Double Eagle(科幻战争)-第1部分

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《Double　Eagle（科幻战争）》
作者：＇英＇Dan　Abnett【完结】

Synopsis　（英文书籍文案）　

When　the　elite　fighter　pilots　of　the　Phantine　arrive　on　the　beleaguered　world　of　Enothis；　they　know　this　is　a　desperate　hour。　The　forces　of　Chaos　are　closing　in　and　their　final　push　could　well　wipe　out　all　human　life　on　the　planet。　Thousands　of　refugees　flee　the　dark　armies　and　the　infamous　Chaos　fighter　pilot　Khrel　Kas　Obarkon　is　always　hunting　the　skies　for　more　prey。。。And　so　it　falls　to　the　brave　men　and　women　of　the　Phantine　fighter　corps。　Can　they　hold　up　the　Chaos　advance　until　reinforcements　arrive？　In　the　high…speed　white…knuckle　terror　of　aerial　combat；　can　they　defeat　an　enemy　possessed　by　daemons？





“Strong　men　have　conquered　the　land；　Bold　men　have　conquered　the　void；　Between　land　and
void　lies　the　sky；　And　only　the　bravest　men　ever　conquer　that。”
—from　the　dedication　to　the
Hessenville　Aviator　Scholam；　Phantine
“I　give　you　command　of　the　air。　It　is　up　to　you　how　you　take　it。”
—Warmaster　Macaroth；　dispatch
to　Admiral　Ornoff；　773。M41
“We　had　planes。　We　flew　them。　They　had　planes。　They　flew　them。　There　was　some　shooting
involved。　All　that　mattered；　really；　was　who　was　still　flying　at　the　end　of　it。”
—Major　August　Kaminsky　（73　kills）；
six　weeks　before　his　death　in　812。M41
“I　intend　to　get　out　of　this　alive　if　it’s　the　last　thing　I　do。”
—Commander　Bree　Jagdea；　at　Ouranberg

TARGET　FOUND
THEDA
Imperial　year　773。M41；　day　252　…　day　260

DAY　252
Over　the　Makanites；　06。32
In　the　side　rush　of　dawn；　the　peaks　glowed　pink；　like　some　travesty　of　a　fondant　celebration　cake。
Hard　shadows　infilled　the　cavities　like　ink。　Streamers　of　white　cloud　strung　out　in　the　freezing　air
three　thousand　metres　below。
Hunt　Leader　was　just　a　cruciform　speck　in　the　bright　air　ahead。　He　started　to　turn；　ten　degrees　to
the　northwest。　Darrow　tilted　the　stick；　following；　rolling。　The　horizon　swung　up　and　the　world
moved　around。　Slowly；　slowly。　He　heard　the　knocking　sound　and　ignored　it。
At　least　the　inclinometer　was　still　working。　As　he　came　around　and　levelled　the　column；　Darrow
reached　forward　and　flicked　the　brass　dial　of　the　fuel　gauge　again。　It　still　read　full；　which　couldn’t
be　right。　They’d　been　up　for　forty…eight　minutes。
He　took　off　a　gauntlet　and　flicked　the　gauge　once　more　with　his　bare　fingers。　He　felt　sure　the
lined　mitten　had　been　dulling　his　blows。
The　dial　remained　at　full。
He　saw　how　pinched　and　blue　his　hand　had　become；　and　pulled　the　gauntlet　back　on　quickly。　It
felt　balmy　in　his　insulated　flightsuit；　but　the　cabin　temp…stat　read　minus　eight。
There　was　no　sound；　except　for　the　background　rush　of　the　jet　stream。　Darrow　looked　up　and
around；　remembering　to　maintain　his　visual　scanning。　Just　sky。　Sundogs　flaring　in　his　visor。　Hunt
Three　just　abeam　of　him；　a　silhouette；　trailing　vapour。
The　altimeter　read　six　thousand　metres。
The　vox　gurgled。　“Hunt　Leader　to　Hunt　Flight。　One　pass　west　and　we　turn　for　home。　Keep
formation　tight。”
They　made　another　lazy　roll。　The　landscape　rose　up　in　his　port　vision。　Darrow　saw　brittle　flashes
of　light　far　below。　Artillery　fire　in　the　mountain　passes。
He　heard　the　knocking　again。　It　sounded　as　if　someone　was　crouching　behind　the　frame　of　his
armoured　seat；　tapping　the　internal　spars　with　a　hammer。　Pulsejets　always　made　a　burbling；　flatulent
noise；　but　this　didn’t　seem　right　to　him。
He　keyed　his　vox。　“Hunt　Leader；　this　is　Hunt　Four。　I’ve—”
There　was　a　sudden；　loud　bang。　The　vox　channel　squealed　like　a　stabbed　pig。
The　world　turned　upside　down。
“Oh　God…Emperor！　Oh　crap！　God…Emperor！”　a　voice　was　shouting。　Darrow　realised　it　was　his
own。　G…force　pummelled　him。　His　Commonwealth　K4T　Wolfcub　was　tumbling　hard。
Light　and　dark；　sky　and　land；　up　and　over；　up　and　over。　Darrow　choked　back　nausea　and
throttled　down　desperately。　The　vox　was　incoherent　with　frantic　chatter。
“Hunt　Four！　Hunt　Four！”
Darrow　regained　control　somehow　and　levelled。　He　had　lost　at　least　a　thousand　metres。　He　got
the　horizon　true　and　looked　around　in　the　vain　hope　of　seeing　someone　friendly。　Then　he　cried　out
involuntarily　as　something　fell　past　his　nose　cone。
It　was　a　Wolfcub；　one　wing　shorn　off　in　a　cascade　of　torn　struts　and　body　plate。　Flames　were
sucking　back　out　of　its　pulsejet。　It　arced　down　and　away　like　a　comet；　trailing　smoke　as　it　went
spinning　towards　the　ground。　It　became　a　speck。　A　smaller　speck。　A　little　blink　of　light。
Darrow　felt　his　guts　tighten　and　acid　frothed　inside　him。　Fear；　like　a　stink；　permeated　the　little
cockpit。
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Something　else　flashed　past　him。
Just　a　glimpse；　moving　so　fast。　There　and　gone。　A　memory　of　recurve　wings。
“Hunt　Four！　Break！　Break　and　turn！　There’s　one　right　on　you！”
Darrow　leaned　on　the　stick　and　kicked　the　rudder。　The　world　rolled　again。
He　put　his　nose　up　and　throttled　hard。　The　Wolfcub　bucked　angrily　and　the　knocking　came
again。
Throne　of　Earth。　He’d　thought　his　bird　had　malfunctioned；　but　it　wasn’t　that　at　all。　They’d　been
stung。
Darrow　leant　forward　against　the　harness　and　peered　out　of　his　cockpit　dome。　The　aluminoid
skin　of　his　right　wing　was　holed　and　torn。　Hell’s…teeth；　he’d　been　shot。
He　pushed　the　stick　forward　to　grab　some　thrust；　then　turned　out　left　in　a　hard　climb。
The　dawn　sky　was　full　of　smoke：　long　strings　of　grey　vapour　and　little　black　blooms　that　looked
like　dirty　cotton。　Hunt　Flight’s　formation　had　broken　apart　and　they　were　scattering　across　the
heavens。　Darrow　couldn’t　even　see　the　bats。
No；　that　wasn’t　true。　He　made　one；　bending　in　to　chase　Hunt　Five；　tracer　fire　licking　from　its
gunpods。
He　rolled　towards　it；　flipping　the　scope　of　his　reflector　sight　into　position　before　resting　his
thumb　on　the　stick…top　stud　that　activated　the　quad　cannons　in　the　nose。
The　bat　danced　wildly　across　the　glass　reticule　of　the　gunsight。　It　refused　to　sit。
Darrow　cursed　and　began　to　utter　a　prayer　to　the　God…Emperor　of　Mankind　to　lift　his　wings　and
make　his　aim　true。　He　waggled　the　stick；　pitching；　rolling；　trying　to　correct；　but　the　more　he　tried；
the　more　the　bat　slipped　wildly　off　the　gunsight　to　one　side　or　the　other。
There　was　a　little　smoky　flash　ahead；　and　suddenly　Darrow’s　Wolfcub　was　riding　through　a
horizontal　pelt　of　black　rain。
Not　rain。　Oil。　Then　debris。　Pieces　of　glittering　metal；　buckled　machine　parts；　shreds　of
aluminoid。　Darrow　cried　out　in　surprise　as　the　oil　washed　out　his　forward　view。　He　heard　the
pattering　impact　of　the　debris　striking　off　his　nose　plate　and　wing　faces。　The　bat　had　chalked　Hunt
Five　and　Darrow　was　running　in　through　the　debris　stream。　Any　large　piece　of　wreckage　would　hole
him　and　kill　him　as　surely　as　cannon…fire。　And　if　so　much　as　a　demi…mil　cog　went　down　the　intake
of　his　pulsejet…
Darrow　wrenched　on　the　stick　and　came　nose…up。　Light　returned　as　he　came　out　of　the　smoke
belt；　and　slipstream　flowed　the　oil　away　off　his　canopy。　It　ran　in　quivering　lines；　slow　and　sticky；
like　blood。
Almost　immediately；　he　had　to　roll　hard　to　port　to　avoid　hitting　another　Cub　head　on。　He　heard　a
strangled　cry　over　the　vox。　The　little　dark…green　interceptor　filled　his　field　of　view　for　a　second　and
then　was　gone　back　over　his　shoulder。
His　violent　roll　had　been　too　brutal。　He　inverted　for　a　moment　and　struggled　to　right　himself　as
the　mountains　spread　out　overhead。　That　knocking　again。　That　damn　knocking。　He　was　bleeding
speed　now；　and　the　old　pulse…engines　of　the　K4Ts　had　a　nasty　habit　of　flaming　out　if　the　airflow
dropped　too　sharply。　He　began　to　nurse　it　up　and　round；　gunning　the　engine　as　hard　as　he　dared。
Two　planes　rushed　by；　so　fast　he　didn’t　have　time　to　determine　their　type；　then　another　three　went
perpendicular　across　his　bow。　They　were　all　Wolfcubs。　One　was　venting　blue　smoke　in　a　long；
chuffing　plume。
“Hunt　Leader！　Hunt　Leader！”　Darrow　called。　Two　of　the　Cubs　were　already　climbing　away　out
of　visual。　The　sun　blinded　him。　The　third；　the　wounded　bird；　was　diving　slowly；　scribing　the　sky
with　its　smoke。
He　saw　the　bat　clearly　then。　At　his　two；　five　hundred　metres；　dropping　in　on　the　Cub　it　had　most
likely　already　mauled。　For　the　first　time　in　his　four　weeks　of　operational　flying；　Darrow　got　a　good
look　at　the　elusive　foe。　It　resembled　a　long；　sharp；　elongated　axe…head；　the　cockpit　set　far　back
7
above　the　drive　at　the　point　where　the　bow　of　the　blade…wings　met。　A　Hell　Razor…class　Interceptor；
the　cream　of　the　Archenemy’s　air　force。　In　the　dispersal　room　briefs；　they’d　talked　about　these
killers　being　blood　red　or　matt　black；　but　this　was　pearl…white；　like　ice；　like　alabaster。　The　canopy
was　tinted　black；　like　a　dark　eye…socket　in　a　polished　skull。
Darrow　had　expected　to　feel　fear；　but　he　got　a　thrill　of　adrenaline　instead。　He　leaned　forward；
hunched　down　in　the　Wolfcub’s　armoured　cockpit；　and　opened　the　throttle；　sweeping　in　on　the　bat’s
five。　It　didn’t　appear　to　have　seen　him。　It　was　lining　up；　leisurely；　on　the　wounded　Cub。
He　flipped　the　toggle　switch。　Guns　live。
Closing　at　three　hundred　metres。　Darrow　rapidly　calculated　his　angle　of　deflection；　estimated
he’d　have　to　lead　his　shot　by　about　five　degrees。　God…Emperor；　he　had　it…
He　thumbed　the　firing　stud。　The　Wolfcub　shuddered　slightly　as　the　cannons　lit　up。　He　saw　flashflames
licking　up　from　under　the　curve　of　the　nose　cone。　He　heard　and　felt　the　thump　of　the
breechblocks。
The　bat　had　gone。
He　came　clear；　pulling　a　wide　turn　at　about　two　hundred　and　seventy　kilometres　an　hour。　The
engagement　had　been　over　in　an　instant。　Had　he　killed　it？　He　sat　up　into　the　clear　blister　of　the
canopy　like　an　animal　looking　out　of　its　burrow；　craning　around。　If　he’d　hit　it；　surely　there　would　be
smoke？
The　only　smoke　he　could　see　was　about　a　thousand　metres　above　in　the　pale　blue　sky　where　the
main　portion　of　the　dogfight　was　still　rolling。
He　turned。　First　rule　of　air　combat：　take　a　shot　and　pull　off。　Never　stick　with　a　target；　never　go
back。　That　made　you　a　target。
But　still　he　had　to　know。　He　had　to。
He　dipped　his　starboard　wing；　searching　the　peaks　below　for　a　trace　of　fire。
Nothing。
Darrow　levelled　off。
And　there　it　was。　Right　alongside　him。
He　cried　out　in　astonishment。　The　bat　was　less　than　a　wing’s　breadth　away；　riding　along　in
parallel　with　him。　There　was　not　a　mark　on　its　burnished　white　fuselage。
It　was　playing　with　him。
Panic　rose　inside　pilot　cadet　Enric　Darrow。　He　knew　his　valiant　little　Cub　could　neither　outrun
nor　out…climb　the　Hell　Razor。　He　throttled　back　hard；　and　threw　on　his　speed　brakes；　hoping　the
sudden　manoeuvre　would　cause　the　big　machine　to　overshoot　him。
For　a　moment；　it　vanished。　Then　it　was　back；　on　his　other　side；　copying　his　brake…dive。　Darrow
swore。　The　Hell　Razor…class　were　vector…thrust　planes。　He　was　so　close　to　it　that　he　could　see　the
reactive　jet　nozzles　on　the　belly　under　the　blade…wings。　It　could　out…dance　any　conventional　jet；
viffing；　braking；　even　pulling　to　a　near…hover。
Darrow　refused　to　accept　he　was　out…classed；　refused　to　admit　he　was　about　to　die。　He　twisted
the　stick；　kicked　the　rudder　right　over　and　went　into　the　deepest　dive　he　dared　execute。　Any　deeper；
and　the　Wolfcub’s　wings　would　shear　off　its　airframe。
The　world　rushed　up；　filling　his　vision。　He　heard　the　pulsejet　screaming。　He　saw　the　glory　of　the
mountains　ascending　to　meet　him。　His　mountains。　His　world。　The　world　he　had　joined　up　to　save。
Behind　him；　the　pearl…white　enemy　machine　tucked　in　effortlessly　and　followed　him　down。
Theda　MAB　North；　07。02
Sometimes—times　like　this　perfect　dawn；　for　instance—it　amused　August　Kaminsky　to　play　a
private　game。　The　game　was　called　“pretend　there　isn’t　a　war”。
It　was　relatively　easy　in　some　respects。　It　was　quiet；　and　the　night　chill　was　giving　way　to　a　still
cool　as　the　sunrise　came　up　over　the　city。　From　where　he　sat；　he　could　see　the　wide　bay；　hazy　in　the
8
morning　mist；　and　the　sea　beyond　it；　blue…grey；　glittering。　The　city　of　Theda　itself—a　mix　of　pale
rockcrete　towers；　low…rise　hab…stacks　and　pylon　steeples—was　peaceful　and　quiet；　huddled　on　the
anner；　as　it　had　done　for　twenty…nine　centuries。　Sea　birds
wheeled　overhead；　which　spoiled　it　slightly；　because　he　envied　them　their　wings　and　their　freedom；
but　still；　at　these　times；　it　was　easy　to　play　the　game。
Theda　was　not　Kaminsky’s　birth…town　（he’d　been　delivered；　a　silent；　uncomplaining　infant；
forty…two　years　earlier　and　three　thousand　kilometres　north　in　the　Great　Hive　of　Enothopolis　on　the
far　side　of　the　Zophonian　Sea）；　but　he　had；　unilaterally；　adopted　it。　It　was　smaller　than　the　Great
Hive；　prettier；　a　littoral　town　that　understood　the　mechanisms　of　the　sea　and；　with　its　universitariat
and　its　many　scholams；　was　famous　as　a　seat　of　learning。　It　was　older　than　the　Great　Hive　too。　The
Old　Town　quarter　had　been　standing　for　three　hundred　years　when　the　first　technocrats　began
sinking　their　adamantine　pilings　into　the　Ursbond　Peninsula　to　raise　Enothopolis。　Theda；　dear　old
Theda；　was　one　of　the　first　cities　of　Enothis。
Kaminsky　had　adopted　Theda　partly　because　of　its　distinguished　past；　mostly　because　he’d　been
stationed　there　for　six　years。　He’d　come　to　know　it　well：　its　eating　houses；　its　coastal　pavilions　and
piers；　its　libraries　and　museums。　It　was　the　place　he’d　always　longed　to　return　to　every　time　he
snapped　the　canopy　shut　and　waved　the　fitters　away。　And　it　was　the　place　he　always　had　come　back
to。
Even　the　last　time。
“You　there！　Driver！”
The　voice　broke　through　his　thoughts。　He　sat　up　in　the　worn　leather　seat　of　the　cargo　transport
and　looked　out。　Senior　Pincheon；　the　Munitorum　despatcher；　was　coming　over　the　hard　pan　towards
him；　three　aides　wobbling　along　in　his　wake　like　novice　wingmen。　Pincheon’s　long　robes　fluttered
out　behind　him　and　his　boots　were　raising　dust　from　the　dry　earth。　His　voice　was　pitched　high；　like
the　seabirds’　calls。
Kaminsky　didn’t　like　Pincheon　much。　His　game　was　ruined　now。　The　senior’s　call　had　made
him　drop　his　eyeline　to　take　in　the　ground　and　the　airfield。　And　no　one　could　pretend　there　wasn’t　a
war　when　they　saw　that。
Kaminsky　opened　his　cab　door　and　climbed　down　to　meet　the　senior。　He’d　been　up　since　five
waiting　for　despatch；　sipping　caffeine　from　a　flask　and　munching　on　a　coil　of　whisp…bread。
“Senior；”　he　said；　saluting。　He　didn’t　have　to。　The　unctuous　man　had　no　military　rank；　but　old
habits；　like　Kaminsky　himself；　died　hard。　Pincheon　had　a　data…slate　in　his　hands。　He　looked　up　and
down　Kaminsky；　and　the　grubby　transport　behind　him。
“Driver　Kaminsky；　A？　Vehicle　167？”
“As　you　well　know；　senior；”　said　Kaminsky。
Pincheon　made　a　check　in　one　of　the　boxes　on　his　slate。　“Fuelled　and　roadworthy？”
Kaminsky　nodded。　“As　of　05。00。　I　was　issued　coupons　for　sixty　litres　of　two…grade；　and　I　filled
up　at　the　depot　before　I　came　on　duty。”
Pincheon　checked　another　box。　“Do　you　have　the　chit？”
Kaminsky　produced　the　paper　slip　from　his　coat　pocket；　smoothed　it　flat；　and　handed　it　to　the
senior。
Pincheon　studied　it。　“Sixty　point　zero…zero…three　litres；　driver？”
Kaminsky　shrugged。　“The　nozzle　guns　aren’t　really　accurate；　senior。　I　stopped　it　when　it　wound
over　sixty；　but　the　last　few　drops—”
“You　should　take　care　to　be　more　accurate；”　Pincheon　said　flatly。　One　of　his　aides　nodded。
“Have　you　ever　fuelled　a　vehicle　from　the　depot　tanks；　senior？”　Kaminsky　said　lightly。
“Of　course　not！”
“Well；　if　you　had；　you　might　know　how　tricky　it　is　to　get　the　wind　exact。”
9
“Don’t　you　blame　me　for　your　inaccuracies；　driver！”　Pincheon　sputtered。　“Essential　resources
such　as　fuel　must　be　managed　and　rationed　to　the　millilitre！　That　is　the　task　of　the　Holy　Munitorum！
There’s　a　war　on；　don’t　you　realise？”
“I　had　heard…”
Senior　Pincheon　ignored　him　and　looked　at　the　nodding　aide。　“What’s　zero…zero…three　of　a　litre
two…grade　at　base　cost？”
The　aide　made　a　quick　calculation　on　his　pocket　slate。　“Rounding　down；　ten　and　a　half　credits；
senior。”
“Round　up。　And　deduct　it　from　the　next　wage　slip　of　driver　Kaminsky；　A。”
“So　recorded；　senior。”
Pincheon　turned　back　to　Kaminsky。　“Transportation　run。　Personnel。　Pick　up　within　thirty
minutes　from　the　Hotel　Imperial　in—”
“I　know　where　it　is。”
“Good。　Convey　them　to　the　dispersal　point　at　MAB　South。　Do　you　understand？　Fine。　Then　sign
here。”
As　he　signed　his　name；　his　stiffened　fingers　struggling　with　the　stylus；　Kaminsky　asked：　“Are
they　fliers？　Navy　fliers　at　last？”
Pincheon　huffed。　“Not　for　me　to　say。　There’s　a　war　on。”
“You　think　I　don’t　know　that；　senior？”　Kaminsky　asked。
As　he　took　back　the　slate　and　the　stylus；　Pincheon　looked　up　at　Kaminsky’s　face　and　made　eye
contact　for　the　first　time。　What　he　saw　made　him　shudder。
“Carry　on；　driver；”　he　said；　and　hurried　away。
Kaminsky　climbed　up　into　his　battered　transport　and　turned　the　engine　over。　Blue　smoke
coughed　and　spurted　from　the　vertical　exhausts。　Lifting　the　brake；　he　rolled　the　ten…wheeler　down
the　gentle　slope　of　the　hardpan　and　drove　off　along　the　field　circuit　trackway；　following　the　chain
link　fence。
The　game　was　certainly　ruined　now。　No　pretending　any　more。　Here　were　fuel　bowsers；　smeared
with　treacly　black　promethium　waste；　armoured　hangars；　repair　sheds　reverberating　with　the　noise
of　power　tools；　lines　of　primer　coils　on　their　trolleys；　electric　munitions　trains　parked　and　empty　on
verges　of　swishing　sap…grass。
And　airstrips。　Cracked　rockcrete　looking　like　psoriatic　skin　in　the　early　light；　with　eight…engine
bombers　sulking　on　their　hardstands；　props　like　sabre…blades　raised　in　threat；　hook…winged　Shrike
dive…bombers　under　tarps；　fitters　and　armourers　working　around　them。
Beyond　the　strips；　facing　the　sea；　lay　the　long　launch　ramps　of　the　Wolfcubs；　stretched　out　like
exposed　spinal　chords；　glinting　and　skeletal　in　the　rising　sun。
Five　Wolfcubs　sat　on　taxi…racks　at　the　head　of　the　ramps。　Bottle　green　with　grey　undersides；　they
were　tiny；　one…man　planes　with　stubby　wings　and　tails；　their　rocket　engines　raised　above　their　backs；
their　nose　guns　muzzled。　They　looked　squat；　leaden。
But　Kaminsky　knew　how　they　felt　to　fly。　He　knew　how　they　rose　off　those　catapult　ramps；
throttles　right　back；　pulse…engines　farting　and　popping　as　the　airflow　fired　them　to　launch　velocity。
The　belly…dropping　jink　as　they　cleared　the　ramp　end　and　lifted　up　into　the　blue；　raw　and　throbbing。
The　cold　smell　of　the　cockpit。　The　reek　of　rubber　and　steel；　promethium；　nitrous；　fyceline。　The　feel
of　being　aloft；　alive…
God…Emperor；　how　he　missed　it。
At　the　gate；　beside　the　staked　revets　and　the　heavy　blast…fences；　he　pulled　over　to　let　a　munitions
convoy　roll　in。　He　glanced　up　into　the　driving　mirror　and；　for　a　moment；　saw　himself。
More　than　anything；　more　than　even　the　airfield　full　of　prepping　warplanes；　the　sight　of　himself
reminded　August　Kaminsky　that　his　cherished　game　was　only　pretend。
There　was；　inescapably；　a　war　on。
10
Theda　Old　Town；　07。09
He　couldn’t　sleep。　It　was　anticipation　mostly；　the　prospect　of　a　new　war　to　survive；　but　his　body
clock　was　still　running　on　shipboard　time；　and　to　him　it　was　late　afternoon。
Just　before　six　by　the　chronograph　on　his　night　stand；　he　gave　up　on　his　bed　and　got　up。　It　was
cold　and　not　yet　light。　In　the　adjacent　rooms；　the　other　men　of　G　for　Greta　were　sleeping。　He　could
hear　snoring；　particularly　the　volcanic　rumble　of　Bombardier　Judd。　The　Munitorum　had　is