Double Eagle (35 page)

She turned round to look at them straight. “All viable Navy wings have been charged by Admiral Ornoff to deny that air assault. I repeat, we are commanded that we should operate to deny Archenemy air superiority over the sea. If we can just hold his squadrons back, we will block the sharp end of his invasion, and stall its malign force at the southern coast.”

“And if we can’t?” said Zemmic.

“Then we will have failed. And Enothis will fall. Any other bloody silly questions?”

The briefing broke up and everyone resumed work.

Blansher joined Jagdea.

“Tall order. You think we can do it?”

“We can do what we do, Mil,” she replied. “After that, it’s down to the almighty God-Emperor and the currents of fate itself.”

“But realistically?” Blansher had a habit of rubbing the scar tissue that bisected his lips and chin when he was anxious. He was doing it now.

“Realistically? How’s this for realistic? It took them two weeks to smash us out of the south. How long do you think the remainder of our broken, under-strength, scattered wings can hold the sea zone?”

“Throne!” he said. “But—”

Jagdea cut him off. “Or try this for realistic instead. The sea is a real buffer that will slow the enemy more than the desert or the Peninsula ever did. We are the best pilots in the Imperium… I don’t just mean the Phantine, I mean the Navy boys too. We fly to our limits for another week, keep knocking the bastards back, and maybe we have a chance. Once they start hitting the northern coast, it’s checkmate, but they’ve got to get past us first. Regular combat patrols. Snap calls. Up and into them. We could fend them off. Unless…”

“Unless what, Bree?”

“Unless they send everything they have at us at once.” Blansher sighed. “That’s not a scenario I want to think about.”

An odd look abruptly crossed Jagdea’s face. She turned. “It just occurred to me. What the hell am I going to fly?”

“We’ll find you something,” Blansher promised.

He walked her over to one of the freight elevators and dropped them down into the storage chamber under number three hangar. Teams of fitters were at work down here too. In the glow-globe half-light, welding sparks showered up, bright and thick, and panel-guns whined and thumped. The cradle bays down in the storage chamber were circled around a central elevator platform that lifted planes up onto the main deck.

Serial Zero-Two sat on one of the repair cradles.

“Came in on one of the heavy transports,” said Blansher. “The techs say she’s fit to fly.”

“Great throne of gold!” Jagdea exclaimed. “I never thought I’d see her again. I expected to make do with a spare from the depot.”

“Praise be the God-Emperor and the diligence of his Munitorum. Despite the urgency, they got a hell of a lot of equipment out of Theda at the end there.”

“Speaking of spares,” Jagdea said, raising her voice to be heard over a blast of riveting, “what are those?”

Alongside Zero-Two, four other Thunderbolts sat on cradles.

“Oh, they shouldn’t be here. The transports brought in a lot of unassigned machines. Spares. Or leftovers from units that don’t exist any more. That sort of thing. They gave us four of them because Umbra was listed as a twelve element wing. I explained to the Munitorum clerk we only had eight pilots, and he just got concerned I was upsetting his book keeping.”

Jagdea walked round the machines. One was an ex-Raptor bird, in a scratched black livery. Another was from a unit that favoured pale tan with dazzle patterns. The other two were bare-metal silver, recently delivered replacements that had yet to be assigned.

“Anyway, I’ve got the depot working on it,” Blansher said. “I don’t want them wasted. And I’m sure we’re not the only wing to have been given machines we can’t use. They’ll get shipped out in the next few days to units that can use them.”

“No,” said Jagdea firmly.

“What?” Blansher asked.

She looked at him. “Mil, the Imperium needs to get everything it’s got aloft now, not in the next few days. We’ve got planes without pilots. Good for us! I’ll bet the evac barges brought in dozens of decent pilots without machines. Let’s find them! Let’s use them now!”

“Well, I guess…”

“It’s called pragmatism,” she said. “Inform the clerks that these planes are assigned to Umbra. Cancel the transfer.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.” She turned and called out. “Mister Hemmen?”

The fitter ran across to her. “Mamzel?”

“Make these planes airworthy and dress them in Umbra paint schemes.”

“Yes, mamzel. Directly.”

“Soon as I can,” she said to Blansher, “I intend to have Umbra up to full strength. I’m going to find us some willing volunteers.”

Lucerna AB, 23.12

The fan assemblies were still venting thick exhaust fumes out of the hangar. Jagdea took off her helmet and got down from Zero-Two.

She glanced at the three cannon-shell holes in the tail plating. “Patch that, please,” she said to her head fitter. “Rearm and refuel.”

“Yes, commander.”

She walked up the dispersal tunnel and entered the ready room, throwing her helmet, mask and gloves onto the couch. The man who had been sitting in one of the armchairs for some time stood up swiftly.

“At ease,” she said. “Thanks for coming. You’ll have to forgive my temper. A patrol turned into a full-on brawl. But we stung two for no losses, thanks be.”

She went over to the cradenza and poured herself a stiff amasec. “I told my crews this was a ‘no drinking’ night, so be good and don’t let on.”

The man nodded.

“Commander, I was wondering why you sent for me?” said August Kaminsky.

Jagdea slid open a filing cabinet drawer and pulled out a bulging file and some data-slates.

“A bit of driving, Mr Kaminsky. That’s what you told me you were good for these days. A bit of driving for the Munitorum.”

“Yes, commander.”

“Well, I’d like you to do a bit of driving for me. There’s an I-XXI Thunderbolt downstairs, and I’d like to have your name stencilled under the cockpit.”

Kaminsky gazed at her. His eyes shone with what seemed like anger. The skin of his unblemished cheek flushed almost as pink as the mass of bums on the other side.

“Is that a joke, commander? If it is, I think it’s in pretty poor taste. I can’t fly Thunderbolts. I can’t fly, period.”

“I beg to differ. I was in that Cyclone with you. That was instinct, Kaminsky. Pure instinct. I’ve never seen finer.”

“But, commander…”

“I’m offering you a place in my wing, Mr Kaminsky. Or should I say “Major’? I called up your log records. Sixteen years, wing leader grade, a career tally of seventeen confirmed kills. This is your chance to get back in the game. To fly and fight for your world. Are you going to refuse me?”

Kaminsky raised his stiff, plastek hand. “Commander, I was rated not airworthy because of this, not because I was unwilling to fight. The Commonwealth just hasn’t got the augmetic resources to fix up pilots like me. With this hand, I can’t control throttle, stick and guns. Shit, you know that, Jagdea.”

Jagdea nodded. “Yes, that’s a problem. The Navy could resource you a proper augmetic implant, but we don’t have much time. Certainly not enough time for you to undergo implantation surgery. So I talked to my fitters. They’re an ingenious lot, fitters. One suggested mounting the trigger assembly on the top of the throttle lever, but we all thought that might get in the way. Then Mr Racklae had a notion. He’s going to wire up the weapons systems to a voice activator. It’ll take a little getting used to, I realise, but you’ve got some serious familiarisation to do anyway. Bottom line, Kaminsky, your guns can be voice controlled. Your impairment need not bar your from combat service.”

Kaminsky continued to stare at her. “I—” he began.

“Think it over, major. If you decide to pass, I have other candidates to consider. But you were my first choice.”

There was a knock on the door.

“Yes?”

Marquall looked in. “Commander? Do you have a minute?”

“Be right there,” she said. She glanced back at Kaminsky. “Help yourself to a drink if you like. I’ll be back in a while.”

She left Kaminsky in the ready room and went outside. Marquall peered back through the doorway with a frown. “What’s he doing here, commander?” he whispered, dubiously.

“He’s having a long, hard think, Marquall. What did you need?”

“A guy’s just turned up in the hangar. Says he knows you.”

“Hello, Jagdea,” said Viltry.

“The Emperor protects! Viltry?”

She hurried to him and shook his hand. He looked like hell. Unshaven, his clothes dirty and torn, and he’d lost a lot of weight.

“Viltry, it was posted that you were dead,” she said.

“So they keep telling me. The Munitorum refuses to believe I exist.”

“But your machine did go down?”

“Yeah.”

“Your crew?”

Viltry shook his head.

“I’m sorry.”

“By the time I got back to Theda, everyone was leaving. I jumped on a barge, wound up here.”

“Where’s the rest of Halo Flight?”

Viltry shrugged. “Don’t know. I was talking to a Navy crewman down in the food line, and he said he thought a Phantine outfit was stationed here, so I came to see for myself. I can’t pretend I’m not disappointed you’re not Halo, but it’s good to see a face from home.”

“What are you going to do?” asked Jagdea.

“I don’t know, exactly,” he confessed. “Even if I do find out where in this theatre Halo’s been posted, I don’t stand much chance of rejoining them. Until the Munitorum acknowledges my existence, I’m not eligible for transit back to my outfit. I’m… stuck.”

“Not necessarily,” said Jagdea. “Do you want to fly?”

“Well, yes. If I can.”

“You’re fit. You’ve done tours on Thunderbolts too, right?”

“Yes. Bree, what do you have in mind?”

Lucerna AB, 07.30

A clear day over the desert. Fine, bright, light conditions. Slight crosswind. He opened the throttle and the big, brutal Imperial plane climbed effortlessly.

Ironic, Kaminsky thought. Conditions had been just like this that day he’d—

The last time he’d flown.

“Make your track four-one-six,” the vox said.

“Copy that, Lead,” Kaminsky replied.

“And keep an eye on your auspex. The dial top right of the screen-plate adjusts gain if you need better resolution on a merged return.”

“Got that, thank you.”

Kaminsky pushed the stick over gently, depressing the rudder bar. Good response. The Thunderbolt was everything he’d imagined it would be.

“Contacts! Ten o’clock!” the vox suddenly chimed.

Kaminsky glanced round, saw the flash on the auspex. Nothing in visual… No, there it was. A glint of sunlight off metal, hard and high up.

He started to climb again. The bat came down sharply, screwing out of its dive. He thought he’d paced the intercept well, but the hostile had gone under him.

“Break! Break, or he’ll have you!”

“Trying!” Kaminsky responded. He made a violent left-hand roll. It was right on his tail now. How the hell had it managed that?

“Break! Break!”

Tone warning. He was locked hard. “Holy Throne!” he cursed, and tried one last twist. The bat began to fire. Kaminsky’s Thunderbolt exploded. The stick went dead. So did the sky. Blansher slid back the hood. “Bad luck,” he said.

“I was stupid,” Kaminsky said. “It was a basic mistake.”

“You’re still getting used to the bird. Thinking too much about the controls and how they operate. It’s natural. Once the mechanics become so familiar you don’t have to think about them, your mind will be freed up.”

Kaminsky nodded.

“Besides,” said Blansher. “I know you don’t have much experience of vector-thrust aircraft. Vectoring gives us all sorts of tricks we can play in the air. The bat got you just then because it viffed out under you. And if you’d done the same, you’d probably have evaded.”

“I know,” said Kaminsky. “But it’s difficult not to think in terms of forward motion. Sidestepping, stopping… that sort of thing doesn’t seem natural.”

“It needn’t be that dramatic. Just a little touch will put a slight non-ballistic behaviour into your performance.”

Blansher glanced at his chronometer.

“You’ve been in the simulator rig for two hours. We can take a break if you like. Get some breakfast into you.”

“How many times have I died in those two hours?” Kaminsky asked.

“Six,” Blansher grinned.

“Let’s try it again.”

Lucerna AB, 07.43

“Commander? Commander Eads?”

Jagdea ran to catch up with the man. They were crossing a busy gantry walkway deep in the heart of the base. Tannoy announcements kept booming out, and personnel jostled and hurried past.

“Commander Eads?” Jagdea said.

The man turned, his head cocked. “Who’s calling my name?”

She’d been told he was blind.
Look for the blind officer,
several people had said. “My apologies, sir. I’m Commander Jagdea, Phantine XX.”

“Are you indeed? And why were you after me?”

“I was hoping to talk to you, sir. Get some advice.”

“About what?”

“Pilots. I’m looking for pilots to replace losses in my flight.”

“Then surely you should be talking to Navy reserve,” he said.

“I started there. Navy reserve has no one airworthy. The handful of able pilots who have come in with the evac have already been assigned to Navy flights. So I asked the Munitorum for lists of airworthy Commonwealth pilots here on Lucerna.”

Eads chuckled. “You can’t do that. Navy doesn’t take pilots from the PDF.”

“Because the Navy believes it is an elite service and chooses to draw only on its own. I know. That’s what the Munitorum officer told me,” Jagdea said. “The thing is, the Phantine XX isn’t Navy. It’s Imperial Guard. An aberration, but one that permits me the scope to recruit from the PDF if I choose.”

Eads shook his head, amused. “The Navy won’t like that.”

“The Navy can lump it. The precedent is already well established, thanks to a priest who—Look I won’t bore you with the story. The point is, I have the list of Commonwealth fliers.” Jagdea patted a fat folder under her arm. “I was told you were the man to ask about recommendations.”