Double Eagle(科幻战争)-第12部分

快捷操作: 按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页 按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页 按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部! 如果本书没有阅读完，想下次继续接着阅读，可使用上方 "收藏到我的浏览器" 功能 和 "加入书签" 功能！

40
“Stoop　and　sting；”　Marquall　instructed。　God…Emperor；　but　he’d　waited　his　whole　life　to　say　that
for　real。
“On　your　lead；　Eight；”　Van　Tull　responded　calmly。
“Just　say　when；”　added　Espere。
“My　mark…　three；　two…　mark！”
The　three　Bolts　curved　away；　speed　climbing　as　they　dropped。　Intercept　dive。　Marquall　could
see　Jagdea；　and　two　of　the　bats。　The　other　machines　were　local　prop…drives。　He　was　coming　down
on　them　so　very　fast…
Guns！　Throne　of　Earth；　he’d　almost　forgotten　to　switch　live　in　his　excitement。　He　wrenched
back　the　switch　cover。　There　was　a　bat；　snaking　left　under　his　wing。　Surely；　they’d　seen　the　three
Bolts　coming　down　on　them？　Who　cared？
He　had　a　lock；　and　he　squeezed。　His　machine　rocked　as　it　unloaded。　Marquall　swore　aloud。　He’d
meant　to　select　autocannon；　but　the　toggle　was　across　on　las。　He’d　sprayed　off　almost　half　his
battery　load　in　one　go　and　not　even　hit　anything。
Except…　Over　there；　a　Cyclone。　Falling；　coming　apart；　weeping　flame。　Marquall　blinked　hard；
sweat　drooling　inside　his　mask。　Shit；　no！　Please　say　he　hadn’t　done　that！　Please！
“Eight！　Have　you　got　a　malfunction？　Marquall？”　Van　Tull’s　voice　exploded　out　of　the　speakers。
Marquall　snapped　awake。　He’d　only　been　staring　at　the　Cyclone　for　a　second　or　two；　but　that
was　more　than　enough。　His　dive　had　punched　him　down　through　the　fight　layer。　A　miserable
overshoot。
“I’m　okay；　I’m　okay！”　he　yelled；　and　instinctively　pulled　on　the　stick。　It　was　a　rookie　mistake。
He　was　coming　up　far　too　hard；　bleeding　off　all　the　power　he’d　gained　from　the　dive　as　his　machine
struggled　to　climb　again。　His　airspeed　dropped　to　a　crawl。
“You　stupid　fool！”　he　cried　aloud。
“Eight？　Say　again？”
“I’m　all　right！”　he　snapped；　swinging　into　a　wide；　curving　turn　to　nurse　some　speed　back　into　his
wings。　Almost　at　once；　a　Locust　went　past　in　front　of　him。　With　a　jolt；　he　fired　wildly；　missed。
Pearly　las…shot　dwindled　away　in　front　of　him。　A　tone　sounded。　Weapons　batteries　out。　He’d　just
done　it　again。　He　hadn’t　deselected；　and　now　his　primary　weapons　were　spent　and　dry。　All　thirty
shots　wasted　in　two　futile　bursts。
Jagdea　had　looked　up　as　her　three　wingmen　came　stooping　into　the　fight。　Van　Tull’s　machine
went　over　across　her　two；　and　expertly　splashed　a　banking　Locust。　The　bat　fire…balled；　and　Van
Tull’s　Thunderbolt　rolled　as　it　swept　through　the　flame　wash；　its　slipstream　sucking　fire　and　debris
out　behind　it　in　a　curious　string。　Espere　made　a　fine　pass；　but　his　chosen　target　viffed　at　the　last
moment　and　went　wide。　Espere　flattened　neatly；　dummied；　and　then　rolled　out　left　chasing　another
bat。
Jagdea　wasn’t　quite　sure　what　e　in　like　his　arse
was　on　fire；　and　unloaded　a　ridiculous　quantity　of　las…power。　Virgin　nerves？　Maybe。　Maybe　that
explained　why　he’d　also　dropped　long　and　then　mushed　off　all　his　power　in　the　worst　dive　recovery
she’d　seen　outside　of　flight　school。
She　wanted　to　break　off　and　go　to　cover　him；　but　the　Locust　was　back　on　her；　getting
intermittent　locks　as　she　jinked　and　twisted。
“Four…One　Leader　to　Umbra　Five。”
“Go；　Lead！”
“Espere。　Cover　the　boy；　for　Throne’s　sake！”
“On　it！”
Espere　turned　his　Bolt　over　and　burned　towards　Umbra　Eight。　It　was　wallowing　now；　making
tentative　jinks。
“Eight；　this　is　Five。　You　okay？”
41
“Yeah；　I’m…　yeah。”
“Eight；　do　you　have　a　weapons　malfunction？”
“Negative；　Eight。”
“You　just　nailed　the　sky　with　what　looked　like　full　batteries。”
“Negative；　negative。　I’m　fine。”
Espere　shook　his　head。　He　was　tense　himself。　Very　tense；　and　it　wasn’t　just　the　fly…fight。　Alone
amongst　the　pilots　of　Umbra　Flight；　Pers　Espere　had　not　settled　well　with　the　Thunderbolts。　He
missed　his　old　Lightning　more　than　he　could　explain。　In　dispersal；　the　others　would　sit　around；
lauding　their　Bolts；　and　talking　about　them　like　they　were　lovers；　wives；　husbands。　Espere　just
didn’t　feel　that　way。　His　machine；　serial　Nine…Nine；　did　not　suit　him。　It　was　an　old　machine；　a
veteran　bird；　lovingly　maintained　by　the　fitter　teams。　Espere　didn’t　know　if　it　was　Thunderbolts　in
general　that　disagreed　with　him；　or　Nine…Nine　in　particular。　He　was　fighting　with　it　all　the　time；
wrestling　to　get　it　to　do　what　he　wanted。　He　had　come　to　loathe　the　prospect　of　each　sortie。
In　an　Imperium　where　diligently…maintained　war　machines　were　often　ten；　twelve；　fifteen　times
older　than　their　pilots　or　drivers；　there　were　plenty　of　tales　of　particular　planes　or　tanks　carrying　a
jinx。　Cursed　machines；　plaguing　the　lives　of　their　users　until　they　were　themselves　destroyed。　Serial
Nine…Nine　had　a　long　and　patchy　record。　Six　pilots　dead　or　maimed　at　the　controls；　two　bad
landings；　three　major　refits。　Espere　had　once　asked　Hemmen；　his　chief　fitter；　if　Nine…Nine　was
jinxed。　Hemmen　had　laughed；　not　altogether　reassuringly；　and　said　not。　The　following　morning；
there’d　been　a　refuelling　mishap。　A　junior　fitter　had　been　torched　so　badly　he’d　left　the　skin　of　his
hands　fused　to　Nine…Nine’s　fuselage。
He　tried　not　to　think　about　it；　even　though　he’d　made　four　kills　in　his　old　Lightning；　and　none　in
this　machine。　It　was　constantly　coming　home　with　shot…holes　to　patch。
Espere　settled　in　beside　Marquall’s　machine。　Espere　was　an　expert　wingman。　He　knew　how　to
fly　cover　and　watch　a　fellow　pilot’s　back。　That’s　why　Jagdea　had　called　him　to　do　this；　and　that’s
what　he’d　do。　But　he　　with　his　antics。　There　was　a　gauge　light
on　for　a　drop　in　lube…pressure。　What　was　that　about？　Had　he　taken　a　hit　he　didn’t　know　about？
Mind　on　the　game；　Pers。　Mind　on　the　game。　The　boy　needed　all　his　help。
“Come　about；　Eight。　Let’s　see　if　we　can’t　do　some　good　here。”
He　looked　over　at　the　machine　alongside　him；　and　saeted　head　nod
eagerly；　his　thumb　coming　up。　Sunlight　glinted　off　the　canopy。
Sunlight　glinted　off　something　else。
“Break！　Break！　Break！”　Espere　yelled。　The　two　Bolts　scissored　up　and　away　violently　as　the
mauve　shape　snapped　by。　Espere’s　damage　recorder　started　beeping。
“Eight？　Where　are　you？”　Espere　rasped；　struggling　with　the　stick　as　he　tried　to　right　the　plane。
“I　can’t　see　it！　I　can’t　see　it！”
Espere　could　see　him　well　enough。　Marquall　was　above　and　to　his　right；　turning　really　badly　into
a　terrible　climb。　Espere　hit　the　juice　and　started　to　rise。
“Pull　in；　Eight！　You’re　going　to　stall　if　you　turn　that　tight！”
Silence。　The　horrendous　weight　of　high　G　was　preventing　the　kid　from　answering。
Don’t　black　out…　don’t　black　out…　Espere　willed。　Shit！　There　was　the　bat　again；　stooping　in
from　the　east；　cannons　blazing。　Marquall’s　Bolt　shuddered　as　it　was　hit；　but　the　impact　seemed　to
settle　him　out。　Or　snap　him　awake。
Espere　hit　reheat　and　came　around　hard　in　a　port　turn…and…roll；　viffing　gently　to　set　himself　up
on　the　Locust　as　it　crossed。　He’d　be　damned　if　he’d　let　the　kid　get　killed　on　his　virgin　run。
Espere　opened　up。　Autocannons。　A　neat　burst　with　good　deflection。　The　Locust　trembled；　side
hit；　and　then　broke　left。
42
Then；　out　of　nowhere；　there　was　another　bat；　coming　in　straight。　Espere　kicked　the　rudder　and
came　in　tight；　shielding　Marquall’s　bird　with　his　own　machine　as　he　tipped　his　nose　towards　the
attacker。
Marquall　saw　what　was　happening　about　a　second　too　late。　Espere’s　plane　rocked　wildly。　Pieces
of　plating　sheared　off；　part　of　the　rudder；　part　of　an　engine　duct。　The　canopy　shattered　but　stayed　on。
The　Locust　went　by　under　them　both　like　a　comet；　doing　well　over　500　kph。
“Umbra　Five！　Umbra　Five！　Are　you　all　right？”
Umbra　Five　wobbled　and　began　exuding　a　trickle　of　grey　smoke。
“Umbra　Five？”
“I’m　okay；”　Espere’s　voice　answered。　“I’m　okay。”
Espere　had　been　hit；　Jagdea　was　pretty　certain　of　that。　As　she　threw　her　bird　to　and　fro；　the　bat
on　her　neck；　she　glimpsed　Espere　take　a　slice…by。
Where　was　he　now？　No　way　of　telling。　She　was　banking　and　the　world　was　coming　round。　The
bat　was　right　on　her。
She　pulled　into　a　crisp　turn。　The　auspex　collision　monitor　suddenly　squealed。
A　Commonwealth　Cyclone　was　flying　right　across　her　path。
Jagdea　slammed　the　stick　forward　to　avoid　it；　and　went　under　the　delta…wing；　her　turbofans
shrilling　as　the　Thunderbolt　started　to　power　dive。　The　ground　was　rushing　up　at　her；　the　curlicue
line　of　the　Lida；　the　squared…off　field　beds　and　hydroponic　assemblies。　Getting　out　of　this　dive　was
going　to　be　hard。
Target　lock　wailed。　Okay　then；　harder　still。　The　bat　was　on　her；　following　her　down。
Coming　out　of　this；　she’d　have　to　pull　three　or　four　Gs。　That　was　possible；　provided　the　pilot
was　ready　for　it。　She　tensed　her　torso　and　legs；　the　recommended　“grip”　manoeuvre；　and　yanked　the
stick。
Here　it　came。　Wham！　Already　she　weighed　about　a　thousand　kilos；　feeling　her　heart　and　lungs
pressing　on　her　diaphragm。　Spots　in　front　of　her　eyes。　The　start　of　tunnel　vision。　“Grip”　position
helped　hold　the　blood　in　her　head　so　she　wouldn’t　black　out。
She　levelled　off　at　around　fifty　metres；　so　low　over　the　agricultural　waterways　her　plane　raised　a
bow…wave　of　spray　off　the　field　ponds。　She　glimpsed　water　aurochs　scattering　across　a　field。　Bank　to
the　right；　to　avoid　a　pump　station’s　tower；　then　left　again。　Her　slipstream　ripped　the　plastek　sheeting
off　a　field　of　waterbeet。　The　bat　was　right　on　her　six。　Target　lock。　Ping！　Ping！　Ping！
She　hit　the　speed　brakes；　her　harness　snapped　her　back　into　her　seat。　The　bat　went　right　over　her；
starting　to　turn　and　climb　desperately。
She　viffed　into　its　reactive　turn　and　hammered　it　with　three　salvoes　from　her　lascannons。　It
turned　to　port；　apparently　unharmed；　then　suddenly　screwed　over　into　a　nosedive　and　planted　itself
so　hard　into　the　middle　of　a　hydroponics　raft；　the　impact　sent　a　tidal　wave　ripple　flushing　out　beyond
the　field　boundaries。
Jagdea　turned　south；　rising；　as　a　column　of　smoke　boiled　up　from　the　farmland　behind　her。
“Lead；　you　with　us？”　Van　Tull　voxed。　“Four…A；”　she　replied。　“Umbra　Five；　you　okay？”
“Fine；”　Espere　responded。
The　remaining　Locusts　had　fled。　Jagdea　had　Four…One　turn　in　to　escort　the　rest　of　the　Cyclones
home。　She’d　made　two　kills；　with　one　probable；　raising　her　career　tally　to　nineteen。　Van　Tull　had
made　one；　raising　his　to　eleven。
Not　too　shabby。
Theda　MAB　South；　16。59
Operations　had　hoisted　blue　flags　and　lit　guide…path　flares。　The　day　was　fading　in　the　sky；　turning
the　cloud　cover　as　mauve　as　a　Locust’s　paint…job。　Asche’s　section　was　already　long　home；　and
Blansher’s　had　landed　about　fifteen　minutes　ahead　of　them。　As　Jagdea　came　in；　she　saw　the　svelte
43
ivory　machines　of　the　Apostles；　prepping　on　their　hardstands；　their　noses　bristling　with　black；　antlerlike
antennae　arrays　for　night…fighting。　All　the　other　Navy　wings　were　in　the　air　somewhere。　Busy
day。
“Be　advised；　Operations；”　she　said　as　she　came　in。　“Contrary　to　briefings；　the　Archenemy　has
air…reach　beyond　the　Makanites。”　She’d　sent　this　message　four　times　already；　with　barely　an
acknowledgement。　The　bats　were　over　the　mountains　now。　They　had　much　less　time　than　Ornoff
had　figured。
“Operations。　Please　recognise　my　signal。”
“Recognised；　Umbra　Leader。　It　has　been　sent　to　Tactical。”
In　the　fading　light；　she　cleared　the　bright　flare　path　and　settled　her　Bolt　onto　its　stand；　gusting
down　on　swivelled　nozzles　with　barely　a　bump。
T