The sounds of the military base were a good indicator of the activity. Vehicles both jeeps, trucks, and airplanes were in constant movement flowing like a giant anthill.
In the center of the organized chaos, the area directly behind the tarp hanger was a secluded haven. It was still loud, but there was an intangible sense of peace. Even the sounds were muted behind the stacked crates.
In the shadowed space, a young man squatted and spoke in hushed tones. His armband was leather, but had clockwork machinery on it. It was to this that the youth spoke. Even had someone overhear the discussion, they would have found it difficult to understand. However the emotions playing across the young man’s features helped tell a story of frustrated emotions and dark rage.
Eventually the conversation ended and the boy returned to his work. The Morane-Saulnier had not ran for weeks. Liam ran his fingers along the wing lovingly. There were not many of these 406’s around so there was no chance of scavanging parts. And the french plane was oddly setup, so it would be difficult to swap out for another motor.
Glancing about to make sure he was unobserved, the young man pressed his hand into the fuselage, and concentrated. A soft glow flowed out of his hand, and seemed to pulse across the entire plane.
Liam collapsed against the plane, drained. For a few seconds he just leaned and collected his strength. When the momentary weakness passed, the mechanic called out to the pilot’s where they were lounging and gambling in the next tent.
“Tell John Mark she is sound again!” he said. A tall lanky man came running imiediately and hugged the boy (who visibly recoiled.)
“Bless you my friend! I feared when I blew the motor that she was finished” the happy pilot bleated.
“It wasn’t bad. Just a small gasket. I was able to make a new one.” the young man said as he shied away from the physical presence of the pilot.