The knocking grew yet more insistent. Darrow began his approach.
Theda MAB South, 07.47
“Your fighter wings,” Ornoff told them, “are five of the first to arrive on station here along the southern coast. In the next seventy-two hours, a total of fifty-eight wings of the Imperial Navy… and its affiliates…” he added, with a nod to the Phantine, “will be deployed at airfields along the entire littoral. Forty-two fighter wings, sixteen bomber flights. To say that you will be supporting the local Commonwealth squadrons here is a misstatement. You will form the front line in the air. The stalwart Commonwealth forces who have, let me remind you, been fighting this theatre for months now, will take a supportive role. God-Emperor willing, this may allow them precious time to repair, refit, recrew and rest.”
He turned to the chart behind him. “I don’t need to tell you to familiarise yourself with the topography, channel use, and the location of friendly fields. Encryption codes will be changed on a daily basis. The Archenemy is listening.”
Ornoff paused and slid his open hand down the chart pensively. “The situation here is grave. Lord Militant Humel’s land forces, ably supported by the Commonwealth armies, almost succeeded in driving the Archenemy off this world. However, in the last two months, fortunes have reversed disastrously. The Archenemy, whose remaining surface stronghold is around the Southern Trinity Hives—here—has resupplied in great force as part of the counter-offensive launched last year through the Khan Group as a whole. The Lord Militant’s land forces are now in harried retreat northwards through the Interior Desert… this region, here. Some have already reached the Makanite Range, and are struggling through the passes there. Our task—your task—is to help as many of them reach the safety of the Zophonian Coast as possible. We are to supply comprehensive air cover to the retreating columns of armour and infantry. That means denying the enemy airspace, and prosecuting their land forces with aerial strikes. Enothis will only be saved if sufficient portions of allied land forces can be brought back to the coast intact. There, with resupply, they can make a stand, a counter-attack to meet the Archenemy invasion.”
Ornoff looked back at them all. “Expect to be flying sorties round the clock. A thorough strategic plan will be executed as soon as all the wings are on station, at which point your wings may be reassigned to other fields. In the meantime, you will be flying ad hoc missions at the discretion of Operations to supply cover until we are at full strength.”
Ornoff raised a hand and beckoned one of the staffers who had entered the hangar with him onto the stage, an older man in the flight kit of a Commonwealth pilot officer. “I’ve invited Commander Parrwood here to brief you on climate and terrain peculiarities. Before he does, any questions?”
Godel, the Sundogs’ flight commander, raised a gloved hand. “What are we to expect here, admiral?”
“Superior air power,” Ornoff replied crisply. “Hell Razor and Locust-class fighters, Tormentor and Hell Talon-class fighter-bombers. The Archenemy is flying a large number of locally-made machines. There are also reports of heavy bombers, of a type yet undetermined. Many of their planes exhibit extended range, which may indicate mass carriers in the desert.”
“When do we get in their reach?” one of the Apostles asked.
“Unless you deny them, Major Suhr, at their present rate of progress, the Archenemy wings will have range enough to begin attacking these coastal bases within the month. That is an eventuality I don’t want to see.”
“And you won’t, admiral,” said Suhr, “because we will deny them.” There was a general murmur of approval.
“Now, if Commander Parrwood would be so kind we—”
Ornoff’s words were cut off as a hooter began to drone outside. In a moment, it was chorused by others. A deep, ominous moaning wailed out across the field.
The aviators exchanged glances. Ornoff looked at his aides and hurried off the stage, heading for the hangar doors. Everyone followed.
Outside, in the bright sunlight, they clustered on the rockcrete apron, scanning the glassy sky. Path lights had been lit along the main runway track, and recovery vehicles were growling out of sheds along the north perimeter.
“Someone’s in trouble,” Blansher muttered.
“There!” one of the Navy pilots called, pointing.
Low in the southern sky, tiny dots. Jagdea heard the distant, burping putter of pulsejets.
“That’s low,” said Asche. Several of the dots were hanging back, but two were moving in. They 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.”
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 fi
re 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.
“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?”
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 north-western sief. Such was the fate of Lord Militant Humel’s great “land armada”, which had almost 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 hat
chway.
“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.
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.”