Dragon Squadron (An RAF Dragon Corps story) - 14. Long Way Down
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 stood with the others in a loose formation on the training field, watching the sky where two instructors circled on their dragons.
“What do you think they’re up to?” Ronnie asked, squinting upward. “Those aren’t combat patterns.”
Wilson shook his head. “Something new. Look at the safety nets they’ve set up along the north field.”
Jim followed Wilson’s gaze. Sure enough, ground crews had arranged massive nets stretched between poles at the far end of the training grounds. The sight did nothing to ease the knot of tension forming in his stomach.
Marcus stood apart from the group, as had become his habit since the mess hall confrontation three weeks earlier. The fight had shifted something in their relationship—not softening the rivalry, but channelling it into a more controlled antagonism.
They avoided direct interaction when possible, competed fiercely during training exercises, and maintained a cold civility during the rare occasions when cooperation was required.
Today, however, Marcus seemed particularly alert, his usual mask of bored superiority replaced by keen interest in the aerial display above.
Sergeant Redfern and Flight Instructor Briggs strode across the field with the brisk efficiency that characterized everything they did. Behind them, handlers led a row of dragons towards the assembly area—including Aether, whose gleaming midnight-blue scales caught the morning light.
Jim felt the familiar surge of connection as Aether’s golden eyes found him among the recruits. Their bond had strengthened steadily over the weeks, evolving from tentative partnership to something approaching true synchronisation. They still had moments of miscommunication, but increasingly, Jim found himself anticipating Aether’s reactions before they occurred, just as the dragon seemed to sense his intentions without explicit commands.
Redfern came to a halt before the assembled recruits, his weathered face set in its usual stern lines. Beside him, Briggs—a barrel-chested man with burn scars visible along his forearms—looked even more serious than usual.
“Listen up,” Redfern said. “If you’re ever forced to leave your dragon mid-air, you have two choices—control your descent, or die.”
The blunt statement hung in the air, silencing even the ambient sounds of the training base as the recruits absorbed its implications.
Briggs stepped forward. “Today, you’re learning the difference between a controlled dismount and plummeting like a rock.” His voice carried the gravelly quality of someone who’d inhaled too much smoke in his career. “This isn’t about looking impressive. It’s about survival.”
Ronnie shifted uneasily beside Jim.
“Under normal circumstances, you will never leave your dragon’s back while airborne,” Redfern said. “But combat creates abnormal circumstances. Your dragon may be wounded, requiring you to lighten its load for emergency landing. You may need to transfer to another mount if yours is grounded. Or—” his gaze swept across them, “—you may need to bail out before your dragon is shot down.”
The instructors circling above had descended closer now, their dragons’ wing beats audible as they maintained a holding pattern perhaps fifty feet overhead.
“You’ve all been issued parachutes as part of your standard gear,” Briggs said, gesturing to the equipment laid out nearby. “But a parachute is your last resort, not your primary survival tool.”
Redfern nodded. “In the middle of an aerial battle, a parachuting pilot is an easy target. You might survive the jump only to be picked off on the way down.” His expression grew grimmer. “Your best chance of survival is your dragon.”
Above them, one of the instructors released his harness and slid sideways off his dragon’s back. Several recruits gasped as the man plummeted through open air, arms and legs spread.
The dragon banked into a tight turn, wings tucking closer to increase speed as it dived beneath its rider. After perhaps three seconds of free fall, the instructor and dragon reunited, the man catching the specially designed handholds on the saddle and swinging himself back into position.
“A controlled dismount and recovery,” Briggs said as the pair circled back upward. “The dragon adjusts its flight path to intercept the rider’s fall, providing a safer recovery than hitting the ground, even with a parachute.”
The second instructor demonstrated a variation on the manoeuvre, this time deploying a parachute mid-fall before being intercepted by his dragon. The canopy collapsed as he regained the saddle, the dragon carrying both rider and billowing fabric back to altitude.
“The parachute slows your descent, giving your dragon more time to position for recovery,” Redfern said. “But the goal isn’t to rely on the chute. It’s to trust your dragon to catch you.”
Marcus nodded. “Looks easy enough.”
Jim winced at the hubris of the statement. Nothing they’d been taught so far had been “easy”—and procedures demonstrated by experienced instructors invariably proved far more challenging when attempted by trainees.
Redfern’s head swivelled towards Marcus, his expression sharpening. “Care to demonstrate first, Canning?”
A ripple of tension passed through the assembled recruits.
Marcus stepped forward with characteristic confidence, showing no sign of apprehension as he approached the row of waiting dragons. “Happy to, Sergeant.”
Marcus moved towards Shadow. Their relationship exemplified Marcus’s approach to dragon riding—technically proficient but fundamentally hierarchical, based on command rather than cooperation.
Shadow lowered his head in greeting as Marcus approached, though Jim noticed the dragon maintained a certain reserve that contrasted with the eager welcome Aether typically offered. The distinction wasn’t something instructors measured in their assessments, but Jim had come to believe it reflected something fundamental about the bond between dragon and rider.
“Full safety gear,” Redfern said as Marcus prepared to mount. “Harness, helmet, parachute. You’ll disconnect when I give the signal, not before.”
Marcus strapped on the bulky emergency parachute with well-practiced movements. The standard-issue safety equipment added considerable weight but could mean the difference between life and death if a dismount went wrong.
Once mounted, Marcus guided Shadow towards the take-off area, the black dragon moving with the fluid grace that had made them the technical standard against which other pairs were measured. They launched smoothly, Shadow’s powerful wings driving them upward in a textbook-perfect ascent.
But as they climbed, Jim noticed Marcus directing Shadow higher than the instructors had demonstrated—perhaps twice the recommended altitude for the exercise.
“Showing off again,” Wilson muttered beside Jim. “One of these days that’s going to get him killed.”
Redfern and Briggs exchanged glances, their eyes tracking Shadow’s path with clear disapproval. But neither called Marcus down—this was, after all, a lesson about consequences.
When Shadow reached position, Redfern raised a signal flag. “Begin exercise!”
Even from the ground, Jim could see the moment Marcus released his harness. The air commodore’s son pushed off from the saddle with unnecessary flourish, twisting into what looked like a deliberate dive position rather than the stable spread-eagle posture the instructors had demonstrated.
For the first few seconds, the manoeuvre appeared controlled, Marcus’s body arcing gracefully through the air as Shadow banked into a reciprocal turn, positioning for the catch. But then a gust of wind—invisible from the ground but evident in its effects—caught Marcus mid-rotation, disrupting his trajectory.
Instead of falling in a clean line, Marcus tumbled sideways, arms flailing as he struggled to regain stability. Shadow adjusted, wings beating harder as the dragon attempted to compensate for the unexpected change. But Marcus continued to spin, his body rolling uncontrollably through the air.
Shadow dived sharply, narrowly avoiding overshooting his rider completely. At the last possible moment, Marcus managed to grab one of the saddle’s handholds, the impact visibly jarring as his body slammed sideways into the dragon’s flank rather than settling into the saddle.
For several seconds, he dangled from Shadow’s side, legs swinging free as the dragon worked to stabilise their flight.
Finally, Marcus hauled himself up and over, collapsing into the saddle in a display significantly less elegant than his take-off had been.
Their landing was equally ungraceful—Shadow touching down harder than necessary, almost stumbling as Marcus’s weight shifted during the final approach.
As Marcus dismounted, his usual confidence was noticeably dented. A thin line of blood ran from his lower lip where he’d apparently bitten it during the impact, and he moved with the careful deliberation of someone cataloguing unexpected pains.
Redfern approached, shaking his head. “You think war’s about looking impressive, Canning?” His voice carried to the waiting recruits. “If that had been real combat, you’d be dead.”
Marcus straightened, reassuming his perfect posture. “The wind caught me unexpectedly, sir.”
“The wind is always unexpected,” Redfern said. “That’s why we train for worst-case scenarios, not best-case shows of skill.” He gestured towards the recruits. “Take the lesson back to the group. Ashford, you’re next.”
Jim moved forward, conscious of the eyes following him—particularly Marcus’s cold stare as they passed each other.
Aether waited at the staging area, golden eyes tracking Jim’s approach with evident anticipation. The midnight-blue dragon lowered his head as Jim reached him, a gesture that had evolved from formal greeting to genuine welcome over their weeks together.
“Emergency dismount today,” Jim said, stroking Aether’s neck. “I jump, you catch. Nothing fancy, just clean execution.”
Aether rumbled deep in his chest, the vibration carrying through Jim’s palm—acknowledgment rather than simple response. Jim had learned to recognize the difference, just as he’d learned to read the subtle shifts in the dragon’s posture and eye movements that communicated more than many handlers believed possible.
He performed his safety checks with methodical care, inspecting his harness connections twice and ensuring the parachute release mechanism moved freely.
Unlike Marcus, who had treated the preparations as perfunctory, Jim approached them with the seriousness their instructors had drilled into them—attention to detail keeps you alive.
As he mounted, Jim felt the familiar sense of rightness that came with settling into Aether’s saddle. Their bond had progressed to the point where physical connection amplified their mental link, a synchronisation that made complex manoeuvres feel almost intuitive.
“Keep it within parameters,” Jim said as they launched. “Standard altitude, standard procedure.”
Aether climbed steadily, wings beating with measured power, carrying them to the demonstration height—high enough for safety margin, not so high as to complicate the recovery if something went wrong.
The dragon held position without the constant adjustments Jim had observed in Shadow’s flight, a testament to Aether’s growing precision.
From this height, Jim could see the entire training base spread below—barracks, hangars, paddocks, and the massive safety nets arranged along the north field. The perspective reinforced the stakes of what they were about to attempt. A controlled dismount was challenging enough with safety measures in place. In actual combat conditions, the margin for error would be non-existent.
Redfern’s flag rose from below, radio crackling. “Begin exercise!”
Jim took a deep breath, centring himself the way he’d been taught, focusing on the task rather than the danger.
His hands moved to the quick-release catches on his harness, disengaging them with swift precision.
And then he was falling.
The sensation was unlike anything he’d experienced—more profound than the stomach-drop of a diving dragon, more exhilarating than the weightlessness of a banking turn.
Air rushed past his face as gravity claimed him, the ground beginning its inexorable approach.
He spread his arms and legs into the stabilising position they’d been taught, creating maximum drag to slow his descent without compromising control.
He made no attempt at flashy manoeuvres, focusing entirely on maintaining the stable platform that would give Aether the best chance for a clean recovery.
When the wind current caught him—the same unexpected gust that had disrupted Marcus, or another like it—Jim felt the momentary panic of uncontrolled movement.
But instead of fighting it, he adjusted his position, allowing the air to flow around his body rather than against it.
Above and behind him, he knew Aether would be banking into the recovery turn, calculating speed and trajectory to intercept Jim’s fall.
The knowledge brought a strange calm despite the rushing air and approaching ground. This was what their training had been building towards—not just technical skill but absolute trust.
Jim kept his eyes on the horizon rather than looking down, maintaining spatial awareness as he’d been drilled. The ground wasn’t his destination—Aether was.
He felt rather than saw the dragon’s approach—a subtle change in the air currents, a shadow passing through his peripheral vision. Training took over as Jim tucked his arms close to his body, preparing for the intercept.
Aether swept beneath him with perfect timing, the dragon’s powerful body providing a solid platform as Jim’s hands found the saddle grips.
The impact was jarring but controlled, Jim’s momentum carrying him into position as if they’d practiced the manoeuvre a hundred times.
As his legs swung over and his weight settled, Jim felt Aether compensate, wings adjusting to account for the restored load.
They levelled out in one fluid motion, the entire recovery so smooth it seemed choreographed rather than improvised.
“Perfect.” Jim patted Aether’s neck as they banked into the approach for landing. The dragon’s muscles shifted beneath him, responding to both the physical direction and the unspoken connection that had deepened through their shared trust.
Their landing was as precise as the recovery had been—Aether touching down with careful control, wings extending to brake their forward momentum, then folding against his sides as they came to a complete stop.
As Jim dismounted, he heard murmurs of approval from the waiting recruits. Even Redfern’s perpetually stern expression had softened, the sergeant’s nod conveying more than any verbal praise might have.
“That’s how it’s done,” Redfern said. “Controlled dismount, stable descent, coordinated recovery.” He turned to the group at large. “Note the differences—no unnecessary altitude, no showing off, clear communication between rider and dragon.”
Jim rejoined the others, accepting a clap on the shoulder from Wilson and a relieved grin from Ronnie. “Made it look easy,” Wilson said. “Which probably means it isn’t.”
“It’s not,” Jim said. “The fall disorients you more than you’d expect. But if you trust your dragon…”
He trailed off as he noticed Marcus watching them, the air commodore’s son’s expression darkening at what he clearly perceived as another public comparison in Jim’s favour.
“Ashford!”
Jim turned to find Briggs beckoning him back towards the instructors. As he approached, he noticed Redfern deep in conversation with Ronnie, whose face had taken on the fixed expression of someone trying desperately not to show fear.
“Good work up there,” Briggs said without preamble. “Solid technique, good partnership with your dragon. One thing to consider—in a real emergency, you might not have time to position so carefully before dismounting. Practice some off-angle releases in your regular training.”
“Yes, sir. Aether adjusted well to the intercept. I think with practice we could manage more complex recoveries.”
Briggs nodded, his scarred face creasing in what might have been a smile. “That’s the kind of thinking that keeps riders alive in combat. Never assume perfect conditions.”
Jim returned to the group.
“Blake!” Redfern’s voice carried across the field. “You’re up!”
Ronnie stepped forward and moved towards Brutus.
“He’s terrified,” Wilson said. “Can’t blame him after seeing Canning’s performance.”
Jim watched as Ronnie mounted and guided Brutus towards the launch area. Their partnership had developed more slowly than some, but recent weeks had shown significant improvement in their coordination and mutual trust. Still, the emergency dismount represented a test beyond anything they’d attempted before.
Brutus launched, wings driving downward with the strength characteristic of his breed. Ronnie sat rigid in the saddle, his posture betraying tension that would transmit directly to the dragon.
Jim found himself holding his breath as they climbed, half-expecting Brutus to react adversely to his rider’s evident fear.
But the brown dragon maintained a steady ascent, eventually reaching the designated altitude and holding position with greater stability than Jim would have predicted. Whatever Ronnie’s personal anxiety, he was clearly making every effort to execute the exercise properly.
Redfern raised the signal flag. “Begin exercise!”
Brutus banked into position, wings beating steadily to maintain altitude as Ronnie reached for his harness releases. But instead of disengaging, his hands froze on the buckles. Even from the ground, Jim could see the moment of paralysing fear that overtook his friend.
“He’s freezing up,” Wilson said. “For God’s sake, Ronnie, just do it.”
Long seconds passed. Brutus maintained position, but Ronnie remained locked in place, unable to take the literal leap of faith the exercise required.
“Trust your dragon, Ronnie!” Jim called. “He won’t let you fall!”
Ronnie’s hands moved again, disengaging the harness with visible determination. For another moment, he hesitated on the edge of commitment—then finally released his grip and slid sideways off the saddle.
Instead of the stable spread-eagle position, Ronnie tumbled, arms waving before he managed to steady himself.
Brutus banked sharply into the recovery turn and positioning beneath his falling rider.
The recovery itself was rough but effective—Ronnie catching the saddle grips somewhat awkwardly but managing to haul himself back into position without the violent collision Marcus had experienced. Brutus compensated for the uneven weight distribution with quick wing adjustments, levelling out safely before landing clean.
Ronnie dismounted with shaky legs but a wide grin, patting Brutus’s neck.
“I didn’t think I’d make it,” he said as he rejoined Jim and Wilson. “Kept picturing myself splatting on the ground like a dropped egg.”
“But you didn’t,” Wilson said. “Brutus knew what to do.”
“That’s what finally got me to let go,” Ronnie said. “I remember something Redfern said—the dragon’s instinct is to protect its rider. If I trust that instinct, Brutus will do the rest.” He shook his head in wonder. “And he did.”
Jim watched as the remaining recruits took their turns at the exercise, each pair demonstrating different aspects of the rider-dragon relationship in how they approached the challenge.
Some showed technical proficiency but hesitant trust. Others displayed absolute confidence but imperfect execution.
All completed the exercise successfully.
Throughout the rotation, Jim was conscious of Marcus watching him rather than the aerial displays.
When the final recruit landed, Redfern gathered them for debriefing. “Acceptable for first attempts. “You’ll continue practicing until the manoeuvre becomes instinctive. In combat, you won’t have time to think through the steps.” He walked along their line, eyes assessing each recruit individually. As he reached Marcus, Redfern paused. “Arrogance kills, Canning. If you ignore the fundamentals because you think you know better, your dragon will be flying home without you.” The sergeant’s gaze was direct, unyielding. “Is that clear?”
Marcus’s jaw tightened, but he maintained the discipline ingrained by years of military upbringing. “Yes, Sergeant.”
“Good.” Redfern addressed the group again. “Parachute practice this afternoon. For now, cool down your dragons and report to the tactical classroom at eleven hundred hours.”
As the formation dispersed, Jim led Aether towards the dragon paddocks, conscious of the bond that had deepened through their shared experience. The exercise had demonstrated something he’d sensed but not fully confirmed—that Aether’s responsiveness went beyond training or instinct to genuine partnership.
Wilson fell into step beside him, leading his own dragon. “Nice work up there. You made it look easy.”
Jim shook his head. “Nothing about it was easy. But Aether and I…we’re starting to read each other better.”
“That’s what makes the difference, mate. Not just technical skill, but trust going both ways.”
Ronnie joined them, still grinning. “Brutus is a bloody hero.”
“You both did well,” Jim said. “The landing was much smoother than mine.”
“Liar.” Ronnie laughed. “But I appreciate it.”
As they reached the paddocks, Jim noticed Marcus standing apart from the other recruits, observing their group with narrowed eyes. The morning’s exercise had clearly stung his pride, perhaps more deeply than their previous confrontations.
Marcus turned away without comment, leading Shadow towards the dragon care station.
Jim watched him go, feeling neither triumph nor anxiety at the unspoken challenge. Their rivalry had become a constant backdrop to training, pushing both of them towards greater accomplishment even as it complicated their integration into the squadron.
“He’s really not used to losing, is he?” Wilson said, following Jim’s gaze.
“No. And he doesn’t intend to make a habit of it.”