[Warhammer 40K] - Double Eagle

by Dan Abnett - (ebook by Undead)

  Darrow waited while Eads spoke quietly to the deck officer, then escorted him up out of the hubbub of the rotunda. Eads had his cane, but he held Darrow’s arm and allowed the younger man to lead him. He was exhausted.

  They went up into the atrium.

  “I can see you all the way back to your quarters, sir,” Darrow said.

  “No need, Enric. A little walk, a little solitude, that might do me good. You should get to your own bed. Deck says we’re needed again at midnight.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Darrow?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “This is off the record, you understand?”

  “Yes, Flight.”

  “When you get back to your billet, pack your things. Pack them now, so you can travel light and fast.” Darrow frowned. “Why, sir?”

  “Banzie reckons we’re all going to be pulled out. It’s not official yet, but he’s sure that’s the Navy thinking. Another four or five days, and Theda will be unviable as a field.”

  “God-Emperor…” Darrow breathed.

  “They’re winning, son. No matter how hard we fight, this sky pretty much belongs to them. The Navy’s going to pull its wings out, general evac. Move them to safer fields.”

  “Where, sir?”

  “Maybe Zophos, the Midwinters. Possibly St Hagen. Apparently, Tacticus is evaluating.”

  Darrow felt hollow. He looked away. The echoing atrium was empty apart from other Operations personnel plodding out from their shift.

  “Are we—” he began. “Are we going to lose this?” he asked.

  “No,” said Eads. “Retreat is a hard thing to deal with, but you’ll be a better warrior, Enric, if you realise that sometimes that’s the only way to win. Throne, if retreat equalled defeat, then we might as well have run for the hills the moment the land armada was turned back from the gates of Trinity.”

  “Sir.”

  “I know it hurts, Darrow. It wounds a man’s pride. But you have to see it all.” There was no irony in Eads’s voice. “Retreat, regroup, gather our strengths, try again. That’s what we’re doing. That’s why we’ve fought so hard to get the land forces home. So they can turn and fight again, renewed. Go read some history slates, Darrow. Wars have been won that way. And many others have been lost by men too proud to acknowledge the sense of a tactical withdrawal.”

  Darrow nodded.

  “Darrow?”

  “I nodded, sir. My apologies.”

  “Get some sleep. I’ll see you at midnight.”

  Darrow saluted. Eads moved away across the marble floor, his cane twitching. “Call that a salute?” he said over his shoulder.

  Darrow wandered outside. The air was murky and stank of fyceline. A few Operations personnel from the last shift loitered around under the portico, smoking and chatting, or just lounging on the damp steps in aching relief.

  He saw Scalter nearby, smoking a lho-stick. Even from a distance, Darrow could see how much Scalter’s hands were shaking. He had just decided to go and confront the man, when he realised something.

  He drew his own hands from his pockets and looked at them. They were shaking too.

  “Need something?” asked Scalter, noticing him.

  “No, sir. I’m fine.”

  “Something wrong with your hands?”

  “No.” Darrow joined him. “Actually, just the shakes.”

  “Tell me about it. We all get that. Tension and fatigue.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Scalter offered Darrow his pack. “No thanks, sir.”

  “Heading for the simulators?” Scalter asked. “I’ve seen you there.”

  “I might. You?”

  Scalter nodded his head at the airfield before them. “What do you think?” he asked.

  Darow looked out across the MAB. Parts of the field were shredded with craters and bulldozed heaps of debris. Along the east fence, the wrecks of bombed out and crashed planes had been piled up, simply to clear usable space. Smoke twisted up from recent hits. Navy craft were landing in flocks, some pouring vapour. Crews rushed out onto the field. In the hardstands, the Apostles were warming up, munitions trains clattering clear. Darrow heard the brutal, buzzing pulse of primers starting engines.

  Beyond the field, the towers of Theda itself rose in crumpled majesty. Columns of smoke writhed from the city, darkening the sky. Fires blazed. There were gaps in the city skyline where familiar buildings had been destroyed. Raid sirens were wailing.

  “I think I’ll head for the simulators,” Darrow said.

  DAY 265

  Western District Theda, 10.02

  The intake of wounded had filled the infirmaries of Theda to bursting. Jagdea had been transferred right across the city to a hab clinic in the Western Districts, a four storey pile of rotting brick that had been, over the years, a sanatorium, a refuge, and a scholam for wayward youths. The building was in poor repair. The air reeked of disinfectant and mildew.

  Blansher found her at the end of a long, grim gallery, gazing out of the windows onto a street where files of civilians were waiting in the rain for travel permits.

  She looked pale and thin. Her left arm was bound up in a heavy sling. Blansher noticed that under her dressing gown, she still wore the trousers of her flight suit.

  “Hey, Mil,” she said.

  “Bree. How’s the arm?”

  “Okay. Another day or two, they reckon.”

  “We miss you. The wing all send their best.”

  “Keeping them in line, I hope?”

  “They wouldn’t dare mess with me.”

  She grinned. “Want a seat?” she said, getting up out of her bath chair.

  “I’m fine,” he said.

  “Sit down, Mil. You look fit to drop. I’ve been sitting all day.”

  Shrugging, he sat down in the old, wheeled invalid chair. He settled back, elbows out.

  “So… how are these for speed?” he asked.

  She leaned against the wall by the window and gestured down the long, lino-floored hall with her good hand. “Try it out. Not much reheat, but if you really push it you can achieve lift by the time you reach the dispensary.”

  Using his hands, he milled the big handwheels back and forth.

  “How’s it been?” she asked.

  “We’ve been up once. A nasty tangle over St Chryze. Aggie stung one, and so did I.”

  “All safe?”

  “A hard round went through Zemmic’s side-pane and snapped his chain of lucky charms, so he’s really low. But yes. All safe.”

  “Cordiale?”

  “Fixed up, and fit for the next sortie.”

  “How’s my baby Zero-Two?”

  “A mess, Bree. But she’ll live. They’re working on her now, but she’ll have to be shipped by carrier t—”

  Blansher stopped. “Damn,” he said. “And there I was going to break it to you gently.”

  “Shipped out?” asked Jagdea. “Since when?”

  “Since 06.00 hours this morning. Navy directive. Apparently, Ornoff’s decided it’s time to quit the coast.”

  “Where to?”

  “For us, Lucerna MAB in the Midwinters. That’s need-to-know, obviously.”

  “Of course.”

  “The mass land evac is now well underway. Theda’s almost empty, the population fleeing. We’re giving ground. From the islands we can keep our bases out of strike range of the enemy for a while, and keep them off the evac fleets. Throne alive, Bree, you’ve never seen so many mass-barges!”

  “I like islands,” said Jagdea thoughtfully. “They remind me of home.”

  “We’re flying the Bolts out at 09.00 on the 268th, three days from now, situation permitting. Your bird will be packed off this afternoon on one of the freight barges.”

  “Don’t you bloody leave me here!” Jagdea said.

  “Of course not, Bree. I’ll arrange a transport to collect you, maybe around 08.30 that morning. The Navy will be scooping off personnel using Valkyries and Oneros. You’ll be
with us by noon.”

  “I’d better be,” Jagdea warned. “I don’t want to die here in this dump.”

  “Oh, trust me,” said Blansher. He was still rolling to and fro in the bath chair, playing like a child. “When have I ever let you down?”

  “Never,” she replied.

  “You see?”

  “What about Espere?” she asked.

  “Already gone north, medicae evac. I checked. He’s in a care unit in Enothopolis as we speak.”

  Blansher got up out of the chair, and rolled it around for her to sit again. “I should go,” he said. “We’re due up at 11.00 hours and my ride is waiting.”

  “Good flying,” she said.

  “Take care of yourself,” Blansher paused. “Well, well, looks like you’ve got another visitor.”

  Jagdea looked around. Wing Leader Seekan, splendid in his white suede coat, was coming down the hallway.

  “Friends in high places,” Blansher said.

  He walked away, giving Seekan a salute as he passed him. Seekan returned it respectfully, and then walked on to join Jagdea under the stained, aged window. She remained standing.

  “Leader.”

  “Commander. How are you?”

  “Alive. I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  Seekan shrugged.

  “Have a seat,” Jagdea suggested, nodding her head towards the bath chair.

  “I’m fine, commander. I… I came for two reasons.”

  “Did you now?”

  “The first is as a matter of courtesy. From one flight leader to another. Major Ludo Ramia of the Apostles was lost in action last night.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, leader.”

  Seekan cleared his throat awkward. “I intend to offer his place to Flight Lieutenant Larice Asche. Her record, especially in recent days, has been remarkable. Ten kills in one sortie.”

  “Ten indeed.”

  “I wanted to ask your permission, commander.”

  “My permission?”

  “Before I ask her.”

  Jagdea limped over to the bath chair and sat down in it. She felt dazed, hurt, as if something precious had been stolen from her.

  “Larice is one of my…” She stopped and corrected. “Larice Asche is my best pilot. I will miss her. But I know the form. The Apostles ask, you don’t refuse. I’m flattered you even ran it past me at all. Larice will be overjoyed. It’s an honour. Of course she’ll accept. The first Phantine aviator to make the Apostle grade.”

  “The first female…” Seekan said.

  “Not a distinction we ever make on Phantine, sir.”

  “The Navy is rather old fashioned, mamzel,” he smiled. “So, I have your permission?”

  Jagdea shook her head and chuckled. “It’s as if you’re asking me for her hand in marriage.”

  “I am, in a way. Till death parts us.”

  Jagdea looked up at him. “Make her a hero. A legend. That’s all she wants, Seekan. That’s all I want for her.”

  “I will,” he said. “Thank you.”

  “What’s the second reason?” she asked.

  “Pardon me?”

  “You said you’d come here for two reasons. You’ve robbed away my best wingman. I dread to think what the other cause is.”

  “I merely wanted to enquire after your health. I was concerned when I heard the news.”

  “I thought you Apostles didn’t care about injury or death?”

  “We just don’t care about each other,” he said. He looked round for a moment. “I must be getting along. May the Emperor protect you, commander.”

  She nodded.

  Only when he was out of sight down the length of the long hallway, did she notice the long stemmed bloom, its petals a rich Imperial purple, that he had left on the window’s sill.

  Langersville, 15.16

  From the hills above the foreshore, it looked as if parts of the coastline were breaking off and drifting out to sea.

  LeGuin’s convoy had reached the headland, and was now crawling down into the seaport, just one small part of the teeming forces seeking evacuation.

  Threatening skies drifted above them, and a brisk sea breeze washed them. Schools of Valkyries burned off fields on the lower slopes, heading out to sea. Viltry could see Oneros prepping for take-off.

  At the docks, VTRPs, pontoons and mass-barges slugged away from the shore. The mass-barges were enormous cargo ships, belching smoke from their stacks, their open bellies laden with armour and carriers. As they plied out into the deeper waters, others, riding light and empty, were piloted in to the dock quays.

  The VTRPs—Vertical Thrust Raft Platforms—were colossal. Each one was an armoured rectangle five hectares square, suspended over the water by monumental vector engines at the corners and edges. As they slid up to the quays and dropped their metal ramps, squadrons of armour rolled onto them. The noise of their thrusters filled the bay.

  Marshals directed the boarding armour to their stands, lining them up. An entire regiment-strength could be swallowed onto one raft.

  Humming like monsters, laden VTRPs gusted out into the open sea.

  “There’s our ride,” said LeGuin.

  Viltry nodded. “Theda. How far, do you think?”

  LeGuin consulted his chart slate.

  “About three hundred kilometres east. Why?”

  “Time I got going,” Viltry said.

  LeGuin frowned. “We’ll miss you, Osk.”

  “You too. It’s been quite an experience.”

  Viltry shook LeGuin by the hand.

  As Viltry got down off the tank, Matredes hugged him, and Emdeen slapped his arm.

  “Good luck!” Viltry shouted as the Line of Death began to roll forward.

  “And to you!” yelled back LeGuin.

  “The Emperor protects!”

  LeGuin said something, but the racing engines blotted it out.

  Viltry stood on the hillside for a while as the slow column threaded past him and LeGuin’s tank was out of sight.

  Then he ran down the grassy bank towards the coastal highway, and began to flag down the Munitorum transports speeding east.

  Theda MAB South, 16.10

  As soon as his skids settled on the handstand, Marquall killed the fans and let the ground take the fourteen tonnes of serial Nine-Nine “Double Eagle”. He sat for a moment, canopy still locked, his head resting back against the seat and his eyes closed. They’d just run their third sortie of the day, a snap call up and into a bomber pack. Brief, bitter fighting had followed. Marquall had nearly been stung twice, on both occasions, by fighters he hadn’t seen.

  Racklae knocked on the window and Marquall opened his eyes. The fitter mimed opening the lid and Marquall nodded, pulling off his breather and goggles.

  The canopy lifted and cool, fumy air blew in across Marquall’s face. It let in the roar and whine of the field too.

  “Everything all right, sir?” Racklae asked.

  “Four-A,” Marquall replied as he was helped clear, and had his suit leads unplugged. “I need her turned around quick. We could go up again before evening.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  “I think the port lascannon needs cleaning or refitting. I was getting an odd fire-pattern.”

  “I’ll see to it sir.”

  “Any chance of rockets?”

  Racklae shook his head. “Between you and me, sir, munitions are getting pretty low. We’re okay for hard rounds, but all the rack weapons are going to the Marauders.”

  Marquall left the fitters to their work and walked out of the revetment shelter. At the mouth of the hardstand next door, Van Tull was stripping off his jacket and gloves.

  “Nice one,” Marquall said. “I saw you sting that Tormentor.”

  “Thanks,” said Van Tull. “I thought the bastard was going to get past me for a moment. Any luck yourself?”

  Marquall shook his head.

  “I thought I saw you on a Razor.”

  “Yeah, but it
slipped out and I lost it.”

  “There’s always the next time,” said Van Tull.

  Zemmic wandered up to join them. His lucky charms jingled about him on a new chain. “What’s that about?” he asked, gesturing down the line of hardstands.

  A large staff limousine was approaching, pulling to a halt. The driver, a Navy cadet, got out, went around to the other side, and opened the rear door, saluting. A figure got out.

  “That’s the Apostles’ chief, isn’t it?” asked Van Tull.

  “Seekan,” said Marquall.

  “What the hell does he want?” said Zemmic.

  They watched as Seekan crossed to number three stand. Asche was just dismounting from her Bolt. She saluted Seekan, and was saluted back. Seekan began to speak and handed her something. A data-slate, it looked like. Even from a distance, they could see the strange, startled look on Asche’s face.

  “What’s going on?” Zemmic said.

  Seekan and Asche exchanged salutes again, then Seekan shook her by the hand and returned to his car. As it carried him away off the field enclosure, Asche remained where she was, studying the slate.

  Marquall, Zemmic and Van Tull jogged down to her. Blansher had appeared, and Ranfre, Cordiale and Del Ruth were also approaching.

  “Larice?” Zemmic said.

  She glanced up. There was such a strange look in her eyes. “Hey, Zem.”

  “What’s going on? What did Seekan want?”

  “Me,” she said.

  “What?”

  She looked at them all for a moment. “You’re not going to believe this…” she began.

  DAY 266

  Theda seafront, 06.02

  Viltry’s first glimpse of Theda City was from the cab of a Munitorum fleet transport in the small hours of the night. It was the first time he’d set eyes on it since the morning of the 259th when he’d taken G for Greta aloft on her final flight. Things had changed.

  In the dark, from many kilometres distant, the city itself was invisible because of black-out regulations, but the shape of it was defined against the sky by the ruddy glow of firestorms throbbing in its heart.

  “Holy Throne…” he’d breathed.

  “Told you it was bad,” the driver had said.