Chapter 45: The Fallon

{Tatsumisaki}

{Airfield}

Wind came down the mountain as it stripped across the upper ridge in long sheets, then dropped into the basin, and ran the lengths of the tarmac in low, hard pushes.

Clouds tore thin over the high plateau and reformed in the same breath.

On the near strip, a windsock snapped, held, and eased only when the gust moved on.

Hangars stood in dark rows. A fuel truck idled with its engine, but the sound of it was swallowed by the sound of air moving through open space.

Beyond the lan fell away toward the far ocean, that threw its own cold breath back inland, meeting the descent from the heights until the field felt caught between two directions.

Against the railing of the operations office, a tall silhouette stood unmoving in the wind.

Seven feet of thin frame, Dark coat pulled by each gust, borderless rectangular glasses catching a strip of sky. One hand sheltered the slow burn of a black cigarette, the other turned a red metal card end over end.

His hair were brown, with a slight Mexican features in beard.

The card in his hand was sleek, metallic, with rounded corners, and in deep red. A black flacon was stamped in the centre of it, it flashed whenever the edge found light.

George Fallon watched the windsock on the vacant airfield in the sacred land of the Severan family, Tatsumisaki, The Dragon Cape.

The land was roughly the size of a small country, situated between Taiwan and Japan, it’s outer cliffs fell directly into the ocean on the eastern side.

Much of its interior remained undeveloped, occupied by mountains, dense woodland, and private infrastructure that did not appear on any ordinary tourist or world map.

For George, the important part was not its size, it was the distance. The distance between people, between buildings, the family and the outside world.

And, more importantly, the distance between the person he had been told to remove, and everyone who could interfere.

Severan, despite being a family, operates as a classified military group, one that deals in hierarchy, royalty, and status more than anything.

George’s cigarette had burned halfway by the time he looked beyond the field.

Oroshi Yama rose behind the southern ridges, its upper slopes disappeared into the passing cloud.

The mountain was perfectly isolated from the rest of Tatsumisaki, but the terrain made the distinction irrelevant from the ground. Roads narrowed as they approached it, the elvation increased sharply, and the land opened only in a few places before rising again.

The Oroshi Yama, was a mountain Shrine, turned into a resort, a private residence of the heir of Severan’s main family.

Even from Gale field, parts of it could be seen through the breaks in the terrain.

Oroshi Yama. Mountain of the descending wind.

The name held a deeper historical meaning. The atmospheric behaviour made the area so troublesome for aviation.

Wind rolled down from the upper ridge, and accelerated through the lower basin, before colliding with air coming off the sea. Gale field had been built with those conditions in mind, which was why the Severans maintained an airfield of its size in a place where most pilots would have preferred to operate from somewhere flatter and more predictable.

George, however, had no complaints.

He was no pilot. He was just an agent, insuring the high value assets of the Severans.

On the opposite side of the field, higher structures rose from the far slope. Seat of the Clouds, the main family’s territory.

The towers were visible even through the haze, dark vertical structures layered into the mountain and surrounded by smaller residences, administrative buildings and private facilities.

The complex extended farther than the angle allowed him to see, with sections disappearing behind the upper terrain.

The difference between the two residences was obvious from this distance.

Oroshi Yama belonged to the heir, inherited from his late mother.

Seat of the Clouds belonged to the family.

One was isolated, the other was not. George kept that in mind.

He rotated the red card between two fingers, watching the falcon on it disappear into shadow, and return again when it caught the light.

The message had arrived two months ago.

Marcellus Severan was no longer required.

George had already known what that meant. He was the one who had been managing Marcellus’s high stake assets, and the one who had been exerting control on behalf of Roan Severan.

*Flickh*

George flicked the card in his hand.

He had spent years surviving by knowing when circumstances were about to change, and Marcellus had become very inconvenient during his time at the IAA.

George had expected as much, but removing a heir, even reaching anywhere near him isn’t as simple as it seems.

Now he was standing in the place where several possible outcomes converged, trying to determine which one would leave the fewest fingerprints.

His eyes returned to the field, the airfiled itself was almost too visible.

Every movement on the tarmac belonged to someone. Every station had military personnels with grade five combat capabilities, led by units of commanders of grade four and above.

Every aircraft had a record, every departure had security involved, and every arrival created another sequence of names, cameras, documents, that could later be pulled apart by someone with enough authority.

"Bothersome," he whispered, tilting his head.

George disliked discrepancies.

He preferred ordinary work. He was an insurance representative, arriving for an annual review, conducting his work, and leaving before sunset.

George took another drag of his cigarette. The smoke disappeared immediately because of the curling winds that draped the airfield.

He looked at the windsock again, and it moved differently suddenly.

The fabric stretched hard toward the sea, then folded inward before the next gust arrived.

George observed it for a while.

There was a change in rhythm to the wind.

He had seen it every year.

Most years, Gale Field behaved exactly as expected.

There were sudden gusts, there were brief rotations in the air, there were mornings when aircraft crews were delayed because of the tornados created by the terrain.

It was nothing unusual for Tatsumisaki.

George watched the windsock, as a current descended from Oroshi Yama and struck the basin at a angle.

For several seconds, the two streams pressed against one another, creating a narrow region where the air began to rotate.

George lowered his cigarette. His eyes remained on the empty stretch of the field.

He almost smiled. Because an opportunity that he was hustling for, was right in front of him all this while.

Because it was so ordinary, no one would find it suspicious.

He flicked ash from the end of his cigarette and watched it disappear.

George slipped Roan’s red card back into the inner pocket of his coat, the metal settled against the fabric in quite elegance.

He picked up the folder for his annual review and turned toward the operations office.