“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 part of the 333rd, was twelve strong.
“Umbra, this is Cobalt Lead. Acknowledged.”
“Umbra Leader, Sabre will comply.”
“Stoop and sting,” Blansher ordered.
The two flights committed down, rolling off from the front of the formation to the rear in a formal cascade. Marquall tried to keep his breathing even as the power dive began. He switched on the targeters and lit his gunsight. Guns on, las selected.
The glittering water was coming up fast.
He saw the great black hulks of the convoy vessels, trailing wakes of white water, and the tall, thin spurts of foam around them where detonations were hitting the sea. And there were the bats, streaking in on horizontal approaches against the sides of the ships, attacking with rockets and cannon.
They were Hell Talons, painted in various red, black and coral-pink shades.
The Thunderbolts tore into the mob of them. For a second, there were aircraft and gunfire tracks going in all directions around Marquall. He pulled the stick back slightly and brought Nine-Nine up level. A Talon swept by, heading across onto one of the barges, and Marquall banked around after it.
It started to fire, churning up a track of impacts across the water towards the barge’s hull, and Marquall opened fire too. He missed, but the Talon broke off to starboard, trying to get out of his cone of fire.
Marquall didn’t manage to turn as tightly and overshot the barge, passing briefly through the clouds of smoke it was emitting. He turned the plane’s nose and saw the Talon climbing furiously, so did likewise.
Two Thunderbolts, wearing the combat blue of the 333rd, shot past him, both chasing Talons. Then a red Talon swept in and Marquall had to roll out stiffly to avoid it. A wash of bright tracers, snaking and rippling like a wind-blown streamer, crossed past his right wing tip. Marquall rolled again and saw a black Talon zip under him. He inverted, falling after it, and dropping low to bob back up on its tail. The Talon tried to turn but he stuck with it, watching its ducts for the tell-tale swivel that announced a sideslip viff. The Talon rolled left, then right, but it couldn’t shake him. He got a lock-tone but before he could fire, two machines went past in the opposite direction, so fast he had no time to identify them, so hard their jet wash rocked him out of line.
More throttle. The Talon was extending slightly. It tried a little viff but Marquall held on right. Lock-tone for the second time. He fired.
He hit it. Buckled pieces of plating flew off. But it wasn’t a clean kill. The Talon rose, finding speed in desperation.
“No you don’t…” said Marquall.
Suddenly, the air lit up around him. A rain of las-fire.
“Umbra Flight! Break! The bastards are above us!”
It was Blansher’s voice. Marquall broke high, somehow coming out of the blizzard of shots unscathed.
“Umbra Flight, Umbra Flight! Bats at eleven. Climb like hell!”
Marquall looked about desperately and saw twenty or more Hell Razors diving in through the dogfight. Either Cobalt Flight had screwed up completely and let them through, or these were newcomers to the brawl.
Marquall came up fast, gripped by the heavy G. He couldn’t even see the black Talon any more and cursed his own luck. He’d come so close.
He saw Zemmic diving past, nose cone lit up in a blaze of gunfire. The Talon he was after started to spin and then lost something—probably coolant—in a gush of fluid. It fell into the sea like a stone.
Marquall looped and saw two green Razors turning out wide over another of the barges. He knew if he pulled away they’d be after his tail, so he went straight in for a frontal attack. Coming head to head, the closing speed was alarming. Marquall fired and saw shots burning back his way. The Razors shook past. He had no idea if he’d hit anything.
To the west of him there was a blue Thunderbolt, one engine on fire descending slowly on a long, lazy curve. A brief puff of white erupted as it hit the water.
A glance right. Del Ruth and Ranfre, locked in a barrelling acrobatic tumble with three Razors. The machines kept trying to turn in under each other, jockeying to get on the six. Ranfre was firing and his chosen target viffed out of the tangle so frantically it rammed its wingman. The colliding machines exploded in the air. Del Ruth and Ranfre broke and blasted on past. The remaining bat screamed out the other way.
Marquall was on it immediately. He came round on its seven, let off a burst, then a second. The bat plunged. For a moment, Marquall thought he’d stung it, but it was simply viffing out hard to switch onto his tail. Nine-Nine shuddered and bucked as it was hit. Marquall pulled a violent evasive turn. The bat shot past and away.
“Umbra Eight. Are you okay?”
Marquall checked the instruments. No critical warning lights had come on. “This is Eight. I’m okay.”
“Eight, this is Lead. You’re trailing fluid. I think it’s hydraulics. Break off and head for home, do you copy?”
Marquall’s heart sank. “Copy that, Lead. I am breaking off.”
By the time he began his approach to Lucerna, Marquall could feel the damage by the way Double Eagle was handling. He lined up on the transponder signal, and made a good landing in hangar three via the north entry.
Racklae got him out. The chief fitter’s head was bandaged. The transport that had got him out of Theda had been attacked, and he’d been sliced by shrapnel.
They inspected the damage to Nine-Nine.
“Superficial mostly,” said Racklae, “but you’ve taken a hit to the hydraulics.”
“It didn’t show on the instruments.”
“Sometimes it doesn’t, sir. But I’ll check your critical indicator too. Any luck, by the way?”
“No,” said Marquall. He didn’t have the heart to admit he’d come so close on two only to lose both. “Still shaking off the jinx.”
Lucerna Processing, 16.30
“Put simply,” said the Munitorum senior. “You’re dead.”
“Well, I hate to fly in the face of facts…” Viltry began.
“Don’t worry,” said the senior. “I’ll just run it again. Could you check the details as I have them?”
Viltry looked over the data-slate, and handed it back. “That’s correct.”
The senior began to enter the codes in the large, brass-levered cogitator that dominated the chamber. Robed clerks hurried in and out of the room, collecting data-slates or depositing scroll-cases in the alphabetised pigeonholes along one wall. Viltry shrugged apologetically to the man waiting in the doorway. He was at the head of a long, slow-moving queue that stretched right back down the hallway of the Munitorum complex and out down the stairs. Viltry had already spent two hours in it.
The dirt-stained windows of the chamber looked down onto one of Lucerna’s giant docks. The scene was artificially lit by frosty blue lumin spheres because it was inside a giant sea cave, protected by the overhang of the island cliffs. There was a hum of industry outside. Hoists clattered, men shouted. The wharfs were lined with extraction barges, disgorging hundreds of men and machines, crates and equipment onto the docks.
“It’s coming up the same again,” the senior said. “Viltry, Oskar. Listed as killed in action on the 260th, along with the rest of his crew. I’m afraid as far as the records are
concerned, you don’t exist.”
“And yet,” said Viltry.
“Quite,” said the senior. “We’re getting this a lot, I’m sorry to say. War is not conducive to competent record management. And the withdrawal from the Peninsula, well… let’s just say whole sections of the data archive are missing or inaccurate. You didn’t fly in with a unit, did you?”
Viltry sighed. He’d been through this four times: once to the wharfinger, once to a junior clerk in the downstairs annexe who was running a kind of logistical triage on the influx of refugees, and once already to this man.
“I’ve been detached from operations for over a week since my flight went down in the desert. I made it back to the coast as part of a retreat column and then reached Theda. I just got on a barge. Whatever was available. Things were pretty wild. I’m travelling with a woman.”
“Your wife?”
“No—”
“Fiancee?”
“No, sir—”
“But there is an attachment?”
Viltry shrugged. “Yes, we left the city together. She needed to get out too. The Blood Pact was everywhere. I couldn’t leave her. I wasn’t going to leave her.”
“Where is she now?”
“She went to civilian processing. I had to come here. Military. I hope she’s secured a place in a refuge.”
“I’m sure she’s fine.”
Viltry cleared his throat. “Sir, I just want to rejoin my wing. I don’t even know where they are.”
“Well, not here at Lucerna, I’m afraid. Actually, I can’t tell you where the Phantine XX is. More gaps in the record.”
“Can’t you just… correct your data?” Viltry asked.
“Not that simple, I’m sorry to say. Once the records say you’re dead, I’m not allowed to argue with it. The best I can do is register you as pending.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I have many thousands of new arrivals to process, disperse and reassign as quickly as possible, and I can’t afford to spend several hours now trying to correct your listing.” The senior took up a stylus and filled in a paper docket which he then stamped a number of times.
“This is a temporary document of registration. It officially recognises your presence here at the base, and clears you to receive accommodation, food and so on.”
Viltry looked at it. “It doesn’t even have my name on it. Or my service number.”
“Of course it doesn’t. If I register you by your name or service number, the system will reject you. This is a new number, freshly issued, so the system can accept you. Come back in a few days. Once the pressure’s died down, I promise I’ll attend to your case with all urgency. That’s the best I can do right now.”
“Very well,” said Viltry.
Clutching the docket, he walked out of the chamber. “Next!” the senior called, and the next in line hurried forward.
Viltry wandered away down the busy, rock-cut hallway. Fate had got him after all.
Oskar Viltry was dead, and he was just an anonymous body with a number.
Lucerna AB, 19.17
Blansher walked out onto the hangar decking. The pilots of Umbra, kitted up, were waiting in a group near the parked machines where the fitters were working hard, repairing the damage to Marquall’s machine, and patching hits taken by Del Ruth and Zemmic. It had been a furious brawl, and had continued for another fifteen minutes after Marquall’s departure. Zemmic had bagged one, Van Tull another and Blansher two. Despite struggling with her adopted and repainted Firedrake machine, complaining she couldn’t get used to the damn thing, Aggie Del Ruth had also scored a good kill. The Thunderbolts had finally driven the bats away from the convoy at around 13.30.
Blansher raised his hand. “A little quiet, please, Mr Racklae?”
Racklae obliged, and the sound of rivet guns and power drivers stopped.
“What is this, Lead?” Zemmic asked. “A snap call?”
Blansher smiled. Very quietly, he said, “Officer on deck.”
Bree Jagdea walked up out of the dispersal tunnel and came across the floor towards them. She’d had a shower, medical check and an issue of clean clothes, but the flight jacket was still her old, battered original.
There was a moment of disbelief. Then the pilots and the fitters began whooping and clapping. Del Ruth ran forward and hugged Jagdea. Van Tull shook her by the hand. The others all grouped around.
“As you were, Umbra,” she said.
The clamouring died down a little.
“Good to see you too, wing,” she smiled.
“We prayed you’d make it to an evac,” Del Ruth said.
“Actually, that’s not quite how it happened,” Jagdea replied.
“Then how in Terra’s name did you get here, commander?” asked Ranfre.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. Okay, okay! Quieten down! I will tell you. Later. For now, I want—”
She paused and glanced at Blansher. “I apologise, Umbra Leader,” she said. “I quite forgot myself.”
He grinned. “For the record, Acting Wing Leader Blansher hands command to Bree Jagdea, 19.18 hours.”
“I accept command,” she said. “And also for the record, may I commend your leadership in my absence, and also extend my highest compliments to the pilots and crew for their sustained work. You may applaud yourselves loudly.”
And they did.
“Right,” she continued when the ruckus abated. “I want the flight ready to go in an hour. Combat patrol. Manageable, Mr Racklae?”
“Yes, ma’am!”
“Excellent. We’ll go up, two hour sweep, then down. Snap calls permitting, I want everyone rested overnight. No card schools, no drinking. We’ll be going again early. I’ve met with the base commander, Vice Air Marshal Dreyco, and I’m appraised of the situation. This is how it stands, and if I’m blunt, you’ll forgive me. The forces of the Archenemy have, as you are well aware, stormed the southern Littoral. According to Tactical, they hold the coast from Theda through to Ezraville. Despite our best efforts to maintain air superiority over that area, they have beaten us back into the sea.”
Jagdea looked around at their faces. All of them looked grim.
“We could not have predicted their air power, nor the efficiency with which they advanced their mass-carriers to extend strike range. Nor could we have countered the manner in which their bombing campaign paved the way for drop deployment of Blood Pact ground forces. They outplayed us, it’s as simple as that.”
She took off her flight jacket and hung it from the claws of a power lifter. The cavern air was humid. Her arm was out of its sling now, though it was still packed with dressing pads.
“But understand this,” she continued. “Our efforts—and the lives of our comrades in this unit and the Navy at large—were not wasted. We held them. We delayed them. Face it, all we ever hoped to do was delay them. We bought the land forces time to get clear. As I speak, extraction convoys are sailing north across the Zophonian Sea, heading for the main islands there or the northern coast itself. Reports say large elements of armour and infantry are crossing the Festus by land on the way to the Commonwealth fortress hives at Ingeburg. We’ve made it possible for a considerable portion of the Imperial land army to get clear of the war zone. Now they can regroup and prepare to stage a counter-attack. Reinforcements are en route from the Khan Stars. Due in eight days. The Imperium is on the back foot, but Enothis is far from lost.
“There’s always a chance,” she added.
“There’s gonna be a “but’, isn’t there?” said Cordiale.
Jagdea nodded. “Naturally, pilot. Whoever said the life of an Imperial combat flier would be easy?”
“The aviation recruiter back in scholam,” said Ranfre, and raised a laugh.
“The enemy has driven us into the sea,” said Jagdea. “But the sea is our secret weapon. We’ve got the islands. Navy wings are regrouping here at Lucerna, at Onstadt, Viper Atoll, Longstrand, Salthaven, and also on
the hive islands of Zophos and Limbus. Long range squadrons have taken station on the northern coastline at three dozen airfields including Tamuda City and Enothopolis itself.”
Jagdea walked across to the nearest Thunderbolt and placed her hand against its flank, like an ancient warrior patting their destrier. “In order to mount his final offensive, the Archenemy has to get over or around the Zophonian Sea. He will achieve this by way of an air offensive. In the next few days, enemy machines will be flying in force from the southern Littoral with the intention of sinking the retreat convoys and attacking the northern shore. Unchecked, a blanket air assault such as that will crush Enothian hopes. The Northern Affiliation would be wounded and reeling by the time the invasion comes.”
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…”