Double Eagle(科幻战争)-第4部分

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could　see　sunlight　flare　off　canopies。　The　lead　plane；　a　little　dark…green　monojet；　was　dragging　a
string　of　vapour　behind　it。
“Not　good；”　said　Jagdea；　staring。
Beside　her；　Marquall　said；　“What？”
“If　he’s　going　to　land；　let’s　hope　he　gets　his　cart　down。”
Over　Theda　MAB　South；　07。51
The　smoke　coming　out　of　Hunt　Sixteen　was　getting　thicker；　and　had　started　to　plume　out　fat　and
heavy　as　their　airspeed　dropped。　Darrow　had　to　adjust　height　to　stop　himself　flying　in　blind　through
the　vapour。　Hunt　Sixteen　was　pitching　low；　and　it　forced　Darrow　to　sit　up　high；　higher　than　he
would　have　preferred　for　an　approach。
There　was　a　slight　crosswind。　He　felt　his　tail　skidding；　and　he　trimmed　to　compensate。
According　to　the　airspeed　indicator；　he　was　getting　dangerously　near　critical　stall。
“Come　on；　Hunt　Sixteen！”　he　cursed。　“Come　on；　Phryse！　Get　that　bird　down！”
“Hold　your　water…”　the　vox　chattered。　“I　think…　think　my　bloody　cart’s　hung。”
“Clear　it；　Phryse！”　Darrow　heard　Hunt　Leader　urge　over　the　channel。
“Trying…　damn　thing’s　stuck…　lever’s　jammed。　Bent。　I　think…”
A　bleeper　sounded　in　Darrow’s　cockpit。　Fuel　out…　even　though　the　damn　gauge　still　read　full。
“I’ve　got　to　sit　now！”　he　called。
“Okay；　okay！　S’all　right；　Enric。　I’ve　got　it　now。　Lever’s　pulled。　Cart　down。”
Theda　MAB　South；　07。51
Even　as　the　Cyclone’s　engines　whistled　down　to　a　dying　chop；　Scalter　wrenched　open　the　window
slider　of　the　canopy　and　stuck　his　head　out；　searching　the　sky。
“Operations！”　he　yelled；　but　then　realised　that　pushing　his　head　out　of　the　window　had　pulled　his
mic…cord　to　full　extent　and　yanked　the　plug　out　of　the　vox　panel。
“Damn　it！”　he　yelled；　struggling　back　inside　and　banging　his　head。　“Damn　it！”　He　fumbled　for
the　end　of　the　cord。
“Got　it！”　cried　Artone；　ramming　the　plug　back　into　its　socket。
“Operations！　Get　a　flag　up！　Signal！　That　Cub’s　coming　in　with　its　undercart　up！”
“Clear　the　channel；　Seeker。”
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Scalter　clunked　off　his　harness；　threw　open　the　side　hatch　and　fell　out　onto　the　ground。　Artone
was　fast　on　his　heels。　The　crews　of　the　Cyclones　in　the　revetment　bunkers　next　to　them　had
dismounted　too。
Scalter　ran　up　the　embankment　towards　the　main　strip；　waving　his　arms。　Red　flares　had　gone　up
over　the　field。　Bleeding　smoke；　one　wing　hanging　heavy；　the　Wolfcub　was　really　low。　The　noise　of
its　pulsejet　was　a　drawn…out；　plosive　blurt。
Its　undercart　was　locked　up　in　its　belly。
“Up！　Up！”　Scalter　yelled。　He　fell　on　his　face　as　Artone　tackled　him　and　brought　him　down　short
of　the　rockcrete　track。
The　Wolfcub　came　in；　over　and　past　them　both。　Just　shy　of　stall　speed；　it　began　to　drop　its　tail；
about　to　settle　onto　gear　that　wasn’t　there。
The　underside　of　the　tail　hit　first。　There　was　an　abrasive　shriek。　Metal　shards　and　grit　flew　up　in
a　hot　grind　of　friction。　Immediately；　the　tail　came　back　up；　bouncing；　pitching　the　Wolfcub　down
straight　on　its　nose。　The　Interceptor　came　apart；　shredding　aluminoid　off　its　frame。　The　port　wing
crumpled　and　flew　off。　The　pulse…jet；　coughing　flames；　sheared　off　its　mounts；　crushed　the　already
buckled　cockpit；　and　detonated　as　it　lifted　clear。　Liquid　flame　boiled　out　across　the　runway。
High　on　its　six；　Darrow　stared　in　disbelief。　He’d　just　lowered　his　own　undercart；　and　the　added
drag　had　dwindled　his　speed　even　more。　There　was　no　runway　any　more；　just　a　lake　of　fire　and　a
mass　of　tangled　wreckage。
“Abort；　Hunt　Four！”
Darrow　slammed　on　full　emergency　thrust　and　trimmed　for　maximum　lift。　His　Cub　shook　and
fought；　tired　of　flying　now。　He　hauled　on　the　stick。
Jet　screaming；　Hunt　Four　cleared　the　debris　by　scant　metres　and　zoomed　through　the　leaping
fireball　of　the　crash。　Darrow’s　canopy　blackened　with　soot。　There　was　smoke　everywhere。　As　he
came　clear；　he　saw　loose　flame　dancing　along　his　wings。
“Request　secondary　runway！”　he　yelled。
“Runway　is　clear—”　the　vox　sang。　He　came　around；　rising　and　turning　as　tightly　as　he　dared。　He
wouldn’t　stall。　Not　now。　Not　now。　The　stick　was　like　lead。　He　came　about　onto　the　track；　dropping
fast　but　true。　He　had　it　now。
Red　lights　fluttered　across　his　instruments。　He　felt　a　lurch。　The　engine　had　flamed　out。　Zero　fuel
or　nothing　like　enough　airspeed；　he　couldn’t　tell　which。　Didn’t　have　time。　Didn’t　care。
The　Wolfcub　fell　out　of　the　air　onto　the　ragged　runway。　The　undercart　survived　the　first　hard
bounce；　but　not　the　second。　It　disintegrated　in　a　scatter　of　chrome　struts　and　torn　rubber。　The
machine　made　a　third　bounce　on　its　belly；　cascading　sparks　into　the　air。　Body　plating　ripped　away。
The　slide　went　wide；　turning　the　dented　nosecone　right；　folding　a　wing　like　paper。　Darrow
screamed；　his　arms　over　his　face；　shaken　like　a　bead　in　a　tin。
They　came　running　from　all　directions；　from　the　silos；　from　the　fitter　barns；　from　the　main
hangar。　Recovery　trucks；　their　hooters　blaring；　kicked　up　dust　and　stones　as　they　raced　over　the
verge　sides。
Jagdea　and　Blansher　were　amongst　the　first　of　the　aviators　to　reach　the　wreck。
“Back！　Get　back！”　a　tender　driver　screamed　at　them。
“Get　him　out　then！”　Jagdea　yelled　back；　slamming　past　the　barrier　of　the　man’s　outstretched
arms。
The　canopy　hood　of　the　downed　Cub　wrenched　backwards；　and　the　pilot　dragged　himself　out。
His　plane　was　almost　on　its　side；　pinning　a　broken　wing　under　it；　surrounded　by　debris。　He
staggered　towards　them；　shaking　his　head　dizzily　as　the　crash…crews　ran　in　towards　the　wreck　with
retardant　sprays。
The　young　man’s　face　was　black　with　soot　and　oil。　When　he　pulled　off　the　breather　mask；　his
lower　face　was　pink　and　clean。　He　blinked　at　Jagdea　and　Blansher。
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“Shit；”　he　said。
“Good　landing；”　Blansher　said；　offering　an　arm　to　support　him。　The　pilot　sagged　heavily；
shaking。
“Good…　landing…？”　he　coughed。
Blansher　smiled。　“You　walked　away　from　it；　didn’t　you？”
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DAY　253
Interior　Desert；　10。10
The　Fury　of　Pardua　was　dead。　Its　power　plant　had　been　running　sore　and　hoarse　for　the　last　hundred
kilometres；　and　the　coolant　needles　had　been　buried　in　red　for　the　last　twenty。　The　driver　had
managed　to　get　it　just　about　off　the　main　track　before　the　engine　uttered　its　death…rattle；　and　now　the
venerable　Conqueror…type　battle　tank　was　slumped　as　if　in　repose。
The　fine；　dry　sand　was　slowly　dimpling　under　its　sixty…two　tonnes　and　it　was　beginning　to　keel；
submerged　up　to　the　axles　on　the　port　side。
LeGuin　walked　around　it　once；　feeling　the　heat　radiating　off　its　metal　hull　on　his　face。　There　was
a　clatter　of　tools　and　one　of　the　regimental　aux　techs　appeared　out　of　the　rear　hatch；　his　face　red　and
shiny　from　exertion。
“Well？”　asked　LeGuin。
“Coolant’s　dry　and　the　main　cylinder　block　has　just　fused。　Running　too　hard；　too　long。　And
there’s　sand　in　everything。”
LeGuin　nodded。　“Strip　out　anything　portable　or　consumable。　Munitions；　batteries；　vox；　pintle
weapons；　any　water　or　fuel　in　the　reserves。　Strip　it　out　and　transfer　it　to　transports。　Make　it　fast；
trooper。”
“Yes；　captain。”
LeGuin　glanced　round　at　Lieutenant　Klodas；　the　Fury’s　commander。　His　driver；　loader　and
gunners　stood　nearby　in　a　shabby；　respectful　group；　caps　in　their　hands；　like　mourners　at　a　funeral。
LeGuin　saw　that　Klodas　was　trying　not　to　cry。
“No　wasting　surplus　water；　please；　Klodas；”　he　said。　“We’ve　got　a　bloody　long　way　to　go　yet。”
Klodas　sniffed　and　nodded。　LeGuin　felt　bad　for　being　so　hard　on　the　junior　officer。　Losing　a
steed；　as　LeGuin　well　knew；　was　like　losing　a　best　friend；　sibling；　parent　and　faithful　hound　all　in
one　go。　The　average　tanker　lived　in　his　machine；　fought　with　it；　killed　from　it　and　had　been　saved　by
it。　He　owed　it；　he　trusted　it　and　knew　its　foibles。　To　leave　it　for　dead　at　the　side　of　a　desert　track
seemed…　criminal。
Besides；　simply　as　a　piece　of　military　technology；　these　tanks　were　priceless。　Precious　few　of　the
original　units　remained　in　active　service。　The　great　forge　worlds　were　manufacturing　modem　pattern
copies　as　fast　as　they　were　able；　but　the　craft　was　getting　lost；　many　of　the　tech　secrets　were　being
forgotten；　or　had　never　been　recorded。　LeGuin　himself　knew；　as　a　bitter　certainty；　virtually　no　forge
worlds　were　now　capable　of　hand…crafting　the　specialist　L/D　cannon　for　a　tank　hunter。
Fury　of　Pardua　was　one　of　the　8th’s　oldest　Leman　Russ　examples；　painstakingly　maintained　and
repaired　for　twenty…three　centuries。　Even　in　its　current　pitiful　state—seized　up；　burnt…out　and　fried
dry—it　deserved　to　be　recovered　and　hauled　away　for　full　salvage　or　refit。
But　that　wasn’t　going　to　happen。　There　was　no　time；　no　resources　and—if　they　all　stood　there
much　longer—no　one　left　alive。
LeGuin　looked　back　down　the　trail。　In　the　glare　of　the　blow…torch　sun；　a　column　of　men　and
machines　wound　towards　him　across　the　sandpaper　terrain；　blurred　by　heat　and　dust。　Every　ten
seconds；　another　tank　or　carrier　grumbled　past；　kicking　up　grit。　LeGuin’s　eyes　were　at　a　permanent
squint。　The　retreat　column　stretched　back　as　far　as　he　could　see；　and　it　was　only　one　of　a　hundred　or
more　threading　their　way　desperately　across　the　scorched　earth　and　billowing　dunes　of　the　northwestern
sief。　Such　was　the　fate　of　Lord　Militant　Humel’s　great　“land　armada”；　which　had　almost
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reached　the　gateways　of　the　Trinity　Hives　to　purge　Enothis；　before　being　turned　back　by　the
unbelievable　ferocity　of　replenished　Archenemy　forces。
The　abject　wreck　of　the　Fury　of　Pardua　seemed　to　Captain　LeGuin　an　appropriate　symbol　for
this　disastrous　retreat：　a　great；　proud　beast　from　another　age；　beaten　to　extinction　by　the　foe　and　the
climate；　left　to　rot　into　the　consuming　sands　where　only　future　archaeologists　might　ever　expose　its
dry　bones　again。
LeGuin　looked　north；　watching　the　dust　trail　of　the　vehicles　that　had　passed　ahead。　Men　trudged
beside　crawling　machines；　as　thirsty　for　water　as　the　vehicles　were　for　oil。　Some　rode　on　fenders　or
straddled　body　plating。　Every　few　kilometres　something　needed　to　be　repaired；　dug　free　or　pulled
out　of　soft　sand　by　the　Atlas　teams。　The　Fury　was　not　the　first　piece　of　armour　to　be　abandoned　at
the　roadside。　The　miserable　route　back　to　the　Trinity　Hives　was　marked　with　the　corpses　of
machines　that　had　died　along　the　way。
Died　or　been　killed。　The　Archenemy　was　not　letting　them　run　unmolested。
Klodas　had　flagged　down　a　half…track　weapons　carrier；　and　his　crew　was　formed　into　a　human
chain　to　ship　what　was　salvageable　from　the　Conqueror。
“Don’t　take　too　long；”　LeGuin　told　him。
LeGuin　walked　back　to　his　own　steed；　wiping　his　brow　with　a　hand　that　came　away　black　with
perspiration　and　grit。　As　he　walked；　he　looked　up　into　the　relentless　sky。　Where　would　the　next
attack　come　from？　Up　there？　Or；　as　the　vox…reports　from　back　down　the　column　suggested；　were　the
enemy　land　forces　now　beginning　to　nip　at　their　heels　too？
The　Line　of　Death　sat　waiting　for　its　commander。　As　he　climbed　up；　he　patted　its　flank；　even
though　the　sun…roasted　metal　scorched　his　hand。　The　Line　was　an　Exterminator…type　assault　tank；　its
chassis　the　same　basic　pattern　as　the　heavier　Conqueror。　Its　turret…mounted　twin　autocannons　could
produce　an　astonishingly　savage　field　of　rapid　firepower。　The　tank　was　painted　dust…red；　though　that
wash　was　scuffed　down　to　the　chrome　base　metal　in　many　places。　Its　name　was　painted　on　the
turret’s　mantlet；　and　its　regiment—8th　Pardus　Armoured—was　embossed　above　the　sponsons　beside
an　Imperial　double　eagle　crest。
LeGuin　clambered　over　the　drums　of　spare　munitions　webbed　to　the　rear　cowling　and　hopped　up
into　the　turret。　Matredes；　his　gunner；　was　waiting　for　him　in　the　top　hatchway。
“We　going？”
“Yeah。”
Matredes　shouted　down　to　Emdeen；　the　driver；　and　the　VI2　engine　revved。　They　lurched
onwards；　treads　clattering；　and　rejoined　the　file。
The　Line　had　not　been　LeGuin’s　for　long　and；　though　he　tried　to　bond　with　the　steed；　they　were
not　tight。　For　most　of　his　career；　LeGuin　had　been　a　Destroyer　man；　commander　of　the　tank　killer
Grey　Venger。　Thirty…four　kills　they’d　shared；　until　Venger　had　fallen　to　enemy　fire　on　the　shrine
world　Hagia　three　years　before。　LeGuin　might　have　happily　burned　with　his　steed；　but　his　life　had
been　saved　by　the　selfless　action　of　an　infantry　scout　called　Mkoll；　a　man　LeGuin　respected　enough
not　to　be　angry　with。
On　his　return　to　regimental　headquarters；　they’d　assigned　LeGuin　this　can。　He’d　wanted　another
Destroyer；　naturally；　for　that’s　where　his　skills　and　training　lay；　but　there　were　just　none　available。
On　the　rare　occasions　one　of　that　ancient　marque　came　up　for　transfer　or　reassignment；　it　was
usually　a　reconditioned　hulk　with　lousy　bearings；　a　rebored　engine　and　some　useless　firework　in
place　of　the　precious；　specialist　L/D　cannon。
So；　disguising　his　disappointment；　LeGuin　had　become　an　assault　tanker；　riding　his　new　steed　in
with　Humel’s　doomed　Enothian　campaign。
The　Line　spurred　forward。　Under　the　present　circumstances；　the　memory　of　his　disappointment
seemed　ridiculously　insignificant　and　made　LeGuin　smile。　So；　he　hadn’t　been　assigned　the　steed　he
wanted。　Shame。　If　only　that　was　the　worst　thing　he　had　to　deal　with　now。
All　that　mattered　at　this　moment　was　what　was　going　to　get　them　first：　the　desert　or　the　enemy。
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Even　with　the　internal　compartments　filter…sealed；　it　was　like　an　oven　in　the　Exterminator。
LeGuin　dared　not　use　the　air　exchanger　for　fear　of　depleting　fuel　even　further。　Matredes　was
studying　the　charts　by　the　light　of　a　red　bulb　overhead；　and　he　said　something。　LeGuin　had　put　on
his　ear…baffles　already；　and　now　he　switched　on　the　internal　intercom。
“Say　again？”
“Another　forty　kilometres；　and　we　should　be　reaching　rougher　terrain…　open　karst。　That’ll　mark
the　beginnings　of　the　rift。”
LeGuin　nodded。　The　rift；　and　the　mountains　beyond　it；　represented　the　second　and　third　of　the
great　barriers　the　columns　would　have　to　overcome　in　order　to　reach　safe　territory。　The　desert　was
just　the　beginning。　But　it　gave　him　some　sense　of　hope。　These　were　palpable　markers　that　he　could
tick　off。
LeGuin　popped　the　hatch　and　sat　up；　taking　the　electroscope　Matredes　passed　to　him。　The　Line
of　Death　was　travelling　in　the　forward　quarter　of　the　retreating　column。　According　to　unconfirmed
rumours；　some　of　the　Imperial　elements　had　already　reached　the　Makanite　passes；　on　the　doorstep　of
safety。　According　to　other　rumours；　enemy　rapid　assault　units　had　reached　there　too；　gunning　to
deny　them。
He　scanned　ahead　through　the　scope；　trying　to　brace　against　the　lurch　of　the　machine。　Every
view　was　filtered　by　heat　haze　and　whirling　dust。　But　there　did　now　seem　to　be　something　far　ahead。
A　slender　blue…white　line。　Mountains；　or　a　daylight　dream？
The　vox　chattered　something　he　didn’t　quite　catch。　A　moment　later；　he　didn’t　need　it　repeated。
Flickering　shadows　shot　north　overhead；　and　he　heard　the　rush　of　afterburners　above　the　roar　of　the
tank’s　engine。
Two　dark　red　shapes　in　the　bright　sky；　moving　as　fast　as　arrows；　curled　in　low　above　the　column
ahead。　He　saw　flashes；　sprays　of　sand；　then　heard　the　rolling　crump　of　detonating　munitions。　A
kilometre　away；　something　caught　fire　and　began　to　smudge　the　sky　with　a　thick　spout　of　oily；　black
smoke。
“Alarm！　Alarm！”　he　shouted　into　the　vox。　The　Line’s　turret　weapons　were　already　cranked　to
maximum　elevation；　but　there　was　no　point　wasting　ammo　at　this　range。　In　the　distance；　he　saw　the
choppy　flashes　of　tracers　from　Hydra　carriers　in　the　front　file。
Two　more　bats　went　over；　using　the　convoy’s　long　dust　wake　as　a　marker　to　line　up　on　their
targets。　Matredes　was　rotating　the　turret；　but　LeGuin　shook　his　head。　A　troop　truck　three　vehicles
forward　of　them　leapt　into　the　air　in　a　brilliant　eruption　of　flame；　and　showered　burning　debris　in　all
directions。
They　hadn’t　even　seen　that　one　coming。
The　vehicles　ahead　of　them　swerved。　The　hit　truck　was　a　stricken　mass　of　blazing；　twisted　metal。
Burnt　bodies；　some　stripped　naked　by　the　blast；　littered　the　sand。
Another　troop　truck；　turning　to　avoid　the　ruin；　hit　soft　sand　and　dug　in。　It　rocked　violently；
wheels　spinning　and　digging　deeper；　engine　over…revving。　The　infantrymen　in　the　back　leapt　down
with　spades　and　chains。
“Full　stop！　Get　the　cable！”　LeGuin　yelled　to　Matredes；　who　clambered　out　at　once　with
Mergson；　one　of　the　sponson　gunners。
“Tie　it　up！　Tie　it　up！”　LeGuin　shouted　at　the　men　on　the　ground　as　Matredes　and　the　gunner
fetched　the　hawser　coil　from　the　starboard　panniers。　They　had　to　be　quick。　The　enemy　warplanes
habitually　dumped　their　payloads　on　the　head　of　the　column　to　slow　it　down。　Then　they　delighted　in
coming　about　down　the　stationary　line；　strafing　as　they　went　home。
“Come　on！”
Surface…to…air　from　the　column　ahead。　Tracer；　some　wild　cannon　fire；　small…arms。　Some　idiot
tried　a　shoulder　rocket。　It　went　up；　useless　as　a　white　flare　in　daylight。　Where　were　they？　Where　the
bloody　hell　w—
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Booom！　One　went　right　over　at　zero　altitude；　rocking　the　tank　on　its　torsion　bars　with　the
Shockwave。　By　the　time　it　had　gone　by　them；　it　was　already　pulling　off。　The　track　five　hundred
metres　ahead　was　swathed　in　fyceline　smoke　from　the　deluge　of　cannon　fire　it　had　stitched　down　the
line。　New　fires　had　started。　Something　big—a　tank’s　magazine；　most　likely—blew　up　with　a　dry
roar。
“Come　on；　Matredes！”　LeGuin　bawled。　Most　of　the　troopers　had　thrown　themselves　flat　when
the　bat　went　over；　but　LeGuin’s　men　had　got　the　cable　lashed　around　the　truck’s　bull…bars。
“Ease　off！　Get　him　to　ease　off！”　LeGuin　shouted　to　Matredes；　indicating　the　truck　driver；　a
Munitorum　drone　who　was　still　thrashing　the　daylights　out　of　the　vehicle’s　drive　shaft　in　an　effort　to
self…right。
“Emdeen？”　LeGuin　voxed　to　his　driver。　“Nice　and　easy　back　step；　no　jerks；　or　you’ll　amputate
its　rear　end。”
“Understood；　captain；”　Emdeen　voxed　back。　“Fifteen　segs；　mind。”
Fifteen　segs。　LeGuin　laughed　despite　the　situation。　A　Pardus　tanker　was　permitted　to　sew　a　little
stylised　track　segment　to　the　edge　of　his　uniform　collar　for　every　year　served　active。　Emdeen　was
reminding　his　captain　that　he　was　a　fifteen　year　vet　and　didn’t　need　to　be　told　how　to　tow　a　cargo…10
successfully。
LeGuin　had　thirteen　segs　of　his　own。
His　laughter　stopped　as　he　saw　the　next　bat。　Low；　head　on；　red　as　an　open　wound。　Weapon　ports
flashed　as　it　came　on。　Tormentor…class；　LeGuin　presumed。　Maybe　a　Hell　Talon。　He　didn’t　care。　He
knew　tanks。　Planes　looked　all　the　same　to　him。　It　might　as　well　have　been　a　frigging　flying　pixie；　it
was　still　intent　on　murder。
The　bat’s　cannon　fire　chewed　along　the　track；　kicking　dirt　up　in　man…high　bursts　with　the　rapid
precision　of　an　industrial　belt　press。　A　STeG　armoured　car　wearing　the　dusty　livery　of　the　Enothian
PDF　ruptured　like　an　eggshell　and　rolled　on　its　side。　The　raking　blasts　atomised　the　front　end　of　the
water　tanker。
Then　the　shots　stitched　right　across　them。　Half　a　dozen　of　the　troopers　from　the　stranded　truck
were　thrown　down；　their　bodies　flung　aside；　or　into　the　air；　or　into　pieces。　The　air　filled　with　upflung
dust　and　dirt。　LeGuin　lost　sight　of　Matredes；　but　saw　Mergson　clearly　as　he　was　hit。
Everything　below　Mergson’s　waist　vaporised　in　a　blitz　of　flame　and　fibres。
“No！”　LeGuin　screamed　as　he　dropped　back　into　the　turret　for　cover；　three　shells　spanking　off
the　Line’s　top　armour。
The　bat　had　already　hammered　past；　but　as　he’d　dropped；　LeGui