Dragon Squadron (An RAF Dragon Corps story) - 16. Shared Skies

In an alternate 1939 where dragons are Britain's aerial defenders, an admiral's son defies his naval heritage to join the RAF Dragon Corps...

Jim waited with the other recruits in the cavernous main hangar, watching as handlers wheeled in barrels of preserved meat and stacked canvas pouches filled with water.

Sergeant Redfern stepped into the hangar, Flight Instructor Briggs at his side. They positioned themselves before the assembled recruits, Redfern’s perpetual scowl scanning the ranks.

“In combat,” Redfern said, “you don’t always have the luxury of landing when your dragon gets tired.”

Jim shifted his weight, acutely aware of Marcus standing several places to his right in the formation. The air commodore’s son had been subdued since the endurance flight disaster three days earlier.

Shadow had recovered under the medical team’s care, but the incident had left a visible mark on Marcus’s confidence.

Briggs stepped forward, gesturing to a large chalkboard. “You’ll be learning two key skills today. How to refuel mid-flight and how to cycle rest periods using drafting formations.”

He tapped the first diagram, which showed dragons flying in a staggered V-formation. “Dragons, like aircraft, create air disturbance patterns. The lead dragon breaks the air resistance, creating a partial vacuum that reduces drag for those behind it.” His finger traced the formation pattern. “By cycling leaders, a squadron can extend its effective range by up to thirty percent.”

The second diagram depicted a dragon catching what appeared to be a supply package in mid-air. “Long-range missions require refuelling. Landing is often impossible or strategically unsound. These techniques allow dragon and rider to maintain operational status for extended periods.”

Redfern stepped forward again, his expression hardening. “You fall behind, you’re a sitting duck. You fail at mid-air feeding, you might starve your own dragon mid-mission.” His eyes swept the assembled recruits. “There’s no room for error here. Get it right, or don’t come back.”

“What’s next?” Marcus asked. “Teaching them to drink tea mid-flight?”

Several recruits snickered, but fell silent as Redfern’s focus locked onto Marcus. “Laugh it up, Canning. You’ll be the first to test it.”

Marcus’s smirk faltered, but he maintained his composure. “Looking forward to it, sir.”

Redfern’s thin smile carried the promise of retribution to come. “I’m sure you are.” He turned back to address the group at large. “This exercise requires teamwork. Each of you will be paired with another pilot. You’ll take turns leading the formation, managing draft patterns, and assisting with refuelling procedures.”

A ripple of tension passed through the recruits. Paired exercises always raised questions of compatibility and trust—qualities that varied widely among the competitive group.

“Pairs as follows.” Redfern consulted a clipboard. “Wilson and Thomas. Blake and Edwards. Cooper and Phillips.” He paused deliberately before announcing, “Ashford and Canning.”

Jim felt rather than saw Marcus stiffen beside him. Their eyes met briefly, mutual surprise giving way to resigned acceptance. After the emergency landing incident, pairing them together seemed like either cruel punishment or deliberate strategy on Redfern’s part.

“I don’t need help from Ashford,” Marcus muttered, just loud enough to be heard by those nearby.

“It’s not about what you need, Canning,” Redfern said. “It’s about what the mission needs. In combat, your personal preferences matter less than zero.”

As the briefing concluded and the recruits moved towards the equipment preparation area, Jim caught the concerned glances exchanged between Ronnie and Wilson.

Jim approached the refuelling gear, determined to maintain professional focus despite the awkward pairing. The equipment consisted of waxed canvas pouches designed for water and preserved meat, connected to sturdy straps that would attach to their flight harnesses.

“Ashford.”

Jim turned to find Marcus standing behind him, expression unreadable. “Canning.”

For a moment, neither spoke.

Marcus gestured towards the equipment. “I’ll take the lead on the first leg. You follow my pace.”

“That worked out well last time,” Jim replied before he could stop himself.

Marcus’s jaw tightened, but instead of the expected retort, he simply nodded. “Fine. What do you suggest?”

The unexpected reasonableness caught Jim off-guard. “Alternate leads at twenty-minute intervals. Standard drafting formation during steady flight, modified wing when approaching the refuelling zone.”

Marcus considered this, then nodded again. “Agreed.”

“Actually.” Jim cleared his throat. “You should take first lead.”

“You’re not afraid that I’ll race on ahead?”

Jim shrugged. “I think you care enough about Shadow to not do that.”

Marcus gave a slow nod. “Okay.”