His arms ached with the effort, his neck muscles cramped with the physical and psychological stress he was under. It would be easy to give up the fight and accept the inevitable. It was far beyond what he thought he could have endured. But something inside him would simply not admit defeat. He would not show weakness. He would not. To show weakness was death. That was the lesson he had learnt from childhood, growing up on the tough streets of Vordrost, made tougher for him by the pox scarring that had covered the right-hand side of his face. His disfigurement had taught him there was no place for weakness in the Imperium. Adversity either broke you or forged you into something harder, physically and mentally. Iron will was the only thing keeping him and the Emperor’s Grace flying. For now.
The screaming from the starboard engine changed in pitch and he looked anxiously across to the massive engine cowling. He heard someone praying soothingly, ‘Steady, Grace. Steady. We know it hurts. Do not show weakness. Do not. Weakness is death.’
He looked around the cockpit for the source of the prayer. There was no one there.
He was alone. It had not always been so.
‘Stop, for Throne’s sake, stop,’ he heard someone whispering behind him. Mikal scowled and barked, ‘Shut it.’
There was a sudden thud and the screaming of tortured metal stopped immediately. The crew elevator doors snapped open with a hiss.
‘Time someone greased those cables,’ muttered Bernd Hawlek.
Mikal turned to see his bombardier looking straight ahead with a wry smile on his face.
‘You’re not wrong, Bernd,’ Mikal agreed. Behind Bernd stood the diminutive form of their navigator, Aleksander Jeronim.
‘Sorry, captain,’ mumbled Aleks, clearly embarrassed that his curse had been heard by the pilot. ‘That noise was getting to me.’
At times Mikal wondered how Aleks managed to get into the Navy; he looked barely old enough to shave. His pale complexion, the result of hours of studying charts and pict screens, gave him an unhealthy, undernourished look. He wouldn’t have lasted five minutes in the streets of Mikal’s youth. Then again, a navigator needed a quick brain not quick fists.
‘Report the problem to maintenance,’ said Mikal. He found apologies difficult. They all knew that the maintenance crews had been pushed to the limits getting aircraft combat ready. Non-essential maintenance had been put on hold.
Aleks nodded, relieved. Mikal glanced at the rest of his crew standing rather stiffly behind them. Dudak, Krol and Jaworski looked back at him evenly. They knew enough not to say anything provocative when he was in his preflight mode. None of them wanted their captain’s critical eye locking on them.
‘We’re on Station Eight,’ said Mikal, and he stepped out of the claustrophobic crew elevator into the enormous expanse of the launch deck of the Implacable Advance. Before an operational sortie, an Imperial Navy carrier was like an amphitheatre in which a numberless host of Naval personnel performed a frenzied ballet of ordered chaos. Servitors and deck crew jostled and pirouetted amidst the blare of horns and warning sirens. Clouds of coolant and exhaust fumes created an eerie and disorienting sub-world beneath the cavernous superstructure, the true enormity of which was intermittently revealed by pulsating strobes of light from gantries and inspection rigs.
Mikal led his crew through the maze of moving and dissipating obstacles seeking out Station 8 and EMGR2243, the Marauder bomber to which they had been assigned for this, their first combat tour, and today, their first mission.
Mikal was so immersed in his thoughts that he almost knocked over a deck rating who had emerged from the gloom at the head of a line of servitors. The rating looked up, blanched and backed away.
‘Sorry… captain…’ he stammered. ‘My mistake.’
‘Emperor’s Grace,’ barked Mikal.
‘Sorry, sir?’ repeated the rating.
‘Where is Emperor’s Grace?’ repeated Mikal.
‘Oh… EMGR2243, you mean? The Grace, sir? She… She’s over there…’ babbled the harassed-looking rating as he pointed over to the brooding hulk of a Marauder silhouetted against the glow of arc lights. ‘We’ve just finished fixing the auspex.’
‘Auspex?’ asked Mikal. ‘What’s the problem now?’
The 1167th’s hasty deployment from Vordrost had created all sorts of logistical problems, including a shortage of trained technicians across the fleet. As a result, many of the squadron’s ground crew had been reassigned. With her new crew, Emperor’s Grace was one of the last to get attention, something which was a constant source of frustration for Mikal.
‘N… nothing, sir,’ said the rating.
Mikal sensed the hesitation in the man’s voice and stepped forward so that his disfigured face was unpleasantly close to the wide-eyed rating.
‘There had better not be,’ he said.
‘Easy, captain,’ murmured Bernd as he moved between his pilot and the cowering rating.
Bernd nodded to the rating to get on with his checks and the man scurried away, his posse of servitors snaking along behind him. Mikal scowled at the way in which Bernd had dealt with the situation. The bombardier’s easy-going manner and sense of humour was in sharp contrast to his pilot’s irascible attitude, and at times Mikal resented him for it. Deep down though, he knew Bernd was right. A pilot picking a fight with a deck rating? What was he thinking?
‘Get a grip,’ he muttered to himself and led his crew towards the imposing presence of the Marauder bomber.
Emperor’s Grace was the latest addition to Vordrost’s 1167th Bomber Wing. When the Imperial high command had received reports that Waaagh! Ugskraga, the massive ork incursion into the Segmentum Pacificus, had reached the Imperial world of Balle Prime, the 1167th had been deployed aboard the carrier Implacable Advance as part of an Imperial relief force despatched to bolster the desperately stretched defence forces. The 1167th had a reputation for getting the job done. This was in no small part due to the uncompromising leadership of the 1167th’s commander and squadron leader, Aaron Ryll. He believed that hitting the enemy hard with overwhelming force was the best way of limiting the number of missions needed to complete a tour. As a consequence, he insisted that all planes in the 1167th carry a full payload of bombs and missiles and that pilots maintain a tight defensive formation to maximise the number of bombers reaching the target. His brutal logic was compelling and the crews respected him for it. The message had been repeated at the briefing for today’s mission, designated Operation Arc Light.
The 1167th assembled in the briefing room, each aircrew already kitted out in pressure vest, flight suit and fur-lined flying boots. Mikal sat there quiet and sweating, wedged in between Bernd and Aleks and surrounded by other similarly clad officers talking with noisy familiarity around them.
‘Here comes Ryll,’ whispered Bernd as a short, broad figure stepped onto the raised platform at the front of the briefing room. The officer had close-cropped black hair, a flat nose and a button chin and stood with his weight balanced like a pit-fighter. Though not a big man, his authority was unmistakable and the 1167th rose from their chairs to acknowledge their squadron leader. ‘Looks a bit serious to me.’
‘He always looks serious,’ muttered Aleks nervously, craning his neck to peer over the shoulders of the ranks in front of them. Mikal said nothing as he waited for the squadron leader to speak.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, sit,’ instructed Ryll and the 1167th sat back down on their benches, attentive and silent, all eyes on their commanding officer.
‘The picture on Balle Prime is changing rapidly. The greenskins have captured the starport at Balle-Delta and are using it to land more troops and supplies to support their advance towards the planet’s capital, Balle-Major.’
Ryll looked out across the intent faces of his squadron. He had their full attention.
‘The orks have established a forward airbase at Balle-Delta where the bulk
of their fighters and fighter-bombers are launching sorties against the retreating Imperial forces. Balle-Delta starport is of critical strategic importance to the fate of Balle-Major and ultimately the planet itself.’
Ryll paused to make sure his brief strategic summary had sunk in. All heads were steady and unwavering. He continued in a more aggressive tone.
‘Gentlemen. At zero five hundred hours, the 1167th will launch from the Implacable Advance, proceed directly to Balle-Delta and then pound the starport to rubble.’
There was a stamping of feet, which echoed off the plasteel bulkheads and reverberated around the room. This was the typically pragmatic means of signifying approval that the 1167th used in briefings when assembled officers held data-slates with mission details in their hands. Mikal found the hairs on the back of his neck rise at the sound as it rumbled up through the deck plates and shook the bench on which he and his comrades perched. He sat forward a bit straighter as Ryll continued.
‘At the far side of the starport, the orks seem to be constructing some sort of tower, the exact nature of which is unknown.’ He flicked up a pict screen that converged on a dark mark at one end of the starport. The perspective changed and from the side it was clear that the shape was an irregular but enormous construct, twice as wide as the airfield at its base and narrowing gradually as it rose skywards.
‘The images are unclear, as the construction is shrouded by thick clouds, caused either deliberately to screen what is being built, or more likely by the exhaust gases of the construction engines that are building it,’ said Ryll. ‘Either way, a huge effort is being made by the orks to build this thing. Whatever its purpose, we intend to destroy it before its construction goes any further. So once you drop your bombs, get a missile lock on this thing and take it down.’
‘Not going to be difficult to miss,’ said Bernd under the noise of stamping feet.
Ryll resumed his briefing when the noise had died down. ‘You will be pleased to know that we will not be going in alone. Thunderbolts of the 38th Fighter Wing will lead the first wave and target the starport’s air defences.’
There was a noticeable lack of stamping at this. Bomber crews knew from experience that whatever the fighters did, there would still be plenty of groundfire coming at them on the attack run. Ryll continued.
‘There are reports of significant numbers of ork flyers operating from the starport. So you’ll be pleased to hear that we have an escort of Lightnings from the 717th Imperial Navy Fighter Wing as well.’
This news was greeted with more enthusiasm. Any sort of protective screen would be a welcome distraction for the ork fighters, who often sought out personal duels with the Imperial fighters. Ryll wanted no complacency among his crews. It was going to get rough over the target, whatever support they had from the Navy.
‘As you know, greenskin pilots are reckless of their own safety and will seek any means of preventing us from reaching our target. It is imperative that we maintain formation and press on to the objective whatever they throw at us.’ He paused to make sure they heard his next few instructions clearly.
‘Do not, I repeat, do not break off from the rest of the squadron. Our strength is in our discipline and that is how we shall prevail.’
That and a curtain of bolter fire, thought Mikal as more stamping thumped through the deck plates.
‘So stay close, release your bombs and get out of there,’ he said as he looked out across the grim faces. Ryll decided it was time to lift the mood.
‘I have a particularly fine bottle of amasec for the crew that destroys that tower. Do not disappoint me. Dismissed.’
Chairs scraped back as the crews digested what they had just heard. The crew of Emperor’s Grace shuffled along amidst the hubbub.
‘I’m rather partial to amasec,’ said Bernd.
‘The first waves will get it for sure,’ said Aleks. ‘By the time we’re there the target will be scrap metal.’
‘We’ll make sure then,’ said Mikal, determined to keep them all focused on both objectives, although he privately thought Aleks was most likely right.
‘Someone had better get a target lock on that tower,’ said Bernd. ‘I have a bad feeling they’ll be sending us back there if it’s still standing.’
Mikal was certain of it.
Mikal adjusted his helmet straps, checked his instruments for the third time and took a deep breath. He turned to Bernd on his right and nodded.
‘Number off, crew.’
‘Nose turret, clear,’ said Dudak,
Mikal looked up at the twin-linked lascannons projecting from the Grace’s nose turret. It gave him some comfort to know that the most powerful defensive weapons on the Marauder bomber were facing forwards. He knew from intelligence briefings that ork fighter pilots loved nothing better than playing chicken with Imperial bombers. Fortunately the orks’ insane courage was not normally matched by their marksmanship. Mikal hoped that Artur Dudak, the Grace’s nose gunner, would be able to deal with anything coming straight towards them.
‘Upper turret clear,’ said Krol, calm and measured. Maciej Krol was a cool one thought Mikal. Never gave anything away. He had heard rumours that Krol was popular with female crew members. The hydraulics whirred behind Mikal as Krol pivoted the turret. Fine, thought Mikal. As long as Krol nailed those ork fighters, he didn’t care what targets he sought off-duty.
‘Tail turret, clear,’ said Jaworski, unable to hide the eagerness in his voice. Fyodor Jaworski seemed unperturbed at occupying the most vulnerable position in Emperor’s Grace. Survival rates for tail gunners in Marauders were appallingly low. Taking out a tail turret gave enemy fighters the chance of an easy kill. There again, Fyodor seemed to relish the challenge. Mikal could not work out if this was raw courage, martial zeal or a mental imbalance. Not that it mattered to him as long as Fyodor kept those heavy bolters firing.
‘Navigator, clear,’ said Aleks.
‘Bombardier, clear,’ said Bernd, steadily.
‘Emperor’s Grace clear for launch,’ confirmed Mikal, looking up to the control room above the huge blast door entrance.
‘Thank you, Emperor’s Grace, duly noted,’ came the mechanical voice of Flight Controller Danoz Borkowski. The former pilot sat hard-wired into the console of the control room, bathed in the green light which illuminated the auspex screens and glowed out through its reinforced glass panels. The glowing cupola gave the impression of an insect’s bulbous eye, surveying its hatching pupae before they flew out into the world beyond.
‘Another novice crew,’ Borkowski said to himself, ‘about to give their all for the Emperor.’
He could imagine the mixed set of emotions coursing through the bomber below him. Adrenaline-charged excitement, mind-numbing fear, hopeless optimism about a successful conclusion to their first mission. None, he thought, would be prepared for the brutal, chaotic reality of what they would experience over the combat zone. That, he could do little about. His job was to see them off and, with the Emperor’s grace, safely home. He checked the squadron manifest again and was surprised to see his words staring up at him. Emperor’s Grace. His augmetic vox-box grimaced into what might be interpreted as a smile.
‘Emperor’s Grace, you are cleared for launch.’
He heard the pilot’s acknowledgment, ‘For the Emperor.’
Four ramjet engines roared and Borkowski felt the glass panels vibrate as the Marauder bomber catapulted forward. Emperor’s Grace shot through the launch bay doors and out into the darkness of space.
Mikal tracked the path of the other bombers of the 1167th on the auspex while keeping a visual through the armourglass canopy. The auspex was a blur of hundreds of dots, each marking the location of a bomber or fighter, moving into position in their respective formations. He felt the control column move in his hands as the sensors adjusted his course to ensure their trajectory didn’t converge with the ot
her flyers. The main formation of the 1167th had already formed up in the distance and looked like a grey cloud against the darkness of space. The cloud flickered as identification lights blinked on each of the aircraft and Mikal felt some comfort at the size of the formation. A full Navy squadron of Marauders was an admirable sight and he was reminded of what Ryll had said about combined defensive firepower.
‘Impressive,’ said Bernd, as if sensing Mikal’s thoughts.
Mikal ignored him.
‘Heading for our designated location,’ he said and checked the auspex again. He tracked the blip that signified his wing leader’s aircraft, adjusted the controls and headed towards the outer edge of the formation where the remaining aircraft were already forming up. He lined up on the nearest bomber and adjusted their trim so that they completed the outermost point of the diamond formation. He breathed out slowly, relieved that bit was over. Bernd looked as if he was going to say something but decided not to. He simply nodded instead. Mikal nodded back.
‘Emperor’s Grace in position,’ Mikal confirmed over the vox.
‘Divine Retribution. Acknowledged, glad to have you with us,’ came the reply from the nearest bomber.
Katarzyna Ostrowski, pilot of Divine Retribution, looked across at the Marauder.
‘Rookies,’ she thought. Katarzyna buzzed her tail gunner, Marek Zajac.
‘They’ll be below us on our starboard flank, Zajac. Keep an eye on them.’
‘You’re not getting all sentimental in your old age, captain, are you?’ said Zajac in mock surprise.
‘If they go down, you’ll be next in line for those ork fighters, Zajac. So make sure they are still there to soak up any punishment.’
On Wings of Blood Page 28
