The sea below glimmers like thousands of glowing embers. Robert trains his eyes towards the tiny waves, fingers drumming a staccato rhythm on his bouncing knee.
The door makes a slight hissing sound as it slides shut. Robert twists his head around and grins at the newcomer.
"How's it going back there, Dutch?"
The man shrugs, lips thinning. "They're all a bit restless. I think it's high time we got out of here."
He glances towards Paul, whose tense shoulders have been squared towards the screens ever since they took off. He won't move from his seat, knuckles almost white from gripping the controls, despite the auto-pilot. Chestnut hair impeccably combed over his forehead. Bushy eyebrows frowned in a curve above his nose. Professional, as always. But then again, why wouldn't he be? If there's one moment in his life where he ought to be serious...
"It won't be long, now," Robert says in a warm voice.
A hum of acknowledgment is all he's going to get. His eyes swerve back towards the windscreen. Sitting on the horizon, half-way between sea and sky, he can spot the island. It's tiny, and beautiful, and doomed. He smiles grimly - but aren't we all?
His watch squeezes against his wrist, coiled like a snake about to feast. It shouldn't be long now. Somewhere behind him, in the belly of the plane, the little guy sits patiently, singing a song everyone on this craft can hear, but pretends not to. Knock wood.
He decides he's had enough with Paul's cold scowl, and briskly stands up.
"I'm going to check on the men," he says. "It won't be long."
Paul glances up to him, and for a second he watches the heavy lids and the clouded irises, wondering just how much the world weighs. Then the colonel nods and turns away.
"Don't get lost on the way back."
Robert stiffens his fingers and bring them to his forehead in salute. "Aye, Captain!"
He's rewarded with an eyeroll which could reach the ceiling of the cockpit.
In the back, silence hangs like a curtain. Robert can almost hear the men's stampeding heartbeats and shallow breaths, dancing to the rhythm of his watch.
Tom has a faraway look, eyes glazed over and fingers absently picking away at his sleeve. He's back in the Midwest, sweating under the scorching sky, kissing girls and drinking beer.
There's someone down there kissing a girl, Robert thinks. Having the time of his life.
There's also someone boarding a doomed plane, ready to crash into the murky depths just for the solace of killing another.
He nods at the men, offering a tight smile which doesn't replace a joke. He's not in the mood, sue him. Crouching down, he places a hand on the metal floor. He pretends he hears the Boy, bouncing up and down in excitement. Counting down the seconds till his birthday. Chuckling in delight to the present his parents will buy him.
He knows his ship. He's flown her so many times he could pilot her blindfolded. Tom usually laughs at him, saying they're an old married couple.
He can't recognize his wife anymore. It's like the Boy's warping her, eating her with its presence. Her familiar whirs and rumbles giving way to that blasted silence -
"Captain?"
Joe's voice grounds him back. He springs back up to his feet. His eyes meet every crew member's, and he brings his eyebrows in a Paul-like frown.
"Alright, boys. Get into position." He checks his watch. "Five minutes till it's over."
The concussion wave hits them hard. His back thumps against the seat, his neck jerking towards Paul. The Colonel stares right ahead, and there's a tiny, alive spark in there. His shoulders are slumped back, and he breathes out a sigh. Thousands of sighs are probably happening down there.
"That's it, Robert," Paul murmurs. "We just brought peace to the world."
Robert looks down towards the sea. The plane has made a steep swerve to the left, exhibiting the scene in all its glory.
His eyes follow the rising cloud. He chuckles breathlessly.
"My God, look at that son-of-a-bitch go."
Paul nods as he steers the Enola back home.
-©Estelle Wallis, June 2019
The door makes a slight hissing sound as it slides shut. Robert twists his head around and grins at the newcomer.
"How's it going back there, Dutch?"
The man shrugs, lips thinning. "They're all a bit restless. I think it's high time we got out of here."
He glances towards Paul, whose tense shoulders have been squared towards the screens ever since they took off. He won't move from his seat, knuckles almost white from gripping the controls, despite the auto-pilot. Chestnut hair impeccably combed over his forehead. Bushy eyebrows frowned in a curve above his nose. Professional, as always. But then again, why wouldn't he be? If there's one moment in his life where he ought to be serious...
"It won't be long, now," Robert says in a warm voice.
A hum of acknowledgment is all he's going to get. His eyes swerve back towards the windscreen. Sitting on the horizon, half-way between sea and sky, he can spot the island. It's tiny, and beautiful, and doomed. He smiles grimly - but aren't we all?
His watch squeezes against his wrist, coiled like a snake about to feast. It shouldn't be long now. Somewhere behind him, in the belly of the plane, the little guy sits patiently, singing a song everyone on this craft can hear, but pretends not to. Knock wood.
He decides he's had enough with Paul's cold scowl, and briskly stands up.
"I'm going to check on the men," he says. "It won't be long."
Paul glances up to him, and for a second he watches the heavy lids and the clouded irises, wondering just how much the world weighs. Then the colonel nods and turns away.
"Don't get lost on the way back."
Robert stiffens his fingers and bring them to his forehead in salute. "Aye, Captain!"
He's rewarded with an eyeroll which could reach the ceiling of the cockpit.
In the back, silence hangs like a curtain. Robert can almost hear the men's stampeding heartbeats and shallow breaths, dancing to the rhythm of his watch.
Tom has a faraway look, eyes glazed over and fingers absently picking away at his sleeve. He's back in the Midwest, sweating under the scorching sky, kissing girls and drinking beer.
There's someone down there kissing a girl, Robert thinks. Having the time of his life.
There's also someone boarding a doomed plane, ready to crash into the murky depths just for the solace of killing another.
He nods at the men, offering a tight smile which doesn't replace a joke. He's not in the mood, sue him. Crouching down, he places a hand on the metal floor. He pretends he hears the Boy, bouncing up and down in excitement. Counting down the seconds till his birthday. Chuckling in delight to the present his parents will buy him.
He knows his ship. He's flown her so many times he could pilot her blindfolded. Tom usually laughs at him, saying they're an old married couple.
He can't recognize his wife anymore. It's like the Boy's warping her, eating her with its presence. Her familiar whirs and rumbles giving way to that blasted silence -
"Captain?"
Joe's voice grounds him back. He springs back up to his feet. His eyes meet every crew member's, and he brings his eyebrows in a Paul-like frown.
"Alright, boys. Get into position." He checks his watch. "Five minutes till it's over."
The concussion wave hits them hard. His back thumps against the seat, his neck jerking towards Paul. The Colonel stares right ahead, and there's a tiny, alive spark in there. His shoulders are slumped back, and he breathes out a sigh. Thousands of sighs are probably happening down there.
"That's it, Robert," Paul murmurs. "We just brought peace to the world."
Robert looks down towards the sea. The plane has made a steep swerve to the left, exhibiting the scene in all its glory.
His eyes follow the rising cloud. He chuckles breathlessly.
"My God, look at that son-of-a-bitch go."
Paul nods as he steers the Enola back home.
-©Estelle Wallis, June 2019
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