Double Eagle(科幻战争)-第25部分

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to　go　weapons…live；　arm　payloads；　and　keep　scanning。
Even　if　they　couldn’t　keep　the　bats　in　visual；　they　had　to　keep　them　on　the　scopes。
Because　they　were　going　to　lead　them　straight　to　a　carrier。
Over　Ezraville；　09。18
“Attacking！”　Jagdea　sang　out；　and　rolled　serial　Zero…Two　into　a　scream　dive；　with　Ranfre；　Waldon
and　Del　Ruth　at　her　heels。　Four　thousand　metres　below　them；　partly　obscured　by　wispy　threadclouds；
the　air　was　full　of　planes；　darting　and　swooping　like　shoals　of　reef　fish　in　a　tropical　sea。
Another　nine　thousand　metres　below　the　huge　air　battle　lay　the　vast；　dark　sprawl　of　Ezraville；　a
collage　of　blacks　and　greys　beside　the　mirror…white　expanse　of　the　estuary　mouth。
Behind　Jagdea’s　pack；　Larice　Asche　led　the　second　half　of　Umbra　in：　Cordiale；　Van　Tull　and
Marquall。　Only　two…thirds　of　the　squadron　were　airworthy。　Clovin　was　gone；　Espere　out；　probably
forever；　and　both　Blansher　and　Zemmic　were　grounded　while　their　machines　underwent　repairs。
The　power　dive　was　ferocious。　Negative　G　glued　them　to　their　seats；　and　pulled　their　faces　into
rictus　masks。　Jagdea’s　vision　was　spotty；　but　she　tried　to　stay　fixed；　tried　to　make　sense　of　the　brawl
they　were　coming　in　on。
They’d　been　called　up　to　meet　a　huge　wave　of　enemy　bombers　heading　for　the　coast。　Nearly　two
hundred　machines；　mainly　Hell　Talons　and　Tormentors；　with　fighter　cover。　Poor　weather　had
delayed　the　auspex　plot；　so　the　raiders　were　already　closing　on　Ezraville　before　the　warning　had
gone　up。　By　now；　they　were　shedding　their　payloads　on　the　city。
Other　wings　had　already　intercepted。　Thunderbolts　2665　and　44；　138　Lightning；　and　a　squadron
of　late…model　Commonwealth　Cyclones。　With　Umbra；　that　made　about　sixty　Imperial　machines
committed。　Others　were　inbound。　More　still；　the　majority；　were　engaged　against　two　other　equally
massive　raid　forces　over　the　Lida。
The　enemy　bombers；　hooked；　brightly　coloured　and　menacing；　were　ranged　out　in　long；
straggling　Vs；　like　migrating　waterfowl；　holding　pattern　while　they　let　their　payloads　go。　The
Imperials　were　milling　around　those　ranks；　trying　to　pick　them　off—whilst　fending　off　the　fierce
scatter　of　Locusts　that　were　flying　escort。
As　soon　as　their　bombs　were　gone；　the　big　Tormentors　tended　to　pull　out　and　head　for　home；　but
the　Hell　Talons；　vastly　powerful　fighter…bombers；　stayed　on　station。　Freed　from　the　weight　of　their
primary　loads；　they　began　peeling　down　to　execute　rocket　or　cannon　attacks　on　the　city；　or　even
pulled　up　to　provide　additional　top　cover　for　the　rest　of　the　raid。
The　air　was　full　of　swarming　machines；　flickering　fire　and　puffs　of　smoke。　Sections　of　the　city
below　were　ablaze。
Jagdea　felt　the　hate　fan　in　her　heart。　Her　dive　was　bringing　her　right　down　on　a　Talon。　She
tracked　the　nose；　keeping　in　her　sights；　right　at　the　centre　of　her　reticule；　and　squeezed　her　thumb。
The　Talon　detonated　in　mid…air　with　huge　force。　Jagdea　had　already　swept　down　past　it　at　mach
one；　banking　round　under　the　raid　formation　and　coming　up　on　a　Tormentor　from　below。　Her　twinlas
pumped；　and　the　machine　trembled　as　its　belly　opened　like　a　gutted　fish；　spilling　out　tatters　of
debris；　machine　parts　and　lubricants　in　fine　sprays。　Trailing　white　smoke；　it　began　to　tilt　and
founder。　It　was　dead；　but　she　stayed　on　it；　switching　to　the　quad　cannons　and　raking　it　end　to　end。
The　Tormentor　combusted　and　vaporised。　Burning　debris　showered　down　towards　the　benighted
city；　but　better　for　it　to　blow　up　in　the　air　than　come　down　on　a　hab　block　with　a　full　payload。
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Tight　on　her　heels　in　the　dive；　Ranfre　and　Waldon　both　destroyed　Tormentors　with　fine
intercepts　and　wheeled　off；　hunting。　In　less　than　thirty　seconds；　Waldon　had　lined　up　on　a　Talon　that
was　in　the　process　of　unloading　its　bombs；　and　shredded　its　cockpit　section　with　quad…fire。　As　the
crimson　machine　spiralled　away；　coming　apart；　Waldon　whooped。　He’d　just　made　his　fourth　and
fifth　confirmed　career　kills。　He　was　now　an　ace。
Del　Ruth；　rearmost　of　the　four；　overshot　her　chosen　target；　which　saw　her　coming　down　on　it　at
the　last　moment　and　rolled　a　desperate　evade。　But　she　levelled　out；　and　immediately　picked　up　a
Locust　chasing　one　of　the　Commonwealth　planes。　Tone　locked；　she　stung　it　hard；　and　as　it　began　to
judder；　stung　it　again　and　blew　it　to　fragments。
Asche’s　four　came　in　moments　later　moving；　if　anything；　at　an　even　higher　rate。　Asche　got　a
Talon　squarely　and　cleanly。　Van　Tull　took　a　shot　at　a　Tormentor；　damaged　it；　looped　around　and
finished　the　kill。
Cordiale；　his　timing　just　out；　mis…hit　a　Talon；　and　then　found　he　had　a　Talon　and　a　Locust　on
him。　He　tried　to　jink　out；　but　nearly　collided　with　a　Lightning　coming　head　on。　He　screwed　over　to
evade；　almost　stalling。　The　Lightning　banked　hard　and　its　port…wing　tip　clipped　the　Talon　behind
Cordiale。　The　Lightning　lost　stability　and　began　to　spin；　corrected；　and　then　was　blown　apart　by　two
other　Locusts。　Trailing　debris；　the　Talon　it　had　clipped　came　wide；　right　into　Asche’s　gun　cone。　She
showed　it　little　mercy。
Cordiale　swung　about　and　started　to　chase　down　a　Tormentor。　It　had　shed　its　load；　and　was
turning　for　the　home　run。　But　it　was　still　a　viable　target。　If　it　died　here；　it　couldn’t　come　back　with
another　clutch　of　bombs。
Marquall；　the　last　in；　was　sure　he　had　a　kill。　He　fired　two　bursts；　but　the　Hell　Talon　was　still
intact　as　he　rocketed　down　past　it。
He　tucked　in　and　began　to　climb　again；　bleeding　off　some　power　so　his　controls　weren’t　quite　so
stiff　with　speed。　In　a　flash；　he　realised　he’d　gone　up　between　two　Tormentors；　both　spilling　out
bombs　like　egg　cases。　He　cursed　his　own　luck。　His　haste　to　correct　had　made　him　miss　a　chance　on
two　easy　targets。
Marquall　was　almost　insensible　with　rage。　He　was　seething　with　desire　to　make　a　kill；　to　open
his　account。　Bad　enough　he　was　the　youngest；　the　most　inexperienced；　bad　enough　that　Pers　Espere
had　been　maimed　wet…nursing　him。　Marquall　had　no　score。　No　kills　to　his　name。　Now　his
confidence　had　returned　after　that　disastrous　virgin　sortie；　he　was　determined　to　prove　his　worth　in
combat。
Hell；　the　sky　was　crawling　with　enemy　machines！　Surely　he　could　hit　one　of　them？
“Umbra　Eight！　Umbra　Eight！　Break　left　now！”
That　was　Van　Tull’s　voice。　Marquall　didn’t　question　it。　He　stomped　the　rudder　bar　and　leaned　on
the　stick；　inverting　as　he　pulled　out　to　port。　A　flame　yellow　Hell　Talon　rushed　over　and　by　him。
“Thanks；　Three；”　he　voxed；　coming　true　and　climbing　again。
“You　okay；　Eight？”　Van　Tull　voxed。
“Four…A；”　replied　Marquall。　They　were　still　babysitting　him。　That　rankled。　Then　again；　but　for
Van　Tull’s　warning；　he’d　like　as　not　be　dead　now。
He　turned　in。　Almost　immediately；　he　picked　up　a　Cyclone；　running　for　its　life　from　a　Talon。
The　Commonwealth　prop…plane　was　weeping　smoke。　Marquall　wondered　why　Operations　kept　the
Cyclones　and　Wolfcubs　in　the　air。　It　was　suicide；　flying　machines　like　that　against　the　enemy’s
vector…thrust　predators。
He　cranked　the　throttle；　banked　wide；　clipped　off　a　wasted　but　satisfying　burst　at　a　Tormentor　as
he　went　long　over　its　back；　and　lined　up　on　the　Talon。
This　time…
The　port　engine　was　dead；　and　so　was　Artone。　Frans　Scalter　fought　with　the　Cyclone’s　leaden
stick　and　called　plaintively　to　his　co…pilot　and　long…time　friend。　Hard　rounds　had　torn　through　the
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machine’s　cockpit；　shattering　the　glass　nose　and　ripping　Artone’s　torso　in　half。　Wind　screamed　in
through　the　shattered　bubble。　There　was　blood　everywhere；　and　the　instruments　were　plastered　with
sticky　flecks　of　human　tissue。
“I’ll　get　you　home！　I’ll　get　you　home！”　Scalter　wailed；　denying　the　scene　around　him；　and
imagining　some　miraculous　future　where　he　brought　the　ruptured　Cyclone　down；　and　the　crews
rushed　in；　and　Artone　was　patched　up　and　made　alive　again。
Scalter　knew　he　had　to　keep　evading。　The　Hell　Talon　was　right　on　his　tail　now。
“Seeker　One！　Seeker　One！　Someone！　Please—”
The　Talon’s　guns　lit　up。
Like　a　feline　playing　with　a　mouse；　the　bastard　wasn’t　going　to　let　the　Cyclone　go。　It　swung
from　side　to　side　with　muscular　power；　correcting　for　every　frantic　jink　and　twist　the
Commonwealth　pilot　tried　to　make。
It　had　got　the　blood　scent。　It　wanted　the　kill。　It　was　greedy。　It　was　staying　on　the　target。
The　first　and　oldest　mistake。
Marquall　came　around　on　its　five；　calculating　the　deflection　angle　with　almost　leisurely　brio。
Then　he　opened　up　with　his　quad　cannons；　feeling　the　heavy　slap　of　them　retard　his　motion；
hearing　the　breech　blocks　bang　and　the　autoloaders　rattle　to　feed　ammo　from　the　whirring　drums。
Somehow；　Marquall　had　expected　the　enemy　machine　to　explode；　or　catch　fire；　or　do　something
equally　spectacular。
It　simply　quivered。　Part　of　one　blade…wing　deformed；　like　foil；　and　a　gulp　of　brown　smoke
belched　out　of　its　engines。
Then　it　fell　out　of　the　air。　All　lift　lost　in　one　shocking　instant；　it　dropped　away；　turning　end　over
end；　like　a　toy　that　had　been　thrown　aside　by　a　petulant　child。
It　spun　away　below　him；　smaller；　smaller。
Throne；　he’d　got　it。　He’d　killed　it　stone　dead。
“S…seeker　One；　Seeker　One；”　he　stammered；　rousing　from　a　brief　fugue。　“This　is　Umbra　Eight。
You’re　clear；　friend。　Clear。　Get　your　machine　home　and　down。”
“Umbra　Eight