Double Eagle(科幻战争)-第20部分

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Asche　pulled　away。　Then　two　of　the　Raptors。　A　Lightning。　Another　Raptor　launched；　and　was
blown　apart。　Zemmic　got　away。　Ranfre。　Then　Jagdea；　her　Bolt　struck　twice　by　heavy　passing　fire。
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Marquall　ran　to　Nine…Nine。　The　sky　was　on　fire。　He　found　Racklae　and　the　chief　fitter’s　number
two　waiting　for　him。
“Go！　Leave　now！”　Marquall　yelled。
“Not　before　we　see　you　safe；　sir！”　said　Racklae。
“Your　transport　is　about　to　leave；　mister！”　Marquall　shouted。
Las…rounds　ripped　out　of　the　trees。　Racklae’s　number　two　dropped；　his　head　fused　into　a
misshapen　blob。
“Racklae；　go！　Now；　for　Throne’s　sake！”
Marquall　fired　his　pistol　into　the　tree…line。
“Cables　are　disconnected；　sir。　You’re　clean！”　Racklae　bellowed。
“Go；　Racklae！　Go！　Go！”　yelled　Marquall。
“Give　that　to　me；　for　Throne’s　sake；”　Kautas　shouted；　appearing　from　nowhere　and　snatching
the　pistol　out　of　Marquall’s　hand。
“Run　now；　Mister　Racklae；”　Kautas　said。　Racklae　turned　and　began　to　sprint　for　the　shore。　The
air　was　full　of　hard　rounds　and　las…streaks。
Kautas　started　to　fire　the　pistol。　“And　you；　Vander　Marquall；”　he　said。
“Father…”
“Close　your　bloody　lid；　boy。”
Marquall　slammed　his　canopy　home。　He　lit　the　engines；　and　kicked　over　the　vector　thrusters；
ripping　up　through　the　remains　of　the　shimmer　tents　into　the　smoke…filled　air。
He　managed　one　last；　frantic　look　down。
Far　below；　amongst　me　trees　and　flames；　Marquall　saw　a　figure　with　its　arms　spread　wide；　as　if
in　benediction。　Ayatani　Kautas；　his　robes　tugged　by　Nine…Nine’s　down…draft；　turned　and　ran　towards
the　red…armoured　soldiers　pouring　in　along　the　pathways。
The　last　time　Marquall　saw　him；　Kautas　was　a　distant　shape；　sinking　to　his　knees。　Bright　lasshots
flickered　in　all　directions。　Kautas　held　Marquall’s　pistol　out　before　him；　firing　over　and　over
again。
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FATE’S　WHEEL
THEDA
Imperial　year　773。M41；　day　264　…　day　266
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DAY　264
Theda　MAB　South；　08。30
Even　to　someone　unfamiliar　with　the　arcane　sigils　of　Navy　plotting　symbols；　it　would　have　been
obvious　that　a　huge　fight　was　going　on　over　the　Littoral。　Nine　of　the　flight　controllers　were　now
involved；　Eads　included。　Darrow　stood　by　and　watched　with　mounting　concern。
It　had　become　ceaseless；　day　and　night。　They　came　in　on　shift；　and　took　the　reins　of　some
ongoing　brawl　from　a　controller　almost　dead　on　his　feet　from　fatigue。　Weary　and　strung　out；　they
handed　fights　off　to　replacements　at　shift　rotation。　The　enemy　attacks—mass　bombing　operations；
lightning　raids；　opportunistic　intercepts—were　happening　all　the　time。
Currently；　the　rotunda　had　four　points　of　focus。　Two　controllers　on　the　far　side　of　the　chamber
were　negotiating　interceptions　on　a　wave　of　bombers　over　Ezraville。　Another　had　a　fighter…onfighter
clash　in　progress　above　the　Lida　Valley。　A　fourth　had　control　of　a　Marauder　formation
heading　south。　The　nine　on　Darrow’s　half　of　the　room　were　handling　the　big　battle：　close　on　four
hundred　and　fifty　enemy　bombers；　a　hundred　escorts　and　fourteen　Imperial　wings。
The　chatter　and　roll　of　voices　was　incessant。　Reports；　plot　statements；　corrections；　vox
transmissions　and　updates　volleyed　back　and　forth。　At　their　screens；　the　placement　officers　were
inscribing　hideously　complex　tactical　maps；　constantly　adding；　deleting；　rewriting；　reassigning。
The　controllers　were　locked　in　worlds　of　their　own；　fixed　on　their　own　tracks　while　trying　to
accommodate　the　overall　situation。　Most　were　head…down　over　their　cogitators；　but　Eads　sat　like　an
orchestra　conductor；　sightless　gaze　fixed　directly　ahead　as　his　hands　danced　over　the　display。
Darrow　knew　the　commander　was　dog…tired。　His　face　was　pale；　and　he　hadn’t　been　eating　or
sleeping　properly。
“Forty…Four；　call　off。　Nine…One；　rise　to　ten；　bearing　five…eight…five。　Rimfire；　make　your　track
eleven…two。　Say　again；　Quarry　Leader。　You’re　breaking　up。　Switch　to　channel　four。　Understood；
contacts　west　of　you　at　nine　kilometres。　Brass　Flight；　correct　and　descend　to　two　thousand。　Bat
group　under　you；　turning　east；　three　kilometres。　Sixteen　contacts；　you　should　have　visual。
Confirmed；　Lancer；　I　show　you　as　attacking。”
The　klaxons　started　to　ring；　and　the　deck　officer　cancelled　them　at　once。　Raid　warnings　had　been
going　off　regularly；　but　no　one　in　Operations　ever　quit　for　the　bunkers。　There　was　too　much　at　stake。
Twice；　Darrow　had　felt　the　great　chamber　shudder　as　bombs　quaked　the　Thedan　ground。
His　days　with　Eads　had　taught　Darrow　a　lot。　Once　he’d　picked　up　the　basics；　he’d　been　able　to
do　more　than　merely　stand　by　and　run　simple　tasks。　They’d　evolved　a　good　working　pattern。　Eads
now　expected　Darrow　to　monitor　peripheral　tracks；　and　pass　them　over　if　they　impinged　on　primary
activity。
The　displays　on　Darrow’s　substation　were　alive　now。　But　he　wouldn’t　just　cut　in　and　interrupt
his　chief。　Darrow　had　developed　a　habit　of　touching　Eads　on　the　left　shoulder　to　let　him　know　he
wanted　his　attention。
“Speak；”　Eads　said。
“Counter　track；　Flight。　South…east；　two　hundred　kilometres；　closing。　Formation　of　forty。　Modar
reads　heat…wash　patterns　as　Locusts。”
“Heading？”
“Four…one…six。”
Eads’s　hands　drifted。　“That’ll　fall　into　catchment　twelve。　Run　it　to　Scalter。”
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“Yes；　Flight。”
Darrow　noted　the　details　down　carefully　on　a　data…slate；　took　off　his　headset；　and　hurried　along
the　busy　companionway　behind　the　controller　stations　to　the　third　one　down　from　Eads。
Major　Frans　Scalter　had　been　section　leader　of　Seeker　Flight　up　to　the　moment　it　had　been
decimated　in　a　dogfight　over　Ezraville　on　the　morning　of　the　257th。　Scalter　had　lost　his　co…pilot　and
his　bird　had　been　crippled　beyond　hope　of　repair。　It　was　a　miracle　Scalter　had　got　home　at　all。　His
hands　and　face　were　still　scabbed　with　healing　cuts。
He　was　an　experienced　aviator　and；　in　Eads’s　opinion；　a　level…headed　pilot　officer。　With　no
available　machine　or　unit　to　transfer　to；　Scalter　had　been　drafted　to　Operations；　to　help　out　with　the
increasing　pressure。　Shifts　were　back　to　back；　round　the　clock。　Operations　needed　all　the　clearthinking
and　experienced　flight　personnel　it　could　rope　in　to　work　the　stations。
Scalter　was　good　at　Operations　work。　His　fine　service　record　stood　him　in　good　stead。　Like　all　of
the　Commonwealth　fliers　who　had　been　switched　to　Operations　duty—Darrow　included—Scalter
thought　of　it　as　a　demotion。　But　it　was　vital　work；　and　he　took　it　seriously。
“Make　your　height　five　thousand；　Ransack；”　Scalter　was　saying　tersely　as　Darrow　came　up　to
his　station。　“Turn　eighteen　north。　I　repeat；　north。　If　you　pull　west；　you’ll　be　over　them　and　dead。　Do
as　you’re　told。”
“Flight？”
Scalter　held　up　a　hand　without　looking　round。　“I　don’t　care　what　you　can　see；　Ransack。　I　can　see
more。　Five　thousand；　eighteen　north。　There’s　a　block　of　bats　under　you；　out　of　your　visual；　that　will
mince　you　if　you　commit　west。　Copy？　Thank　you。　Lamplight；　as　you　were。　Clear　for　eight
kilometres。　Be　advised；　hostiles　west　sixteen。”
Scalter　looked　round　at　Darrow。　“Junior？”
Darrow　held　out　the　slate。　“Coming　into　your　catchment。　Eads　wants　you　advised。”
“Express　my　thanks；”　Scalter　said。　Darrow　noticed　the　man’s　hands　were　shaking　as　he　took　the
slate。　He　thought　of　Heckel。　Should　he　say　something？
“Anything　else；　junior？”　Scalter　asked。　Like　all　of　them；　Scalter　looked　monstrously　tired。
Darrow　knew　why。　It　wasn’t　just　the　stress。　All　the　Commonwealth　pilots　pulled　from　active　duty
had　been　spending　time　in　the　simulators　when　they　should　have　been　sleeping；　keeping　their　skills
honed。　Darrow　had　certainly　been　doing　that；　and　he’d　seen　Scalter　several　times　in　one　of　the　rigs。
The　Navy　had　brought　in　new　training　programs；　simulation　routines　for　Thunderbolts　and
Marauders。　They’d　all　been　eager　to　try　them。　To　experience　what　they　were　missing。
“Nothing；　Flight。”
“Hang　on；　Darrow；”　Scalter　said。　“While　you’re　here。”　He　turned　back　to　his　station；　snapped　off
a　few　commands　over　the　air；　then　scribed　some　details　on　a　slate。　“Eads　will　need　this。　I　was　going
to　get　my　junior　to　run　it　over；　but　I’m　damned　if　I　know　where　he　is。”
Darrow　took　the　slate。　“Thanks；　sir。”
That　tremble　in　the　hand。　The　first　symptoms　of　a　self…destructive　fall？　Or　just　fatigue？　“Off　you
go；”　said　Scalter。
Darrow　turned。　As　he　moved　away；　he　heard　Scalter　bark；　“Ransack；　that　is　not；　repeat　not；
eighteen　north！　Correct；　you　blasted　dunce！”
Darrow　dodged　back　through　the　tide　of　hurrying　deck　juniors；　aides　and　Navy　staffers。　He
reached　Eads。
“Come　about　point　three…five；　Orbis。　Rise　and　climb；　for　Throne’s　sake。”　A　pause。　Darrow
waited。　“Orbis　Flight；　Orbis　Flight；”　Eads　said。　“Your　plot　is　merging　with　Ganymede　Seven…Seven。
Correct　and　come　about。　Yes；　I　have　bats　confirmed；　extending　at　eight　thousand。　Take　your　fix　on
my　beacon　mark　and　turn　out；　climbing；　point　three…five。　Be　advised；　hostiles　at　eight；　breaking。”
Darrow　placed　his　hand　on　Eads’s　arm。
“Harp　Flight；　proceed　north　by　ten。　Hostiles　now　at　two　and　closing。　Yes；　Darrow？”
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“Plot　from　Scalter；　sir。”
“Out　loud；　junior。”
“Inbound；　broken　formation；　six　thousand　variable；　heading　north…east　four…two。　Units　from
Gocel　FSB。　They’re　thirty　minutes　out；　requesting　touchdown　instructions。”
“How　many？”
“Estimates　at　twenty　fighters；　mixed；　plus　extraction　transports；　heavy。”
“You’ll　have　to　deal　with　it；　Darrow。　I’ve　got　a　major　scenario　here。　Send　the　transports　to　us；
priority。　Discover　the　operational　status　of　the　fighters。　If　any　can　still　manage　combat；　we　could　use
them。　Get　fuel　and　ammo　from　them。”
“Yes；　Flight。”
Darrow　put　on　his　headphones　and　adjusted　his　dial。　Eads　was　already　back　on　the　line　to　his
formations。　Darrow　tried　to　settle　his　nerves。
“Gocel　inbound；　Gocel　inbound；　this　is　Theda　Operations。　Do　you　copy？”
A　crackle。　“Operations；　this　is　Umbra　Lead；　we　have　you　clear。”
“Report　your　situation；　Umbra　Leader。”
“We’ve　quit　in　a　hurry；　Operations。　Enemy　overrun。　Umbra　is　nine；　repeat　nine　machines。　409
Raptors　are　now　eight；　repeat　eight。　Spyglass　786；　three；　repeat　three　machines。　We　have　five
transports；　heavy。　Flying　protective　cover　on　those。　Be　advised；　hostiles　behind　us；　possible
pursuit。”
“Time　on　Theda；　Umbra　Leader？”
“Twenty…six　minutes。”
“Transports　are　cleared　for　MAB　south；　priority。　Any　of　you　combat　ready？”
“Umbra　and　Raptors　show　willingness；　Operations。　We　came　up　fuelled　and　loaded。　Spyglass
were　half…tanked；　so　I’d　advise　no　to　them。”
“We　could　use　you；　Umbra　Lead。　Skirmish　bearing　nine…two　west。”
“Copy　that。”
Darrow　took　a　deep　breath。　He　was　making　control　decisions　now。
“Gocel　inbound；　let　the　Lightnings　cover　the　transports　home。　All　other　elements　break　and　rise；
nine…two　west。”
“Received　and　executing。”
Over　the　Littoral；　08。34
Four…tenths　cloud　and　southerly　cross…wind。　A　pale　blanket　of　sky　sneaked　with　grey。
Jagdea　led　the　turn　west；　watching　as　the　massive　transport　ships　sailed　away　north　with　their
Lightning　escort；　lost　into　the　cloud。
“Raptor　Flight；　this　is　Umbra　Lead。　Blaguer　is　gone；　Throne　rest　him。　Operations　has　just　called
the　play；　as　I’m　sure　you　heard。　I’m　leading　now；　so　nuzzle　up　and　make　nice。　We　can　argue　on　the
ground　later。　Any　objections？”
“Umbra　Leader；　this　is　Raptor　Two。　Lead　us　well；　and　we’ll　follow　you　to　hell　and　back。”
Jagdea　smiled。　She’d　met　Blaguer’s　deputy　a　number　of　times　during　their　brief　stay　at　Lake
Gocel。　His　name　was　Rapmund；　a　decent　sort；　broad…faced；　quietly　professional。　His　confident
response　pleased　her。
“Four　diamonds；　I’ll　fly　sprint；”　she　ordered。　“Nice　and　slow；　no　clipping。　We’ve　got　enemies
enough　out　here　without　killing　each　other。”
With　a　burst　of　throttle；　she　ran　forward　then　watched　her　rear　pict…screens　as　the　other　machines
settled　into　formation。　Four　diamond　shapes；　each　containing　four　Bolts。　They　settled　in　with
extraordinary　simplicity；　Raptors　and　Umbra　mixed。　Cooperation　at　last。　No　grandstanding；　no
pecking　order。　Just　air　warriors；　uniting　without　argument　for　a　common　good。
“Lead　to　wing；　compliments　to　all。　This　is　how　the　Imperium　conquers　its　foes。”
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Jagdea’s　Thunderbolt　was　flying　ahead　of　the　four　diamonds；　directly　in　front　of　the　second
formation；　creating　an　asymmetrical　structure。　Diamond　Two　was　at　her　tail；　Diamond　One　at　her
four　o’clock；　Diamond　Three　at　her　seven；　and　Diamond　Four　seven　o’clock　of　Diamond　Three。　She
was　flying　what　the　Navy　called　sprint；　and　what　the　Phantine　knew　as　pointer；　the　sharp　end　of　a
medium；　ranged　fighter　shoal。　She　got　the　Raptor　pilots　to　vox　in　their　numbers　and　positions；
marking　the　details　on　the　data…slate　fixed　to　her　thigh。　Then　she　flicked　channel。
“Operations；　this　is　Umbra　Leader。　Umbra　and　Raptor　elements　now　under　me　as　one　flight。　Do
you　have　us？”
“On　the　modar；　Umbra。　Good　and　clear。　Adjust　heading　three　points　and　climb　to　eight
thousand。　Skirmish　is　four　kilometres　and　closing。”
“Copy　that。”
They　flew　on　through　a　cloud　bank；　billowing　like　fog；　and　then　came　clear。　The　skirmish　was
ahead　of　them。
Skirmish。　What　an　inadequate　word。　The　voice　of　Operations　sounded　like　a　boy；　a　child。
This　was　war。
Hundreds　of　machines　whirled　and　danced　in　the　sky　across　ninety　cubic　kilometres　of　space。
There　were　planes　everywhere…　some　loners；　some　in　formations；　some　in　tight；　complex　patterns
of　combat。　Most　of　them　were　hostiles；　as　far　as　Jagdea　could　see。　A　lot　of　bombers；　a　large　number
of　gaudy　Interceptors　and　fighters。　Imperial　birds　flashed　and　mobbed　amongst　them；　struggling。
The　air　was　full　of　shot　and　smoke。　She　could　see　at　least　six　machines　burning　towards　the　ground。
The　ground。　Down　through　the　clouds；　she　could　see　the　broad　expanse　of　the　Littoral　and　the
outskirts　of　Theda　City。　Hundreds　of　fire　points　lit　it　up。　That　was　the　bombers’　target。
“Umbra　has　visual；”　she　voxed。
“Okay；　Umbra。”　Operations　suddenly　had　a　different；　older　voice　now。　“High　to　your　eleven；
hostiles　wide。　Can　you　engage？”
Jagdea　peered　up　into　the　sky；　and　checked　her　glance　against　the　auspex　track。
“I　see　them；　Operations。”　A　flight　of　Razors；　twenty…plus；　storming　in　towards　the　mobbing
Navy　machines　a　thousand　metres　below。
“This　is　Umbra；　we　will　commit。”
“The　Emperor　protects；”　said　the　older　voice　from　Operations。
“Track　up　and　round；”　Jagdea　ordered。　“Full　burn。　Hit　those　bastards！”
Umbra’s　enlarged　formation　peeled　upwards　and　accelerated；　coming　in　head…on　to　the　Razor
flight。　Some　were　already　firing。
The　Razors；　surprised；　fired　back　and　started　to　break。
“And　here　we　go…”　Jagdea　said　to　herself。
Light…flash　bursts。　Streamers　of　hard　rounds。　Puffs　of　smoke。　Two　of　the　Razors　sawed　out　of
line；　issuing　trails；　dropping。　A　third　exploded　in　a　haze　of　flame。　One　of　the　Raptors；　four；　lost　its
port　wing　and　spilled　over　like　a　falling　weight。
Cordiale　was　hit。
A　large　piece　of　his　fin　blew　off；　and　then　sections　of　flank　plating。　Shots　had　punched　through
his　wing。
His　Bolt　started　to　plunge　away；　but　to　Jagdea’s　relief；　he　leveled；　holding　the　machine　steady
with　what　little　trim　he　had　left。
Jagdea　arced　round　behind　a　hard…running　Razor　and　started　to　dive。
“Umbra　Eleven；”　she　yelled。　“Are　you　stable？”
“Just　a　flesh　wound；　mamzel；”　Cordiale　replied；　as　if　merely　passing　the　time　of　day。　The
damage　to　his　bird　was　nothing　like　a　flesh　wound。
“Pull　round　and　descend；”　Jagdea　ordered。　“Theda　Operations；　Theda　Operations；　we　have　a
crippled　bird　inbound。”
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“Copy　that；　Lead。　Strips　are　open。”
Jagdea　glanced　to　port。　Two　Razors　had　dropped　low　on　vectors　to　chase　Cordiale。
“Cordiale！　Break！”
“Break？　I　can　barely　stay　level！”　Cordiale　replied。
Jagdea　gunned　the　throttle。　“Blansher？　Take　over。　I’m　following　Eleven　in。　Umbra　Flight；　Two
has　command　as　of　now。”
“Read　that；　Jagdea；”　Blansher　voxed。
Jagdea　brought　Zero…Two　down　in　a　rapid　pass。　Cordiale’s　Bolt　was　now　spewing　smoke。
She　got　a　tone　lock　on　one　of　the　Razors　and　just　grazed　it　with　her　cannon…fire。　It　broke　away。
The　other　bent　in；　intent　on　Cordiale’s　stricken　craft。
Jagdea　banked　hard　and　adjusted。　The　Razor　was　slipping　through　her　gunsight。
She　lined　up；　with　about　forty　degrees　of　deflection　and　hammered　it。　The　Razor　belched　black
smoke；　rose　nose…up　as　if　to　flee；　and　then　exploded　in　a　flurry　of　burning　chunks。
Something　as　hard　as　a　wrecking　ball　smashed　into　the　left　side　of　Jagdea’s　cockpit。　Part　of　the
canopy　shattered；　her　instruments　blew　out；　and　buckled　armour　plating　tore　in；　slashing　across　her
left　arm。
She　screamed　in　pain。　The　Razor　went　past　her；　turning　for　a　second　strike。
Shaking；　she　tried　to　level。
“Theda　Operations；”　she　gasped。　“Two；　repeat　two　cripples　coming　in。”　The　field　lay　before　her。
She　saw　the　spread　of　the　city；　the　firestorms；　the　battered　air…base。
Wind　sucked　and　whistled　through　the　split　cabin。　Smoke　gushed　from　under　the　instrument
display。　Jagdea　could　see　nothing　through　the　left　hand　side　ports　of　the　canopy　because　they　were
painted　with　blood…　her　blood。　She　glanced　down。　She　could　see　torn　flight　armour；　blood；　flesh。　A
glimpse　of　white　bone。
Her　port　engine　flamed　out。
She　dropped　harder；　woozing　in　and　out　of　shock。
She　heard　an　odd　sound；　and　finally　realised　it　was　the　target　lock　warning。　She’d　been　locked
up。
The　Razor　dropped　towards　her；　its　guns　opening　up；　then　it　detonated　like　a　triggered　mine；
fluttering　scrap　out　in　a　broad　circle。
“Get　down　safe；　Bree；”　Blansher　called　as　he　ripped　over。　“In　the　name　of　the　God…Emperor；　get
down　safe。”
The　cratered　strip…way　came　up。　Jagdea　fought　with　her　thrusters；　trying　to　correct。　At　the　last
moment；　she　distantly　remembered　her　cart；　and　dropped　it。　Cordiale　was　already　down；　the　crews
around　his　smoking　bird。
Jagdea　passed　out。　Then　she　snapped　awake；　smacked　by　the　juddering　impact；　and　heaved　on
the　stick。
Zero…Two　slid　twenty　metres　on　its　claws　and　came　to　rest。
Cordiale　was　first　to　reach　her。　He　punched　off　the　hood　using　the　emergency　release；　and
reached　in　to　kill　the　screaming　jets　before　the　Bolt　lifted　off　again。
Jagdea　looked　up　at　him。　Her　helmet　visor　was　speckled　with　drops　of　blood。　She　wiped　it；　but
that　simply　smeared　it。
Using　her　right　hand；　she　pulled　off　the　helmet　and　threw　it　out。　“You’re　going　to　be　okay；”
Cordiale　said。　It　was　the　last　thing　she　heard。
The　Peninsula；　11。21
The　roads　were　blocked；　as　far　as　the　eye　could　see。　LeGuin　stood　on　the　top　of　the　Line’s　turret　and
stared。　It　was　a　dismal　sight。　Thousands　of　vehicles；　most　of　them　military；　nose　to　tail　through　the
town；　and　out　beyond　it　onto　the　northbound　highways。
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Many　of　the　machines　had　turned　off　their　engines　to　conserve　fuel；　but　the　air　was　still　rich　with
exhaust　fumes。　Men　milled　about；　and　LeGuin　heard　more　than　one　angry　outburst。
“See　anything？”　Viltry　asked。　He　was　sitting　on　the　edge　of　one　of　the　top　hatches。
“Nothing　that’s　moving。”
The　town　was　called　Nivelle；　a　market　burg　on　the　broad　flood　plains　of　the　Lida　some　sixty
kilometres　south　of　Ezraville。　Like　so　many　of　the　places　they　had　travelled　through；　it　had　suffered
bombing　damage；　and　seemed　empty　of　civilians。
Once　the　column　had　passed　down　onto　the　decent　hard　roads　along　the　Lida；　the　going　had　been
good；　despite　cratering　and　the