“Attend the Airlord of Yarron!” cried the wingfield adjunct for a second time. Everyone snapped to attention.
“Within those envelopes are your orders and maps,” he said crisply. “Keep them sealed until you are inside your aircraft. The authority is from me, Airlord Sartov, you can check the seal. You are to proceed to Montpellier with four gunwings to each super-regal as escort. At Montpellier you will rendezvous with the gunwings of the Air Carbineer Guildsmen of North Yarron, who will escort you all the way to your target. There will be sixty of them. All of you have served with them before being posted here, so you know they are to be trusted.”
There were whistles and exclamations of amazement at the size of the force.
“The Air Carbineers have orders that match your own. Are there any questions?”
Serjon raised his hand.
“Yes?”
“With all deference and humility, Lordship, but if a super-regal should be separated from the flock, what then?”
“If you are separated, then release your bombs and rockets on whatever target that presents and return here. Proceeding to the primary target alone would mean the almost certain loss of an expensive super-regal and crew, and I have other work planned for you all. Any other questions? No? Good. Good fortune and clement weather be with you.”
They began to disperse. Serjon walked beside Bronlar, Ramsdel, Kumiar, and Alion for a way as they made for their gunwings.
“All us escorts have wing extenders, and thus a range of six hundred miles or so,” observed Ramsdel. “Why you could fly to Condelor and back with a reach like that and still have fuel left for a war duel. What target needs such penetration?”
“The guildsmen have put those strafing rocket racks on our gunwings as well as the super-regals,” said Bronlar. “I’d like to see our orders.”
“This is a mighty and noble endeavor, I hope the target is be equal to it,” said Alion.
“Aye, you’re right there, Alion,” said Ramsdel. “Over half of the compression engines available to Yarron will be in the sky today. Should we be shot up, there will be precious few to hold Yarron for the Airlord.”
“Pray for light winds,” advised Serjon. “This is shaping into a very long mission. Six hundred miles at most”
“Why bother guessing at what you will learn once you are inside your super-regal and able to open your orders?” asked Kumiar.
“A good warrior should be able to guess his commander’s strategy,” Ramsdel replied. “My guess is that we are striking the tramway junction yards at Idaho Falls.”
“That is within range of a light gunwing,” said Serjon.
“But it’s different if we have to duel,” countered Ramsdel. “Bad headwinds, or a long duel, and we would use up our reserve margin, leaving you on your own.”
“Agreed, agreed,” said Serjon, stopping as they drew level with the cockpit of the huge super-regal. “Good hunting, gentlefolk, and watch your fuel mixtures.”
“Good hunting, Serjon, and watch your mirror.”
“I don’t have one, I use a tail gunner.”
The engines of all their wings were idling and the fuel tanks were being topped up from handcarts. The three other crewmen were already aboard as Serjon clambered inside.
“Here are the orders, sairs,” he said, flourishing the sealed package. “Let’s get this thing ascended and see whose revel we get to spoil. Guildsman Perric?”
“Present.”
“Gunner Lurmant?”
“Present.”
“Gunner Vortiel?”
“Present.”
“Very well, to your posts. Perric, how are the engines?” Serjon asked as they strapped into their seats.
“Steady so far,” said the guildsman, who was by nature gloomy about any device operating reliably for long. “Oil pressure within normal range in all, temperature reads orange in Port 1.”
“Once we get an airstream over the fins that should drop, what do you say?”
“You may be right, Wingcaptain Feydamor.”
The adjunct waved the green flag, and the gunwings began to file out to the airstrip along the dispersal tracks. Bronlar’s aircraft labored to gain speed with its load of fuel and ammunition strips. It shot out over the fallaway, dropped, then rose sluggishly into the thin air of Wind River. She climbed, banked, and circled the wingfield.
Serjon’s super-regal was next onto the strip. Perric brought all six engines up to boost and the enormous wing began gathering speed. Like the gunwings, it was overloaded. Serjon had persuaded the wing to ascend with such a weight in practice runs, but it was tricky. That was why there were now only five super-regals and not six.
The super-regal rotated and its wheels spun clear of the strip as it heaved into the air just before the fallaway. The two gunners unlatched the main wheel frames and began winding them up while Perric worked on the nosewheel. Serjon banked gently to the left and circled the wingfield, watching the next super-regal ascending. In only minutes the five super-regals were in a shallow V formation and climbing to clear the peaks of the Wind River Range as they headed southwest.
Serjon broke the seal on his orders and divided his papers from those of the bombardier-guildsman. They were to rendezvous at Montpellier and turn north slightly to avoid the Weston and Pocatello wingfields to fly on to … Twin Falls! Serjon whistled. That was nearly a six-hundred-mile return journey. They were to bomb and strafe a secret assembly field for Bartolican gunwings.
Perric returned to his seat and noticed Serjon reading the orders.
“All wheels locked for flight, Wingcaptain,” he reported crisply.
“Very good. Our orders are to proceed to Montpellier, where we rendezvous with a flock of sixty gunwings.”
“May I ask our target, Wingcaptain?”
Serjon hesitated, and made a show of checking his orders again.
“No, Guildsman Perric. If the mission should be abandoned for any reason, we want as few as possible knowing that we had designs on the target.”
“Very good, Wingcaptain.”
Also circling Wind River was the flyer of gunwing Blackfeather, who broke open his pack of orders and scanned them. Cavos Lester’s pulse quickened as he read. The assembly field at Twin Falls, but they were not going there in a straight line. Sensible. They would have a different route home, a straight and direct route.
Slowly Lester dropped back as they circled; then he broke away and headed almost due west, his engine on overboost as he vented fuel to save weight. Blackfeather only had to reach Twin Falls fast, it did not have to get back. By flying the direct route he could be there with as much as a half-hour margin—ample time to warn the resident wardens of the impending attack and have them into the air. He prayed silently that a Call would not be sweeping over Twin Falls as he arrived.
He changed the mixture back to a fast cruise setting as he flew up among the mountains and the gunwing rocked in the thermals. He pulled out his map plates and discarded several in turn, then adjusted his course. Ahead of him the sky was clear and the landmark peaks were clearly visible.
Bullets suddenly ripped through the fabric of the gunwing and the engine lost power. The horrified flyer broke off into a sluggish dive at once, catching a glance of the gunwing that was pursuing. A Yarronese gunwing!
The fast, short-range gunwing was behind him. It was more than a match for a gunwing lumbering along with extenders at 130 mph. Lester thought frantically. Gannett Peak was to port and the Bartolican border only minutes away, but no wingfield or town was nearby.
The gunwing fired again, sending a hailstorm of bullets through Lester’s gunwing. Lester unbuckled himself and released the catches on the sailwing’s canopy. It tore free and was sucked away as he released the last catch; then he clambered out and jumped without hesitation. His gunwing flew on in a shallow dive, but the pursuing gunwing broke off and circled. Suddenly terrified, Lester spilled air from his parachute to drop faster. The gunwing closed with its guns chattering
.
In the attacking gunwing Air Carbineer Tallier watched dark fragments being torn from the body of the man beneath the parachute; then he swooped past.
“May I never, never have to do that again!” he said to himself.
Circling, he saw that most of his victim’s skull was gone; he was dead in his harness. Tallier broke off from the descending corpse and went after the empty gunwing again. As he caught up Tallier could see smoke leaking in a thin stream from the engine. Two more bursts sent the gunwing into a spin. It struck a mountainside, spilling a long streamer of flame from its compression spirit tanks. Tallier now turned east and set a zigzag course for Gannett wingfield. Far below a puzzled party of Bartolican troops set off to capture the enemy flyer who had been shot at by one of his own side’s gunwings. It was two days before they found the body, and another five before a sailwing courier brought the flyer’s papers to Condelor for decoding.
Off to the southwest the five super-regals droned steadily along, with their watchful escort of nineteen gunwings trailing along behind. By now they were over Bartolican territory, but they were too high to be in danger from groundfire. In any case, the area was sparsely populated.
“Wyoming Peak to starboard,” Serjon called to the guildsman.
“That’s where it ought to be, Wingcaptain. Estimated greeting with the sailwing flock, twenty minutes and three.”
A whistle came over the speaker pipe. Serjon shouted “Wingcaptain!” and held it to his ear.
“Gunner Vortiel here, Wingcaptain. Flock of gunwings in sight, bearing to third quarter and a fifth positive.”
“Third quarter and a fifth positive?” asked Serjon.
“Confirmed.”
“The gunwing flock should approach from starboard, and second quarter nil. What guild are the airframes? Those of the Air Carbineers?”
“Not triwing types, Wingcaptain, canards. They’re Bartolican wardens.”
The Bartolican wardens were on their way back from Yarron to Condelor for a meeting to assess the strategy for destroying the rest of the Yarron’s forces. Taking the example of the Yarronese, they climbed for a high attack.
“Relay engine throttles to master panel,” called Serjon.
The clank-clank of levers being moved clacked out six times.
“Confirmed, engine throttles to master panel,” shouted Perric.
“Gunners Lurmant and Vortiel, repair to your posts and report.”
“Vortiel at rear,” came a voice, followed by “Lurmant at dome.”
“Guildsman Perric, are you at damage control and strapped in?”
“Confirmed at damage control, sair Wingcaptain.”
“Gunwings, diving,” shouted Vortiel and Lurmant together.
“One at a time on that pipe,” shouted Serjon back. “Gunners, fire at your discretion.”
The Bartolican gunwings had by now been tuned for higher speeds, and were nearly twice as fast in a dive than the Yarronese super-regals. They roared down through the defending shield of gunwings and fired into the super-regals before sweeping on past. Port 3 engine began to lose power.
“Reporting loss of power in Port 3,” shouted Perric above the engines and reaction guns. “Suggest mixture boost.”
“Boost at maximum now,” Serjon lied.
“Gunwing flocks engaging,” Lurmant reported from the dome. “The super-regals are on their own, but we’re dropping back and losing height.”
“Gunwing, rear, starboard, climbing,” Vortiel shouted into the tube above the chatter of his reaction guns.
Off to port Serjon saw an attack wedge of Bartolicans closing with them in a shallow dive. Almost at once Kumiar and Ramsdel cut across the super-regal into the Bartolicans’ path. They converged, guns chattering; the Bartolicans broke and scattered. One of them swerved right into Kumiar’s path, and there was a lurid starburst of flames, smoke, wreckage, and exploding ammunition. Ramsdel plunged through the debris, then pulled into a long, banking dive. He was trailing smoke and fighting for control, shedding his pod tanks and rockets. Serjon lost sight of him.
“Sleep in clouds, my friends,” whispered Serjon. “You will be with me as I tear the Bartolican heart out.”
The running battle raged for only a few minutes, but it was costly for both sides. Five Bartolican gunwings went down for three Yarronese destroyed and two damaged, including Ramsdel’s wing. Increasing cloud added to the confusion, but Bear Lake was by now visible to the south. Low on fuel even when they attacked, the Bartolicans broke off.
Four super-regals stayed together, holding their course until they met with the flock of Air Carbineers from Gannett. Ramsdel launched his pair of wing rockets and began the trip back to Wind River, too busy keeping in the air to worry about where Bronlar and Alion were. They were, in fact, still heading southwest.
Bronlar knew that she was now outside the mission profile, but Serjon’s super-regal had an engine that was apparently damaged. It was not losing height as she went after it, but its course did not match anything in her orders. Still, the giant wing could absorb more damage than a gunwing, and Serjon’s orders probably included targets of opportunity. Alion stayed with the super-regal as well, sharing Bronlar’s reasoning.
“Gentlefolk, we appear to be alone,” Serjon announced over the pipe as he adjusted the engines back to proper tuning. “We also appear to have full power again.”
“Two gunwings from Wind River still flying escort,” reported Lurmant. “The crests are of Warden Damaric and Air Carbineer Jemarial.”
Serjon cursed softly, then caught himself. None but him on the super-regal knew that the official target was at Twin Falls. Perhaps Bronlar and Alion would assume he had extra orders that they did not. His own target was much closer, and the gunwings could easily get back to Wind River. They would be welcome as an escort, of course.
“Gentlefolk, the target in this mission is the royal palace of Condelor, the seat of the Bartolican Airlord,” he announced, then sat back to whistles and “Humping Callwalkers!”
“Just now we’re separated from the main flock, but we’re fully functional and on course. We shall come in from the north. The target is the large stained-glass window above the main steps of the palace and just back from the fountains.”
Serjon had done this in his fantasies time and again in the month past, and now he called the measurements, distances, and perspective frame settings to Perric as he strapped himself into the observation bunk in the nose. The idea had been born when he had seen a super-regal for the first time, and it was why he had abandoned gunwings. His career in the air would be over the moment that he stepped back onto Yarronese soil, but the Bartolican nobility would at last be really hurt for what had happened at Opal and uncounted other wardens’ estates. They cleared the mountains and flew out over the irrigated farmlands.
“Bear River in sight,” Perric reported from the nose viewport.
“Releasing ballistic rocket arming bars one, two, three, and four,” Serjon called.
“Condelor to Pocatello tramway in sight,” Perric echoed. “Change heading to due south, less five.”
“Banking … due south less five, confirmed.”
“Twenty miles to target.”
“Guildsman Perric, proceed to the bomb chamber. Arm the bomb and connect the flyer’s release lever cables.”
There was a pause of more than a minute while Perric left the nose and carried out his orders. Serjon continued to lose height until they were only a few hundred feet from the irrigated farmland below.
“Perric from nose. Bomb armed and release connected to the flyer lines. Grid indicates twelve miles.”
“Gun tests,” ordered Serjon. “Tail and dome.”
There was a brief burst from the reaction guns at the tail, followed by another from the dome.
“All functioning, Wingcaptain,” the gunners reported in order.
“Status of escort, tail gunner?”
“Both at four hundred behind and fifty high. Ah—one
, no, both have dropped their wing extenders.”
“Ten miles—Condelor outskirts in sight!” cried Perric.
Condelor! None aboard but Serjon had ever seen the ancient and magnificent capital of Greater Bartolica. Serjon shed a little more height. Bronlar and Alion compensated, still guarding his back. He was the flockleader, after all, and they had to provide protection no matter what he did.
They came around low and fast, their compression engines roaring as they flew over a ridge that screened inner Condelor from sight. The ridge loomed, bare rock passed close beneath their wings. Small, dark things scurried for cover as the nightmare shapes of predator birds bore down on them, then passed on. The city unfolded before them, a patchwork of roads and stone dwellings beneath a light haze of smoke. They banked over the eastern quarter, which was all market gardens and terraces dotted with reservoir cisterns and aqueducts. Figures far below pointed, some even waved.
“Three miles!” warned Perric.
“Duel status?” asked Serjon.
“Clear skies,” both gunners reported back.
“Two miles, target in sight.”
Serjon had seen all this before; he had overflown Condelor at the Airlord’s coronation. There were the gardens, the wingfield, the palace spires with parade and court colors flying—court was in session! That was too much to hope for, but …
“Gunwings to southeast, burning aerobatic flares,” reported the dome gunner. “I’d say four miles, no threat for now.”
“One mile!” called Perric. “Down—point, point. Port—point. Steady … Aim reference in crosshairs. Down—point. Steady.”
They were over the gardens, Serjon ached to pull the release lever but he had to trust the guildsman. There were a lot of nobles about in the gardens. Some dived for the ground, others ran. Nobles and royalty at an afternoon picnic, thought Serjon, but most of his attention was on the looming palace.
“drop!”
The super-regal lurched up as Serjon released its bomb, roaring over the roof of the Great Hall of the Throne and barely clearing the central tower behind it. The bomb smashed neatly through the stained-glass centerpiece window of the Great Hall. A bright flash burst glass and flames from every window; tiles lifted, then crashed back and down into the carnage below in a roiling cloud of smoke and dust. The tower teetered, the keystones at its base blown away; then it collapsed down into the ruins.
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