Doom Flight - Cavan Scott

by Warhammer 40K

  There were three of them. Doom Eagles fought to the end, no matter the odds, but the odds had just considerably improved.

  The first Stormtalon, the one that had saved him, threw itself into a climb and came level, flying wing to wing. Kerikus reached for the vox-bead, pausing only as he recalled his fist slamming into the controls. As the secondary Stormtalon dropped into formation, Kerikus tapped the side of his helm, miming that his vox was out. The pilot to his right waggled his wings, indicating he understood, and then gestured forwards, out of the city. The message was clear. Get out of the danger zone and regroup. Kerikus tapped his fuel gauge with a gloved finger. One fuel cell was already spent and he had been in the air for over an hour. His battle-brother was right. Plans needed to be made.

  Dipping his wing to show his agreement, Kerikus settled the Wrath into the skein and allowed himself a wry smile. The day was not over yet.

  The cloying stink of burning buildings hung heavy in the air – a sickening reek of charred rubber, plastek and meat. They’d found a disused airstrip on the edge of the city, weeds already sprouting through the cracks in its thick landing pads. A sweep of the area had told them that the vicinity was free from ork infestation. The greenskins were converging on the heart of the city. There was no sport for them this far out. No weapon factories, no supplies, no one left to slaughter.

  In the distance, Kerikus could see infernos spreading unchecked. His stomach clenched at the thought of the thousands of corpses being engulfed in the flames, bodies blackening, souls wasted, slaughtered on the altar of war. So many pointless deaths.

  The sergeant raised his face to the heavens and closed his eyes, renewing his pledge to the Golden Throne for the thousandth time. When his death came it would count for something. It would make a difference.

  Heavy boots crunched over the gravel behind him. Opening his eyes, he turned to see the imposing figure of Brother Malika striding towards him. Even for a Doom Eagle, Malika was formidable, a pocked scar stretched over his shaven head.

  ‘Brother Tyrus is nearing completion of his work,’ the Space Marine reported, his voice a deep rumble.

  Kerikus glanced over to where the Techmarine was ministering to the Wrath of Aquila. Clad in his traditional rust-red armour, Tyrus was standing stock still, a hand pressed against the gunship’s plasteel skin, head bowed, as in prayer, although Kerikus had seen the Techmarine perform the same ritual time and time again. A lifetime ago, when growing up on Coan, Kerikus’s uncle had claimed to be able to communicate with the horses by pressing his palm against their flanks, sensing what they were thinking from his touch. While he was sure his uncle had been deluded, he had no such doubts about Tyrus. The Techmarine was the best he had ever met. Solitary and taciturn he may have been, but his gifts were far more valuable to the squadron than his conversation. Kerikus knew many viewed the Techmarines with distrust, wary of their loyalties, but not he. When you spent so much of your service relying on a machine to survive, you blessed those who maintained your craft.

  ‘What is the verdict?’

  A rare glint of humour flickered over Malika’s eyes. ‘Let’s just say that he wasn’t pleased with the way you treated your vox. What was the word he used? Blasphemy? I can’t remember.’

  Kerikus half-smiled. To Techmarines, equipment used in service to the Emperor was sacred, from the simplest round of ammunition to the largest warship. He could imagine Tyrus’s face when he seen the ruined controls on the Wrath’s dashboard.

  ‘It was a necessary evil rather than a lack of respect. But is it fixed?’

  ‘The Wrath’s machine-spirit is appeased and – more importantly – communications have been restored. You’ll no longer be cut off from the world.’

  ‘I thought I was alone in the world,’ Kerikus admitted, still not quite believing he was standing talking to a battle-brother. ‘That you were lost during the second strike.’

  ‘We were outnumbered.’ A shadow passed over Malika’s dark face, the silver service stud above his right eye dropping into a crease with his frown. ‘Our formation smashed in the first wave.’

  ‘But you escaped.’

  Malika’s eyes flared and Kerikus immediately regretted his choice of words.

  ‘I survived. Thanks to Tyrus. We regrouped and planned our next move. I wasn’t willing for our deaths to be meaningless. We needed to be sure that when they came, they cost the enemy dearly.’

  Spoken like a true Doom Eagle. Kerikus acknowledged the sentiment with a sharp nod.

  ‘And the adaptations to your gunship’s sensor readings… Impressive.’

  ‘Tyrus feared that the orks may try to bastardise equipment from one of the wrecked Stormtalons, to use the squadron reports to find us.’

  ‘So he removed your responders. Silent running.’

  ‘We needed an element of surprise if we were to succeed.’

  ‘Your attack on the main munitions dump.’

  ‘According to intel, the orks have been gathering weaponry together in the centre of the city. We planned to take it out–’

  ‘Or die in the attempt,’ Kerikus interrupted.

  ‘If that was the Emperor’s will.’ Malika visibly bristled. ‘If we could reduce their stash before the reinforcements arrived–’

  ‘If reinforcements were coming they would be here by now,’ snapped Kerikus, unnerved by Malika’s naivety. The Space Marine had a century’s experience behind him. It was not as if he was a Scout, new to battle. ‘Besides, the orks now control the best weapon manufactories in this sector. Do you really think they have ceased production just because they’ve salvaged more armaments than most Guard units see in a lifetime?’

  Malika glared at his superior officer, but if he considered responding to the rebuke, his training at least told him to hold his tongue. This was not the time for argument. It was the time for action. Malika respected the chain of command enough to realise that.

  ‘Apologies, sergeant, I–’

  Kerikus raised a gauntleted hand. ‘We have a new target. Come.’

  He strode towards the Wrath, power armour whining with every step. Malika immediately fell in behind, although Kerikus could feel his glare boring into the back of his head. It did not matter. He knew Malika of old. The Space Marine would use his frustration, redirect it towards the enemy.

  As they neared the gunship, Tyrus turned, fixing the sergeant with a glowing bionic eye.

  ‘Both your vector engines are fully operational,’ the Techmarine reported without being asked. ‘I have recalibrated your altimeter and repaired the vox controls.’ The disapproval in Tyrus’s voice was impossible to miss. ‘Fuel cells are in a regenerative cycle, although power levels are seriously depleted.’

  ‘They’ll be enough for what I have in mind,’ Kerikus commented, hauling himself up to the cockpit and retrieving a data-slate from where it was stowed beside his flightseat.

  Jumping back to the launch pad, he thumbed the slate. A map of the city appeared, glowing emerald against the obsidian screen. The sergeant rested the device against the Wrath’s gun housing and Malika peered closer.

  ‘This is our new objective,’ Kerikus declared, a statement, not a topic for debate. ‘The central power complex. Over a hundred linked plasma reactors powering every factory and domicile in Quadcana Prime.’

  ‘Control that and you control the city,’ Malika observed. Kerikus let the comment slide, zooming in on the power plant. Data scrolled down the side of the slate’s screen as the target was set. Shield generators. Entry points. Weaknesses in the defence grid. The complex was a hundred and twenty kilometres from their current position, to the west of the massive conurbation. No more than four minutes away, at top speed.

  ‘Expect heavy resistance, from the ground and the air. We need to fly in high and drop down. The ork’s ground defences are short range–’

  ‘They will have fighters patrolling the area,’ interjected Malika.

  Kerikus nodded, his mouth a grim line.

&nb
sp; ‘Estimated enemy numbers at the target location?’ asked Tyrus, his one remaining organic eye scanning the station’s schematics.

  ‘Unknown, but we cannot risk sending in a scout. With a full squadron, an exploratory flypast would be an option, but…’

  ‘… there are only three of us,’ stated the Techmarine, his face betraying no emotion.

  ‘We stay together. When we are engaged, employ standard swarm tactics.’

  Malika nodded. ‘Regularly switch targets in strict rotation.’

  ‘Never concentrating on one. Stay on top of them. We want them as low as possible so we have all the advantage…’

  ‘… and they have none.’ Tyrus’s voice was as impassive as his aspect. Kerikus extinguished the data-slate. He knew he could trust this last remnant of their once proud squadron. In the midst of battle there would be no time to recall tactics anyway. In the theatre of combat, an aeronaut did not have time to think, just react. Malika and Tyrus would do their duty. They might even achieve their goal. If not, he knew what he had to do.

  Resting the slate on the cannon stack, Kerikus brought his hands up to his chestplate, spreading his fingers to form the aquila.

  ‘The Emperor is our protection,’ he intoned, his men mimicking the gesture, Tyrus bending his fingers to make the sign of the cog favoured by members of the Cult Mechanicus.

  ‘The Emperor is our guide,’ they responded.

  Kerikus let his hands fall back to his side. ‘And we shall be his teeth.’

  Tyrus had done a fine job. The Wrath of Aquila was responding well, even better than before.

  Kerikus lead the formation, the other gunships at his four and eight o’clock. A suspicion nagged at the back of the sergeant’s mind. Perhaps he should have outlined the entirety of his plan, taken the battle-brothers into his confidence, but would the knowledge have affected their decisions in the heat of battle? There was still a chance they could take the complex. That had to remain their primary objective. The alternative, no matter how inevitable, would remain just that until all other avenues were exhausted. A choice to be made when the moment arose. No doubts.

  No hesitation.

  The Stormtalons thundered across Quadcana Prime, staying at four thousand metres, the tortured cityscape stretching out in front of them.

  ‘Two minutes to target,’ Tyrus reported over the vox and Kerikus instructed the others to hold their positions. They had yet to be engaged but…

  ‘Sir, enemy at two o’clock.’ Malika’s voice was primed with eagerness, ever ready for combat. The sergeant turned to see a swarm of ork fighters flying in what laughably could be called a formation. While they were still forty kilometres away, they were closing fast, flashes already erupting from the front gunships. Incredible. Even though they had not a hope of reaching a target at such range, the gunners were already firing.

  ‘Turn into them,’ he commanded, banking towards the incoming storm, his battle-brothers mirroring his manoeuvre. They surged forward, crosshairs automatically picking out targets. The plan was simple. Appeal to the orks’ bloodlust, distract them from whatever loose strategy they were employing, encourage them to make mistakes.

  Forty kilometres.

  Almost immediately the fighters fanned out, four – no, five, six – similar to the pair he had faced earlier. But they were not alone. In their midst a larger, more daunting craft hung in the sky. While the standard fighters were armed with simple stubbers, the crimson bomber’s wings were festooned with all manner of missiles and bombs. Emperor knew how it even got off the ground.

  ‘Death Deela,’ Malika all but snarled over the vox.

  ‘Who?’ Kerikus asked, switching his guns to lascannons and dropping the Wrath back into formation.

  ‘The scourge of the skies,’ came the response, Malika’s voice dripping with sarcasm. ‘All but worshipped by his kind. More kills than any other fighter.’

  ‘Let’s make sure he doesn’t add to his tally today. Defensive split on my mark: three, two, one – mark!’

  Twenty kilometres away all seven aggressors opened fire, screaming in for the kill. Malika and Tyrus immediately peeled off to the sides while Kerikus inverted, throwing himself into a loop. The gambit immediately paid off. The orks scattered, forced into chasing multiple targets, a couple of fighters almost smashing into each other in their haste.

  The world turned upside down and Kerikus was rushing down at the overshooting fighters, negative g-forces pressing him back into his chair. An ork had veered up, but could not match the Wrath’s vector. The Stormtalon’s las-fire sliced through its fuselage, finding a fuel tank. The fighter unfurled in a ball of flame and Kerikus barrel rolled through the blast, bringing himself up, another target in his sights.

  The scarlet fighter had mud-brown smoke flowing erratically from its wing and was being bombarded by Malika’s heavy bolters. As he sped past, Kerikus unleashed his cannons again, cutting into the enemy’s tail, but came about leaving Malika with the kill. There was plenty to go around.

  Ahead Tyrus was chasing a lone fighter, spiralling up to the clouds.

  Kerikus scanned the horizon. ‘Where are you, scum?’ he hissed. They could not afford to let him out of their sights. A missile shrieked across his line his vision, coming from behind. He glanced at the rear viewer. Two fighters coming in at four o’clock. Death Deela, flanked by a wingman.

  ‘There you are,’ Kerikus hissed, slamming on his speed brakes and pulling starboard, flying straight across the ork’s path. The fighters overshot, Kerikus coming hard around, planning to pick up their tail when he spotted Malika was in trouble. He was chasing down a fleeing fighter but had another hanging off his tail, stubbers blazing.

  Kerikus viffed his engines, levelling up, and toggled his guns over to assault cannons. On his helm-display, the glowing crosshairs had already locked onto the pursuer. The ork had made a fatal error. It was so intent on bringing down Malika that it was flying straight and true – an easy target. The Wrath juddered as the cannon hammered, shrapnel dancing up the aircraft’s hull towards the open canopy. The pilot jerked like a grotesque marionette in its seat as the shells ripped its body apart, the plane instantly screwing into a death-spin.

  Kerikus pulled a crisp turn, coming up behind Malika just as a missile launched from his battle-brother’s port array and took out the fighter ahead.

  That made four by his reckoning. The odds had evened, but what of Death Deela?

  A flash overhead made Kerikus look up. Another ball of fire had illuminated the fast-darkening sky, but this time there was no cause for celebration. A blazing gunship dropped from a hundred metres above them, crossing their flight path. He heard Malika curse over the vox. That was no ork. Tyrus’s Stormtalon sprayed debris as it dived to its destruction, its engines burned out. High above, Death Deela threw its bomber into a celebratory roll, another scalp to add to its count. As it turned, Kerikus spotted marks scored into the jet’s undercarriage, one for every kill. How many were fresh, added on this very day? How many of them represented his own brothers?

  Of the fighter Tyrus had been chasing, there was no sign. Maybe he had been successful, maybe not. Either way there was no time to honour his passing now. The fight had driven them off course and while Death Deela and its wingman were circling, Kerikus and Malika could press on.

  Kerikus swung about, Malika falling back to his trail and the twin Stormtalons soared back towards the east, towards the power plant. They opened their throttles, trying to put as much distance between them and the ace as possible, but they were not alone for long.

  ‘Targets at eleven o’clock,’ Malika reported. ‘Approximately eighty kilometres. Four fighters in two elements.’

  Kerikus’s eyes flicked to the position, spotting the approaching aircraft, flying in two staggered rows. This time he did not have to give the order. They turned into them instinctively, gun batteries ready to fire.

  ‘Hold steady,’ came Malika’s urgent voice as they rocketed forwards. ‘I’ve
got them.’

  As soon as they were in range, a single missile shrieked over Kerikus’s port wing, slamming into the leading fighter. The ork did not stand a chance. The aircraft all but disintegrated, bathing its wingman in a blazing shower. The fighter tried to evade the wreck but was struck by debris, its starboard wing ripped clean from the fuselage. Two kills with one shot. Impressive by any standards.

  As the fighter dropped, the rear flyers broke formation, peeling in opposite directions. Kerikus was not about to let them swing around and retaliate. Dipping his wing, he curved away, taking after the fighter to his left, a glance at his rear view confirming that Malika was doing the same with the other.

  His eyes narrowed into slits behind his helm. This one would be for Tyrus.

  Leaning forward against his straps, Kerikus came out of the turn to see the ork dropping two hundred metres to dive between the towers of the city below. Nose down, Kerikus dropped in pursuit. What was the ork thinking? Dip down to pick up energy and increase airspeed, or simply try to lose him in the artificial canyons of Quadcana Prime?

  Either way, Kerikus was not sure how well its fighter could perform this close to the deck. Its turn had seemed laboured, but now the ork was weaving between the buildings with ease. As the fighter dipped even lower, Kerikus saw flashes ahead. Ork war trucks racing towards him along a long wide track of road, guns barking. A heavily-armoured tank was bringing up the rear, the prodigious missile on its back being prepped to fire.

  ‘No you don’t.’

  Kerikus thumbed the trigger, ripping up the road with his assault cannons. He pitched up as his shells found the missile-launcher and the warhead ignited.

  The fighter was still ahead, slinging itself around a half-ruined spar. Kerikus hit hard-right rudder, coming in front of the mast and running along a parallel block. As the building flashed by, the sergeant caught glimpses of the running fighter, saw it dip its wing and bank to the left.

  The Wrath shuddered as Kerikus brought it hard to port, his slipstream shattering the windows in an abandoned tower that he only narrowly avoided. The ork was still bobbing and diving, settling on a long route out of the city. Kerikus glanced at the fuel gauge. His primary cell was almost exhausted. If he had any hope of completing the mission he needed to end this.