Double Eagle(科幻战争)-第6部分

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if　things　come　good；　you　could　be　flying　again　before　the　end　of　the　year。”
Darrow　nodded。
“Darrow？”
“Yes；　sir。　I…　Yes。　I　nodded；　sir。”
“Nodding　doesn’t　work　for　me；　airman。”
“Sorry；　sir。”
Eads　walked　back　around　his　desk　and　resumed　his　seat。　“Tell　you　what；”　he　said。　“Just　get　it　off
your　chest；　Darrow。”
“Sir？”
“Speak　your　mind。　Let’s　get　it　done　with。”
Darrow　glanced　at　Heckel。　The　major’s　face　seemed　even　paler　than　before；　and　his　hands　were
both　clearly　shaking。　But　he　shrugged　an　okay　to　Darrow。
Darrow　cleared　his　throat。　“I　know　I’ve　only　been　operational　four　weeks。　I’m　a　cadet。　All　of
that。　And　yesterday　was　a…　a…”
He　looked　at　Heckel。　Heckel　frowned　and　shook　his　head。
“Anyway；　I　believe　I　can　fly；　commander。　I　mean；　I　can　fly　well。　I’ve　hardly　had　the　chance；　and
I　hate　to　trumpet　myself。　But　yesterday；　I　really　felt　I…　There　was　this　bat　and…”
“Yes；　Darrow？”
Darrow　felt　stupid　even　trying　to　say　it。　“It　doesn’t　matter；　sir。”
Eads　sat　forward　and　lifted　a　data…slate　out　of　the　pile　to　his　left。　He　put　it　down　in　front　of　him。
“Your　modesty　does　you　credit；　cadet。　I　have　Heckel’s　report　right　here。　It’s…　How　should　I　put　it？
Glowing；　isn’t　it；　major？”
“It’s　just　an　account；　sir；”　said　Heckel。
“You　took　on　that　bat　and　flew　your　boots　off。　Instinctive；　brilliant。　The　major　praises　you　in　no
uncertain　terms。　Hell；　If　I’d　seen　you　fly　the　way　he　said　you　did；　I’d　be　calling　for　a
commendation。”
“You　said　that？”　Darrow　murmured。
Heckel　stared　at　the　floor。　“Just　reporting　what　I　saw；　cadet。”
“So；　well　done；”　Eads　said。
Darrow　blinked。　“Sir…　If　I’ve　earned　such　praise…　If　I’ve　shown　what　I　can　do…　why　am　I
being　sent　to　reserve？”
“My　choice；　Darrow。　Don’t　you　go　blaming　Heckel　for　this。　His　recommendation　was　to　get　you
a　transfer　to　Quarry　Flight。　But　there’s　this　little　matter…”
“Sir？”
“It　was　your　first　combat。　Your　first　fly…fight。　You　did　well；　but　that’s　the　way　first　fly…fights　go。
Novices　usually　die　in　those　situations。　The　ones　that　survive　seem　to　punch　above　their　weight。
And　almost　always；　that’s　down　to　luck。　You　did　gloriously　in　one　sortie；　Darrow；　but　that　doesn’t
make　a　career。　I　decided　to　send　you　to　reserve　for　that　reason。”
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“Commander？”
“Luck；　cadet。　I　think；　yesterday；　you　used　up　an　entire　lifetime　of　luck。　You　used　it　all　in　one
dogfight。　If　I　keep　you　active；　you’ll　be　dead　the　next　time　you　go　out。”
Darrow　didn’t　know　what　to　say。　He　blinked。　His　mouth　was　dry。
“So；　are　we　done？”　asked　Eads。
“Sir；”　they　both　said；　and　left　the　office。
Heckel　caught　up　with　Darrow　on　the　stairs。　“I’m　sorry！”　he　said。
Darrow　looked　back　up　at　him。　“God…Emperor；　don’t　be　sorry；　sir；”　he　said。　“You　didn’t　have　to
make　a　report　like　that。”
“I　only　wrote　what　I　saw；　Darrow。　That　piece　of　airmanship　was　fantas—”
“You　saved　my　life；　sir。　Gunning　in　like　that。　He　had　me。　You　saved　my　life。”
Heckel　hesitated；　caught　in　the　sunlight　of　the　stairwell。　“I　did　what　I　could；”　he　said。
“You　saved　my　life。　He　had　me；”　Darrow　repeated。
“But—”
“Thank　you；”　Darrow　said。
Darrow　continued　on　down　the　stairs　and　strode　along　the　hall　past　the　chapel。　Only　then　did　he
notice　the　smudge。
On　the　blackboard；　the　service　of　honour。　The　names　of　Hunt　Flight。　At　the　bottom　of　the　list
was　a　name　that　had　been　written　up　in　chalk　and　then　smudged　off。
It　was　his　own。
Theda　MAB　South；　13。01
The　chainmail　aviator’s　glove　thumped　onto　the　desktop　like　a　lead　weight。
“I　borrowed　that　from　stores；”　Bree　Jagdea　said。　“So；　do　you　want　to　explain　or　should　I　smash
you　round　the　face　with　it？”
Wing　Leader　Etz　Seekan　looked　down　at　the　glove　for　a　moment。　His　manicured　fingers
drummed　deftly　on　the　edge　of　the　desk。
“Let　me　see…”　he　said　softly。　He　was　a　beautiful　man；　perfectly　built；　with　twinkling　blue　eyes
and　a　captivating　grin。　His　dark　hair　was　superbly　groomed　and　oiled；　and　his　manner　was
annoyingly　relaxed　and　charming。
He　looked　up　at　Jagdea。　“Part　of　me　wants　you　to—what　was　it？—smash　me　round　the　face。　Just
to　see　Ornoff　when　it　comes　to　filing　charges。　But　I　don’t　think　that　will　get　us　anywhere。　Why
don’t　you　sit　down？”
He　gestured　to　the　armchair　in　front　of　his　desk。
“I　prefer　to　stand；”　Jagdea　snapped。
Seekan　shrugged。　“Around　this　time；　I　like　to　take　a　small　glass　of　joiliq。　Can　I　interest　you　in
one？”
“I　prefer　to—no；　you　bloody　can’t！”
Seekan　shrugged　and　rose。　He　walked　over　to　the　cabinet　and　poured　a　very　small　measure　of
liquor　into　a　tumbler。　“I’ve　heard　about　you；”　he　said。
Jagdea　stiffened。　What　the　hell　did　that　mean？　Part　of　her　wanted　to　gush：　I’ve　heard　about　you
too；　all　of　you…　all　the　Apostles。　The　finest　fliers　in　the　western　Navy。　Quint；　ace　of　aces；
Gettering；　Suhr…　and　always　Seekan。　Wing　Leader　Seekan；　master　of　the　Apostles。　Never　a
famously　high　score；　but　renowned　for　his　leadership　and　tactics。　Loved　by　his　men。　Seekan；　the
Imperial　hero。
She　chewed　her　lip　instead。
“About　me？”　she　said。
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“Not　you　particularly；”　Seekan　said。　He　thought　about　that　for　a　second　and　then　frowned。
“Throne；　I　didn’t　mean　to　offend　you。　I　meant　the　Phantine。　The　only　founded　Imperial　Guard
regiment　who　are　fliers。　Because　of　the　nature　of　your　home　world；　isn’t　that　right？”
“Yes。”
Seekan　nodded。　He　raised　his　glass　and　rolled　the　spirit　around　inside　it。　“All　other　air　wings
come　under　the　command　of　the　Imperial　Navy；　except　yours。　That　makes　us　allies　rather　than　kin。”
“I　suppose。”
Seekan　smiled。　“And　you　value　female　pilots　as　much　as　men。　Females　are　few　in　the　Navy。
This　is　a　rare…”
“Pleasure？”　asked　Jagdea。
“‘Thing’。　I　was　going　to　say；　“thing’。”
“There　is　no　viable　land　on　Phantine；”　Jagdea　said。　“Everyone　learns　to　fly；　men　and　women。
Our　ability　is　said　to　be　intuitive　and　exceptional。”
“The　same　has　been　said　of　the　Apostles。”
“You　have　no　reason　to　celebrate　your　own　virtues。　The　Apostles’　reputation　is　clear　enough。”
“Thank　you。”
“So…　would　you　like　to　explain　why　your　man　struck　my　pilot　with　a　glove　like　that？”
“Because　he　was　angry。”
“Angry？　Angry？”
“Are　you　sure　you　wouldn’t　like　to　sit　down；　commander？”
“Answer　the　damn　question！”
“Captain　Guis　Gettering…　Sixty…two　kills。　His　bird　is　called　the　Double　Eagle。　He　was　offended
that　your　man　would　copy　that　name　for　his　own　plane。”
“That’s　it？”
“What　else　can　I　say？”　Seekan　shrugged。
“My　pilot　will　rename　his　plane。　No　offence　was　intended。　In　return；　I　suggest　your　Captain
Gettering　makes　a　written　and　formal　apology　to　Pilot　Officer　Marquall。　Then　the　matter　may　be
concluded　without　higher　attention。”
“My　pleasure；”　said　Seekan。　Jagdea　turned　and　strode　to　the　door。
“Commander？”　Seekan　called。　She　paused　in　the　doorway　and　looked　back。　“Good　flying；”　he
said。
Over　the　Lida　Valley；　15。16
It　wasn’t　an　auspicious　start　to　their　first　official　sortie。　A　bright；　promising　day　had　turned　sour　in
the　time　it　had　taken　to　get　their　machines　aloft。　At　ten　thousand　metres；　with　a　lousy　eight…tenths
cloud；　and　an　even　more　lousy　side　wind；　they　were　running　up　the　wide　valley　of　the　River　Lida
towards　the　mountains。
Jagdea’s　normally　sweet…running　Thunderbolt；　serial　Zero…Two；　was　flying　rough　and　heavy。
Too　long　in　the　belly…hold　of　a　Navy　carrier；　Jagdea　supposed。　The　devoted　maintenance　crews　had
done　their　best　to　keep　systems　at　optimum；　but　there　was　no　substitute　for　regular　flying　time。
Apart　from　the　delivery　run　to　Theda　MAB　South；　all　the　Thunderbolts　in　Umbra　Flight　had　been
out　of　use　for　three　and　a　half　months。
Then　again；　she　wondered；　maybe　it　was　her。　Serial　Zero…Two　wasn’t　the　only　thing　not　to　have
flown　in　three　and　a　half　months。　Jagdea　felt　clumsy　and　inept。　She’d　even　made　a　sloppy　job　of
take…off。　They’d　had　simulators　on　the　carrier　of　course；　regular　sessions　to　keep　them　sharp；　but　it
wasn’t　the　same；　just　like　turning　a　bird’s　turbofans　over　on　the　flight　deck　every　morning　wasn’t
the　same。
Good　flying。　Seekan’s　presumably　honestly　meant　remark　now　seemed　like　a　jinx。
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They　were　flying　in　unit　teams　of　four　machines。　With　her　were　Van　Tull；　Espere　and　Marquall。
Blansher　had　the　second　unit　four　about　forty　kilometres　behind　them；　and　Asche　the　third；　running
a　wide　patrol　over　the　Littoral。　Essentially；　Umbra　Flight　had　split　into　three　independent　Interceptor
units。　That　was　optimum　size　for　routine　hunting　or　opportunist　intercept　work。　If　more　than　three　or
four　Thunderbolts　tried　to　share　the　same　slice　of　sky；　things　tended　to　get　a　little　crowded。
Anyway；　this　wasn’t　a　hunt。　It　was　a　shakedown。　A　little　wind…in…the…hair　run　to　get　pilots　and
machines　into　the　swing　of　things。　Umbra　Flight　had　traditionally　been　a　Lightning　wing；　but　after
the　liberation　of　Phantine；　they’d　switched　to　the　heavier　Thunderbolts；　and　come　to　love　them
during　the　air　war　on　Urdesh　Minor。　Sometimes　Jagdea　missed　the　sprightly　performance　of　the　IIIIX
Lightning；　the　exhilarating　rates　of　its　climb　and　dive；　the　darting　grace　of　its　turns。　The
Thunderbolt　was　almost　half　as　heavy　again　and；　at　lower　speeds；　particularly　climbing；　it　felt　as　if　it
barely　had　the　power　to　lift　its　massively　armoured　body。　But　it　was　heavy　and　robust；　and　could
soak　up　the　sort　of　punishment　that　would　send　a　Lightning　fluttering　to　its　doom　like　a　moth。　It　had
longer　legs　too；　and　a　snout…full　of　killware。　Where　the　Lightning　was　a　playful　ambush…cat；　the
Thunderbolt　was　a　full…grown　carnodon。　Blansher　had　once　said　that　a　pilot　flew　the　Lightning　for
the　joy　of　flying；　and　the　Thunderbolt　for　the　joy　of　killing。　That　seemed　about　right　to　Jagdea。　She
adored　her　Bolt。　It　was　muscular；　indomitable；　responsive。
Except　on　days　like　today。　The　port　fan　was　simply　not　running　clean。　There　was　nothing　on　the
display；　but　she　could　feel　it；　something　in　the　rhythm　of　the　engine　tone。
She　checked　the　fuel。　Roughly　a　third　gone；　and　they　hadn’t　opted　for　reserve　tanks。　She　keyed
the　vox。
“Umbra　Four…One　Leader　to　Four…One　Flight。　Let　me　hear　you。”
“Umbra　Three；　Four…A。”　Of　course　he　was。　Van　Tull　was　always　Four…A。
“Umbra　Five；　I’ll　be　fine　once　I’ve　remembered　what　the　controls　do。”
“Roger　that；　Five。　I　know　the　feeling；”　Jagdea　returned。
“Umbra　Eight。　Okay　here。”
Marquall　sounded　unhappy　still。　The　stupid　business　with　Gettering　had　knocked　him　back；　the
last　thing　a　novice　wanted　on　his　first　day　out。　He’d　tried　to　make　light　of　it；　remarking　that　his　Bolt
was　now　called　The　Smear；　because　Racklae　hadn’t　had　time　to　do　any　more　than　paint　out　his　nose
art　with　a　wash　of　undercoat。　But　Jagdea　knew　he’d　been　hurt。
“Let’s　refresh　the　pattern；　flight；”　she　said。　“Eight；　you　slip　into　point；　Five　and　Three　change
over。　I’ll　take　the　hanger。”
They　all　responded；　“Okay”。　A　nice　little　manoeuvre　test　to　get　them　flexing　their　brains　Jagdea
reckoned；　and　getting　Marquall　up　in　what　was　technically　lead　position　might　do　his　confidence
some　good。
“On　the　mark…　three；　two；　one…　execute。”
Unit　fours　flew　in　a　line　formation；　with　one　machine　forward　and　another　two　flanking　to　rear
on　either　side。　The　fourth；　or　“hanger”；　flanked　one　or　other　of　the　wingmen　to　rear；　forming　an
asymmetrical　V。　It　was　an　excellent　pack　formation；　each　pilot　covered　by　his　comrades；　the　hanger
able　to　switch　from　side　to　side　as　needed。　Currently；　Jagdea　was　in　point；　with　Van　Tull　to　her　port
and　Espere　to　her　starboard；　Marquall　at　Espere’s　five　as　the　hanger。
On　her　mark；　they　shuffled　the　deck。　Jagdea　throttled　down　and　slid　back　out　of　the　point　of　the
V。　Van　Tull　rolled　three…sixty　high　and　Espere　did　the　same；　but　in　reverse　and　low；　until　the　two
wingmen　had　swapped　places。　Marquall　peeled　out　low；　then　gunned　forward　under　the　V　and
pulled　ahead　before　dropping　to　cruise　speed　and　coming　up　gently。　The　two　wingmen　then　matched
speeds　and　flanked　him　sweetly　to　his　five　and　seven。　Jagdea　throttled　back　again；　just　a　touch；　and
came　around　onto　Espere’s　five。
Textbook。　The　first　thing　that　had　gone　right　all　day。
“Nice　work；　flight。　Very　slick。　Let’s　stay　put　for　another　five。”
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The　undercast　was　thinning。　They　had　about　six…tenths　cloud　now；　and　dark　patches　of　the
Lida’s　arable　valley　appeared　below　them；　distant　patchworks　of　field…systems；　irrigation　webs　and
hydroponic　rafts。
“Flight　Leader？”　It　was　Van　Tull。　“Go；　Three。”
“Check　your　auspex。　I’m　tagging　eight　or　nine　contacts　below　us　at　twelve　kilometres；　south；
inbound。”
Sure　enough；　Jagdea’s　scope　showed　seven　pippers；　moving　north…east　at　under　three　thousand
metres。　Not　eight　or　nine；　but　that　could　just　be　the　conditions　masking　returns。
“Umbra　Four…One　Leader　to　Operations。　Come　in；　Operations。”
“Receiving；　Umbra　Four…One　Leader。”
Jagdea　reached　forward　with　her　heavily…gloved　left　hand　and　transmitted　the　auspex　fix。
“Four…One　Lead。　Should　there　be　anything　up？”
“Plenty；　Four…One　Leader；　but　not　there。”
“Understood；　Operations。　We’ll　check　it　out。”　Jagdea　shifted　in　her　seat；　and　tweaked　the　airmix
a　little　richer。　“Lead　to　flight。　I’ll　take　a　look。”　That　was　the　hanger’s　job；　to　peel　off　for
sweeps。　“Hold　it　here　and　come　around　three　points　south。”　There　was　no　time　to　shuffle　the　deck
again；　which　meant　she　was　leaving　Marquall　at　point。　A　good　idea？　No　time　even　to　worry　about　it。
“Umbra　Eight；　you　have　point。　Stand　by　to　stoop　if　I　need　you。”
“Read　that；　Leader。　I’ve　got　it。”
At　last。　A　touch　of　excitement　in　the　boy’s　voice。　Good。　He　could　do　with　this。　Besides；　Van
Tull　was　right　there；　solid　and　dependable。　And　Espere　was　a　consummate　wingman。
Jagdea　kicked　the　afterburners　a　touch　and　rolled　out；　feeling　the　delicious　punch　of　G　as　she
inverted　and　began　to　dive　away；　wide；　to　the　left　of　the　trio　V。　the　long　dive　loaded　power　into　her
wings；　and　she　was　touching　two　thousand　kph　as　she　closed　on　the　targets。　Enough　load　to　pull　off
beautifully　if　they　were　friendly。　Enough　punch　to　turn　it　into　an　intercept　if　they　weren’t。
Five　kilometres　and　closing。　Four。
The　sky　was　suddenly　very　clear；　less　than　four…tenths　cloud。　The　vast　green　rift　of　the　Lida
Valley　stretched　out　beneath　her；　and　for　the　first　time　she　could　see　the　hazy　line　of　the　Makanites。
Three　kilometres。　There　they　were。　Below　her　still；　but　closing　at　an　alarming　rate　because　they
were　travelling　towards　her；　and　adding　her　speed　to　their　own。　Nine　machines。　Clustered　rather
than　in　formation。
At　two　kilometres；　she　identified　their　pattern。　Cyclones。　A　flight　of　Cyclones；　Enothian　PDF。
The　delta…winged　double　props　were　painted　in　a　grey　and　white　dazzle；　and　running　north　hard；
possibly　at　the　top　of　their　performance。
What　the　hell　were　they　doing　here？　Were　they…　running？
Instinct　made　Jagdea　flip　off　the　red　safety　covers　of　her　main　guns。
“Cyclone　intruders；　Cyclone　intruders；　this　is　Umbra　Four…One　Leader—”　she　started　to　say　into
her　vox…mask。
But　she　stopped。　One　of　the　tail…end　Cyclones　wobbled　and　exploded。　The　brief　fireball　was
fuel…rich　and　sent　streamers　of　white　smoke　twirling　away　into　the　clear　air。　The　flaming　debris
dropped　towards　the　field…system　below。
Something　crimson　and　hooked　ran　in　past　it　so　fast　it　was　climbing　out　of　range　again　before
Jagdea　had　realised　what　it　was。
“Bats！　Bats！　Bats！”　she　yelled　into　her　vox。
Theda　seafront；　15。20
They’d　wanted　to　celebrate。　Of　course　they　had。　First　run　in　a　new　theatre；　and　a　fine　one　at　that。　But
Viltry　hadn’t　felt　like　celebrating。　It　had　taken　a　lot　to　just　get　them　home。　The　final　half…hour；　fuel
low；　belly…light；　weapons　all　but　empty。　So　exposed；　so　vulnerable。　Operations　insisted　nothing　in
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the　enemy’s　air　force　could　reach　the　Littoral　and　the　home…stretch；　but　Viltry　had　been　sweating　so
much　on　the　last　section；　he’d　been　able　to　pour　moisture　out　of　his　flying　gloves　when　he　took　them
off。
The　field　had　come　up；　Theda　North。　Even　closing　in　on　the　beacon　lights；　he’d　still　had　the
distinct　feeling　that　something　was　going　to　come　down　out　of　nowhere　and　kill　them　hard。
The　field。　The　outer　circuit。　Blue　flags　all　round。　Power　down　to　minimal；　just　kissing　the　edge
of　stall　speed　for　Greta’s　massive　airframe。
Then　in　over　the　cross；　balancing　the　Marauder　as　he　brought　the　vector　nozzles　around；
switching　from　forward　flight　to　vertical。　A　squeeze　or　two　of　viff；　a　hunkering；　and　then　down。
Intact；　alive。
The　rest　of　Halo　came　back　around　them。
Judd　and　the　boys　had　already　earmarked　a　tavern　near　the　billets。　They　got　out；　loud　and　full　of
themselves；　scattering　flight　kit　onto　the　hardpan　as　they　whooped　and　slapped　hands。
“I’ll　join　you　later；”　Viltry　told　them。　“Paperwork。”
He’d　taken　the　longest　shower　in　the　history　of　the　Imperium　of　Man；　standing　silent　and　naked
under　tepid　water　in　the　stinking　rockcrete　stalls　behind　dispersal；　then　changed　into　a　spare　uniform
suit　he’d　had　the　presence　of　mind　to　bring　in　his　kitsack。　He　put　on　his　tan　leather　coat。　His　hands
were　still　shaking。
The　crew　was　already　gone。　Viltry　found　a　transport　that　was　doing　a　run　down　into　the　centre　of
town　to　pick　up　a　Navy　crew；　and　hitched　a　ride。　It　dropped　him　off　on　a　corner　where　the　old
temple　road　met　the　fish…market。
There　was　no　one　around。　Viltry　walked　north；　away　from　the　dark　and　boarded　streets　of　the
town　towards　the　coast。　He　could　smell　the　sea。
He　had　no　real　idea　where　his　billet　was。　Someone　would　know；　when　he　was　ready。
The　piers　came　as　a　real　surprise。　He　turned　a　dank　street　corner　and　suddenly　found　himself　on
a　bright　and　windswept　esplanade。　Ahead　of　him；　beyond　an　iron　railing；　a　reinforced　seawall　and　a
narrow　curb　of　grey　foreshore；　was　the　sea　itself。　There　was　no　one　in　sight；　except　a　truck　that
groaned　past。　He　crossed　the　wide　roadway　and　came　up　to　the　railing。　The　sea　fascinated　him。
There　were　no　seas　on　Phantine；　not　liquid　ones　anyway。　The　sun　was　slipping　down；　into　the　lazy；
low　part　of　the　afternoon；　and　the　sky　was　yellow。　The　endless　water　seemed　indolent　and　slow；
hissing　in　a　languid　rhythm　against　the　crusty　beach。　The　water　was　making　frothy　breakers　at　the
shore；　but　beyond　that；　it　formed　into　a　sinuous　expanse　of　rolling　gunmetal；　stretching　away　to　the
vague　horizon。　It　reminded　him　of　the　Scald。
Three　long　piers；　their　ornate　ironwork　painted　white；　marched　out　from　the　esplanade　over　the
water。　Though　faded　and　rundown；　Viltry　realised　they　had　once　been　pleasure　palaces。　There　were
shuttered　arcades；　dance　halls；　flaking　posters　advertising　weekly　match…dances　and　cordial
functions。　He　was　utterly　taken　with　the　idea　of　stepping　out　on　an　iron…and…wood　bridge　that
crossed　to　nowhere；　the　sea　sucking　beneath　him。
He　walked　down　the　strand　a　little　way　until　he　came　to　the　entrance　arch　of　the　nearest　pier。　A
chalkboard　had　been　propped　up　against　the　ironwork　gate。　“Palace　Refreshments。　Table　service；
sea　views；”　it　read。
He　liked　that。　That　would　do。
Warily；　he　walked　in　under　the　iron　arch　and　out　along　the　pier。　The　sound　of　the　sea　was　much
louder　now。　He　could　see　the　surge　of　it　between　the　boards　beneath　his　feet。　It　made　him　dizzy　and
excited；　and　those　things　helped　to　mask　the　kernel　of　fear　he　was　carrying　in　his　hear