Imperium: Revelation: Book Two in the Imperium Trilogy

by Paul M Calvert

  He shut his eyes, trying to relax as his suit began to massage the major muscle groups, using a combination of ultrasound and infra-red to complement the rhythmic constriction of the inner suit lining, starting with his lower body before moving upwards in a slow progression.

  “Ah, that’s better,” he thought, enjoying this little bit of down time for the first time in days, the warmth easing into his muscles.

  His eyes snapped open and everything stopped as his suit received a priority one signal and immediately transmitted it to him, closing down all non-essential activities. All trace of his earlier tiredness faded into the background and was replaced with anticipation as Smith waited for his suit to decrypt the message. A few seconds later, he was startled to see the face of his Emperor, and as the message began, he listened to it with growing wonder and relief. The image and voice of Emperor Alexander spoke, “Marines, my fleet is now in orbit, and the Jump Station has been destroyed, along with the relief fleet that had been coming to assist the rebels on Loki. All units are ordered to hold position and immediately cease firing. Suit logs are to be transmitted with immediate effect. Non-compliance will result in your being taken for an enemy combatant and treated accordingly.”

  Immediately, Smith gave his Marines the order to comply and triggered his own upload, along with his personal battlefield logs and the full resume of what had originally happened which he’d written several days after the initial attack and had kept updated. Ten seconds later, his suit registered an incoming message from the Emperor himself which he immediately acknowledged.

  “Well met, Colonel Smith. Three shuttles are in transit to pick your men up and return them to the fleet and will be with you in fifteen minutes. Thank you for marking the rebels positions and the update. Are all your Marine’s suits working properly and everyone’s uploaded as ordered?”

  “Yes, Sire. Power is low but all are working and I can see all have acknowledged.”

  Alexanders image nodded, then continued speaking,“Please instruct your Marines to form helmets, we have some housekeeping to do before the shuttles land.”

  Colonel Smith did so immediately, with an additional instruction for everyone to keep their heads down, for he realised what was going to happen next once the shipboard AI’s had finished monitoring the suit logs and determined who had remained loyal or was a rebel. Nothing happened for a few seconds, then multiple weapon strikes came down from orbit, bracketing all around their position, some only a dozen yards away, the ferocity of the particle weapons almost instantly burning metres down into the debris fields and into the soil beneath, their passage slowing only to vapourize the rebel Marines who hadn't complied with the request to transmit their suit logs or where the telemetry had shown their disloyalty. In less than one second, any rebel wearing an armoured suit had been destroyed, with nothing to show for their existence other than deep, glass-sided holes in the ground. The air shook to multiple thunderclaps which would have burst the eardrums of anyone not protected by their helmet. It took several seconds for the echoes to fade and the dust to settle, then everything was quiet. Smith’s suit began registering power increases as energy was beamed down from orbit.

  He opened up a channel to his remaining Sergeants, telling them to prepare for pickup and departure, then sat down on a makeshift bench, his hidden face creased with a wide smile for the first time in weeks. Contentedly, he instructed his rapidly charging suit to restart the massage program.

  Right on time, massive shuttles blotted out part of the morning sky, then dropped soundlessly, settling down heavily in the park and debris field, their massive weight crushing the rubble beneath them into dust or sinking deeply into the moist earth. Hundreds of Marines poured out, bringing smart-metal stations for the more badly damaged suits and medical cocoons for injured Marines. Within minutes, they had been set up and the more badly wounded had been carried out for immediate treatment.

  Colonel Smith walked out towards the shuttles at the head of his Marines, their fatigue forgotten as they marched in unison to the cheers and acknowledgment of the relief force. He was met by two Marine Captains tasked with the job of securing the planet and removing the colonists until such time as it would be safe for them to return. In the distance, dozens of shuttles were dropping down near the scattered settlements and the communication channels were full of Imperial messages aimed at the colonists, instructing them where to be picked up. Smith was pleased to be relieved of the burden of command, if only for a short time, and acknowledged the Captains’ salutes with one of his own. After a brief exchange of pleasantries, the weary Colonel walked up the open hatchway into the shuttle’s belly, the last of his Marine’s to do so, then fixed himself into a waiting docking station for the journey up, his suit gratefully absorbing new smart-metal and repairing the scratches and dents scarring its surface.

  For the first time in many weeks, Colonel Smith felt safe.

  Scene 25, RAF Hornchurch, early August 1940

  Alexander was struggling with the flight controls, trying to keep his Spitfire from stalling and falling out of the sky, as most of his tail rudder and starboard flight surfaces were either shot away or damaged from the Messerschmidt’s cannon fire. Miraculously, none of the cannon shells had impacted his fuel tanks, otherwise he would have joined the growing list of pilots who’d failed to return to base. The thought of the tanks exploding in his face was not one he wished to contemplate, situated as they were behind the engine and just in front of his legs.

  A moment's inattention was all it had taken, focused as he was on the Heinkel HE-111 in front of him, unaware of the BF-109 whose pilot was lining him up in his gun sights at the same time. If not for the split-second warning from Vimes and the drones that always followed him whenever he went into combat, the stream of cannon fire would have stitched its way through the cockpit and his body, instead of almost removing his tail fin and part of the wing. His plane had fallen several thousand feet before he’d regained control, but it was long enough for the enemy to lose interest in him and look for more rewarding prey, thinking his plane was doomed. On the radio, Alexander could hear his fellow pilots calling out as they focused on hitting the light bombers and heavy fighters from getting through to the airfield. It was too dangerous for him to try and land at RAF Manston and now he had his fighter under some sort of control, he’d decided to make for home base rather than risk landing anywhere else.

  Monday had started well, not having to scramble until after midday when the phone had rung and the message “angels one-five Manston, seventy plus bandits approaching,” told them to head for the RAF base north of Dover. His squadron had climbed to twenty thousand feet, giving them the advantage when they swooped down on the German bombers who had maintained a steady fifteen thousand, unaware of the Spitfires above them. He’d arrived just after the first of the bombers had attacked the airfield and the air above it was full of dogfighting planes. The radio crackled with the voices of the other pilots, interspersed with updates from Fighter Control warning of more incoming flights.

  “Thank God for radar,” he said to himself, using the phrase he’d heard so often from the other pilots, even from those that professed no faith in the popular deity most of the people worshipped here. Radar, rudimentary in the extreme compared to what he was used to, was a basic system set up by the British to give them vital advance warning of the approaching Germans and by the time they’d reached southern England the RAF were usually ready for them. Alexander focused on the job in hand. He’d been nursing his stricken fighter for the past fifteen minutes and was currently on final approach to his home airfield, RAF Hornchurch. Thankfully, the weather had remained fine and dry, the light cloud having burned off in the early afternoon sun.

  He pulled the lever activating his radio. “Tower, this is Flying Officer Doone, eta now two minutes, over.”

  “Confirmed, be a good chap and try and put her down gently”, came the cheery reply, “we have enough holes in the grass as it is. Good luck. Cont
rol out.”

  Alexander shook his head, appreciating the dry, self-deprecating wit of these Englishmen and women. Unfortunately, he still had half of a tank of fuel left and had no idea what state his undercarriage would be in, making landing his damaged fighter fraught with more risk than usual. The green light on his control panel registered the wheels were down and locked, but he had no idea how badly damaged they might be nor if they would hold once his wheels hit the airfield’s grass. Flying in one of his two drones to take a closer look was out of the question, especially as his plane was weaving all over the place and he didn’t want to risk them colliding. Getting his final bearings, he descended to one thousand feet and began approaching from the downwind side of the airfield, the flat wetland of Rainham marshes giving way to open fields and the housing estates which had grown out eastwards from London in the inter-war years. Ahead, he could see the airfield and the surrounding towns of Elm Park and Hornchurch, which had grown right up the borders of the airfield itself.

  “Obviously, no-one ever expected there to be another war,” he thought to himself, “otherwise building so close would have been a bloody stupid idea.” To the left, Alexander thought he could make out the pub he intended to visit that evening, the Good Intent, “If I make it down in one piece,” he reminded himself, before moving the air screw lever to fine pitch and pulling the mixture control lever right back to the rich position as he made his final approach. His Spitfire was now at one-hundred feet, speed at ninety and the boundary fence and grass of home was coming up fast as he committed himself to land.

  “Here goes nothing, just my luck if I prang the ruddy thing at the last moment,” he thought to himself, closing the throttle completely and dropping to the grass in a fast glide, the first bump hitting harder than usual, quickly followed by a smaller one from the tail wheel, then a swift succession of ever softer bumps as the fighter settled and he began applying the brakes, relieved the undercarriage had held and he’d made it down in one piece. Alexander took care with the brakes as he didn’t want to stand his fighter on her nose, something he’d seen done on a number of occasions by over zealous pilots. The plane gently rumbled and grumbled as it trundled across the field, the grass being flattened by the propeller wash, the ride settling itself into a bumpy rhythm. He looked out of the perspex cockpit and searched for his ground crew, spotting them over to the right and waving at him with directions of which parking bay to head for. He moved the flaps control lever to up and adjusted the airscrew to the coarse position, then gave the engine a burst of throttle to change the pitch. Carefully using the throttle and brakes, Alexander moved his fighter over to where directed, keeping a good look out for any obstacles or personnel on either side of the cockpit.

  Finally in position on the concrete bay, he turned the master switch off, which shut down the burbling engine. All he could hear now was the whirring gyros behind the instrument panel start to unwind and the not unpleasant smell of oil, petrol, and glycol, along with the faint aroma of his sweating body. He took a few seconds to take stock, then finished the final few post-flight operations before releasing his Sutton harness and dropping the hatch door. His legs were shaking slightly as he climbed out onto the wing and jumped down, his nervous legs almost giving way beneath him.

  “Your first dodgy landing, Sir?” enquired one of his ground crew, a short man with a ruddy complexion and large, bulbous red nose and cheeks red with broken veins, who went by the unusual name of Jimmy the Pearl, for reasons no-one could explain, least of all, Jimmy. “Maybe I got it ‘cos of me lovely teeth,” he’d responded to Alexander the first time they’d been introduced, smiling broadly and displaying a lovely set, marred only by the front two being missing, a legacy from his hard upbringing.

  Alexander nodded, wordlessly walking around to the rear of his plane to inspect the damage more closely. He traced his fingers along the damaged surfaces, imagining he could almost sense his fighter’s pain at what had been done to her. The cannon shells had punched huge holes through the thin metal of the wing, many larger than the span of his hand. There was no comparison between these gaping holes and the small punctures his smaller calibre bullets would make on the enemy. Above, in the dogfighting arena, it was an uneven contest between cannon shells and the .303 rifle rounds of his Spitfire. He patted the wing affectionately, drawing a smile from Jimmy who was watching him and liked nothing better than seeing a pilot care for his fighter, for it made his job a lot easier.

  “You did a good job in bringing her back, if I may say so, Sir,” Jimmy said, following him and at the same time sucking air in between the gap in his front teeth, “Not many could have managed it with that much damage.” Jimmy stepped forward to take a closer look, then called out to several men in green overalls to hurry forward.

  In the distance, Alexander could see a brightly coloured traction engine moving slowly backwards and forwards across a section of the airfield, levelling it. Alexander had a feeling that if the Germans continued bombing the airfields, it wouldn’t be long before Hornchurch could expect a visit and the traction engine would be kept busy. He looked around at the buildings, tents, slit trenches and concrete shelters dotted around. These were linked by concrete pathways which ran across the grass like white snakes. Some effort had been made to make the airfield and buildings look nice, with roses and other flowers planted alongside the main pathways and outside the buildings. Alexander walked a few yards, then suddenly overcome with tiredness, sat down on the grass, putting his head between his legs, having decided this was a good spot to do nothing for a few minutes. Outside the heat of the cockpit and in the cooler breeze, he noticed how sweaty he had become from the strain of trying to keep his fighter under control and land it safely, his flight suit and clothes starting to stick and become clammy where they sat on his skin.

  For Alexander, every time he got out of the cockpit after combat, it felt as if he was being reborn and seeing the world around him anew. For a while, everything seemed better, the taste and sweetness of the air and the scents coming from the blooming flowers more noticeable and intense. “It’s good to be alive,” he thought to himself, finally standing up and walking towards the debriefing desk set up two hundred yards away, near the wooden flight hut where he and the rest of the squadron waited every day for the phone to ring and scramble them into action.

  By the time Alexander reached the desk, his legs had stopped trembling and his senses almost returned to normal. The middle-aged officer looked up as he approached and wordlessly extended an open packet of cigarettes towards him.

  “No thanks, I don’t smoke,” Alexander responded, taking the proffered chair and resting his leather flight cap on the table.

  “Oh, right, I keep forgetting. Anything to report?” the officer asked, pen poised to record anything of use.

  “I didn’t bag any, this time, at least nothing I can verify. I might have downed a HE-111 but I got jumped by a 109 that took out my fin, so I couldn’t see what happened to it.”

  “How many of them this time, could you tell?” the man asked as he wrote down what Alexander was telling him, not bothering to look up.

  “There were about fifty all told that we engaged, forty light bombers, ten fighters as cover. We jumped them over Kent, but Manston had already been hit. There were dozens more already there but that’s just as estimate as I was too busy to count.”

  The questioning went on for a few more minutes, the officer making notes and ticking off boxes, before putting his pen down and dismissing Alexander.

  “OK, that’s fine. Go get yourself some tea and biscuits before the rest of your lot get back and eat them all. They should be here soon,” and with that, he nodded to Alexander, who picked up his flying cap and headed off towards the hut. In the distance, he could hear the distinctive drone of Merlin engines as his squadron returned home. As he walked, Alexander thought about Ena and wondered what she was doing and how she was settling in with her new job and neighbourhood. He hadn’t seen her for a week, n
ot since passing the flying tests and being accepted into the squadron. The rate of attrition was quite high amongst the pilots, but fortunately many were able to bail out over land or the channel and be back in a new plane within days. Others weren’t so lucky and he’d been one of a number of welcome replacements that all started at the same time, bringing the squadron back up to strength.

  On arriving at Hornchurch for duty, he’d been assigned a new plane, one of several flown over in the morning direct from the factory by some lovely looking ladies, something which had surprised him, for he thought he’d understood that in this culture women didn’t fight on the front line. He had been laughed at when he enquired if they were going to join the squadron too, and the ribbing at his lack of knowledge had only just started to die down a little, helped when he made his first kill four days later. With the help of Vimes, he’d displayed a masterful understanding of aerial combat and had found himself being asked by the Squadron Leader to take the new arrivals under his wing, despite being virtually one himself.

  Although they all thought he was French, the other pilots quickly accepted Alexander into their ranks but he had been questioned at length about Dunkirk and how the Germans had managed to sweep aside the powerful French and British armies. His story of how he’d helped a unit of British soldiers escape from the SS had been the source of many free drinks in the local pub which had quickly become the pilot's unofficial officers mess and a place where they could unwind. Within easy walking distance of the airfield, at night it was not unusual to see groups of young pilots winding their way back to base, those unsteady on their feet being helped by more sober and wiser friends.