Double Eagle(科幻战争)-第10部分

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hundred　metres…plus。　Viltry　kicked　in　some　throttle；　dropping　Gee　Force　down　to　a　sense…whizzing
low　fifty。　At　the　stick　of　Mamzel　Mayhem；　right　behind　Gee　Force；　Kyrklan　grinned。　Low　fifty；　in　a
Marauder　doing　400　kph；　boxed　in　by　a　granite　canyon。　Only　Oskar　Viltry　had　the　balls　to　lead　off
like　that。
Kyrklan　had　been　flying　Marauders　for　just　a　year　less　than　Viltry；　and　for　the　last　six　had　been
Viltry’s　second　in　Halo。　He　loved　the　man；　and　would　follow　him　anywhere。　In　Wassimir　Kyrklan’s
opinion；　no　one　quite　knew　how　to　play　a　four…ram　bird　the　way　Viltry　did。　It　was　a　gut　thing；　a
nerve　thing。　Like　he　was　born　to　it。　When　Viltry　had　gone　missing；　presumed　lost；　over　the　Scald　in
771；　Kyrklan　had　mourned　not　just　for　his　friend　but　for　the　generations　of　Phantine　pilots　to　come。
They　would　never　see　Viltry　fly；　never　learn；　never　understand。　The　fact　that　Kyrklan　had　gained
flight　command　was　no　consolation。　He’d　had　to　lead　the　wing　in　on　the　Ouranberg　raid。　Viltry
would　have　done　that　job　better。　Now　the　captain　was　back　and　everything　would　be　four…A。
Kyrklan　pushed　his　dangling　mask　up　to　his　face。　“Slow　down；　eh；　Osk？”　he　laughed　into　the
vox。
“Say　again；　Halo　Two？”
“Nothing；　Halo　Leader。　Let’s　go　get。”
In　the　juddering　cockpit　of　Halo　Lead；　Viltry　shivered。　Inside　his　armoured　gauntlets；　his
knuckles　were　white。　This　is　it。　This　is　the　one。　Fortune’s　frigging　wheel。　This　is　the　payback。
Death。　Death　now。　Death　now—
“Target　sighted！”　Judd　sang　out。
They　had　just　whipped　over　a　straggled　formation　of　Imperial　armour；　over　two　hundred
vehicles　hemmed　in　on　a　shelf　of　the　steep　pass。　Up　ahead；　mobile　batteries　and　heavy　cannon　began
to　punch　the　air　with　shot。
Viltry’s　hands　were　quivering　on　the　stick。　“I　can’t…”　he　began。
“Captain？”　Lacombe　asked；　looking　round　at　him。
Holy　Throne！　Just　do　it。　Just　do　it！　Viltry　shook　himself；　and　screamed　into　his　mic。　“Forward
guns　fire　now！　Now！　Judd！　Fry　them！”
Naxol；　in　the　bow　turret；　began　firing；　kicking　out　backwashing　flame　around　the　plane’s　nose　as
he　raked　the　ground　positions。
“Load　away！”　Judd　reported。　Gee　Force　lifted　suddenly　as　the　belly　and　wing　weight　let　go。
A　ripple　of　flame　below。　Then　Mamzel　Mayhem　added　to　it；　then　Hello　Hellfire。　It　whipped　up
into　a　firestorm。　The　others；　in　swift　succession；　followed。
By　then；　G　for　Greta　was　banking　up　out　of　the　pass；　the　crystal　mountainscape　under　her。
Sucked　back　into　their　harness　rigs　by　the　extreme　G；　her　crew　was　still　cheering。
Levelling　out　at　five　kilometres　over　the　peaks；　Viltry　sagged　over　the　controls　for　a　moment；
breathing　hard。
“We　cooked　them！　We　cooked　the　bastards　and—”
The　voice　was　shrilling　from　Gaize；　the　turret　gunner。
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“Shut　up。　Shut　up！”　Viltry　yelled。　“Shut　up　for　Throne’s　sake！　Pick　up　your　visual　scanning　right
now　or　we　won’t　get　home！　Do　you　hear　me？　We　won’t　frigging　well　get　home！”
Theda　MAB　South；　12。12
The　sky　was　empty；　but　Pilot　Officer　Vander　Marquall　wasn’t　looking　at　it。　He　was　looking　at　his
bird。
The　I…XXI　Thunderbolt　sat　on　its　skids　in　an　anti…blast　revetment　on　the　east　side　of　the　Theda
South　field。　It　was　a　hefty　beast；　fourteen　tonnes　dead　weight　without　fuel；　with　a　blunt　group　of
cannons　for　a　nose　and　a　body　that　swelled　out　into　forward　swept　wings　around　the　thrust　tunnels
of　the　double　turbofan　engines。　The　canopy　was　set　amidships；　giving　the　Bolt　a　reclined；　louche
look。
It　was　painted　matt　grey；　with　the　marks　of　the　Phantine　XX　on　its　tail　and　nose。　Its　exposed
engine　ducts　glinted　copper。
Racklae；　Marquall’s　chief　fitter；　looked　up　from　under　one　of　the　gun　housings。　“Be　good　as
new；　I　promise；”　he　said。
Marquall　grinned。　Racklae’s　subs　were　just　finishing　up　the　nose　art　paint　job　on　the　bird。　The
Phantine　stylised　eagle；　clasping　the　jagged　lightning　bolt；　with　the　name　“Double　Eagle”　beneath　it
in　inverted　commas。
Marquall　became　aware　of　someone　coming　up　behind　him。　He　turned；　and　stiffened　in　surprise。
It　was　Captain　Guis　Gettering　of　the　Apostles；　his　white　suede　flight　coat　almost　glowing　in　the
midday　sunlight。
“Sir；　I—”　Marquall　began。
Gettering　calmly　removed　one　of　his　chainmail　gauntlets　and　slapped　Marquall　across　the　face
with　it　so　hard　that　the　young　man　was　knocked　down　onto　one　knee。
Dazed；　stunned；　his　face　grazed　by　the　chain；　Marquall　looked　up。
Guis　Gettering　was　striding　back　to　his　hardstand。
“What…”　gasped　Marquall；　rising　with　the　assistance　of　his　fitters。　“What　the　bloody　hell　was
that　about？”
Theda　MAB　North；　12。26
When　Darrow　finally　got　back　to　his　station；　it　seemed　like　the　place　had　been　abandoned。　He　stood
for　a　few　minutes　on　the　sunlit　assembly　yard　and　looked　out　across　the　main　field。　A　kilometre
away；　along　the　western　side　of　the　area；　he　could　see　rows　of　big　machines　under　nets。　Imperial
birds；　Marauders。　Darrow　could　just　make　out　fitter　crews　at　work　on　the　heavy　fighter…bombers。　To
his　north；　Munitorum　crews　were　dismantling　six　of　the　twelve　launching　ramps　used　by　the
Wolfcubs。　Activity；　but　all　of　it　remote。
The　complex　of　operations　and　barrack　buildings　behind　him　felt　deserted　and　empty。　He
wandered　up　the　main　steps　and　into　the　cool　gloom　of　the　main　hall。　Darrow　was　wearing　a
borrowed　pair　of　old　overalls。　His　clothing　had　been　ruined　in　the　crash。　He’d　managed　to　keep　hold
of　his　aviator　boots；　and　his　heavy　leather　flying　coat；　though　one　sleeve　of　it　had　been　badly　torn。
He’d　refused　to　let　the　medics　toss　it　away。
They’d　insisted　on　keeping　him　in　Theda　South’s　infirmary　overnight　for　observation；　even
though　it　was　clear　to　anybody　that　he　was　fine　apart　from　a　few　scratches　and　bruises。　In　the
morning；　he’d　been　forced　to　wait；　twitchy　with　impatience；　to　fill　out　forms　and　incident
statements。　Only　then　had　he　been　written　up　cleared　and　allowed　to　snag　the　first　available
transport　back　to　North。
He　just　wanted　to　get　back；　get　into　the　routine　again　and　put　the　previous　day；　that　terrible　day；
behind　him。
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No　one　seemed　to　want　to　let　him　do　that。　The　forms；　the　medical　checks；　the　incident
statements。　Even　the　transport　driver　who’d　brought　him　back　from　Theda　South　seemed　like　a　sick
jibe。　The　man’s　face　had　been　a　mess　of　pink　scar　tissue。
The　entry　hall　was　empty。　Nobody　hurried　past　along　the　polished　wood…tile　floor。　He　walked
past　the　gilt…lettered　rolls　of　honour　on　the　panelled　walls；　one　for　each　Commonwealth　squadron；
including　his　own；　the　34th　General　Intercept；　and　under　the　brooding　hololith　of　the　late　Air
Commander　Tenthis　Belks。　It　was　a　time…honoured　custom　for　all　pilots　to　salute　the　old　man’s
portrait　as　they　went　past。　Darrow　didn’t　feel　like　such　frippery　today。
There　was　no　one　in　the　day　office；　or　behind　the　desk　at　company　and　area。　Darrow　went　down
to　the　dispersal　room；　but　there　was　nobody　there　either。　The　air　smelled　of　over…brewed　caffeine
and　stale　smoke。　A　circular　regicide　board；　its　game　unfinished；　sat　on　one　of　the　small　tables；
Darrow　went　back　out　into　the　hall；　and　walked　down　to　the　station　chapel。　On　the　wall　beside　the
double　doors　hung　a　blackboard　where　the　names　of　the　dead　and　missing　were　written　up　prior　to
the　morning　service。　He　stood　for　a　moment　and　stared　at　the　list　written　there　now。　The　dead　cadets
of　Hunt　Flight。　Such　a　damnably　long　list。　But　for　five　names；　it　was　a　roll　call　for　the　entire　wing。
He　opened　the　doors　and　looked　into　the　chapel。　It　was　quiet　and　very　dark；　save　for　the　daylight
falling　in　multi…coloured　rays　through　the　lancet　windows　at　the　far　end。　There　was　an　odour　of
wood…wax　and　floor　polish；　and　also　fading　flowers。　Someone　was　sitting　down　at　the　front；　at　the
end　of　the　first　pew。　Darrow　couldn’t　make　out　who　it　was；　and　felt　reluctant　to　disturb　them。
Retreating　back　into　the　hall；　Darrow　noticed　for　the　first　time　the　printed　posts　tacked　up　on　the
wallboards　outside　the　day　office。
He　started　to　read　them。
Major　Heckel　came　out　of　the　chapel　and　walked　over　to　him。　“Darrow？”
“What…　what　is　this？”　Darrow　murmured。
Heckel　could　hear　the　tinge　of　anger　in　the　pilot　cadet’s　voice。　“You　just　got　back　then？”　he
asked。　“You’re　checked　out？　You’re　all　right？”
“What　does　this　mean？”　Darrow　snapped；　pointing　at　the　posts。
Heckel’s　face　was　pinched　and　pale；　and　he　seemed　to　shrink　back　timidly　from　Darrow’s
bitterness。　“It’s　just　the　way　things　have　worked　out；　Darrow。”
“Did　Eads　sign　off　on　this？”
“It　was　his　decision；　he—”
“Is　he　here？”
“Yes。　Yes；　he　is。”
“I　want　to　see　him。”
Heckel　bit　his　lower　lip　and　then　nodded。　“Come　on。”
The　major　led　the　way　up　the　front　stairs　to　the　main　operations　chambers。　Their　boots　rang　on
the　hard　wood。　Heckel　seemed　to　have　a　need　for　small　talk。
“Everyone’s　been　given　day　leave；”　he　said；　almost　cheerfully。　“As　of　this　morning。　Everyone…
Well；　news　like　that；　yesterday。　Sort　of　knocked　everybody　back。　And　as　we　were　about　to　go　into
turnaround　and　move　out　to　make　way　for　the　Imperials；　well；　it　seemed　like　the　best　thing；　so
Commander　Eads　issued　passes　and…”
Darrow　wasn’t　really　listening。　The　door　to　the　main　operations　room　was　open；　and　he　saw
unfamiliar　perso