On Wings of Blood

by Warhammer 40K

  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 fire with the Wrath’s assault cannons, but still the ork didn’t 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 G 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 the G-forces starved his brain 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 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 armourglass 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 rudder.

  No time to consider how close that had been. Kerikus didn’t 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 thg accursed heap of metal could even fly, let alone pull off such an impressive manoeuvre. The jet looked as if it were about to fly apart at any second, ragtag iron plates bolted randomly across a seared hull, high-calibre cannons mounted where they had no place to be.

  This would end now. Kerikus hadn’t 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 wasn’t giving up that easily. He swung about, almost tasting the kill. All it needed was one more salvo to–

  Kerikus’ 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 advantage of Kerikus’ momentary disorientation. This wasn’t a newcomer – it was the plane he’d originally engaged.

  ‘Clever, clever greenskins,’ a grim smile played across Kerikus’ 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 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. The best time to take down an enemy? When they’re concentrating on blowing another target from the sky. He’d 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 with every gun mounted on the craft’s snaggle-toothed nose, firing in desperation at the ground. Perhaps it was frustration or maybe the idiot actually believed 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 second 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 wouldn’t 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 couldn’t 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 ship 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, 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 shot 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. Keriku
s 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 clung to his tail, matching his every move. He would have been impressed, if his assailant weren’t 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 the 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’ eyes didn’t 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.

  There were three of them. Doom Eagles fought to the end no matter what 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-system, pausing only as he recalled his fist slamming into the controls. As the second 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’d 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 wasn’t 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 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 if 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’ 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 a simple round of ammo to the largest warship. He could imagine Tyrus’ face when he seen the ruined controls on the Wrath’s console.

  ‘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 ship’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 transponders. 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 wasn’t as if he were a Scout, new to battle. ‘Besides, the orks now control the best weapons 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’d 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 didn’t 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.
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br />   ‘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’ 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 flight seat.

  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 one 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 one hundred and twenty kilometres from here, 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 orks’ ground defences are short range–’

  ‘They will have fighters patrolling the area.’

  Kerikus nodded, his mouth a grim line.

  ‘Estimated enemy numbers at the target location?’ asked Tyrus, his one remaining organic eye scanning the complex’s schematics.

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