Doom Flight - Cavan Scott

by Warhammer 40K

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  Doom Flight

  Cavan Scott

  The city was ablaze.

  Sergeant Kerikus pushed down on the stick and the Wrath of Aquila dropped into a dive, the baleful roar of the gunship’s engines echoing through the blasted streets. Ruined buildings stretched up on either side like a canyon, debris from below whipped up in the Stormtalon’s wake.

  Flying this close to the battle-ravaged streets was risky. The slightest miscalculation would bring certain death. A bank of burned-out towers rushed towards him. If Kerikus did not pull up soon the Stormtalon would carom into their blackened shells. Even a split second of hesitation would be fatal. Behind his battle-helm, the sergeant’s cold grey eyes narrowed. He was a Doom Eagle. There would be no hesitation, no indecision. No second chance.

  The hulking land transporter thundered ahead, thick barbed wheels churning up the already ravaged road. He had spotted the dense smoke belching from its engine from a kilometre away, his mouth instinctively curling in disgust. He could almost smell the foul reek of the scum hanging from the rust-eaten plating and hear their stupid cries of alarm as his Stormtalon swung around behind them.

  The orks were swarming over the truck now, trampling over each other to reach the oversized gun turret that was bolted haphazardly to the transporter’s uneven roof. Others had produced crude hand weapons, almost tumbling from the racing vehicle in their eagerness to bring him down.

  ‘Not this time.’

  As stubber fire danced across the Stormtalon’s nose, an automatic rune flared on Kerikus’s helm-display, side-mounted lascannons locked and ready to fire. Kerikus thumbed the trigger and the transporter immediately erupted into a ball of incandescent flame. The Stormtalon tore through the sudden inferno, the heat of the blast scorching the Wrath’s silver undercarriage. Kerikus pulled up sharply, simultaneously rolling to the right. The gunship banked, rushing towards a gap between the oncoming buildings – an exceptionally tight gap. If Kerikus belonged to any other Chapter he may have stopped to question the wisdom of running such a space. If Kerikus had belonged to any other Chapter he would be dead.

  The Stormtalon sped through the gap with inches to spare.

  No hesitation.

  Kerikus only breathed again once the Wrath had climbed to a safe distance. The manoeuvre had been dangerous – foolhardy even – but it had also been necessary. The stinking creatures crammed into that transporter would have bolstered the ork defence. Some would argue that a few less greenskins would not make any difference, that the capital of Quadcana had already been lost. They would also probably misinterpret his determination for a death wish. While the Doom Eagles accepted, and even embraced, their mortality, they did not long for death and glory.

  Death was inevitable. What mattered was your service to the Emperor in the years, or even seconds, before you breathed your last.

  Kerikus came about, soaring above the city limits. He glanced at the tactical display, activating a status report with a blink. The entire squadron had been lost. On the screen, a solitary signal flared on the map of the city: the Wrath of Aquila, the last gunship in the air.

  The battle had been swift and brutal and the outcome painfully predictable, signals blinking out of existence on the map with every fresh kill.

  The sounds of their defeat replayed over and over in Kerikus’s mind, accompanied by a pict-feed of bitter memories that he would not soon forget.

  He could still hear Malika’s curse as they dropped into Quadcana’s atmosphere to witness the scenes of total devastation on the surface, Captain Relyn reeling off the atrocities one by one across the vox. ‘Five billion dead. Defences completely routed. Temples desecrated. This cannot stand. Sergeant?’

  Kerikus had picked up the briefing, even as the squadron fell into position, two hundred kilometres from the hive world’s capital city.

  ‘We are to take back Quadcana Prime,’ Kerikus had stated before Relyn’s voice had cut back in.

  ‘Or ensure that the city is utterly uninhabitable. Even for a hive world, the level of production here is astonishing. The weapon manufactories in Quadcana Prime alone would give the orks an advantage for years to come, decades even. While there is even the smallest chance of victory, we must fight.’

  We will fight, Kerikus had thought automatically. He had given the command, even feeling a rush of pride as the Seventh Squadron had split into attack formations.

  ‘Can we expect reinforcements?’ Malika had asked as soon the captain’s group had broken off. Techmarine Tyrus had provided the reply.

  ‘Not for three days.’

  ‘So it’s down to us.’

  ‘Isn’t it always?’ Kerikus had snapped in response. They should have been focusing, not stating the obvious. When the call from the Quadcana central administration had reached the Order, the surprise was not that the orks had invaded the planet, more that it had taken them too long. Either way, the auspex was already bleating, ork fighters screaming in to meet them.

  Kerikus had begun to give orders, when the captain’s voice has broken over the vox.

  ‘Enemy engaged. Never seen so many. Require immediate assis–’

  The rest of the sentence had been lost in an explosion and an ear-splitting shriek of static. At that moment, Kerikus had become squadron leader. The operation was in his hands, along with the lives of his battle-brothers.

  Brothers who were now dead.

  The Wrath continued circling the smouldering outskirts of the city. The skies above Quadcana Prime were still swamped with enemy fighters.

  If he went back he would be shot out of the sky in seconds. A grim smile flickered across Kerikus’s dry lips.

  We are Doom Eagles. We are dead already.

  Opening the throttle, the Wrath of Aquila thundered towards the heart of the city.

  Tracer fire strafed across the Wrath’s wings. Kerikus had expected to be picked up much earlier. It was not as if the greenskins were mounting a citywide defence. He was but one gunship. And yet, the sergeant knew all too well the perils of underestimating xenos scum. What they lacked in intelligence, they more than made up for in tenacity. They would not peel off until they had made the kill or died in the attempt – or sometimes both.

  Kerikus checked the rear display, noting that his pursuer was gaining fast. The Wrath bobbed around burned-out towers, weaving through masts and spires. There was no time to think, only to act, to rely on the instincts that had kept him from joining the names in the Hall of the Fallen. Never stay level. Remain unpredictable. Leave the enemy guessing.

  An unearthly wail of static burst through the cockpit’s speakers, disturbing Kerikus’s concentration for a microsecond – enough time to kill him. He pulled the Wrath into a skid, narrowly avoiding a jagged communication relay.

  ‘Dakkajet! Dakkajet! Dakkajet!’

  The gruff voice ranted over the vox, accompanied by the percussive report of autocannons. Not taking his eyes from his flight path, Kerikus reached over, instinctively knowing where to find the operational runes without looking. His helm-display flashed up confirmation; the brute had somehow managed to hack into the Stormtalon’s vox system, overriding the Imperial channel. Kerikus thumbed the control, attempting to shut off the ork’s manic chant, but to no avail. Re-routing the system would be fatally distracting, but there was more than one way to silence the infernal babble.

  ‘Dakkajet! Dakkajet! Dakkaj–’

  Kerikus’s fist slammed into the vox control, sparks flying over his clenched gauntlet. The ork’s cry distorted and was lost in a screech of
white noise. Kerikus pummelled the dashboard until the speakers fell blissfully silent.

  ‘Better,’ Kerikus snarled as the savage unloaded another salvo into the Wrath. There was no precision in the attack, no finesse. The ork’s overriding strategy was to point itself at the Stormtalon and start firing. That’s what made it so dangerous.

  All it would take was one lucky shot.

  Switching to repulsor systems, Kerikus slammed on the air brakes, throwing the Stormtalon into a flat half spin. It was an old trick, one of the first his flight instructor had taught on Gathis. Turn straight into the attack, putting your enemy on the defensive. Force them to react, to panic.

  For a second, Kerikus thought he had made a mistake. The ork held its position, firing indiscriminately.

  ‘It’s going to ram me,’ Kerikus said out loud, realising the brute’s suicidal intent. He opened the Wrath’s assault cannons, but still the ork did not pull away.

  Then, at the last possible moment, the ork pilot threw its jet into a spiralling climb. Instinctively, Kerikus yanked back on the stick, the Stormtalon vibrating with the unadulterated power of its twin thrusters as he gave chase, rocketing into the leaden sky. The ork was racing for the sanctuary of the storm clouds high above.

  ‘No escape for you that way, alien.’

  Warning klaxons sounded as he hung on the ork’s tail, climbing almost vertically now, dangerously close to a stall. The question was what would cut out first, the engines or his brain? Despite the best efforts of his Lyman’s Ear, the extreme pressure of the crushing gravitational forces was almost too much. A human pilot would have blacked out by now, but even his enhanced physiology was struggling to cope. His peripheral vision was failing, what little colour he could still see bleached grey as his brain was starved of oxygen. He was shutting down, the scream of the repulsors flattening, losing their immediacy, Time was becoming elastic, stretching away from him. Seconds became minutes, minutes became hours. He could hardly feel the stick gripped tight in his hand.

  ‘Give in to it,’ he yelled, hardly recognising his own slurred voice in his ears. ‘Why won’t you black out? Why won’t you–’

  Metallic hail clattered against the Stormtalon’s canopy, forcing Kerikus to focus.

  The ork was drilling back down towards him, raining solid shot from above.

  ‘Impossible.’

  Kerikus pulled hard on the column. The gunship rolled to port, the horizon lurching back into view as the fighter zoomed past, inches from his rear-rudder.

  No time to consider how close that had been. Kerikus did not need the inclinometer to tell him how hard the Wrath was banking as he pulled her about, his eyes searching the sky.

  ‘Where are you?’ A beam of weak sunlight glinted off a canopy at three o’clock.

  ‘There.’

  Unbelievably, almost miraculously, the ork had turned and was streaming back towards him. It was a wonder that the accursed heap of metal could even fly, let alone pull off such an impressive manoeuvre. The jet looked as if it was about to fly apart at any second, ragtag iron plates bolted randomly across a seared hull studded with high-calibre cannons.

  This would end now. Kerikus had not survived this long to be outmanoeuvred by an ork opportunist.

  Gunning the engines, he closed in, crosshairs appearing on the canopy’s head-up display as the assault cannons locked on target. Armoured fingers squeezed around the trigger and cannon fire danced across the air, raking the side of the ork’s precious jet. There was a flare as one of his rounds found a bomb nestled beneath the jet’s blood-red wing, followed by the satisfying billow of inky, black smoke. The ork veered off to the right, trying to get away, but Kerikus was not giving up that easily. He swung about, almost tasting the kill. All it needed was one more salvo to–

  Kerikus’s head snapped up as sparks danced off the reinforced canopy, the Stormtalon’s auspex kicking in just a few seconds too late. A second fighter was bearing down on him, peppering his sensor array with stubber fire.

  ‘Two of you,’ he growled, realisation finally dawning. ‘Two of you all along.’ The second bird must have been waiting to swoop the moment the first had pulled up into a climb, taking advantages of Kerikus’s momentary disorientation. This was not a newcomer – it was the plane he had originally engaged.

  ‘Clever, clever greenskins.’ A grim smile played across Kerikus’s lips. ‘But not clever enough.’

  Ruddering hard to the left, Kerikus wrenched the stick to the right, skidding out of the way of the diving enemy craft. The bomber passed so near that Kerikus could almost make out every rivet in its grimy undercarriage.

  Gambling that the fighter would struggle to pull out of such a violent dive, Kerikus looked for the other plane. It had peeled off, heading further into the city.

  ‘Running for cover.’

  The Doom Eagle opened his throttle and powered forward. More risk. When is the best time to take down an enemy? When they are concentrating on blowing another target from the sky. He would have to be quick, before the second jet came around.

  Realising the targeting cogitator would take too long to lock on, Kerikus switched to lascannons and squeezed, his machine jolting as the weapon unloaded. Twin bolts of azure energy lanced forward, slicing into the fighter’s rear stabiliser, cleaving it away from the tail. The stricken craft immediately spun into a nosedive. Kerikus banked, craning his neck to see the kill. He would never understand orks. Even as it fell, the pilot opened up every gun mounted on the craft’s snaggletoothed nose, firing in desperation at the ground. Perhaps it was frustration, or maybe the idiot actually believed that he could blast the planet out of the way. Either way, the jet disappeared in a searing ball of orange heat when it made contact.

  The crash had taken seconds, but by the time Kerikus had levelled up, the secondary fighter was back on him. The ork fired, but was out of range, the hail of bullets dropping off before reaching his tail. Now was his chance. Pulling back on the stick, Kerikus forced the Wrath into a tight climb, gravity slamming him back into his harness.

  ‘Stay awake,’ he willed himself. ‘Stay alive.’

  The Stormtalon inverted, the ground now beneath the cockpit. As he reached the zenith Kerikus ruddered hard, rolling out. The perfect half loop. The jet that had been tailing him was now in his sights, his genhanced eyes narrowing as he saw the ork pilot bellow in impotent fury as the Wrath came in to strike.

  ‘Dakkajet?’ Kerikus sneered as he reached for the trigger. ‘Dead jet.’

  The Space Marine never made the shot. The auspex sounded a second before the gunship bucked, throwing Kerikus against his restraints.

  The Wrath dropped into a dive, damage reports scrolling across his helm-display. A direct hit from below. No time to work out how. He needed to get the nose up, pull the Stormtalon out of its dive. Below him, wrecked Imperial tanks smouldered on the streets. He would not join them. Not like this. Not today.

  Dense smoke poured into the cockpit, stinging his eyes. The acrid smell of electric fires followed a second later, so strong he could taste it, bitter against his tongue. Grating alarms clamoured for his attention, but he could not risk the distraction. All he cared about was the stick, yanked back so far he feared it would snap beneath his fingers.

  Slowly – too slowly – the gunship began to respond, righting itself to the shriek of overreaching engines. Kerikus pushed himself back into his chair, as if a few more inches between him and the cracked roads would make any difference, and visualised roaring back into the sky. Nothing else mattered. Not the sound of the ground-to-air guns that had got a lucky hit and almost brought him down, or the ork fighter that was no doubt coming about to finish him off.

  ‘Not now,’ he hissed, his teeth clenching so hard they hurt. ‘Not. Now.’

  Throwing up a bow wave of detritus, the Wrath of Aquila streaked forty metres down the ravaged street and, finally, climbed back into the fray. Anti-aircraft shells whistled past the canopy as Kerikus screwed the Stormtalon into a
spiral and the warning runes blinked out one after the other.

  He glanced at the auspex. No essential systems had been damaged in the strike. Internal fires extinguished. No fuel lost. The only concern was the port vector engine. It was only functioning at eighty-nine per cent efficiency, still within safety parameters, but a weakness all the same. He would have to adapt tactics on the fly, only attempt manoeuvres that favoured the starboard engine. Hardly ideal, especially with an ork that had tasted blood closing in.

  Blazing shots streamed past the canopy like angry fireflies. The fighter was back and, according to the rounds zinging off the Wrath’s armour plating, close at hand. Kerikus slewed to the left, his opponent looming large on the rear display, every barrel emptying into the Stormtalon. Kerikus tried to shake it off, but the fighter hung to his tail, matching his every move. He would have been impressed if his assailant was not a vile, stinking greenskin.

  A warning rune flashed in the periphery of his vision. He was pushing the port engine too far, too fast. There was a real danger of failure if the chase continued much longer. It had to finish one way or another.

  He pulled about, rolling back on himself, trying to force the ork to overshoot, but the maniac threw itself straight into the Wrath’s vector. It was going to ram him, to plough straight into his tail. He caught a glance of the pilot’s hateful face, its lips drawn back in a rictus grin against the rushing air.

  The ork’s head exploded behind its cracked canopy screen and the fighter dropped, tearing past the Wrath, its stabiliser scoring the gunship’s undercarriage. The Wrath bucked with the contact, but maintained course. Kerikus twisted to see another gunship screaming in from above, following the pilotless fighter down. Another Stormtalon, resplendent in the silver and red livery of Doom Eagles. Instinctively, his eyes flicked to the status report. There was no identification rune on the map, no indication that it was in the sky at all – but Kerikus’s eyes did not lie. He had thought he was the last, and yet here was another survivor of the Seventh. No, Emperor be praised, two survivors. A second Stormtalon was dropping down from the clouds even as the doomed ork fighter tumbled out of the battle.