“Can we walk and talk?” Eads asked. “I’m due on shift at Operations at eight.”
“Of course.”
They moved away off the gantry and along an equally busy rock-cut corridor. Jagdea noticed how even the most hurried-looking personnel they met respectfully stood aside to let Eads pass.
“You know the men. You had command at Theda North.”
“Before the Navy arrived. I’m afraid I can’t read your lists. I left my code-reader behind in the haste to evacuate. I’m lost without it.”
“I could read out the list to you, sir.”
“As I said, my shift starts at eight. Maybe later, commander.”
“With respect, sir, time is very short. Is there no one you can think of?”
The main hatch into Lucerna Operations lay ahead of them.
“Well, there is one. Good pilot. I know he’s here because he came in with me. And I know for a fact he’s done simulation time orienting on your machines.”
“That’s a good start.”
“His name’s Scalter. Frans Scalter. I recommend him highly. He works Operations too, but he’s not on this shift. Someone can track him down for you.”
“Thank you, sir. Can I come and find you later? Run through the lists?”
“Of course.”
They’d reached the doorway. Jagdea could hear the frantic chatter of the busy Operations floor beyond the hatch. Juniors ran in and out with data-slates and chart reports. A young man was standing by the hatch. He seemed to be waiting for Eads. He looked somehow familiar to Jagdea.
“Good morning, Flight,” he said to Commander Eads.
“Call that a salute?” Eads replied. “Ready to go, Darrow?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll expert you later then, commander,” Eads said to Jagdea, then allowed his junior to lead him away into the hustle of the Operations deck.
Lucerna AB, 08.30
They stood on an observation platform high amongst the island cliffs. It was a fine, clear morning, though the wind was strong and tugged at their hair. A hundred metres below them, the sea crashed in against the foot of the pink crags.
“Almost romantic,” said Beqa. “The sea and the islands. My family took me on holiday to the Midwinters when I was young. Me and Eido. We stayed on Salthaven. There are beaches there Eido loved it. That was before the war really took hold, obviously. A time when holidays were something that people did.”
“One day, I’ll take you on a holiday. I promise.” She smiled at Viltry. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
“No, really. I mean it, all I’ve got to do is defeat the enemy, and we can have all the holidays we want.” She shook her head, amused. “So you say they’ve found you a job?” he said.
“In munitions prep. The senior who assigned me seemed impressed by my skills. All those long night shifts at the manufactory weren’t a waste.”
“That’s good.”
“I start this afternoon.”
“You haven’t said anything about the way I look,” Viltry said.
“I’m trying not to think about it. It’s difficult, because you’re very handsome in that new flightsuit, all shaved and groomed. You’ve found your squadron, haven’t you?”
“No,” said Viltry. “But I found a Phantine unit here that needed a pilot. Fighters, would you believe? That’ll take some re-learning. It’s called the Phantine XX. Umbra Flight.” He showed her the insignia pins and badges on his new flight coat.
“Very nice,” she said, and looked away at the sea.
“I have to fly, Beq. It’s what I do. They need every pilot they can get right now. I would be failing the Throne if I didn’t do this.”
“I know.”
“And maybe when the war’s done here, I can apply to leave the service and stay here with you.”
Beqa Mayer smiled. “The war is never done, Oskar. If it finishes here, a fine pilot like you will be needed somewhere else. They won’t let you leave. You’re a resource. They’ll keep you flying until the enemy finally claims you. Remember what I said about promises you couldn’t keep?”
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled.
“It’s all right. Really. We’ve had some time. It’s been brief, but very sweet. I thought I’d lost you once, and the Emperor allowed you to come back. I couldn’t go through that again. You fly. I’ll be proud of you. That’s all that needs to be said.”
The wind had picked up again. She shivered. “That blasted old coat of yours,” he snapped. He bent over his kit bag and pulled out his ragged Halo Flight jacket. “Take this. It’s a bit battered and torn, I’m afraid, but it’s got a fleece lining.”
He put it over her shoulders, then pulled her close.
“Thanks,” she said, pressing against his side. She rested her head on his chest.
“You’re right,” he said, gazing at the view. “It is almost romantic.”
There was a boom like the end of the world, and eight Thunderbolts slammed up into the air from a hangar in the cliff beneath them. The throaty roar of the formation’s afterburners shook their diaphragms.
As the planes climbed away, they both laughed.
“Until something like that happens,” Viltry said.
She kissed his cheek. “To hell with them. We can make our own romance. You go and fly, Oskar. I’ve told the Emperor to protect you.”
Over the Midwinters, 14.10
Umbra Flight was barely up when they spotted the air battle. To the west, the pale green sky was bright with flashes and tinged with smoke. And it wasn’t the only battle. Wings from Onstadt were coming in on a major fight to the east, and everything Viper Atoll had was lofting against a thousand-bomber wave heading out across the Sea of Ezra towards Limbus.
“Umbra, rise to four thousand,” Jagdea ordered. She had four machines with her: Marquall, Van Tull, Cordiale and Viltry. Viltry’s first flight. She had sensed his nerves as he’d run to his bird.
Umbra Flight had already been up twice that day. A full flight sortie at 09.00 hours that had lasted two hours and seen them turn back a ninety-plane bomber formation with me help of three Lightning wings out of Tamuda MAB. Three kills—Ranfre, Del Ruth and Jagdea. Then Del Ruth, Ranfre and Zemmic had gone up just before noon with Blansher as lead, and had a short but ferocious duel with the top cover of a Hell Talon formation. Zemmic and Blansher had scored kills, but they’d been grateful to see the 56th coming in to help break the wave up.
All four were now on refit turnaround and Blansher was spending time coaching Kaminsky. Blansher was patient, but he seemed to have doubts about Kaminsky’s talent.
“He’s getting the basic layout of the Bolt, but he refuses to relax,” Blansher had told her. “Maybe he’s not the best choice.”
“Stick with it,” Jagdea had ordered.
They could see the hostiles now. Sixty Tormentors pounding across the sea towards the Northern Affiliation, laden with bombs. The 51st had already engaged.
“Any sign of escort?” Jagdea voxed.
“Nothing on the scope,” replied Cordiale. “But you’ve got to assume.”
“Start assuming,” she said. There was also no sign of the promised support for them from Longstrand. Jagdea keyed the vox. “Lucerna Operations, this is Umbra Leader. Confirm other units aloft.”
A buzzing crackle. “Operations, Umbra Lead. Kodiak Flight and Orbis Flight show as launched. East of you, seventy kilometres, closing low. Twenty, repeat, twenty machines.”
“Thank you, Operations. We have visual on the enemy. Closing to intercept.”
Jagdea was reassured to hear that the Phantine wing commanded by her friend Wilhem Hayyes was inbound. She switched on her gunsight and toggled her lascannons to active.
“Guns live, Umbra. Come back.”
“Umbra Eight, copy.” That was Marquall.
“Umbra Three, four-A.” And Van Tull.
“Umbra Eleven, check and ready.” Cordiale.
A pause.
“Umbra Four? Come back,” Jagdea voxed. “Umbra Four? Do you copy? Viltry? Dammit, Viltry!”
“Copy you, Lead. This is Umbra Four. Sorry, I just tried to switch on my gunsight and appear to have turned on the de-mister and the cockpit light instead.”
“Viltry?”
“Just kidding, Lead. Guns live. On your command.”
Jagdea smiled. “Operations, show Umbra as attacking. Umbra Flight… Attack, attack, attack!”
Viltry was nothing like as confident as he sounded. As he nursed the throttle, following Jagdea’s shallow dive, he saw the lumbering packs of Tormentors filling the sky ahead. The slow, medium bombers were already firing from their turret mounts, chattering out streaks of heavy fire.
Viltry had flown Bolts before, but this seemed strange after so many tours in Marauders. It wasn’t the differences in cockpit layout, or the considerably greater agility. It was the fact that he was alone again. One man, one machine. No trained crew manning other stations.
So focused. So very concentrated. It was all down to him.
Viltry decided he’d better enjoy it. The Thunderbolt certainly felt like a tiny, speeding dart compared to
G for Greta.
They sliced down into the enemy lines.
He was reminded that air tactics were now utterly different too. Ordinarily, he’d have been the one flying the heavy plane in formation, fighting off the interceptors. Not the other way round.
Jagdea and Van Tull went over the formation, blitzing fire. Viltry followed them, seeing Marquall and Cordiale go under.
Immediately, three enemy machines started to drop out of line, making thick smoke. One suddenly pitched down, violently. Umbra came up and around for the second pass.
“Must do better,” Viltry said to himself.
Cordiale had the lead on the turn and prosecuted the attack. His lascannons flashed white. One of the Tormentors wavered for a moment then blew up in a huge cloud of flames as its payload ignited.
Burning debris rained down. The Tormentors in immediate formation wallowed away in the shock burst, two collided and the destroyed plane’s sheared apart. Viltry saw scrap metal and bodies falling.
He had a decent line-up. The nearest Tormentor was pumping streams of tracer his way, but the shot-stream was dropping low. He smiled as he got a clean lock
ping
and started firing.
The Thunderbolt tugged hard, its airframe pulsing as it discharged its cannons. Bree had warned him it would do that. He compensated and turned high.
“Umbra Four, this is Lead. Nice kill.”
“I didn’t even see it,” he said. “Did I get it?”
“Yes, Four.”
He rolled back, exhilarated by the light performance of the Thunderbolt, and pounced on another Tormentor.
Its turrets tried to pin him. He knew from bitter experience how a fighter could ride up underneath a straight-flying bomber. It was all a matter of judging the cones of fire.
There was always a sweet spot.
He found it.
Viltry fired, lancing dazzling bars of las energy from his nose cone.
The belly of the Tormentor burst, and then it started to dive, ablaze, leaving a curl of brown smoke in the air behind it.
“Scratch two,” he voxed. “Think I’m getting the hang of it, Bree.”
Marquall banked, quietly furious. He’d missed his targets on both passes. And this man, Viltry, had just come along and in the space of two minutes, he’d equalled Marquall’s career score. The bastard! It was insufferable. The upstart was even on first name terms with Jagdea.
Who the hell did he think he was?
Nine-Nine shuddered as bolter rounds kissed its flank. Marquall banked out. Part of the formation went by under him, and he dropped back onto the lead pair.
He was too high. The tail guns nailed him hard, cracking his canopy and ripped out part of his cowling.
He dropped out of the line of fire. How the devil did Viltry know where to place himself? He climbed again, hammered at by gunfire from the enemy pack.
He snuggled in, lining up on a bomber, but before he could deploy the trigger, the thing exploded in a giant wash of smoke. Van Tull had nailed it.
“Oh give me a break!” Marquall exclaimed. “Someone give me a frigging break!”
The 51st, tanks spent, had pulled off. Now Kodiak and Orbis Flights powered in and entered the engagement. Kodiak, a flight from the 789th Navy, were flying dark green Bolts; Orbis were dressed in Phantine grey with blue trim.
“Hello Orbis, hello Orbis,” Jagdea voxed. “Nice to see you.”
“Umbra Lead, this is Hayyes. Any left?”
“Plenty. Take your pick, Orbis leader.”
Hayyes turned his Thunderbolt long and peppered a Tormentor that went down in flames at once. Two of his wingmen scored, and Kodiak Flight ripped another three hostiles out of the sky.
“All wings! Break left! Now!” Kodiak leader voxed. “Fighters coming in!”
Hell Razors stooped out of the high clouds, hammering down at full thrust. They were firing.
“Break wide!” Jagdea ordered.
Viltry felt his machine buck as shots scorched by. He started to climb steeply. Marquall started to dive.
The enemy fighters slammed through their scatter. One of the Kodiak planes broke apart under fire. Another sank on a wide turn towards the sea.
The Razors were crimson and black, except for their leader, who was pearl-white.
Lucerna AB, 14.30
“Switch.”
“And say it again.”
“Switch.”
“Okay, sir,” called Racklae. “Now give the command “fire’.”
“Fire!” said Kaminsky.
“Again?”
“Fire!”
Racklae stood up, checking his tech-plate, and looked down at Kaminsky in the cockpit.
“Right, the system now knows your voice. The commands are logged.” Racklae leaned in across the cockpit well and pointed to a brass switch on the panel beside the throttle.
“That’s your arming toggle. Throw it, guns are live. After that, it’s all voice. You say ‘fire’ and the system will fire a burst from whatever’s selected. Default is las. You say ‘switch’ and it auto-toggles to the quads or back. Is that clear?”
“Yes, thank you,” Kaminsky nodded. “And if I want continuous fire?”
“Just keep saying “fire’, sir.”
Kaminsky pulled himself up out of the cockpit. “Thanks, Mr Racklae. You’ve done a fine job.” The fitter seemed distracted. “What’s up?” asked Kaminsky.
Racklae jumped down off the wing plate. “The boys are monitoring the vox, sir. It sounds like Umbra’s in trouble.”