Double Eagle(科幻战争)-第2部分

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He　thumbed　the　firing　stud。　The　Wolfcub　shuddered　slightly　as　the　cannons　lit　up。　He　saw　flashflames
licking　up　from　under　the　curve　of　the　nose　cone。　He　heard　and　felt　the　thump　of　the
breechblocks。
The　bat　had　gone。
He　came　clear；　pulling　a　wide　turn　at　about　two　hundred　and　seventy　kilometres　an　hour。　The
engagement　had　been　over　in　an　instant。　Had　he　killed　it？　He　sat　up　into　the　clear　blister　of　the
canopy　like　an　animal　looking　out　of　its　burrow；　craning　around。　If　he’d　hit　it；　surely　there　would　be
smoke？
The　only　smoke　he　could　see　was　about　a　thousand　metres　above　in　the　pale　blue　sky　where　the
main　portion　of　the　dogfight　was　still　rolling。
He　turned。　First　rule　of　air　combat：　take　a　shot　and　pull　off。　Never　stick　with　a　target；　never　go
back。　That　made　you　a　target。
But　still　he　had　to　know。　He　had　to。
He　dipped　his　starboard　wing；　searching　the　peaks　below　for　a　trace　of　fire。
Nothing。
Darrow　levelled　off。
And　there　it　was。　Right　alongside　him。
He　cried　out　in　astonishment。　The　bat　was　less　than　a　wing’s　breadth　away；　riding　along　in
parallel　with　him。　There　was　not　a　mark　on　its　burnished　white　fuselage。
It　was　playing　with　him。
Panic　rose　inside　pilot　cadet　Enric　Darrow。　He　knew　his　valiant　little　Cub　could　neither　outrun
nor　out…climb　the　Hell　Razor。　He　throttled　back　hard；　and　threw　on　his　speed　brakes；　hoping　the
sudden　manoeuvre　would　cause　the　big　machine　to　overshoot　him。
For　a　moment；　it　vanished。　Then　it　was　back；　on　his　other　side；　copying　his　brake…dive。　Darrow
swore。　The　Hell　Razor…class　were　vector…thrust　planes。　He　was　so　close　to　it　that　he　could　see　the
reactive　jet　nozzles　on　the　belly　under　the　blade…wings。　It　could　out…dance　any　conventional　jet；
viffing；　braking；　even　pulling　to　a　near…hover。
Darrow　refused　to　accept　he　was　out…classed；　refused　to　admit　he　was　about　to　die。　He　twisted
the　stick；　kicked　the　rudder　right　over　and　went　into　the　deepest　dive　he　dared　execute。　Any　deeper；
and　the　Wolfcub’s　wings　would　shear　off　its　airframe。
The　world　rushed　up；　filling　his　vision。　He　heard　the　pulsejet　screaming。　He　saw　the　glory　of　the
mountains　ascending　to　meet　him。　His　mountains。　His　world。　The　world　he　had　joined　up　to　save。
Behind　him；　the　pearl…white　enemy　machine　tucked　in　effortlessly　and　followed　him　down。
Theda　MAB　North；　07。02
Sometimes—times　like　this　perfect　dawn；　for　instance—it　amused　August　Kaminsky　to　play　a
private　game。　The　game　was　called　“pretend　there　isn’t　a　war”。
It　was　relatively　easy　in　some　respects。　It　was　quiet；　and　the　night　chill　was　giving　way　to　a　still
cool　as　the　sunrise　came　up　over　the　city。　From　where　he　sat；　he　could　see　the　wide　bay；　hazy　in　the
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morning　mist；　and　the　sea　beyond　it；　blue…grey；　glittering。　The　city　of　Theda　itself—a　mix　of　pale
rockcrete　towers；　low…rise　hab…stacks　and　pylon　steeples—was　peaceful　and　quiet；　huddled　on　the
anner；　as　it　had　done　for　twenty…nine　centuries。　Sea　birds
wheeled　overhead；　which　spoiled　it　slightly；　because　he　envied　them　their　wings　and　their　freedom；
but　still；　at　these　times；　it　was　easy　to　play　the　game。
Theda　was　not　Kaminsky’s　birth…town　（he’d　been　delivered；　a　silent；　uncomplaining　infant；
forty…two　years　earlier　and　three　thousand　kilometres　north　in　the　Great　Hive　of　Enothopolis　on　the
far　side　of　the　Zophonian　Sea）；　but　he　had；　unilaterally；　adopted　it。　It　was　smaller　than　the　Great
Hive；　prettier；　a　littoral　town　that　understood　the　mechanisms　of　the　sea　and；　with　its　universitariat
and　its　many　scholams；　was　famous　as　a　seat　of　learning。　It　was　older　than　the　Great　Hive　too。　The
Old　Town　quarter　had　been　standing　for　three　hundred　years　when　the　first　technocrats　began
sinking　their　adamantine　pilings　into　the　Ursbond　Peninsula　to　raise　Enothopolis。　Theda；　dear　old
Theda；　was　one　of　the　first　cities　of　Enothis。
Kaminsky　had　adopted　Theda　partly　because　of　its　distinguished　past；　mostly　because　he’d　been
stationed　there　for　six　years。　He’d　come　to　know　it　well：　its　eating　houses；　its　coastal　pavilions　and
piers；　its　libraries　and　museums。　It　was　the　place　he’d　always　longed　to　return　to　every　time　he
snapped　the　canopy　shut　and　waved　the　fitters　away。　And　it　was　the　place　he　always　had　come　back
to。
Even　the　last　time。
“You　there！　Driver！”
The　voice　broke　through　his　thoughts。　He　sat　up　in　the　worn　leather　seat　of　the　cargo　transport
and　looked　out。　Senior　Pincheon；　the　Munitorum　despatcher；　was　coming　over　the　hard　pan　towards
him；　three　aides　wobbling　along　in　his　wake　like　novice　wingmen。　Pincheon’s　long　robes　fluttered
out　behind　him　and　his　boots　were　raising　dust　from　the　dry　earth。　His　voice　was　pitched　high；　like
the　seabirds’　calls。
Kaminsky　didn’t　like　Pincheon　much。　His　game　was　ruined　now。　The　senior’s　call　had　made
him　drop　his　eyeline　to　take　in　the　ground　and　the　airfield。　And　no　one　could　pretend　there　wasn’t　a
war　when　they　saw　that。
Kaminsky　opened　his　cab　door　and　climbed　down　to　meet　the　senior。　He’d　been　up　since　five
waiting　for　despatch；　sipping　caffeine　from　a　flask　and　munching　on　a　coil　of　whisp…bread。
“Senior；”　he　said；　saluting。　He　didn’t　have　to。　The　unctuous　man　had　no　military　rank；　but　old
habits；　like　Kaminsky　himself；　died　hard。　Pincheon　had　a　data…slate　in　his　hands。　He　looked　up　and
down　Kaminsky；　and　the　grubby　transport　behind　him。
“Driver　Kaminsky；　A？　Vehicle　167？”
“As　you　well　know；　senior；”　said　Kaminsky。
Pincheon　made　a　check　in　one　of　the　boxes　on　his　slate。　“Fuelled　and　roadworthy？”
Kaminsky　nodded。　“As　of　05。00。　I　was　issued　coupons　for　sixty　litres　of　two…grade；　and　I　filled
up　at　the　depot　before　I　came　on　duty。”
Pincheon　checked　another　box。　“Do　you　have　the　chit？”
Kaminsky　produced　the　paper　slip　from　his　coat　pocket；　smoothed　it　flat；　and　handed　it　to　the
senior。
Pincheon　studied　it。　“Sixty　point　zero…zero…three　litres；　driver？”
Kaminsky　shrugged。　“The　nozzle　guns　aren’t　really　accurate；　senior。　I　stopped　it　when　it　wound
over　sixty；　but　the　last　few　drops—”
“You　should　take　care　to　be　more　accurate；”　Pincheon　said　flatly。　One　of　his　aides　nodded。
“Have　you　ever　fuelled　a　vehicle　from　the　depot　tanks；　senior？”　Kaminsky　said　lightly。
“Of　course　not！”
“Well；　if　you　had；　you　might　know　how　tricky　it　is　to　get　the　wind　exact。”
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“Don’t　you　blame　me　for　your　inaccuracies；　driver！”　Pincheon　sputtered。　“Essential　resources
such　as　fuel　must　be　managed　and　rationed　to　the　millilitre！　That　is　the　task　of　the　Holy　Munitorum！
There’s　a　war　on；　don’t　you　realise？”
“I　had　heard…”
Senior　Pincheon　ignored　him　and　looked　at　the　nodding　aide。　“What’s　zero…zero…three　of　a　litre
two…grade　at　base　cost？”
The　aide　made　a　quick　calculation　on　his　pocket　slate。　“Rounding　down；　ten　and　a　half　credits；
senior。”
“Round　up。　And　deduct　it　from　the　next　wage　slip　of　driver　Kaminsky；　A。”
“So　recorded；　senior。”
Pincheon　turned　back　to　Kaminsky。　“Transportation　run。　Personnel。　Pick　up　within　thirty
minutes　from　the　Hotel　Imperial　in—”
“I　know　where　it　is。”
“Good。　Convey　them　to　the　dispersal　point　at　MAB　South。　Do　you　understand？　Fine。　Then　sign
here。”
As　he　signed　his　name；　his　stiffened　fingers　struggling　with　the　stylus；　Kaminsky　asked：　“Are
they　fliers？　Navy　fliers　at　last？”
Pincheon　huffed。　“Not　for　me　to　say。　There’s　a　war　on。”
“You　think　I　don’t　know　that；　senior？”　Kaminsky　asked。
As　he　took　back　the　slate　and　the　stylus；　Pincheon　looked　up　at　Kaminsky’s　face　and　made　eye
contact　for　the　first　time。　What　he　saw　made　him　shudder。
“Carry　on；　driver；”　he　said；　and　hurried　away。
Kaminsky　climbed　up　into　his　battered　transport　and　turned　the　engine　over。　Blue　smoke
coughed　and　spurted　from　the　vertical　exhausts。　Lifting　the　brake；　he　rolled　the　ten…wheeler　down
the　gentle　slope　of　the　hardpan　and　drove　off　along　the　field　circuit　trackway；　following　the　chain
link　fence。
The　game　was　certainly　ruined　now。　No　pretending　any　more。　Here　were　fuel　bowsers；　smeared
with　treacly　black　promethium　waste；　armoured　hangars；　repair　sheds　reverberating　with　the　noise
of　power　tools；　lines　of　primer　coils　on　their　trolleys；　electric　munitions　trains　parked　and　empty　on
verges　of　swishing　sap…grass。
And　airstrips。　Cracked　rockcrete　looking　like　psoriatic　skin　in　the　early　light；　with　eight…engine
bombers　sulking　on　their　hardstands；　props　like　sabre…blades　raised　in　threat；　hook…winged　Shrike
dive…bombers　under　tarps；　fitters　and　armourers　working　around　them。
Beyond　the　strips；　facing　the　sea；　lay　the　long　launch　ramps　of　the　Wolfcubs；　stretched　out　like
exposed　spinal　chords；　glinting　and　skeletal　in　the　rising　sun。
Five　Wolfcubs　sat　on　taxi…racks　at　the　head　of　the　ramps。　Bottle　green　with　grey　undersides；　they
were　tiny；　one…man　planes　with　stubby　wings　and　tails；　their　rocket　engines　raised　above　their　backs；
their　nose　guns　muzzled。　They　looked　squat；　leaden。
But　Kaminsky　knew　how　they　felt　to　fly。　He　knew　how　they　rose　off　those　catapult　ramps；
throttles　right　back；　pulse…engines　farting　and　popping　as　the　airflow　fired　them　to　launch　velocity。
The　belly…dropping　jink　as　they　cleared　the　ramp　end　and　lifted　up　into　the　blue；　raw　and　throbbing。
The　cold　smell　of　the　cockpit。　The　reek　of　rubber