Ostrov Gallya

Prop planes made for rough travel in the best of circumstances. A flight over Barents Bay, however, meant very cold air. Very cold air meant lots of static electricity, which meant turbulence, which meant Fitz was puking on his down jacket for the second time today.

“Need some water?” the navigator yelled back, strapped in a few feet away behind the pilot and co-pilot. Fitz shook his head.

“Don’t feel bad,” he yelled again, “you got less on yourself than most do.”

Fitz found an oily cloth under his seat, wiping himself mostly clean but making a new mess in the process. The plane suddenly hit a pressure differential, violently jarring everyone inside. From behind the bulkhead at the rear of the cabin, a shrill squeaking sound pierced the drone of the props, raising the hair on Fitz’s neck.

“Is this thing gonna know what to do when it hits the ground?” Fitz shouted, jerking his head to the rear of the plane.

“It better!” the navigator shouted back. “Or else someone’s gonna have to go down there with it.”

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