Double Eagle(科幻战争)-第24部分

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painted　green。　The　nearest　had　a　large；　shuttered　door　in　the　side　of　it。　It　was　barred　and　locked。
“Get　out；　commander；”　he　said。
She　looked　at　him。
“I　mean　it。　Get　out。”
Jagdea　climbed　down　from　the　cab　and　slammed　the　door。
Kaminsky　reversed　and　then　drove　the　truck　at　the　shutter。　Jagdea　winced　at　the　impact。　Trailing
a　fender；　the　truck　reversed　and　drove　in　again。
“Throne’s　sake；　Kaminsky！”　Jagdea　cried　out。
A　third　battering　run；　and　the　shutter　tore　away　at　the　sills；　partially　crunched　out　of　its　flakboard
frame。　Kaminsky　got　down　out　of　his　mashed　truck。
“Come　on；”　he　said。
Jagdea　hurried　over　to　him；　and　they　bent　in　low　to　pass　under　the　crumpled　metal　sheets　of　the
door　shutter。
She　found　herself　in　a　damp；　echoing　chamber。　It　smelled　of　rotting　plyboard　and　salt　water。
“What　the　hell　is　this？”　she　asked。
“Shut　up　and　follow　me；”　he　said。
They　edged　through　the　gloom；　Kaminsky　leading。　Jagdea　saw　fitter　trolleys；　compact　bowsers；
shelf…racks　of　tools。　There　was　a　scent　of　promethium　jelly　in　the　air。
Kaminsky　opened　another　hatch　and　daylight　spilled　through。　“This　way；”　he　said。
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She　followed　him　through　the　hatch　and　out　onto　a　metal　catwalk。　They　had　entered　a　deep；
flakboard…built　hangar。　The　mouth　of　the　bay；　facing　the　sea；　was　open　to　the　air；　the　floor　cut　away
right　down　to　the　lip　of　the　cliffs。　Pale　light　flooded　in　through　the　opening。　Jagdea　could　hear　the
breakers　far　away　and　below。
Directly　beneath　them；　in　the　shadows；　two　Commonwealth　Cyclones　sat　on　steam　catapult
launch　racks。
“Coastal　defence；”　said　Kaminsky；　clattering　down　the　metal　staircase　ahead　of　her。　“They
haven’t　been　used　in　months；　but　I　hoped　they　were　still　here。”
“My　lord；”　gasped　Jagdea；　following　him　down。
Kaminsky　ran　to　the　nearest　machine；　opened　the　cockpit　door；　and　leaned　in。
“It’s　got　electrics；　but　we’ll　need　fuel。　And　a　primer　can。”
Jagdea　came　up　behind　him。　“And　then　what？　Fly　one　out　of　here？”
He　looked　at　her。　“Exactly。”
“We　can’t…”　Jagdea　began。
“Of　course　we　can。　You’ll　quickly　get　the　hang　of　it。　Simple；　basic；　that’s　all　a　Cyclone　is。”
Kaminsky　ran　back　along　the　machine’s　length；　and　opened　the　tank　cocks。　He　hefted　a　fuelling　line
from　nearby　bowser　and　connected　it；　fumbling　slightly　because　of　his　prosthetic　hand。
“I　can’t　fly　that；”　Jagdea　said。
Kaminsky　started　the　bowser’s　pump　motor。　The　fuel　line　wriggled　and　flexed　as　pressurised
liquid　surged　through　it。
“I　know　you’re　not　used　to　props；　but　she’s　real　easy　to　handle；　I　promise；”　he　said；　and　hurried
to　the　catapult　stations　at　the　back　of　the　bay。　Kaminsky　threw　some　switches；　and　got　a　generator
firing。　Then　he　pulled　down　a　handle　that　started　the　catapult’s　steam　engines；　pumping　up　me
piston　track　mechanism。
“No；　Kaminsky；”　Jagdea　said。　She　held　up　her　slung　arm。　“Even　a　machine　like　this　needs　both
hands。　Throttle　and　stick。　Remember　that；　airman？　With　the　best　will　in　the　cosmos；　I　can’t　do　it。”
Kaminsky　came　to　halt。　“I　suppose　you　can’t；”　he　admitted。　He　seemed　deflated。
“But　you　could；”　she　said。
“Me？　I’m　not　rated　airworthy。”
“Right　now；　this　deep　in　the　shit；　I　hardly　think　that’s　the　point　any　more。　Let’s　be　pragmatic；
shall　we？　I’m　a　wing　leader。　I’ll　clear　you　as　airworthy。　I　have　the　authority。”
“I’ll　need　your　help；”　he　said；　uncertainly。
“Anything；”　she　promised。
“Keep　an　eye　on　the　fuel　dial。”
Jagdea　peered　into　the　cockpit。　The　gauge　was　barely　registering。　“Slow；”　she　called。　“How
long？”
“Maybe　fifteen　minutes　to　full　tolerance。　The　pumps　aren’t　famously　efficient。”
Jagdea　did　what　all　pilots　have　done　since　the　beginning　of　aviation。　She　leaned　over　and　flicked
the　glass　dial　with　the　fingers　of　her　good　hand。　As　with　all　pilots　since　the　beginning　of　aviation；　it
made　no　difference。
The　steam　pressure　was　rising。　Between　them；　Jagdea　and　Kaminsky　unhooked　the　support
hawsers　and　suspension　straps　holding　the　Cyclone　in　place。
“Can　you　do　a　cockpit　check？”　Kaminsky　asked。
“You’re　more　familiar　with　the　layout。”
“Yeah；　but　there’s　something　I　need　to　do。”
“What？”
“The　record　files。　I　think　I　should　burn　them。　Not　just　leave　them　here。”
“I’ll　do　it；”　Jagdea　said。　“You　finish　the　prep。”
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“You　sure？”
“Yes。　How　long　have　we　got？”
Kaminsky　checked　his　chronometer；　and　then　looked　at　the　fuel　gauge。　“Ten　minutes。”
“I’ll　be　five；”　she　promised；　and　hurried　towards　the　stairs。
Kaminsky　checked　the　catapult　controls。　They’d　reached　full　pressure。　He　locked　them　off　and
tripped　the　lever　that　switched　release　control　to　the　plane　itself。　Then　he　went　to　the　bowser。　Its
pump　seemed　to　be　ailing。
“Come　on！”　he　hissed。　There　wasn’t　time　to　find　another　and　switch　over。
He　clambered　into　the　tiny　cockpit。
He’d　done　a　few　hundred　hours　on　Cyclones。　It　was　oddly　familiar。　He　tested　the　electrics；　the
glycol　levels；　the　radiator　levers。　Then　he　checked　the　trim；　leaning　out　of　the　cockpit　to　look
backwards　as　he　pitched　and　turned　the　stick　and　the　rudder　bar；　watching　the　ailerons　and　the　fin
respond　obediently。
“Come　on；　Jagdea；”　he　hissed。　He　looked　at　the　fuel　gauge。　It　was　still　so　very　low。　“And　come
on　pump；”　he　added。
In　the　upper　part　of　the　shed；　Jagdea　fumbled　around　and　filled　a　can　
from　one　of　the　tank　trolleys。　It　was　hard　to　do；　one…handed。　The　only　light　came　in　under　the
buckled　shutter。　Hefting　the　heavy　can　in　her　right　hand；　she　ducked　out　into　the　open　air。
A　few　papers　from　the　truck’s　load　were　fluttering　free　in　the　breeze。　Jagdea　set　the　sloshing　can
up　on　the　tail　gate　and　then　hauled　herself　up　after　it。
She　started　to　spill　fuel　onto　the　record　boxes。　It　was　a　huge　effort。　She　felt　stupid　and　weak；
having　to　set　the　can　down　so　often　to　catch　her　breath。
She　heard　an　odd；　clattering　noise。
She　resumed　the　work　dousing　the　entire　pile。　Then　she　jumped　down；　biting　back　the　urge　to
cry　out　as　her　left　arm　jarred；　and　poured　the　last　of　the　can　into　the　truck’s　cab。
That　sound　again。　Not　a　clattering　so　much　as　hammering。　Like　steel　pistons。
She　checked　her　chronometer。　She’d　already　been　five　minutes。
Then　there　was　the　matter　of　ignition。
Jagdea　cursed　herself　for　not　thinking　it　through。
She　hurried　back　into　the　shed；　and　started　to　search　in　the　gloom。　Tool　boxes　crashed　over。
Drawers　upturned。　Something。　Anything。
Nothing。
Panting；　she　stepped　back。　On　the　flakboard　wall；　a　distress　gun　hung　on　a　hook　in　a　glassfronted
box。　She　picked　up　a　ten　mil　wrench　and　smashed　the　box　off　the　wall。
The　distress　gun　was　smooth　and　old；　and　it　had　started　to　rust。　She　snapped　its　barrel　open　and
rummaged　for　a　shell。
That　noise；　again。　Clatter　clatter。　Louder。
She　chambered　the　flare　cartridge　and　closed　the　gun；　then　ducked　back　outside；　aimed　it　at
Kaminsky’s　truck　and—
Hesitated。
Jagdea　took　several　long　paces　backwards　and　aimed　again。　She　fired。
The　flare　barked　out；　white　hot；　struck　the　side　of　the　transport　and　ricocheted　off　up　into　the　air；
where　it　spattered　out　streamers　of　green　fire。
“Shit！”　she　cried；　and　ran　back　into　the　shed　to　find　another　shell。
The　clattering　noise　was　getting　much　louder。
She　found　another　flare　and　tucked　a　spare　into　her　belt　for　good　measure。　Loading　the　distress
gun；　she　ran　outside　again。
The　glow　of　the　first　flare　was　beginning　to　subside。　She　raised　the　gun　again。
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To　her　right；　at　the　mouth　of　the　yard；　a　stalk　tank　strode　into　view。
It　was　painted　bright　red。　Its　striding　metal　limbs　screwed　it　around　and　it　galloped　in　down　the
access　way；　hunting　for　the　source　of　the　distress　flare。
Clatter　clatter　clatter　went　its　feet。
Behind　it；　Blood　Pact　troopers　ran　in　squads；　weapons　raised。
Jagdea　fired　the　distress　gun。　The　flare　struck　the　record　boxes　and　in　an　instant；　the　entire
vehicle　was　consumed　in　broiling　fire。
The　heat…blast　knocked　her　over。
Approaching；　the　stalk　tank　started　firing。　Its　heavy　laser　batteries　recoiled　and　spat　as　they　fired
off　volleys　at　the　sheds。
Jagdea　got　up　and　ran　towards　the　broken　shutter。　Inside；　she　kept　running；　colliding　with　a
munitions　cart　and　bruising　her　thigh。　She　yelped　and　pulled　her　head　down　as　the　ferocious　shots　of
the　stalk　tank　punched　through　the　flakboard　wall　behind　her；　splintering　holes；　letting　in　daylight。
The　air　was　full　of　swirling　fibres　and　ash。
She　darted　through　the　hatch；　onto　the　catwalk　and　down　the　stairs。
“We　have　to　go！　Now！”　she　was　shouting。
“We’re　not　fully　fuelled！”　Kaminsky　yelled　back　from　the　open　cockpit。
“Tough！”　she　replied。　She　ran　to　the　bowser；　deactivated　the　pump；　and　then　struggled　to
disconnect　the　line　from　the　cock。
“Just　start　her　up！”　she　screamed。
“I’ve　not　connected　the　primer—”　Kaminsky　yelled　back。
“No　time！　Just　do　it！”
Kaminsky　threw　the　starter　switches。　The　port　engine　growled；　turned　over　and　then　burst　into
raging　life；　kicking　out　blue　smoke　from　its　exhausts。
The　starboard　engine　cycled　once　and　then　froze。
Jagdea　clambered　into　the　cockpit。
“Come　on！”　she　urged。　She　could　heard　sustained　lasfire　above　them。
“Trying！”　Kaminsky　yelled　over　the　single；　roaring　engine。
He　switched　off　the　starboard　power　plant；　fluffed　the　throttle；　and　opened　the　choke。
“We　don’t　have　much　time；”　Jagdea　said。　She　closed　her　door；　and　snapped　up。
Kaminsky　turned　the　starboard　engine　over　again。　Dry　fire。　Again。　Another　cough。　Again。
This　time　it　took。　The　prop　howled　into　life。　They　both　felt　the　airframe　shaking。
“Okay；　we’re　good；”　Jagdea　said。
In　the　pilot’s　seat；　Kaminsky　seemed　to　freeze。
“You　all　right？”　asked　Jagdea。
“It’s…　been　a　while。　Didn’t　think　I’d　ever—”
“Kaminsky；　will　you　shut　up？　We　don’t　have　time　for　the　whole　emotional　thing　now。”
“Right。　Of　course。”
Jagdea　threw　some　of　the　switches。　“Launcher　at　pressure。　Current　on。　Armed。”
“Props　at　thrust；”　he　said。
“So…　gun　it；”　she　replied　with　a　smile。
The　hangar　was　dogged　with　dense　smoke　from　the　engines。
“Jagdea？”
“What？”
“Help　me。　Help　me　fit　my　hand　on　the　stick。”
“Of　course。　Sorry。”　She　leaned　over；　closing　his　prosthetic　hand　around　the　control　stick。　His
other　hand　was　busy　regulating　the　twin　throttles。
“Now　I　need　you　to　hit　the　release；”　he　said。
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“Okay。　Ready？”
“No。　So　just　do　it；”　said　August　Kaminsky。
Jagdea　hit　the　switch。　The　steam　catapult　engaged　and　flicked　their　Cyclone　out　of　the　hangar
and　into　the　air　with　bone…jolting　force。　For　a　second；　it　began　to　drop；　but　Kaminsky　nursed　it；　and
opened　the　throttles；　lifting　the　delta　wing…up　over　the　coast　in　a　fast　ascent。
Jagdea　felt　the　steady　pun　of　the　props　and　smiled。
“How’s　that　feel；　mister？”　she　asked。
He　was　grinning。　“Like　coming　home。　You　torch　my　truck？”
“As　promised。”
They　rose；　banked　around　and　turned　east。　“Smooth；”　said　Jagdea。
“Old　habits；”　said　Kaminsky。　He　was　grinning。
They　were　rising　to　about　a　thousand　metres　when　the　Cyclone’s　antiquated　detector　systems
emitted　a　warning　beep。
“Someone’s　got　us！”　Jagdea　cried。
“Where？　I　can’t　see　him？”
“I　don’t　know！　What　does　the　auspex　say？”
“This　bird　isn’t　equipped　with　an　auspex。”
“Oh　frigging　great！”　Jagdea　began　craning　her　head　around；　turning　as　far　as　she　could　to　scan
out　of　the　Cyclone’s　bubble　nose。
“Locust！　Eleven　o’clock！”　she　yelled。
She　got　a　brief　glimpse　of　a　bright　red　bat　stooping　in；　cannons　lit；　then　Kaminsky　turned　the
Cyclone　over　in　a　suicidal　bank。
“Kaminsky！　Kaminsky！”
“Will　you　shut　up；　woman？　Will　you　ever　shut　up？”　The　sea　rushed　towards　them。　Kaminsky
suddenly　leaned　on　the　throttles　and　rolled　the　Cyclone。　“Guns；”　he　stammered。
“Uhh！”　Negative　G　was　slamming　at　her。　“What？”
“Guns；　dammit；　Jagdea！　I　can’t　press　the　gun　stud！　I　don’t　have　a　thumb！　You’ll　have　to　do　it。”
She　wrestled　over；　all　her　blood　in　her　feet；　fighting　against　the　centrifugal　force　of　the　turning
Cyclone。　She　clamped　her　fist　over　his　dead；　prosthetic　hand。
“Tell　me　when！”
“Wait！”
He　feathered　the　Cyclone　up　on　a　corkscrew　and　then　wafered　it　down　violently　as　the　Locust
slipped　under　them。
“How　the　hell　did　you　do　that？”　she　yelled。　“You　just　out…danced　a　vector…thrust　machine！”
“Shut　the　hell　up　and　shoot；”　Kaminsky　replied。　“Fire！　Just　fire！　Fire！”
He　rolled　the　Cyclone　hard　and　Jagdea　heard　the　sudden；　sweet　sound　of　target　lock。　She
clamped　her　hands　around　the　grip。　Around　his　plastek　hand。
Flame…flash　blitzed　from　the　Cyclone’s　gun　ports。　The　Locust　banked　out；　rising　hard。
Then　it　ignited　and　blew　apart。
“Holy　hell！”　Jagdea　whooped。
“Got　him；”　hissed　Kaminsky。
“Yes　you　did；”　said　Jagdea；　as　Kaminsky　banked　the　Cyclone　east。　“Yes；　you　damn　well　did。”
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OPERATE　TO　DENY
THE　MIDWINTER　ISLANDS
Imperial　year　773。M41；　day　267　…　day　269
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DAY　267
Lucerna　AB；　12。30
Marquall　was　dozing　in　his　flightsuit　when　the　hooters　started　their　strident　blaring　throughout　the
base’s　deep；　rock…cut　hallways　and　buried　decks。　He　jumped　up　out　of　his　seat；　grabbed　his　helmet；
and　ran　out　of　the　dispersal　room；　down　the　narrow　companionway　onto　the　floor　of　the　hangar　bay。
Zemmic　and　Ranfre　were　close　behind　him；　and　Van　Tull　followed　them；　though　more　slowly。　Van
Tull’s　airline　had　taken　a　hit　during　the　exit　from　Theda；　causing　an　intermix　fault　that　had　allowed
carbon　dioxide　to　leak；　undetected；　into　his　supply。　By　the　time　he’d　reached　Lucerna；　he’d　been
suffering　from　borderline　hypoxia　and　had　only　just　made　it　down。
Marquall　paused　and　let　Zemmic　and　Ranfre　go　by。　“You　okay？”　he　asked　Van　Tull。
“Four…A；”　said　the　older　pilot。　He　was　over　the　worst　effects；　or　so　he　said。　But　he　was　now
suffering　with　bleeding　gums　and　sinuses；　and　kept　dabbing　at　his　mouth　and　nose　with　a　folded
handkerchief；　like　a　consumptive。　“Sure？”
“I’ll　be　fine　once　I’m　up；”　Van　Tull　said　flatly。
They　hurried　across　the　bare　stone　floor　onto　the　rigid　deck　plating。　The　entire　air…base　had　been
hollowed　out　of　the　island’s　rock。　Hangar　three；　assigned　to　Umbra；　was　a　gigantic　rectangular　cave；
its　floors　and　walls　smoothed　by　industrial　mason…cutters。　Both　ends　of　the　cave；　north　and　south；
were　open　to　the　sky。
The　Thunderbolts　of　Umbra　Flight　waited；　lined　up　in　three　ranks　facing　the　south。　Fitter　teams
were　disengaging　the　last　of　the　cables　and　fuelling　lines；　and　whirring　elevator　platforms　carried　the
empty　munitions　trolleys　down　to　lower　levels。
Cordiale　and　Del　Ruth　were　already　with　their　planes。　Blansher　ran　out　across　the　gratings　of　the
deck；　reading　a　wafer　of　printout　paper。
“Air　cover；　evac　protection！”　he　shouted。　“Immediate　launch；　track　six…nine…two；　no　higher　than
two　thousand。”
There　was　a　chorus　of　acknowledgements　and　the　pilots　dropped　into　their　cockpits。　The　chief
fitter　of　each　plane　crew　made　sure　his　pilot　was　secure；　closed　the　canopy　then　signalled　to　the
primer　technician　to　start　as　he　jumped　off　the　wing。　Each　primer　cart　fired　and　the　Thunderbolt
engines　began　to　turn　over。　Within　moments；　the　engine　noise　in　the　enclosed　space　was　so　loud　that
it　drowned　out　the　screeching　hooters。
Deck　crews　with　goggles　and　ear　protectors　took　up　position　in　front　of　the　formation；　directing
with　lumin　paddles。　Signal　to　go。
In　the　front　rank　were　Blansher　and　Ranfre。　Behind　them；　Marquall；　Cordiale　and　Del　Ruth。　The
third　rank　was　Van　Tull　and　Zemmic。　The　flight　rose　up　in　a　swaying　hover　almost　simultaneously。
The　deck　chief　swung　both　his　lumin　paddles　together　and　pointed；　then　dropped　down　onto　one
knee；　head　down　in　a　braced　position　as　the　front　rank　rushed　out　over　him；　swiftly　followed　by　the
second　and　the　third。
They　came　out　into　the　open；　exiting　the　hangar　through　a　rectangular　slot　in　the　sheer　cliff　face。
The　sea　was　two　hundred　metres　below　them。　The　seven　machines　immediately　started　to　turn　and
come　onto　their　track。
The　sky　was　greenish…blue　with　two…tenths　of　long；　wispy　cloud。　The　sea　was　a　richer；　more
intense　green。　Lucerna　Island　dropped　away　behind　them；　a　plateau　of　craggy　pink　granite　jutting
out　of　the　water。　Marquall　could　see　the　AA　defences　nested　in　the　cliffs　and　on　the　headlands。　Two
more　flights　of　Thunderbolts　were　coming　up　after　Umbra　from　other　hangar　mouths。　Far　below；　he
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could　see　the　masses　of　shipping　and　barges　that　had　been　arriving　at　the　island’s　jetties　for　the　last
twelve　hours。
They　climbed　higher；　steady。　Marquall　adjusted　his　nitrous　mix　carefully。　He　watched　the
formation　around　him；　and　kept　his　eyes　on　the　auspex　returns　of　the　other　Thunderbolt　wings　that
were　running　below　and　behind　them。　From　this　altitude；　he　could　see　out　across　the　range　of　the
Midwinter　Islands；　an　archipelago　of　pink　atolls　that　filled　nearly　seven　hundred　thousand　square
kilometres　of　ocean　at　the　eastern　end　of　the　Zophonian　Sea。　It　was　to　the　larger　of　these　islands；
places　like　Lucerna　which　had　airbases　and　ports；　that　the　majority　of　the　planes；　transports　and
extraction　barges　from　Theda　had　fled。
The　islet…speckled　sea　below　him　was　full　of　shipping；　powering　east　towards　safe　ports　in　the
island　chain。　The　auspex　was　also　alive　with　air　contacts。　A　few　Imperial　machines　were　still
heading　in　from　the　mainland　retreat；　but　the　rest　of　the　activity　was　Navy　wings；　coming　back　out
of　their　new　island　bases　to　guard　sea　convoys　or　hunt　for　Archenemy　intruders。　Marquall　could　see
the　patterns　of　a　large　dogfight　going　on；　twelve　kilometres　south　of　them；　and　another；　more
condensed；　nineteen　kilometres　to　the　south…west。　To　the　east；　there　was　a　progressive　intercept　on　a
bomber　formation；　and　another　large　air…brawl；　down　at　low　level　amongst　the　islands。
Visually；　the　southern　horizon　line　was　a　smudged　belt　of　black；　at　odds　with　the　clarity　of　the
clean　sky　and　the　sparkling　sea。　That　was　the　smoke　line；　the　vapour　of　death　and　destruction　that
crowned　the　Thedan　coast　for　hundreds　of　kilometres。　The　filthy　mark　of　the　Archenemy；　branded
across　his　newly…taken　territory。
Blansher　called　them　to　focus。　They　were　closing　on　the　designated　target。　A　convoy　of　thirtyseven
mass…barges　and　VTRPs　out　of　St　Chryze　was　moving　up　one　of　the　archipelago’s　clear…water
channels；　under　attack　from　enemy　raiders。
“Brief　said　sixty…plus　bats；”　Blansher　voxed。
“I　have　visual　on　the　convoy；”　reported　Ranfre。
“Copy　that。”
Down　through　the　clouds；　the　mighty　vessels　were　now　in　plain　view。　Some　were　staining　the　air
with　trails　of　exhaust　smoke　from　their　turbines；　but　others　were　pouring　out　cones　of　black　and
white　smoke。
“Auspex　contacts；”　Del　Ruth　reported。　“Two　groups　of　hostiles。　One　high　at　six　thousand；
circling；　the　other　low；　crossing　the　convoy。”
Marquall　checked　his　own　auspex　screen　and　got　a　similar　report。　Multiple　contacts　were　milling
around　the　surface　vessels　like　flies　around　a　wound。　He　could　even　see　them　now；　lime　flitting　dots
against　the　sea；　catching　the　sunlight。
“Umbra　Leader　to　other　flights。　The　contacts　showing　high　could　be　a　second　wave　of　attack
planes　waiting　their　turn　to　come　in；　or　they　could　be　top　cover。　Suggest　Umbra　and　Sabre　go　in
after　the　raiders；　Cobalt　stays　high　to　watch　for　fighters。”
The　split　made　sense。　Sabre　Flight；　part　of　the　333rd　Navy　wing；　was　short　four　machines；　and
so　under…strength　like　Umbra。　Cobalt；　also　p