by Dan Abnett
Marquall snorted.
“Of course, once bitten…” Jagdea smiled.
By 19.00 hours, as evening began to drape across the lake, the recon flight and its escort went overdue. Last transmission had been routine, forty minutes before. No vox response. Nothing on the auspex or modar.
The pilots of Umbra gathered, pacing and chatting nervously. The mood in the camp, under the claustrophobic spread of the netting, became charged.
“I want to take a flight up. Combat air patrol. Take a look for the missing planes,” Jagdea said to Commander Marcinon.
“Request denied,” said Marcinon. “For now, at least. Let’s not get precious. They’ve got an hour left in their tanks.”
“Depending on how they’ve been flying,” said Jagdea. “One serious air brawl, and you can halve that. I repeat my request.”
They were standing in the Operations room. Circulation fans whined overhead and, by the light of caged glow-globes, Navy tactical officers sat before flickering, empty displays.
“Anything?” Marcinon called.
“Some activity in quadrants four and nine-two, commander,” reported the chief operator. “Enemy movements, but way off. Nothing from our flight.”
“They can’t all have been stung,” murmured Oberlitz, the chief of the Lightning wing, the 786th, giving voice to the private fear they had all been hiding. Oberlitz was a short, square-set man with thin lips that he licked as a nervous habit. Like Jagdea, he was now anxious about his crews. She had an ally of sorts against Marcinon and the chief of the Raptors.
“I formally repeat my request,” said Jagdea. “Let me get machines up now before the situation changes and we’re forced to lie low with the nets sealed.”
Marcinon looked at Blaguer. Blaguer nodded.
“Request granted,” said Marcinon.
Jagdea ran out of the Operations block. The pilots had congregated outside. “Blansher! Marquall! We’re up! Let’s go!”
Their machines were already on the ramps. By the time the three pilots had suited up and checked their kit, the fitters had finished pre-flight. Jagdea, Blansher and Marquall ran up to the matt-decks and the ground crews locked them tight in their cockpits.
“Check back,” Jagdea voxed.
“Two, here. Four-A.”
“This is Eight. Ready for go.” Marquall felt his heart rate climbing. He reached out and stroked the edge of the main instrument panel. “This time, you hear me, Nine-Nine?” he whispered. This time, no games. No jinx. Just Vander Marquall and Double Eagle!
The last cues were chopping out from Operations over the vox. The nets began to crank back.
Buzzer. Five seconds. The last of the fitter crew ran to the cover of the blast fences. Marquall sat his thumb on the “rocket fire” stud.
“You are go, Umbra Flight,” the vox announced. Marquall squeezed the stud and gravity slammed him back into his seat.
Over the forests, 19.30
They climbed into the dusk, their burners the brightest things in the air. The sky was violet, streaked with three-tenths clouds ten kilometres to the west. Below, the forest sprawled, almost black.
“Make your height nine thousand, cruising,” Jagdea called. “Track is four-four-two.”
“Understood, Lead,” said Blansher.
“Received,” Marquall answered. For the first thirty seconds of the flight, he’d been watching the board, waiting for a malfunction light to flash on. Nothing. Even the engines sounded sweet.
In the east, against the darkest part of the sky, stars had begun to rise. Visibility was so good that Marquall could make out distant flashes against the undercast in the far north-west, hundreds of kilometres away, a display like sheet lightning that he knew was pattern bombing.
They flew south for fifteen minutes, then tracked gently west. After another slow twenty minutes, Marquall heard Blansher’s call.
“Contact. Strong, inbound, twenty kilometres.”
He sent the signal to the other Bolts, and their auspex systems tracked the lock.
“They’re under us, four thousand. Two groups,” Jagdea’s voice said. “Stay at this height, turn onto them. Operations, are you seeing this?”
“Copy, Umbra Lead, but with no more detail than you’ve got.”
“Closing. Weapons live. Flight, stay tight.”
Another pause. Just the mighty throb of the engines and the hiss of the air-mix.
Marquall stared down into the darkness of the forest twilight. The contacts should have been coming into visual, but it was all too black. Wisps of night cloud were forming at five thousand like banners of smoke.
“I have transponder tracks,” Blansher called. “Clean signals. It’s Waldon, and at least one of the Lightnings.”
“Umbra Nine, Umbra Nine, this is Umbra Leader high-side and inbound. Do you copy?”
A squeal of static disrupted the channel, then they heard Waldon’s voice. Even with the distortion, there was a note of fear in it. Fear, or pain.
“Umbra Leader, Umbra Leader, this is Nine. Say again.”
“Coming in on you, Nine. What is your situation?”
“Assistance, assistance!” another voice cut in, blotting Waldon out.
“Identify, user,” Jagdea called.
“This is Spyglass Four, Umbra. Requesting immediate assistance.”
One of the Lightnings. The pilot sounded petrified.
“Situation please,” Jagdea called again.
Both the Lightning pilot and Waldon attempted to answer at the same time, and the result was a mangle of signals.
Marquall was still peering down. He saw a glint, a faint trace of thruster flame. Then, against the blackness, several tiny little streaks of light, there and gone.
“Lead, this is Eight. Their situation is they’re under attack. I see weapons fire, repeat, I see weapons fire.”
“Stoop and sting!” Jagdea called.
The three Thunderbolts banked over and went into a power dive. As they closed, the jumbled, merging auspex returns resolved. There were four machines below them. Waldon, flying close cover behind a Lightning, and two unidentifieds running after them. Waldon was sweeping his machine from side to side.
They came in. The sky lit up with gunfire traces. Marquall saw the Lightning. It had been shot up, and was trailing long streamers of hot smoke that had blurred the auspex track. Waldon was at its six.
About seven hundred and fifty metres behind them, two Locusts were closing in, weapons pumping.
Waldon’s bird took several hits. Metal spalled off it in a spray that caught the last of the daylight. Marquall couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Waldon was actually trying to use his better-armoured machine to shield the struggling recon plane. He had never seen anything so selfless and—
Espere. Espere had done the same for Marquall.
“Waldon?” Jagdea yelled.
“Ammo gone, Lead. Losing hydraulic pressure.”
Ammo gone. They must’ve been in a hell of a fight.
Blansher and Jagdea had the lead, and screamed down into the path of the bats, which both broke immediately. Blansher viffed out on a good guess and began to climb after one of the soaring Locusts.
Unusually, Jagdea misjudged, and the other bat went under her. It was tight, but Marquall managed to pull a break-turn and spill into its roll. He fired. The forks of las-shot were incredibly bright in the low light.
The Locust evaded and turned high. Marquall followed it. He was concentrating hard, but not so hard he missed the call from Jagdea.
“More contacts, closing, ultra-fast.”
Marquall tried to look everywhere at once. Where were the new ones? What angle?
The Locust tried to throw him with a chandelle, but Marquall nursed over on vector thrust. He stood Nine-Nine on its end, let the tail slip out, and turned a tumble into a swing-over.
The Locust was going for Waldon and the Lightning again.
A bright flash lit the sky and, for a second, his instrumentat
ion sobbed with electromagnetic interference.
“Bat down,” Blansher called. He’d blown the other one out of the sky.
“Eight?” Jagdea called.
“I’m on it!” Marquall executed a barrel-roll and swept down after the Locust, which, against the dark shroud of the forest, he could see only on the auspex and by the light of its engines. He pulled in, chasing hard, saw its engine flare slide through his gunsight, corrected, and got a lock tone.
He fired. He hit something, because there was suddenly shrapnel in the air. Where was it?
“It’s going high! It’s going high!” he heard Waldon yell.
Marquall looked up, and saw the Locust powering up into the violet sky on a vertical track, suddenly visible as a sharp silhouette against the pale light.
It was trailing smoke. He’d hit it, at least, and driven it off.
The vox crackled. “Umbra Lead, Umbra Lead, is that you?”
“Copy that. Larice?”
“Affirmative. We are inbound to your position, converging. Be advised: bats, bats, bats.”
Marquall heard Jagdea curse. He pulled up and round, and saw the sky above and to their south full of specks and sparkles of light.
Larice and Zemmic, running for home, with ten-plus machines on their heels.
“Eight and Two, with me!” Jagdea called. “Four, we are crossing to intercept. Can you commit?”
“Negative, Lead. Zemmic and I are nil ammo, repeat nil ammo.”
“Understood. Burn for home. We’ll deal.”
Marquall saw two hot lights flare up to his port side as Blansher and Jagdea hit the burners and blasted towards the incoming formation. He opened his own throttle and soared in after them. Zemmic and Asche, cooking at full, streaked past under him, rocking Nine-Nine with their jet wash.
The three Thunderbolts scorched into the leading edge of the Locust pack. The air went wild with dazzling streamers of crossfire. As the bats fired, it seemed like a whole constellation of flashing stars had come out.
Marquall felt the shudder of near-misses, and then a flat slap as something kissed across his port wing. He squeezed the gun-stud, then rolled hard, getting into grip position instinctively as he pulled four and a half negative.
There was a vast fire-splash to starboard, and Marquall was dazed long enough for him to almost collide with a Locust coming fast the other way. From the whoop on the vox, Blansher had evidently scored again.
The bats had broken high. Marquall gunned Nine-Nine and began a climbing turn. His auspex display was just a mass of confused green blobs. He couldn’t make anything out.
Something went by him, turning higher and wider than him. He reckoned it was Jagdea. A Locust streaked down past him, guns clattering.
He rolled around and spotted Blansher powering low over the forest, chasing two bats with another pair mobbing at his heels. Marquall put his nose down and streaked after the pursuers.
“Eight! Break, break, break!” That was Jagdea.
Marquall had already heard the whining of the lock alarm. He punched over left, then rolled back right, and fluttered his speed brakes. The tone ceased. Something went over him, turning.
More throttle again, climbing now. The bats Blansher had been chasing had split, and he was alone with Locusts firing at his tail, stuck tight.
“Break, Two!” Marquall yelled. “Break!”
“They’re too tight! Riding me!”
Nose up, Blansher’s machine shuddered and yawed as las-shots chewed into its tail fin.
In desperation, Blansher executed a vector brake, but up rather than down, so that the two bats whipped under him. By then, Marquall was tight on them, and he went under Blansher too. Blansher had braked too hard, and was now trying to recover airspeed before he stalled.
One bat disappeared, pulling out so suddenly, Marquall couldn’t tell if it had gone high or low. He came in on the other, emptying his batteries, and then toggling to quad-cannon for a second lengthy burst.
The Locust suddenly spluttered out a gout of flame, which flared rapidly into a wide, spiralling fireball and ignited propellant. The bat’s doom was so savage that Marquall had to break off to avoid the blast.
He had made his second kill.
Jagdea banked over, lined up and ripped a Locust out of the air as it attempted to swing under her. It went over, shaking like an autumn leaf, and caught fire.
Another two streaked past her, but Blansher was on them, firing like a maniac. One blew out, becoming a cloud of sparks that sailed on, slowed, and then began to fall. The other broke south.
Something lined up on Jagdea’s bird so fast that the lock tone surprised her. She took three hits that kicked the tail of her Thunderbolt high and caused a mass of alarm runes to light her display.
She fought the stick, stiff with diving speed, and kicked the rudder out to port, piling on the G. She grunted with effort, bringing the nose round.
And there was a banking Locust, moving a touch too lazily, like a gift from the God-Emperor himself.
She was set on quad already. She fired, a sustained burst, enjoying the way the shudder impaired Zero-Two’s stable flight.
Mortally wounded, the Locust dipped its nose and began to dive. A long, steady curve of fire-trail marked its passage from air to ground. There was a vivid flash amongst the trees below.
“They’re breaking!” Blansher voxed.
She banked wide, checking her auspex. “Confirm that, Two.”
The remaining bats were fleeing south in a loose line.
“Pursuit?” asked Marquall.
The boy’s blood was evidently up.
“Negative, Eight. Turn for home.”
They cruised back through what was now night, each pilot isolated in the darkness. Nine kilometres from Gocel FSB, a large area of forest was ablaze.
In the darkness, the nets were back and the lumin barrettes were lit. Umbra One, Two and Eight followed the shine down and settled perfectly on their mats.
Lake Gocel FSB, 21.02
Racklae hauled Marquall out of his machine. The fitters were running in for after flight. Vapour fumed the pad. Already, the shimmer netting was closing, the barrettes had been killed, and stealth lighting resumed over the base.
Marquall pulled off his helmet. The night air smelled good. Insects were screaming in the thickets and under the dark trees.
“Okay, pilot?” Racklae asked.
“About time I started a tally,” Marquall said. Racklae grinned. It wasn’t done for a pilot to stripe up a single kill. But once it was more than one…
“How many should I put, sir?” Racklae asked.
“Keep it modest. I got another one, Racks.”
“Number two!” Racklae yelled, and the ground crew began jumping around and cheering. Several ran up to shake Marquall by the hand.
“There was a fire in the forest,” Marquall said, trying to make himself heard over the jubilation.
“I wouldn’t know about that, sir,” Racklae said. “You’d better go to dispersal.”
Marquall nodded, and patted Nine-Nine’s flank.
“Look after her, Racks,” he said.
“Will do, sir,” said the chief.
The fitter crew gave him a series of hearty cheers as he left the matt-deck. Weighed down by his flight armour, Marquall limped down the path through the trees towards Operations.
There was a commotion there. Still wearing their flight gear, Larice Asche and Zemmic were in the process of recounting some furious dogfight to Del Ruth, Cordiale, Ranfre and Van Tull. Base crew, and some Raptor pilots gathered around, listening.
Marquall saw Blansher standing in the shadows of the awning outside Operations, talking to someone.
He went across. The cries and laughter from the gaggle of pilots was loud and vigorous.
It was Kautas standing with Blansher. Both men were smoking lho-sticks. Marquall saw how pale and drawn Blansher was. The older man smiled as he saw Marquall.
“Over here, Va
nder,” he called.
Blansher shook Marquall’s hand. “Thanks,” he said.
“For what?”
“I think that double stern attack might have stung me if you hadn’t been chasing them down.”
“Rubbish. You got yourself out of that one.”
Blansher shrugged. “Well done, by the way. Two, was it?”
“I wish,” said Marquall. “One, clean and definite. I hit another, but he stayed up.”
Kautas reached into his robe pocket with his left hand, pulled out a silver stick case, and opened it, offering the contents to Marquall.
“No thanks, father,” said Marquall.
“Such a clean-living boy,” Kautas said to Blansher as he put the lho-stick case away. In his other hand, the priest held a bottle of amasec. “How about this, then?”
Marquall took the bottle and knocked off a finger that burned in his mouth, then his throat, then his belly. He handed the bottle to Blansher.
“To your three kills, sir. What is it now?”
Blansher took a swig. “I forget, Vander.” He passed the bottle back to the priest.
“Do we know what happened yet?” Marquall asked.
“Not entirely. What I’ve been told is the flight got into serious trouble on the edge of the desert. The Lightnings had picked up something important, and then there were hostiles all over them like a swarm. Forty-plus machines. From what Asche has said, it must have been a monster of a fight. One of the Lightnings was stung almost immediately. Then another of them got a kill, and was promptly killed itself. Meanwhile our three went into the brawl. Waldon splashed two and then, ammo zilch, he pulled out and started to nursemaid the remaining Lightning, which had been shot to crap and was running home. Asche and Zemmic stayed on station, and kept going until they were out, trying to buy Waldon and the Lightning some time to get clear. We’re waiting for gun-pict confirmation, but allegedly Zemmic bagged four, and our dear Larice got nine.”
“Nine?”
“That’s what she says,” Blansher nodded.
Blansher had made three, Jagdea two. Amazing scores for one sortie. Zemmic himself put them to shame. But nine. Nine. That made Marquall’s triumphant one seem so paltry.
