Double Eagle (11 page)

“Thanks. Yes.”

He opened the cab door for her and she climbed up. Then he went round to the driver’s side, boarded, and turned the engine over.

Lamps blazing, they rumbled out of the compound and left the airfield, joining the empty highway strip into the city. She said nothing, just gazed out at the hooded lights of the field as they went by and receded.

It felt funny having company in the cab. He usually shipped teams of personnel around, loaded in the back. The cab was his private space. He felt embarrassed suddenly by the litter of disposable cups in the footwell, the fact that someone could see the way he had to lock his prosthetic hand around the wheel spoke.

But it would have been rude to expect her to ride in the rear.

At length, uncomfortable, he cleared his throat and said, “The Hydra, you said?”

“Yes. On Voldney.”

“Yeah.”

Did she recognise him? Half of him presumed not. Just another Munitorum drone. The other half was outraged.
With a face like his?

The thought made him smile.
Suddenly, August, vain about your looks!

“Something the matter, driver?” she asked.

“No, commander,” he said. “I’m to wait for you at the Hydra, is that right?”

“Yes. I shouldn’t be more than five minutes.”

“Not going out for a celebratory drink, then?”

“No. Why?”

“Oh, you know. A flier, back from a mission, wanting to wind down. The Hydra is popular with pilots.”

“So I’ve heard.”

So what’s this about, then, he wanted to ask? But he stopped himself. It wasn’t his place. He wasn’t one of them any more, and he couldn’t get away with insolence. He was a Munitorum drone.

As if she sensed his curiosity, she suddenly said, “I’m looking for an FTR.”

“Ah,” he said. Understanding, he smiled again. He was flattered that she should bother to make even that much conversation. She said nothing else until they were pulling up outside the Hydra.

“Wait here,” she instructed, and jumped down out of the cab.

Five minutes passed. Ten. A trio of drunken Commonwealth troopers staggered out of the bar like a six-legged beast and blundered off down the pavement, singing. It was dark. Just the lights of his truck, the neon bar sign, a few still-lit windows overlooking the narrow street.

He saw her re-emerge, alone. She looked up and down the street, annoyed. She crossed back to the driver’s side and he wound down his window.

“Not there?”

“No. Is there anywhere else you know?”

“A few places. Get in.”

He drove down through the Gillehal Plaza, and, as there was no one around, took a shortcut up a one-way ramp onto the shelving streets of the Zagerhanz. The truck’s gears wallowed as he downshifted on the steep slope.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“There are a couple of places up here. The Lullabye and the Midwinter. They’re often open after hours.”

She nodded.

“How long’s he been gone?”

“Since 22.00 yesterday.”

“And you don’t want to make this official?”

“No, I—No.”

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Jagdea,” she said, reluctantly.

He waited for her at the Lullabye and the Midwinter, but she came back from both on her own.

“One last idea. There’s a place on the Grand Canal.”

He drove the truck expertly along the narrow Old Town streets. There was just the tiniest hint of dawn in the air now. When they got to the place, he turned off the engine and climbed down with her.

“You can stay with the transport, driver.”

Kaminsky shook his head. “Actually no, Commander Jagdea. You’ll need me to get in.”

“Why?”

“Zara’s is an old drinking den. Not a bar. Women are only allowed in if they are the companions of male clientele.”

She stared at him.

“It’s true,” he said. “Maybe… maybe that’s why your FTR came here.”

Together, they walked to an iron-hinged door, set down from the street by three little steps. Kaminsky knocked, and the door opened.

The door-guard was a massive Ingeburgan with fat-hooded eyes. He looked them up and down, then waved them through.

The den was almost empty. Some chairs were already up on tables. Half a dozen Commonwealth fliers, all male, were playing cards around a corner table. A yawning waitress was serving them another bottle of joiliq. Two Navy fliers shared another booth, talking in low, fierce voices about something. A few other patrons sat alone, or played the chancer machines with their last pieces of change.

“Is he here?” whispered Kaminsky.

“That’s him. At the bar.”

There was a boy sitting at the bar side. A handsome sort, Kaminsky realised. He put the thought aside. Any one of the bastards in the room was handsome compared to him.

But still, this boy was especially handsome. Dark-haired, fair-skinned, tall… clearly from the same gene-pool that had produced the striking Commander Jagdea.

The boy was very drunk. A weary barman was cleaning a glass and watching in horrid fascination as the boy tried to find his mouth with a shot-cup. He missed, emptied the dregs of the liquor down his front, and then settled the glass on the marble bartop again.

He tapped it with an index finger.

“Whu’more.”

The barman shook his head.

“Oh fershizake. Whu’more, s’all I ask.”

“No,” said the barman.

“Time to go home, Vander,” Jagdea said.

The boy looked at her, blinked, and shook his head.

“Yes, Vander. Come home now, and we can forget this.”

“No. No. No-no. I’m woshup.”

“You’re in your cups, but you’re not washed up. Come on. I’ve got transport.”

The boy—Vander—fixed her with suddenly probing eyes. “Espere!” he spat.

“He’s in the infirmary. They’re patching him up.”

“Espere. He won” fly “gain.”

“No, he won’t. But that’s not down to you.”

“I got him hurt.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Y’esss! Yes, I got him hurt. I got him hurt. I got him. Hurt. I did. Me. I screwed up.”

“Maybe you did, Vander. Maybe you didn’t. No one’s blaming you for what happened to Pers.”

“Killacyclone too.”

“What?”

The boy made a shrugging movement with his hands. “Killacyclone. Killed. Killed a Cyclone. Shot the frigging thing to pieces, like—”

“No, Vander. We went over the gun-cam footage. The Cyclone was stung by a bat. Not you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. Not you.”

“Hnh. Thassomething.”

“Yes, it is. Now come on, pilot. Get up. We’re going now.”

Vander shook his head. “Espere…” he muttered.

Jagdea took a step towards him and put her hand on his arm. “That’s it, Marquall. Enough with the self-pity. Get your arse upright and follow me.”

“G’way!”

“Marquall, I’ve stuck my neck out for you. My whole neck. I came looking for you rather than report you were overdue. So far, it’s off the record.” She looked round at Kaminsky. “It is off the record, isn’t it?”

Kaminsky shrugged. “Sure.”

She shook Marquall. “See what I do for you? It’s off the record. I didn’t report you to the Commissariat. I could lose command for letting you run off like this. FTR. Failed To Return. You’re four hours late back at billet. The commissars would shoot you for this. Shoot me, too. Don’t mess me up, Marquall. Don’t you dare earn the Phantine a rep for screw-ups and disobedience. We’re running with the frigging Navy now! Get up, Marquall! Don’t you disgrace me! I need you!”

He looked at her, blinking to focus. “Y’don’ need me…”

“I lost a pilot yesterday. I’ll be damned if I lose two!”

She pulled his arm, and he struggled back. Kaminsky winced as the boy fell off his seat. He spilled Commander Jagdea over with him as he went, and a glass broke.

“That’s enough!” the barman cried. The Ingeburgan thug was closing in.

“It’s okay,” Kaminsky said, holding up his hand. He helped Jagdea up and pushed her aside. Then he stood over the boy.

“Call yourself a flier?” he said.

“What?” Marquall gurgled.

“What are you doing?” Jagdea began.

“Don’t worry,” Kaminsky told her. “Let me speak to the lad. I don’t want any trouble.”

He looked down at the boy again.

“You’re a pilot? You get to fly? I tell you what… you’re a piece of crap.”

“What?”

“A. Piece. Of. Crap. You disgust me. Your mamzel there has gone out on a line to pull your arse in, and this is what you do? Can you fly?
Can you fly?”

“Y-yes…”

“Can you fly?”

“Yes!”

“Why don’t you then?”

“I… I don’t know…”

Kaminsky reached under his coat and pulled out his service auto. He dropped it onto the boy’s belly. The falling weight winded him.

“Just use it.”

“What?”

“Use it. Use it now.”

“What?”

“Use the frigging gun, you waste of space. Put a shot through your stupid brain. It’d be quicker than drinking yourself to death. Do us all a favour.”

Marquall stared at the gun on his belly as if it was a venomous arachnid.

“What are you waiting for? Eh? You get to fly, you bastard! You get to fly! Why would you run away from that? I used to fly too! But I got crisped! See this? My face? My hand? They say I can never fly again! I’m not airworthy! I’d give anything to be you! Anything! So pick up that frigging gun and stop me envying your stupid little life!”

“Shit…” said Marquall. “You can’t say that to me…”

“No, he can’t,” said Jagdea, kneeling beside him. “But it seems he just did. Now are we going home or am I going to leave you with him?”

“Home,” agreed Marquall, closing his eyes.

Jagdea tossed the service pistol back to Kaminsky. He caught it. “Yours, I believe.” Then she hauled Marquall up on her shoulder and carried him out of the bar.

She was sitting with him in the back space of the truck when Kaminsky came out. He looked at her.

“Drive, please,” she said firmly.

Kaminsky got up into the cab. Alone again, he started the engine.

South of the Makanites, 08.30

Thirty thousand metres, not a cloud in the sky, just twenty-four silver giants leaving white lines of vapour across the blue.

Viltry felt much more at ease on this early run, Halo Flight’s second sortie of the tour. He wondered if it was strength of numbers: Halo was running in formation with Marauders of 2212th Navy, and they had a wing of Thunderbolts five thousand metres above them, flying top cover. Formation safety.

Or maybe it was the soothing effects of a long afternoon spent gazing at the sea.

Whatever, he was more relaxed.
Greta
felt good and responsive. Sunlight filled the cabin with a golden glaze, and the world seemed almost silent. At this altitude, the engines were a muffled throb. The loudest sounds were the hiss of the air-mix and the pump of his mask. He imagined this serenity was what it was like to be deep under the sea.

Lacombe passed a sheaf of plastek-sheathed charts over to him. He took another look at the recon data. As of 17.00 hours the day before, it had been confirmed (thanks, he was proud to note, to the action of a Phantine wing—Jagdea’s mob, bless them) that the enemy had secured air-range beyond the mountain limits. That meant almost certainly they had established forward air bases in the Interior Desert, maybe even mobile land-carriers, far further north than had been previously estimated by Operations. Aerial recon had spotted a few probable heat-sources overnight, and now their formation—call sign Hightail—and nine other formations like them were aloft on interdiction missions. If the enemy had air bases in the northern desert, they had to be hit now and taken out, or the show would be over before it began.

Hightail had already spotted half a dozen possibles during their flying time, but all had turned out to be masses of Imperial ground forces labouring north.

From this great height, Viltry enjoyed an awesome panorama of the desert, intractable and vast. It was ragged terrain, resembling worn sandpaper. Over to the west, hundreds of kilometres away, he could make out the margins of the Cicatrice, a huge rift of scarred land that ancient geology had gouged out across the continent, probably around the same time it had lifted the Makanites to overlook it. Flying in that region was said to be tough, especially at lower levels. The scar-valleys caused savage and unpredictable wind shears and crosscurrents.

According to the recon brief, they were now just fifty kilometres short of one of the most likely target areas, a high-density heat and magnetics return from a dune sea region called the Dish of Sand.

There was a Navy Marauder—Hightail One—flying about twenty kilometres ahead of them. Carrying zero payload to remain svelte and fleet, its auspex boosted and amped, Hightail One was their pathfinder.

Viltry waited patiently for the go or no. He had a good feeling about this one.

Then he saw the bats.

It was the strangest thing. It was like no one else had seen them. No alarm had come up, no squawk. There were nine of them, crimson blades, knifing in out of the east across the formation’s port flank.

“Enemy! Enemy! Nine o’clock and inbound!” Viltry yelled. He heard the main turret above and behind him whirring as the servos spun it. The vox was suddenly bursting with voices.
Greta
shook gently as, up in the turret, Gaize began firing the twin heavy bolters. Viltry saw tracer fire stitch out and fall to his left. The bats—Hell Razors—smashed in through the belly of the formation, weapon mounts flashing as they came. Where the hell was top cover?

“Vox discipline! Vox discipline!” Viltry yelled, trying to still the agitated shouting of his crew. “Visual scanning. Conserve fire. We’re in a formation, so no wild firing. Pick targets. Track them.”

Hightail was flying in overlapping diamond formations. Effectively, that meant each machine had the protection of its neighbours, and each diamond the protection of the diamond or diamonds adjoining it, plus top cover to fill in as needed. So deployed, and carrying such heavy turret weapons, the Marauders effectively formed a flying fortification that should, technically, be impossible to breach.