Double Eagle(科幻战争)-第12部分

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the　small　hours。　He’d　been　working　late　on　the　report　Eads　had　asked　him　to　write　up；　and　with　an
hour　and　a　half　to　go　before　his　next　shift　at　Operations；　he　went　out　to　find　Heckel；　to　get　the
major’s　comments　on　the　tangle　they’d　had　with　the　white　bat。
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A　pall　of　exhaust　fumes　hung　in　the　still　air　over　the　field。　The　majority　of　the　base’s　machines
were　gone；　on　sorties。　Darrow　spoke　to　a　Commonwealth　fitter　he　knew；　and　the　man　told　him
bombing　raids　had　begun；　north　of　the　mountains。　River　towns　had　been　hit；　agro…centres；　mills。
Someone　reckoned　the　raiders　had　got　as　far　as　Ezraville。
Everyone　he　passed　looked　pinched　and　worried。　Everyone　was　thinking　the　same　thing。　This
was　the　start　of　the　end。
Even　Commonwealth　reserve　units　like　Quarry　Flight　were　on　standby。　Morose；　in　full　flight
armour；　they　lurked　in　the　dispersal　areas；　waiting　for　the　call。　Wolfcubs　were　being　fitted　to　their
ramps。　Cyclones　were　being　wheeled　out　of　the　housing　barns；　attended　by　fuelling　trucks　and
munition　trains。
“Heckel？”　No　one　had　seen　him；　and　no　one　was　in　the　mood　to　chat　for　long。　According　to　the
posts；　Heckel　should　have　been　amongst　the　standby　pilots。
Darrow　got　a　room　number；　and　headed　down　to　the　blast…proof　hab　block　at　the　west　end　of　the
dispersal　yards。　By　the　light　of　the　dingy　corridor　lamps；　he　found　the　right　door　and　knocked。
“Major？　Major　Heckel？　Are　you　there；　sir？”
He　knocked　again。　“Major　Heckel？　It’s　Darrow。　Have　you　got　a　minute；　sir？”
He　was　about　to　turn　away；　but　an　ominous　feeling　made　him　try　the　door。　It　was　unlocked。
In　the　narrow　room；　the　cot　was　unmade。　There　was　a　clutter　of　papers　and　possessions　on　the
small　desk；　clothes　laid　out　on　top　of　the　officer’s　trunk。　A　camp　chair　lay　on　its　side　in　the　middle
of　the　room。
Major　Heckel　had　hanged　himself　by　a　harness　strap　from　the　ceiling　bracket。
“Oh　God…Emperor！”　Darrow　cried。　He　rushed　forward；　seizing　the　major’s　legs；　struggling　to　lift
him　down　and　ease　the　constriction。　“Help　me！　Someone　help　me！”　he　shouted　out。　He　couldn’t
unhook　the　body。　Heckel　was　a　lead　weight。　Darrow　cried　out　in　frustration。　He　let　go；　found
Heckel’s　kit　knife　in　the　pile　on　the　trunk；　then　righted　the　chair　and　climbed　up；　sawing　at　the
harness　cord。　It　was　aviation　issue；　tough；　designed　not　to　break。　Darrow　yelled　out　again；　and　cut
his　fingers　on　the　knife　as　he　wrenched　it　back　and　forth　against　the　thick　fabric。
“Don’t　you　die！　Don’t　you　die！”　he　bawled。　“How　dare　you　do　this；　Heckel！　How　bloody　dare
you！”
Darrow　was　vaguely　aware　of　two　aviators　coming　in；　drawn　by　his　yells。　He　heard　their
appalled　cries。　They　grabbed　Heckel’s　legs　and　raised　him。
“Cut　it！　Cut　it！”　one　shouted。
“I’m　trying…　I…”
The　harness　parted。　Heckel　fell　heavily　into　the　arms　of　the　other　men；　knocking　Darrow　off　the
chair　and　onto　the　cot。
They　wrestled　the　noose　off　his　neck　and　started　emergency　resuscitation。　Darrow　got　up；　and
dropped　the　knife。　He　knew　they　were　wasting　their　time。　The　lividity　around　the　neck；　the　pallor　of
the　cheeks；　the　cyanotic　blue　of　the　lips。
“You　poor　bastard；”　Darrow　sighed。　“You　poor；　stupid　bastard。”
In　his　efforts　to　perform　chest　compressions；　one　of　the　men　had　dislodged　an　envelope　from
Heckel’s　flight　jacket。　Darrow　picked　it　up。　The　envelope　was　blank；　as　if　Heckel　had　been　unable
to　think　of　anyone　to　address　it　to。　Inside　was　a　single　sheet　of　paper；　inscribed　with　a　single
handwritten　sentence。
May　the　God…Emperor　forgive　me；　I　cannot　do　this　any　more。
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DAY　257
Theda　Old　Town；　07。31
The　service　was　over。　There　had　been　many　more　in　attendance　that　morning；　three　times　the　usual
number　for　the　daybreak　blessing。　Beqa　had　had　to　wait　in　line　to　light　her　candles。　Everyone　was
scared。　You　could　almost　smell　it　in　the　streets。　Everyone　had　been　scared　for　months　now；　of
course；　but　they’d　got　used　to　it；　and　got　on　with　living　through　it。　But　over　the　last　two　nights；　the
fear　had　intensified。
From　the　west　of　the　city；　it　was　possible　to　see　the　fires　in　Ezraville。　Thousands　had　died　in　the
Lida　bombings；　and　the　raids　were　ongoing。　How　long　before　the　bombs　started　falling　on　Theda　as
well？　How　long　before　the　entire　coast　was　on　fire？　How　long？　How　long？　How　long　did　Enothis
have　left？
The　one　shred　of　good　news　had　come　in　the　hierarchy　homily。　It　had　been　officially　confirmed
that　the　first　elements　of　the　retreating　land　armada　had　cleared　the　mountains　and　were　returning　to
the　coast。　There　were　soldiers　coming　home。　She　lit　her　three　votive　candles。　One　for　Gart；　one　for
Eido。　One　for　whoever—
No。　One　for　Viltry。
Over　the　Interior　Desert；　09。07
“If　I’d　just　retreated　from　the　Trinity　Hives；　marched　all　the　way　back　across　the　desert；　not　to
mention　those　mountains；　I　reckon　I　wouldn’t　feel　much　like　fighting　any　more　after　that。”
“You　have　a　point；　Judd；”　Viltry　said　to　his　bombardier　over　the　internal　comm。　Halo　Flight　had
just　passed　over　a　shelf　of　desert　upland　across　which　a　ten　kilometre…long　convoy　of　Imperial
armour　and　weapons…carriers　was　slowly　toiling。
“I　mean；”　Judd　went　on。　“We’re　meant　to　be　holding　the　Archenemy　off　until　the　ground　forces
get　home　and　regroup。　Regroup？　That’s　a　laugh。　They’ll　be　fit　for　nothing。”
“Maybe；”　Viltry　said　lightly。　“Let’s　just　get　on　with　our　job　and　hope　appearances　are
deceiving。”
Greta　was　leading　a　flight　of　six　Marauders。　They　were　travelling　low；　skimming　the　dust　seas；
striving　to　remain　under　the　modar　and　auspex　cones　of　any　land　carriers　hidden　in　the　wastes。
Meanwhile；　recon　Lightnings　were　flying　somewhere　above　at　their　maximum　operational　ceiling；
scoping　for　the　elusive　carriers。　At　any　moment；　Halo　could　be　called　in。
The　desert　formed　an　eerie；　almost　grey　landscape　below　them。　The　shadows　of　the　low…flying
machines　flickered　and　danced　over　the　hard…lipped　dunes；　and　the　breaks　of　rock　and　scree。
Viltry　felt　remarkably　composed。　He　wondered　to　himself　if　Beqa　Mayer　might　have　anything　to
do　with　his　improved　demeanour。
“Contact！”　Lacombe　suddenly　said。　Viltry　stiffened　slightly。
“Eight　marks　at　seven　thousand；　bearing　zero…seven…five。”
Viltry　looked　at　the　scope。　Enemy　machines；　definitely；　heading　south…west；　twelve　or　more
kilometres　away。　Not　a　patrol　sweep。　Their　course　was　too　true；　too　determined。
“Lacombe—get　on　the　vox　and　see　if　Operations　can　give　us　a　back…plot　for　them。”
Over　the　engine　roar；　Viltry　could　hear　his　navigator　talking　on　the　main　vox。　The　internal　cut
back　in　again。
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“They　had　them　on　modar　about　fifteen　minutes　ago；　turning　south　over　the　Makanite　Ridge。”
“They’re　going　home；”　Viltry　said。　“They’re　going　home；　and　they’re　in　a　hurry　because　they’re
right　at　the　limit　of　their　fuel。　Halo　Flight；　Halo　Flight；　this　is　Lead。　Maintain　level；　but　come　about
on　my　mark；　bearing　zero…seven…five。”
The　six　laden　machines　banked　around；　still　hugging　the　sand。　Greta　first；　then　Hello　Hellstorm；
Widowmaker；　Throne　of　Terra；　Consider　Yourself　Dead　and　Miss　Adventure。　Viltry　ordered　all　birds
to　go　weapons…live；　arm　payloads；　and　keep　scanning。
Even　if　they　couldn’t　keep　the　bats　in　visual；　they　had　to　keep　them　on　the　scopes。
Because　they　were　going　to　lead　them　straight　to　a　carrier。
Over　Ezraville；　09。18
“Attacking！”　Jagdea　sang　out；　and　rolled　serial　Zero…Two　into　a　scream　dive；　with　Ranfre；　Waldon
and　Del　Ruth　at　her　heels。　Four　thousand　metres　below　them；　partly　obscured　by　wispy　threadclouds；
the　air　was　full　of　planes；　darting　and　swooping　like　shoals　of　reef　fish　in　a　tropical　sea。
Another　nine　thousand　metres　below　the　huge　air　battle　lay　the　vast；　dark　sprawl　of　Ezraville；　a
collage　of　blacks　and　greys　beside　the　mirror…white　expanse　of　the　estuary　mouth。
Behind　Jagdea’s　pack；　Larice　Asche　led　the　second　half　of　Umbra　in：　Cordiale；　Van　Tull　and
Marquall。　Only　two…thirds　of　the　squadron　were　airworthy。　Clovin　was　gone；　Espere　out；　probably
forever；　and　both　Blansher　and　Zemmic　were　grounded　while　their　machines　underwent　repairs。
The　power　dive　was　ferocious。　Negative　G　glued　them　to　their　seats；　and　pulled　their　faces　into
rictus　masks。　Jagdea’s　vision　was　spotty；　but　she　tried　to　stay　fixed；　tried　to　make　sense　of　the　brawl
they　were　coming　in　on。
They’d　been　called　up　to　meet　a　huge　wave　of　enemy　bombers　heading　for　the　coast。　Nearly　two
hundred　machines；　mainly　Hell　Talons　and　Tormentors；　with　fighter　cover。　Poor　weather　had
delayed　the　auspex　plot；　so　the　raiders　were　already　closing　on　Ezraville　before　the　warning　had
gone　up。　By　now；　they　were　shedding　their　payloads　on　the　city。
Other　wings　had　already　intercepted。　Thunderbolts　2665　and　44；　138　Lightning；　and　a　squadron
of　late…model　Commonwealth　Cyclones。　With　Umbra；　that　made　about　sixty　Imperial　machines
committed。　Others　were　inbound。　More　still；　the　majority；　were　engaged　against　two　other　equally
massive　raid　forces　over　the　Lida。
The　enemy　bombers；　hooked；　brightly　coloured　and　menacing；　were　ranged　out　in　long；
straggling　Vs；　like　migrating　waterfowl；　holding　pattern　while　they　let　their　payloads　go。　The
Imperials　were　milling　around　those　ranks；　trying　to　pick　them　off—whilst　fending　off　the　fierce
scatter　of　Locusts　that　were　flying　escort。
As　soon　as　their　bombs　were　gone；　the　big　Tormentors　tended　to　pull　out　and　head　for　home；　but
the　Hell　Talons；　vastly　powerful　fighter…bombers；　stayed　on　station。　Freed　from　the　weight　of　their
primary　loads；　they　began　peeling　down　to　execute　rocket　or　cannon　attacks　on　the　city；　or　even
pulled　up　to　provide　additional　top　cover　for　the　rest　of　the　raid。
The　air　was　full　of　swarming　machines；　flickering　fire　and　puffs　of　smoke。　Sections　of　the　city
below　were　ablaze。
Jagdea　felt　the　hate　fan　in　her　heart。　Her　dive　was　bringing　her　right　down　on　a　Talon。　She
tracked　the　nose；　keeping　in　her　sights；　right　at　the　centre　of　her　reticule；　and　squeezed　her　thumb。
The　Talon　detonated　in　mid…air　with　huge　force。　Jagdea　had　already　swept　down　past　it　at　mach
one；　banking　round　under　the　raid　formation　and　coming　up　on　a　Tormentor　from　below。　Her　twinlas
pumped；　and　the　machine　trembled　as　its　belly　opened　like　a　gutted　fish；　spilling　out　tatters　of
debris；　machine　parts　and　lubricants　in　fine　sprays。　Trailing　white　smoke；　it　began　to　tilt　and
founder。　It　was　dead；　but　she　stayed　on　it；　switching　to　the　quad　cannons　and　raking　it　end　to　end。
The　Tormentor　combusted　and　vaporised。　Burning　debris　showered　down　towards　the　benighted
city；　but　better　for　it　to　blow　up　in　the　air　than　come　down　on　a　hab　block　with　a　full　payload。
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Tight　on　her　heels　in　the　dive；　Ranfre　and　Waldon　both　destroyed　Tormentors　with　fine
intercepts　and　wheeled　off；　hunting。　In　less　than　thirty　seconds；　Waldon　had　lined　up　on　a　Talon　that
was　in　the　process　of　unloading　its　bombs；　and　shredded　its　cockpit　section　with　quad…fire。　As　the
crimson　machine　spiralled　away；　coming　apart；　Waldon　whooped。　He’d　just　made　his　fourth　and
fifth　confirmed　career　kills。　He　was　now　an　ace。
Del　Ruth；　rearmost　of　the　four；　overshot　her　chosen　target；　which　saw　her　coming　down　on　it　at
the　last　moment　and　rolled　a　desperate　evade。　But　she　levelled　out；　and　immediately　picked　up　a
Locust　chasing　one　of　the　Commonwealth　planes。　Tone　locked；　she　stung　it　hard；　and　as　it　began　to
judder；　stung　it　again　and　blew　it　to　fragments。
Asche’s　four　came　in　moments　later　moving；　if　anything；　at　an　even　higher　rate。　Asche　got　a
Talon　squarely　and　cleanly。　Van　Tull　took　a　shot　at　a　Tormentor；　damaged　it；　looped　around　and
finished　the　kill。
Cordiale；　his　timing　just　out；　mis…hit　a　Talon；　and　then　found　he　had　a　Talon　and　a　Locust　on
him。　He　tried　to　jink　out；　but　nearly　collided　with　a　Lightning　coming　head　on。　He　screwed　over　to
evade；　almost　stalling。　The　Lightning　banked　hard　and　its　port…wing　tip　clipped　the　Talon　behind
Cordiale。　The　Lightning　lost　stability　and　began　to　spin；　corrected；　and　then　was　blown　apart　by　two
other　Locusts。　Trailing　debris；　the　Talon　it　had　clipped　came　wide；　right　into　Asche’s　gun　cone。　She
showed　it　little　mercy。
Cordiale　swung　about　and　started　to　chase　down　a　Tormentor。　It　had　shed　its　load；　and　was
turning　for　the　home　run。　But　it　was　still　a　viable　target。　If　it　died　here；　it　couldn’t　come　back　with
another　clutch　of　bombs。
Marquall；　the　last　in；　was　sure　he　had　a　kill。　He　fired　two　bursts；　but　the　Hell　Talon　was　still
intact　as　he　rocketed　down　past　it。
He　tucked　in　and　began　to　climb　again；　bleeding　off　some　power　so　his　controls　weren’t　quite　so
stiff　with　speed。　In　a　flash；　he　realised　he’d　gone　up　between　two　Tormentors；　both　spilling　out
bombs　like　egg　cases。　He　cursed　his　own　luck。　His　haste　to　correct　had　made　him　miss　a　chance　on
two　easy　targets。
Marquall　was　almost　insensible　with　rage。　He　was　seething　with　desire　to　make　a　kill；　to　open
his　account。　Bad　enough　he　was　the　youngest；　the　most　inexperienced；　bad　enough　that　Pers　Espere
had　been　maimed　wet…nursing　him。　Marquall　had　no　score。　No　kills　to　his　name。　Now　his
confidence　had　returned　after　that　disastrous　virgin　sortie；　he　was　determined　to　prove　his　worth　in
combat。
Hell；　the　sky　was　crawling　with　enemy　machines！　Surely　he　could　hit　one　of　them？
“Umbra　Eight！　Umbra　Eight！　Break　left　now！”
That　was　Van　Tull’s　voice。　Marquall　didn’t　question　it。　He　stomped　the　rudder　bar　and　leaned　on
the　stick；　inverting　as　he　pulled　out　to　port。　A　flame　yellow　Hell　Talon　rushed　over　and　by　him。
“Thanks；　Three；”　he　voxed；　coming　true　and　climbing　again。
“You　okay；　Eight？”　Van　Tull　voxed。
“Four…A；”　replied　Marquall。　They　were　still　babysitting　him。　That　rankled。　Then　again；　but　for
Van　Tull’s　warning；　he’d　like　as　not　be　dead　now。
He　turned　in。　Almost　immediately；　he　picked　up　a　Cyclone；　running　for　its　life　from　a　Talon。
The　Commonwealth　prop…plane　was　weeping　smoke。　Marquall　wondered　why　Operations　kept　the
Cyclones　and　Wolfcubs　in　the　air。　It　was　suicide；　flying　machines　like　that　against　the　enemy’s
vector…thrust　predators。
He　cranked　the　throttle；　banked　wide；　clipped　off　a　wasted　but　satisfying　burst　at　a　Tormentor　as
he　went　long　over　its　back；　and　lined　up　on　the　Talon。
This　time…
The　port　engine　was　dead；　and　so　was　Artone。　Frans　Scalter　fought　with　the　Cyclone’s　leaden
stick　and　called　plaintively　to　his　co…pilot　and　long…time　friend。　Hard　rounds　had　torn　through　the
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machine’s　cockpit；　shattering　the　glass　nose　and　ripping　Artone’s　torso　in　half。　Wind　screamed　in
through　the　shattered　bubble。　There　was　blood　everywhere；　and　the　instruments　were　plastered　with
sticky　flecks　of　human　tissue。
“I’ll　get　you　home！　I’ll　get　you　home！”　Scalter　wailed；　denying　the　scene　around　him；　and
imagining　some　miraculous　future　where　he　brought　the　ruptured　Cyclone　down；　and　the　crews
rushed　in；　and　Artone　was　patched　up　and　made　alive　again。
Scalter　knew　he　had　to　keep　evading。　The　Hell　Talon　was　right　on　his　tail　now。
“Seeker　One！　Seeker　One！　Someone！　Please—”
The　Talon’s　guns　lit　up。
Like　a　feline　playing　with　a　mouse；　the　bastard　wasn’t　going　to　let　the　Cyclone　go。　It　swung
from　side　to　side　with　muscular　power；　correcting　for　every　frantic　jink　and　twist　the
Commonwealth　pilot　tried　to　make。
It　had　got　the　blood　scent。　It　wanted　the　kill。　It　was　greedy。　It　was　staying　on　the　target。
The　first　and　oldest　mistake。
Marquall　came　around　on　its　five；　calculating　the　deflection　angle　with　almost　leisurely　brio。
Then　he　opened　up　with　his　quad　cannons；　feeling　the　heavy　slap　of　them　retard　his　motion；
hearing　the　breech　blocks　bang　and　the　autoloaders　rattle　to　feed　ammo　from　the　whirring　drums。
Somehow；　Marquall　had　expected　the　enemy　machine　to　explode；　or　catch　fire；　or　do　something
equally　spectacular。
It　simply　quivered。　Part　of　one　blade…wing　deformed；　like　foil；　and　a　gulp　of　brown　smoke
belched　out　of　its　engines。
Then　it　fell　out　of　the　air。　All　lift　lost　in　one　shocking　instant；　it　dropped　away；　turning　end　over
end；　like　a　toy　that　had　been　thrown　aside　by　a　petulant　child。
It　spun　away　below　him；　smaller；　smaller。
Throne；　he’d　got　it。　He’d　killed　it　stone　dead。
“S…seeker　One；　Seeker　One；”　he　stammered；　rousing　from　a　brief　fugue。　“This　is　Umbra　Eight。
You’re　clear；　friend。　Clear。　Get　your　machine　home　and　down。”
“Umbra　Eight；　this　is　Seeker　One。　Understood。”
Not　even　a　thank　you？　Marquall　didn’t　care。　He　had　a　fire　in　his　belly；　a　coal　of　excitement　and
satisfaction。　He　was　no　longer　the　kid　who　needed　babysitting。
Something　threw　him　into　his　seat　like　a　kick　in　the　face。　The　Smear　inverted；　every　alarm
screaming。　In　terror；　mystified；　Marquall　dragged　on　the　stick；　but　it　was　slack　and　dead。　He　saw
flame　on　his　port　side；　sections　of　metal　plating　slipping　off　like　fish　scales。
Fire　licked　into　the　cockpit。
“No！”　he　yelled。　“Oh　no；　no；　no！”
He　fumbled　with　his　harness；　trying　to　reach　the　eject　handle。　Half…heard　voices　blasted　out　of
the　vox。
Huge　negative　G。　He　was　already　greying　out。　He　couldn’t　lift　his　hand；　let　alone　reach　the
lever。
In　front　of　him；　like　a　rapidly…spinning　kaleidoscope　image；　the　city　was　rushing　up。
Over　the　Interior　Desert；　09。22
They　kissed　over　the　top　of　a　dune　headland　and　there　it　was。　The　size　of　it　took　their　breath　away。
Judd　voiced　a　particularly　florid　oath。
A　mass　carrier。　It　was　almost　a　kilometre　long；　a　huge　slab　of　burnished　decking　and　raised
ramps；　bronze　in　the　desert　light。　Vast　wheel　assemblies　rolled　it　across　the　dust。　Viltry　had　been
told　the　enemy　called　these　behemoths　aeries；　as　if　they　were　home　roosts　for　the　murderous　bats。　It
was　a　feat　of　mechanical　genius；　a　juggernaut；　a　giant　amongst　machines。
Nothing　could　kill　something　that　big。　Nothing　could—
73
He　caught　himself。　They　would　have　to　try。　That　was　the　job　the　God…Emperor　had　decreed　for
them。
“No　hesitation；　Halo；”　he　cried。　“We’re　committed。　Line　up　and　shed；　then　come　around　with
wing…loads　for　the　second　pass。　The　Emperor　protects。”
He　could　see　the　Talons　they　had　been　following　sweeping　in　to　the　fluted　arrestor　runs　on　the
carrier’s　top　side。　They　looked　tiny　by　comparison；　little　gaudy　specks。
The　carrier　had　seen　the　inbound　Marauders；　coming　down　onto　it　at　zero　height。　Hundreds　of
anti　aircraft　batteries　tracked　round；　alert；　like　the　alarmed　tails　of　scorpions；　and　the　air　was　filled
with　bursting　flak　and　zipping　tracers。　A　hailstorm　of　fire。
“Stay　on　it；　stay　on　it…”　Viltry　ordered。
A　siren　screeched。　Amongst　the　blizzard　of　flak　bursts；　Viltry　glimpsed　the　trail　smoke　of
missiles　banging　off　from　the　carrier。
Wordlessly；　he　hit　the　chaff　switch；　and　clouds　of　glittering；　distorting　material　puffed　out　of
Greta’s　launchers。　Then　heat…flares　too。　Near…miss　explosions　shook　the　airframe。　The　space
between　the　onrushing　planes　and　the　vast　carrier　was　muddy　with　flash　flowers　and　blooms　of
black　and　white　smoke。
A　rocket　struck　Miss　Adventure　and　killed　her　dead。　The　torn　wreckage　and　hull　sections；
moving　at　close　to　mach　one；　cartwheeled　over　the　desert　floor；　raking　the　sand；　spitting　flame　like　a
firework。
“Nose　and　top。　Anytime　you　like；”　Viltry　said。
The　turrets　opened　up；　playing　fire　along　the　carrier’s　starboard　hull。　Viltry；　concentrating　as
hard　as　he　could；　saw　bats　trying　to　launch　from　the　lower　chutes。　Naxol　had　seen　them　too。　A
Locust　ca