Double Eagle(科幻战争)-第7部分

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northwards　through　the　Interior　Desert…　this　region；　here。　Some　have　already　reached　the　Makanite
Range；　and　are　struggling　through　the　passes　there。　Our　task—your　task—is　to　help　as　many　of　them
reach　the　safety　of　the　Zophonian　Coast　as　possible。　We　are　to　supply　comprehensive　air　cover　to
the　retreating　columns　of　armour　and　infantry。　That　means　denying　the　enemy　airspace；　and
prosecuting　their　land　forces　with　aerial　strikes。　Enothis　will　only　be　saved　if　sufficient　portions　of
allied　land　forces　can　be　brought　back　to　the　coast　intact。　There；　with　resupply；　they　can　make　a
stand；　a　counter…attack　to　meet　the　Archenemy　invasion。”
Ornoff　looked　back　at　them　all。　“Expect　to　be　flying　sorties　round　the　clock。　A　thorough
strategic　plan　will　be　executed　as　soon　as　all　the　wings　are　on　station；　at　which　point　your　wings
may　be　reassigned　to　other　fields。　In　the　meantime；　you　will　be　flying　ad　hoc　missions　at　the
discretion　of　Operations　to　supply　cover　until　we　are　at　full　strength。”
Ornoff　raised　a　hand　and　beckoned　one　of　the　staffers　who　had　entered　the　hangar　with　him　onto
the　stage；　an　older　man　in　the　flight　kit　of　a　Commonwealth　pilot　officer。　“I’ve　invited　Commander
Parrwood　here　to　brief　you　on　climate　and　terrain　peculiarities。　Before　he　does；　any　questions？”
Godel；　the　Sundogs’　flight　commander；　raised　a　gloved　hand。　“What　are　we　to　expect　here；
admiral？”
“Superior　air　power；”　Ornoff　replied　crisply。　“Hell　Razor　and　Locust…class　fighters；　Tormentor
and　Hell　Talon…class　fighter…bombers。　The　Archenemy　is　flying　a　large　number　of　locally…made
machines。　There　are　also　reports　of　heavy　bombers；　of　a　type　yet　undetermined。　Many　of　their
planes　exhibit　extended　range；　which　may　indicate　mass　carriers　in　the　desert。”
“When　do　we　get　in　their　reach？”　one　of　the　Apostles　asked。
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“Unless　you　deny　them；　Major　Suhr；　at　their　present　rate　of　progress；　the　Archenemy　wings　will
have　range　enough　to　begin　attacking　these　coastal　bases　within　the　month。　That　is　an　eventuality　I
don’t　want　to　see。”
“And　you　won’t；　admiral；”　said　Suhr；　“because　we　will　deny　them。”　There　was　a　general
murmur　of　approval。
“Now；　if　Commander　Parrwood　would　be　so　kind　we—”
Ornoff’s　words　were　cut　off　as　a　hooter　began　to　drone　outside。　In　a　moment；　it　was　chorused　by
others。　A　deep；　ominous　moaning　wailed　out　across　the　field。
The　aviators　exchanged　glances。　Ornoff　looked　at　his　aides　and　hurried　off　the　stage；　heading　for
the　hangar　doors。　Everyone　followed。
Outside；　in　the　bright　sunlight；　they　clustered　on　the　rockcrete　apron；　scanning　the　glassy　sky。
Path　lights　had　been　lit　along　the　main　runway　track；　and　recovery　vehicles　were　growling　out　of
sheds　along　the　north　perimeter。
“Someone’s　in　trouble；”　Blansher　muttered。
“There！”　one　of　the　Navy　pilots　called；　pointing。
Low　in　the　southern　sky；　tiny　dots。　Jagdea　heard　the　distant；　burping　putter　of　pulsejets。
“That’s　low；”　said　Asche。　Several　of　the　dots　were　hanging　back；　but　two　were　moving　in。　They
could　see　sunlight　flare　off　canopies。　The　lead　plane；　a　little　dark…green　monojet；　was　dragging　a
string　of　vapour　behind　it。
“Not　good；”　said　Jagdea；　staring。
Beside　her；　Marquall　said；　“What？”
“If　he’s　going　to　land；　let’s　hope　he　gets　his　cart　down。”
Over　Theda　MAB　South；　07。51
The　smoke　coming　out　of　Hunt　Sixteen　was　getting　thicker；　and　had　started　to　plume　out　fat　and
heavy　as　their　airspeed　dropped。　Darrow　had　to　adjust　height　to　stop　himself　flying　in　blind　through
the　vapour。　Hunt　Sixteen　was　pitching　low；　and　it　forced　Darrow　to　sit　up　high；　higher　than　he
would　have　preferred　for　an　approach。
There　was　a　slight　crosswind。　He　felt　his　tail　skidding；　and　he　trimmed　to　compensate。
According　to　the　airspeed　indicator；　he　was　getting　dangerously　near　critical　stall。
“Come　on；　Hunt　Sixteen！”　he　cursed。　“Come　on；　Phryse！　Get　that　bird　down！”
“Hold　your　water…”　the　vox　chattered。　“I　think…　think　my　bloody　cart’s　hung。”
“Clear　it；　Phryse！”　Darrow　heard　Hunt　Leader　urge　over　the　channel。
“Trying…　damn　thing’s　stuck…　lever’s　jammed。　Bent。　I　think…”
A　bleeper　sounded　in　Darrow’s　cockpit。　Fuel　out…　even　though　the　damn　gauge　still　read　full。
“I’ve　got　to　sit　now！”　he　called。
“Okay；　okay！　S’all　right；　Enric。　I’ve　got　it　now。　Lever’s　pulled。　Cart　down。”
Theda　MAB　South；　07。51
Even　as　the　Cyclone’s　engines　whistled　down　to　a　dying　chop；　Scalter　wrenched　open　the　window
slider　of　the　canopy　and　stuck　his　head　out；　searching　the　sky。
“Operations！”　he　yelled；　but　then　realised　that　pushing　his　head　out　of　the　window　had　pulled　his
mic…cord　to　full　extent　and　yanked　the　plug　out　of　the　vox　panel。
“Damn　it！”　he　yelled；　struggling　back　inside　and　banging　his　head。　“Damn　it！”　He　fumbled　for
the　end　of　the　cord。
“Got　it！”　cried　Artone；　ramming　the　plug　back　into　its　socket。
“Operations！　Get　a　flag　up！　Signal！　That　Cub’s　coming　in　with　its　undercart　up！”
“Clear　the　channel；　Seeker。”
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Scalter　clunked　off　his　harness；　threw　open　the　side　hatch　and　fell　out　onto　the　ground。　Artone
was　fast　on　his　heels。　The　crews　of　the　Cyclones　in　the　revetment　bunkers　next　to　them　had
dismounted　too。
Scalter　ran　up　the　embankment　towards　the　main　strip；　waving　his　arms。　Red　flares　had　gone　up
over　the　field。　Bleeding　smoke；　one　wing　hanging　heavy；　the　Wolfcub　was　really　low。　The　noise　of
its　pulsejet　was　a　drawn…out；　plosive　blurt。
Its　undercart　was　locked　up　in　its　belly。
“Up！　Up！”　Scalter　yelled。　He　fell　on　his　face　as　Artone　tackled　him　and　brought　him　down　short
of　the　rockcrete　track。
The　Wolfcub　came　in；　over　and　past　them　both。　Just　shy　of　stall　speed；　it　began　to　drop　its　tail；
about　to　settle　onto　gear　that　wasn’t　there。
The　underside　of　the　tail　hit　first。　There　was　an　abrasive　shriek。　Metal　shards　and　grit　flew　up　in
a　hot　grind　of　friction。　Immediately；　the　tail　came　back　up；　bouncing；　pitching　the　Wolfcub　down
straight　on　its　nose。　The　Interceptor　came　apart；　shredding　aluminoid　off　its　frame。　The　port　wing
crumpled　and　flew　off。　The　pulse…jet；　coughing　flames；　sheared　off　its　mounts；　crushed　the　already
buckled　cockpit；　and　detonated　as　it　lifted　clear。　Liquid　flame　boiled　out　across　the　runway。
High　on　its　six；　Darrow　stared　in　disbelief。　He’d　just　lowered　his　own　undercart；　and　the　added
drag　had　dwindled　his　speed　even　more。　There　was　no　runway　any　more；　just　a　lake　of　fire　and　a
mass　of　tangled　wreckage。
“Abort；　Hunt　Four！”
Darrow　slammed　on　full　emergency　thrust　and　trimmed　for　maximum　lift。　His　Cub　shook　and
fought；　tired　of　flying　now。　He　hauled　on　the　stick。
Jet　screaming；　Hunt　Four　cleared　the　debris　by　scant　metres　and　zoomed　through　the　leaping
fireball　of　the　crash。　Darrow’s　canopy　blackened　with　soot。　There　was　smoke　everywhere。　As　he
came　clear；　he　saw　loose　flame　dancing　along　his　wings。
“Request　secondary　runway！”　he　yelled。
“Runway　is　clear—”　the　vox　sang。　He　came　around；　rising　and　turning　as　tightly　as　he　dared。　He
wouldn’t　stall。　Not　now。　Not　now。　The　stick　was　like　lead。　He　came　about　onto　the　track；　dropping
fast　but　true。　He　had　it　now。
Red　lights　fluttered　across　his　instruments。　He　felt　a　lurch。　The　engine　had　flamed　out。　Zero　fuel
or　nothing　like　enough　airspeed；　he　couldn’t　tell　which。　Didn’t　have　time。　Didn’t　care。
The　Wolfcub　fell　out　of　the　air　onto　the　ragged　runway。　The　undercart　survived　the　first　hard
bounce；　but　not　the　second。　It　disintegrated　in　a　scatter　of　chrome　struts　and　torn　rubber。　The
machine　made　a　third　bounce　on　its　belly；　cascading　sparks　into　the　air。　Body　plating　ripped　away。
The　slide　went　wide；　turning　the　dented　nosecone　right；　folding　a　wing　like　paper。　Darrow
screamed；　his　arms　over　his　face；　shaken　like　a　bead　in　a　tin。
They　came　running　from　all　directions；　from　the　silos；　from　the　fitter　barns；　from　the　main
hangar。　Recovery　trucks；　their　hooters　blaring；　kicked　up　dust　and　stones　as　they　raced　over　the
verge　sides。
Jagdea　and　Blansher　were　amongst　the　first　of　the　aviators　to　reach　the　wreck。
“Back！　Get　back！”　a　tender　driver　screamed　at　them。
“Get　him　out　then！”　Jagdea　yelled　back；　slamming　past　the　barrier　of　the　man’s　outstretched
arms。
The　canopy　hood　of　the　downed　Cub　wrenched　backwards；　and　the　pilot　dragged　himself　out。
His　plane　was　almost　on　its　side；　pinning　a　broken　wing　under　it；　surrounded　by　debris。　He
staggered　towards　them；　shaking　his　head　dizzily　as　the　crash…crews　ran　in　towards　the　wreck　with
retardant　sprays。
The　young　man’s　face　was　black　with　soot　and　oil。　When　he　pulled　off　the　breather　mask；　his
lower　face　was　pink　and　clean。　He　blinked　at　Jagdea　and　Blansher。
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“Shit；”　he　said。
“Good　landing；”　Blansher　said；　offering　an　arm　to　support　him。　The　pilot　sagged　heavily；
shaking。
“Good…　landing…？”　he　coughed。
Blansher　smiled。　“You　walked　away　from　it；　didn’t　you？”
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DAY　253
Interior　Desert；　10。10
The　Fury　of　Pardua　was　dead。　Its　power　plant　had　been　running　sore　and　hoarse　for　the　last　hundred
kilometres；　and　the　coolant　needles　had　been　buried　in　red　for　the　last　twenty。　The　driver　had
managed　to　get　it　just　about　off　the　main　track　before　the　engine　uttered　its　death…rattle；　and　now　the
venerable　Conqu