is what Wes was dealing with when I joined the party.

Speaking of Wes, he’s nearing the pirate ship, but the strong gusts at this altitude are swinging him like a dry leaf. I hope he carried his parachute along.

“Hey, Mike,” I hear Wes crackle, as if on cue, “can you hold these guys long enough for me to jump aboard?”

“Yeah, sure,” I answer, not really sure how. I can already hear their engines revving up. They are going to either shoot past me or straight into me.

I turn off the auto-pilot, restart the engines, and begin to manoeuvre my craft in line with the pirate ship. It’s like trying to parallel park in 3D. Once I am in direct line of sight, I grab the mic and order, “Cut off your engines and stay on hover! You are now under arrest. You do have the right to remain silent—”

“Oh, shaddap!” The reply startles me. Even after carrying out sorties against countless such thieves, I am startled at their blasé attitude to the rule of law.

I check with Wes: “Hey, mate, are these runners or shooters?”

“Shooters, for sure,” he pants, “What do you think happened to my ship?”

“Righty-O! Think you’re gonna be okay?”

There’s a pause, and I can feel Wes’s mental gears spinning. “Shoot!” he finally says.

“No!” I shout, “You’re not dying for these suckers—”

“I’ll try not to.”

I grab the microphone and order: “Pirate ship! This is your last warning. Comply or we will shoot. Repeat: we will shoot.”

There is no reply and I’m worried if my plan will work. Wes is getting ready to jump aboard their ship, and there are precious little moments left.

My Second Mate calls out: “Skip, shall we arm the cannons?”

“Yes, do it,” I say.

“Aye, aye!”

Seconds pass like hours but there’s no response. My heart sinks while my thoughts are with Wes. Then, a loud thump jolts my ship.

“We’ve been hit!” someone shouts.

I rush to the deck to assess the damage. Good and bad news awaits me. We’ve not been hit by explosives. That’s the good news. We’ve been hit by a slingshot from the pirate ship. That’s bad. If they start boarding our ship, we may have to fight them in hand-to-hand combat.

“Damn it!” I curse and rush back to the bridge, expecting the pirates to start abseiling over any moment.

The radio crackles. “Mike!” Wes shouts. “Blast the buggers to smithereens. Now!”

“What? No, I can’t! Not while you’re on their ship!”

“Just do it! They’re about to take off to higher altitude and they’ll smash you on the way.”

“Are you sure?”

Before Wes can reply, I drop the radio and stare out the windscreen of the bridge. One of the pirates is making his way to us. We can surely fight one of them off, but I’m low on numbers. Wes said he wanted backup, not a full-blown battalion for all-out war.

I rush to the armoury. “Are the cannons ready?”

“Yes, Captain!”

“Then are ya waiting for an invite? Fire!”

The ship shudders in recoil as, after what seems like forever, a pair of mean torpedoes hiss their way from somewhere below us, and race across the sky. One catches the left engine of the pirate ship while the other hits its hull squarely. The poor buggers have no chance.

Meanwhile, with extensive damage to its hull, the A5609 appears to be heading for an emergency landing, but I’m worried about Wes. Maybe, when he went aboard, there were just too many pirates!

I realise I’ve forgotten about the one making his way over.

Thud!

As I head to the deck, I feel a blur hurtling at me. I try to push back when he says: “Mike! Mate! Thank you. Thank you so much.”

“Wes?” A wave of relief washes over me. “Bloody Oath, you’re alive!”

“You seem disappointed, Mike?”

“Totally, mate.” I grin. “But how? I thought you were onboard the pirate ship.”

“True. I went aboard their ship but it seems they had their hands full with you. Good job there. So, I joined the mob, pretending to be one of them and pointed at your ship—”

“Bugger! You do look like one of ’em yourself.” Now, I’m enjoying this.

“Wait till ya hear all of it. They took my bait of invading your ship and fired the sling at you.”

“Yeah, I felt that. But how come you’re the only one here?”

“Heh, I offered to invade your ship for them, didn’t I?” Wes winks.

“Oh, I see. You’re a true bloody digger!”

“Couldn’t’ve done it without you.” Wes hugs me. “Thanks for being the bait.”

“You mean backup, don’tcha?”