North to Orussia

Wind driven snow and ice plinked against thick glass behind the blackout curtain covering the porthole.  There was nothing to see out there except the sea, she knew that well.  In the depths of an Arctic winter it was difficult even to see as far as the convoy's nearest ship.  That's why no one ever bothered to do away with the dubiously valuable curtains; had they been cruising the waters of a more pleasant sea... There was no light in her room either adding to the redundancy of the heavy curtains.  Laying on one of the small cabin's bunks Tacita let the heavy rolling of the Empire Bay swing her vision from spot to spot on the black ceiling.  At any second the alarm could sound calling her away to action no matter how sincerely she wished for better weather for battle.

Three days before Convoy PQ-11 had been ordered dispersed by the commander of her Royal Navy escort to avoid the probing Neuroi.  While they lacked staying time over this much open water the little bastards had made their presence felt in previous convoys.  Here she was, then, the last best defense of the knot of thirteen merchant ships that had left Iceland five days ago.  Dispersal was far above her pay grade.  Rolling over the tired witch pressed her wind whipped face into the debatable comfort of the government issued pillow she attempted to block out thoughts of the other ships out in the storm alone, without the comfort of a big cruiser within hypothetical sight.  Or a witch to watch over them.  Turning up on her side, she tugged restlessly at the pillow's matching wool blanket draped over her in some fashion.  At least her size meant that there was a little more room for her then say, one of the full grown men that typically inhabited such berths.

Some were still put there.  Commodore Hartell had thought better of his order just this morning ordering her out to find what merchies she could and bring them back to Hermione.  Flipping onto her back again with some finality Tacita's gaze drifted towards the porthole again.  Three others wallowed through the sea around them, another Britanian vessel, a Honduran, and an Liberion.  One of their other escorts had found them on it's one.  The Niblack was limping along somewhere in what the Captain had referred to as 'the van'.  She'd brought news that the poor little Farawayland frigate Barrie had succumbed to the damage taken during their initial contact with the large type Neuroi.  Two crewman.  Considering that grim statistic she rolled over on her opposite side, curling slightly under the blanket with a shiver.  

There'd been a slick too.  No debris, just a smear of oil on the sea where not long before a ship had been.  It couldn't have been more then a minute given the sea state.  Now Tacita was half convinced she'd seen the running lights of a struggling steamer on approach.  Nine merchant ships were still out there, one destroyer, one corvette, and possibly some of the four trawlers they'd started with.  This was her sixth Iceland-Orrusia convoy up over the Arctic circle to Murmansk, the tenth convoy overall.  Holding up a hand in the ink dark room she felt her fingers as the closed to her palm.  Ticking them off; three aboard the Lake Country before she'd been split in half off Jersey, two on Janus, and now the Empire Bay was her home.  Most likely grave as well.  Fingernails digging into her palms Tactia shook her head firmly.  Hartell had realized his mistake.  He was pulling the convoy back together now, they'd make it to Murmansk!  After all, not even the Neuroi seemed willing to brave winds of this strength.

She had though.  She would again as soon as she got even the tiniest amount of sleep to  reinvigorate her frozen corpse.  Dumping in copious amounts of tea could perk her up but only sleep would replace the magic she'd expended flying against the storm.  Pressing one hand against her forehead Tacita willed herself to sleep, sleep, then she could worry properly once in the air.  In the passageway a door slammed.  A ship was always alive, even in what was the 'dead of night'.  Add in the fact it was always dark.... crewman stopped paying attention to such conventions as quieting down at night.  Boot shod feet clumped past in a hurry towards the fo'c'sle door into the night.  Pulling the blanket back up Tacita tried her best to ignore any other intruding sounds.

Footsteps returned, lighter but moving far faster.

The door to the RAF flight detachment's quarters banged open with a force that still startled her out of bed.  Hair wrapped around face she was already tumbling to the floor reaching around for her flight gear.  Faint red light silhouetted the intruder, though she hadn't bothered even to cross the threshold, supplemented with the glowing antenna sprouting from her head.  A quiet, scratchy voice called into the room.  It lacked any of her frantic action, seeming detached as she puzzled out a way to pull on at least her service dress jacket.  Almost soothingly her detachment commander's voice bid her pay attention, "We've bin spotted! Tois large type neuroi, a body medium inboond at leest Tass."

"A right doddle then ma'am," Hopping indelicately in an attempt to put on her stockings as the ship pushed through the crest of a wave.  Thankfully she hadn't bothered to remove her skirt or shirt, Tacita steadied herself to finish buttoning the blue wool jacket.  Finally reaching for the leather jacket on the table, Tacita brushed past the buzzing interphone into the hallway where Lieutenant Abercrombie waited patiently.  Snow was still on the tall Scots coat shoulder, though her face had reddened in the sudden reintroduction to heat.  A knit cap clashed with her otherwise proper Fleet Air Arm uniform, but appearance had been the first sacrifice in the MSWU.  

A paralyzing fear of heights had kept her out of a striker unit but someone with skills such as Emily was too valuable to waste.  Serving as the shipboard half of the a Merchant Ship Witch Unit team had been redeeming work according to her, and Tacita found serving under the sometimes ill tempered girl well worth the occasional shoe to the head.

Zipping up her final coat layer Tacita settled the battered peaked cap over her tousled (it was pointless to mess with it) brown hair, leaving goggles and headset hanging around her neck as the Lieutenant pushed the outside door open.  Struggling with her glove shells for an extra moment, a look hurried her out into the snowy, frozen deck.  Slipping along behind the Lieutenant neither bothered with what passed for a life line to the ladder ahead of them.

Wind and snow tugged at her barely protected legs, and she put a hand to her hat holding it place as they hustled for the ladder reaching up to the erector set thing arrayed above them.  Magic was beginning to kick to prevent her from dieing out in the cold; an effect she was for one sincerely grateful.  Grasping at slick iron with a gloved hand Tacita noted Emily had given way for her to lead the way.  Tempting fate she turned  to stick out her tongue and blow a raspberry at the other girl.  Escaping a prodding hand she carefully ascended to what could generously be termed a flight deck.  Two of the ship's merchant crew were already hauling the tarps away from the ruggedized striker launcher, revealing the faded paint of her aging Hawker Sea Hurricane.  No longer able to take the whistle of wind or the damp flakes of snow in her ears, she lifted the headset over her ears and the crown of the crushed cap.  Calm voices from Hermoine and Niblack's CICs fed information into the anti-aircraft net.

By habit she reported her status while checking the unit for serious damage.  Mumbling into the mic with lips chapped despite the warmth of magic, "Watchman, standin' by fer lunch."

Emily was examining the launch mechanisms as Tacita, satisfied with her inspection, skittered for the final ladder.  Everything was covered in a sheet of ice, though the ship's crewmen had endeavored to keep the ladderways clear for use it was a loosing battle.  Fiddling with the radio frequency, she made sure it was set from ship-to-ship traffic to the band that would keep her in touch with the Fight Director.  A perfunctory salute to that august personage, huddled against the controls that allowed the unit to obtain flight with such a short run up, merely nodded back eager to get her charge in the air.  A witch on the ground was just another target.  Besides, the control shack was warm, sooner her witch was in the air the better all around!

Facing another icy deck Tacita disregarded the wild running start most witches took.  Neither conditions nor space would allow such foolishness.  Instead she carefully picked her way across the platform before hopping into the two leg units.  The power of magic surged through Tacita's body as the Sea Hurricane's magic engine sought some way to start.  Closing her eyes she felt the alert black ears sprout from her head and the fluffy black/buff tail poke out underneath her leather flying jacket.  Still an unusual experience as far as she was concerned.  At the top of the ship now, ice stung exposed eyes.  Flight would only make it worse, as a crystal poking her cornea reminded.  Slipping up the goggles, the foredeck once again came into something passing for focus.

Pouring more magic into the engine, she revved it twice.  Each time a witch from her unit put on the striker they were dicing with death.  Perched on the bow of a merchant ship in the driving snow, cold, or dark more often then not it required a degree of tranquility and acceptance of one's own mortality.  Dieing so others might live was the name of the game.  Secreted where no ice could get in, she popped the door to the platform's weapons locker open.  Producing a Lewis gun as worn as the striker, her uniform, and the platform itself in addition to a clanking bag of spare ammo drums

"Ready?" her headphones asked, clearly having seen the dull gleam of the vessel's deck lights off the gun barrel.

If Tacita chose to open her mouth as the bow slowly turned into the wind her only reward would be a lungful of ice.  Procedure dictated a thumbs up be substituted for vocal confirmation in extreme conditions.  Clutching the Lewis gun's pistol grip in her right hand, resting it on her shoulder momentarily, she stuck the left out and up high.  There was no mistaking what that meant.  Tacita brought the gun down, holding on tight with both hands.  The voice began again, "Thee, tois, a body, gang!"

With a reluctant shudder she felt the shackles drop away from her legs as the Hurricane was thrown forward.  She poured all the magic she could into the take off, but the typical rune was all but hidden by the ice and driven snow.  Deck dropping away from her feet, there was no sudden plunge to death in the waves bellow.  Still pulling, Tacita went into a tight turn between the Empire Bay and Hermione quickly running a personal diagnostic of her magically aided vision.  Assorted soft glows of 'infrared', the green tones of night, odd blues of 'ultraviolet', and finally the dull tags of 'IFF' showing the small column laid out bellow.  Coming out of the turn she overflew the light cruiser's deck.  Gunners were hurrying their own preparations around her 5 1/4 inch guns.  

"Ye see anythin'? they're north by northwest F/O," Emily's voice was soft in the headphones, no doubt as a result of the wind trying to pull them off her head.  Rising, Tacita switched from visible light to purplish.  Neuroi heat signatures would be minuscule at this range, first detection lay in what one of the researchers had told her was called the ultraviolet section of the electromagnetic spectrum.  Possessing shorter wavelengths, she honestly wasn't sure why it worked the way it did.  Magic.  That covered everything adequately.

Amongst the snow she could now make out a path too regular to be a weather effect.  Daring to open her mouth she tucked her head in towards her chest, as the snow landed in her husky ears now.  Shivering, Tacita replied, "Ah see twa.  Preparin' tuh close an' engage the enemy.  Tell the bastards tuh shyeut canny, skippah!"

Not paying attention to the response, not a top priority now, Tacita faced back towards the Neuroi.  Urging more speed from the warn units that had carried her from the end in Karsland through Gallia, back home again to Britannia.  Old reliable.  Old.  She worked the Lewis guns bolt to reassure herself it wasn't frozen.  Time to be a hero.