And they did.
“Right,” she continued when the ruckus abated. “I want the flight ready to go in an hour.
Combat patrol. Manageable, Mr Racklae?”
“Yes, ma’am!”
“Excellent. We’ll go up, two hour sweep, then down. Snap calls permitting, I want everyone
rested overnight. No card schools, no drinking. We’ll be going again early. I’ve met with the base
commander, Vice Air Marshal Dreyco, and I’m appraised of the situation. This is how it stands, and
if I’m blunt, you’ll forgive me. The forces of the Archenemy have, as you are well aware, stormed
the southern Littoral. According to Tactical, they hold the coast from Theda through to Ezraville.
Despite our best efforts to maintain air superiority over that area, they have beaten us back into the
sea.”
Jagdea looked around at their faces. All of them looked grim.
“We could not have predicted their air power, nor the efficiency with which they advanced their
mass-carriers to extend strike range. Nor could we have countered the manner in which their
bombing campaign paved the way for drop deployment of Blood Pact ground forces. They
outplayed us, it’s as simple as that.”
She took off her flight jacket and hung it from the claws of a power lifter. The cavern air was
humid. Her arm was out of its sling now, though it was still packed with dressing pads.
“But understand this,” she continued. “Our efforts—and the lives of our comrades in this unit
and the Navy at large—were not wasted. We held them. We delayed them. Face it, all we ever
hoped to do was delay them. We bought the land forces time to get clear. As I speak, extraction
convoys are sailing north across the Zophonian Sea, heading for the main islands there or the
northern coast itself. Reports say large elements of armour and infantry are crossing the Festus by
land on the way to the Commonwealth fortress hives at Ingeburg. We’ve made it possible for a
considerable portion of the Imperial land army to get clear of the war zone. Now they can regroup
and prepare to stage a counter-attack. Reinforcements are en route from the Khan Stars. Due in eight
days. The Imperium is on the back foot, but Enothis is far from lost.
“There’s always a chance,” she added.
157
“There’s gonna be a “but’, isn’t there?” said Cordiale.
Jagdea nodded. “Naturally, pilot. Whoever said the life of an Imperial combat flier would be
easy?”
“The aviation recruiter back in scholam,” said Ranfre, and raised a laugh.
“The enemy has driven us into the sea,” said Jagdea. “But the sea is our secret weapon. We’ve
got the islands. Navy wings are regrouping here at Lucerna, at Onstadt, Viper Atoll, Longstrand,
Salthaven, and also on the hive islands of Zophos and Limbus. Long range squadrons have taken
station on the northern coastline at three dozen airfields including Tamuda City and Enothopolis
itself.”
Jagdea walked across to the nearest Thunderbolt and placed her hand against its flank, like an
ancient warrior patting their destrier. “In order to mount his final offensive, the Archenemy has to
get over or around the Zophonian Sea. He will achieve this by way of an air offensive. In the next
few days, enemy machines will be flying in force from the southern Littoral with the intention of
sinking the retreat convoys and attacking the northern shore. Unchecked, a blanket air assault such
as that will crush Enothian hopes. The Northern Affiliation would be wounded and reeling by the
time the invasion comes.”
She turned round to look at them straight. “All viable Navy wings have been charged by
Admiral Ornoff to deny that air assault. I repeat, we are commanded that we should operate to deny
Archenemy air superiority over the sea. If we can just hold his squadrons back, we will block the
sharp end of his invasion, and stall its malign force at the southern coast.”
“And if we can’t?” said Zemmic.
“Then we will have failed. And Enothis will fall. Any other bloody silly questions?”
The briefing broke up and everyone resumed work.
Blansher joined Jagdea.
“Tall order. You think we can do it?”
“We can do what we do, Mil,” she replied. “After that, it’s down to the almighty God-Emperor
and the currents of fate itself.”
“But realistically?” Blansher had a habit of rubbing the scar tissue that bisected his lips and chin
when he was anxious. He was doing it now.
“Realistically? How’s this for realistic? It took them two weeks to smash us out of the south.
How long do you think the remainder of our broken, under-strength, scattered wings can hold the
sea zone?”
“Throne!” he said. “But—”
Jagdea cut him off. “Or try this for realistic instead. The sea is a real buffer that will slow the
enemy more than the desert or the Peninsula ever did. We are the best pilots in the Imperium… I
don’t just mean the Phantine, I mean the Navy boys too. We fly to our limits for another week, keep
knocking the bastards back, and maybe we have a chance. Once they start hitting the northern coast,
it’s checkmate, but they’ve got to get past us first. Regular combat patrols. Snap calls. Up and into
them. We could fend them off. Unless…”
“Unless what, Bree?”
“Unless they send everything they have at us at once.” Blansher sighed. “That’s not a scenario I
want to think about.”
An odd look abruptly crossed Jagdea’s face. She turned. “It just occurred to me. What the hell
am I going to fly?”
“We’ll find you something,” Blansher promised.
He walked her over to one of the freight elevators and dropped them down into the storage
chamber under number three hangar. Teams of fitters were at work down here too. In the glowglobe
half-light, welding sparks showered up, bright and thick, and panel-guns whined and
158
thumped. The cradle bays down in the storage chamber were circled around a central elevator
platform that lifted planes up onto the main deck.
Serial Zero-Two sat on one of the repair cradles.
“Came in on one of the heavy transports,” said Blansher. “The techs say she’s fit to fly.”
“Great throne of gold!” Jagdea exclaimed. “I never thought I’d see her again. I expected to make
do with a spare from the depot.”
“Praise be the God-Emperor and the diligence of his Munitorum. Despite the urgency, they got a
hell of a lot of equipment out of Theda at the end there.”
“Speaking of spares,” Jagdea said, raising her voice to be heard over a blast of riveting, “what
are those?”
Alongside Zero-Two, four other Thunderbolts sat on cradles.
“Oh, they shouldn’t be here. The transports brought in a lot of unassigned machines. Spares. Or
leftovers from units that don’t exist any more. That sort of thing. They gave us four of them because
Umbra was listed as a twelve element wing. I explained to the Munitorum clerk we only had eight
pilots, and he just got concerned I was upsetting his book keeping.”
Jagdea walked round the machines. One was an ex-Raptor bird, in a scratched black livery.
Another was from a unit that favoured pale tan with dazzle patterns. The other two were bare-metal
silver, recently delivered replacements that had yet to be assigned.
“Anyway, I’ve got the depot working on it,” Blansher said. “I don’t want them wasted. And I’m
sure we’re not the only wing to have been given machines we can’t use. They’ll get shipped out in
the next few days to units that can use them.”
“No,” said Jagdea firmly.
“What?” Blansher asked.
She looked at him. “Mil, the Imperium needs to get everything it’s got aloft now, not in the next
few days. We’ve got planes without pilots. Good for us! I’ll bet the evac barges brought in dozens of
decent pilots without machines. Let’s find them! Let’s use them now!”
“Well, I guess…”
“It’s called pragmatism,” she said. “Inform the clerks that these planes are assigned to Umbra.
Cancel the transfer.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.” She turned and called out. “Mister Hemmen?”
The fitter ran across to her. “Mamzel?”
“Make these planes airworthy and dress them in Umbra paint schemes.”
“Yes, mamzel. Directly.”
“Soon as I can,” she said to Blansher, “I intend to have Umbra up to full strength. I’m going to
find us some willing volunteers.”
Lucerna AB, 23.12
The fan assemblies were still venting thick exhaust fumes out of the hangar. Jagdea took off her
helmet and got down from Zero-Two.
She glanced at the three cannon-shell holes in the tail plating. “Patch that, please,” she said to
her head fitter. “Rearm and refuel.”
“Yes, commander.”
She walked up the dispersal tunnel and entered the ready room, throwing her helmet, mask and
gloves onto the couch. The man who had been sitting in one of the armchairs for some time stood up
swiftly.
“At ease,” she said. “Thanks for coming. You’ll have to forgive my temper. A patrol turned into
a full-on brawl. But we stung two for no losses, thanks be.”
159
She went over to the cradenza and poured herself a stiff amasec. “I told my crews this was a ‘no
drinking’ night, so be good and don’t let on.”
The man nodded.
“Commander, I was wondering why you sent for me?” said August Kaminsky.
Jagdea slid open a filing cabinet drawer and pulled out a bulging file and some data-slates.
“A bit of driving, Mr Kaminsky. That’s what you told me you were good for these days. A bit of
driving for the Munitorum.”
“Yes, commander.”
“Well, I’d like you to do a bit of driving for me. There’s an I-XXI Thunderbolt downstairs, and
I’d like to have your name stencilled under the cockpit.”
Kaminsky gazed at her. His eyes shone with what seemed like anger. The skin of his
unblemished cheek flushed almost as pink as the mass of bums on the other side.
“Is that a joke, commander? If it is, I think it’s in pretty poor taste. I can’t fly Thunderbolts. I
can’t fly, period.”
“I beg to differ. I was in that Cyclone with you. That was instinct, Kaminsky. Pure instinct. I’ve
never seen finer.”
“But, commander…”
“I’m offering you a place in my wing, Mr Kaminsky. Or should I say “Major’? I called up your
log records. Sixteen years, wing leader grade, a career tally of seventeen confirmed kills. This is
your chance to get back in the game. To fly and fight for your world. Are you going to refuse me?”
Kaminsky raised his stiff, plastek hand. “Commander, I was rated not airworthy because of this,
not because I was unwilling to fight. The Commonwealth just hasn’t got the augmetic resources to
fix up pilots like me. With this hand, I can’t control throttle, stick and guns. Shit, you know that,
Jagdea.”
Jagdea nodded. “Yes, that’s a problem. The Navy could resource you a proper augmetic implant,
but we don’t have much time. Certainly not enough time for you to undergo implantation surgery.
So I talked to my fitters. They’re an ingenious lot, fitters. One suggested mounting the trigger
assembly on the top of the throttle lever, but we all thought that might get in the way. Then Mr
Racklae had a notion. He’s going to wire up the weapons systems to a voice activator. It’ll take a
little getting used to, I realise, but you’ve got some serious familiarisation to do anyway. Bottom
line, Kaminsky, your guns can be voice controlled. Your impairment need not bar your from combat
service.”
Kaminsky continued to stare at her. “I—” he began.
“Think it over, major. If you decide to pass, I have other candidates to consider. But you were
my first choice.”
There was a knock on the door.
“Yes?”
Marquall looked in. “Commander? Do you have a minute?”
“Be right there,” she said. She glanced back at Kaminsky. “Help yourself to a drink if you like.
I’ll be back in a while.”
She left Kaminsky in the ready room and went outside. Marquall peered back through the
doorway with a frown. “What’s he doing here, commander?” he whispered, dubiously.
“He’s having a long, hard think, Marquall. What did you need?”
“A guy’s just turned up in the hangar. Says he knows you.”
“Hello, Jagdea,” said Viltry.
“The Emperor protects! Viltry?”
She hurried to him and shook his hand. He looked like hell. Unshaven, his clothes dirty and torn,
and he’d lost a lot of weight.
“Viltry, it was posted that you were dead,” she said.
160
“So they keep telling me. The Munitorum refuses to believe I exist.”
“But your machine did go down?”
“Yeah.”
“Your crew?”
Viltry shook his head.
“I’m sorry.”
“By the time I got back to Theda, everyone was leaving. I jumped on a barge, wound up here.”
“Where’s the rest of Halo Flight?”
Viltry shrugged. “Don’t know. I was talking to a Navy crewman down in the food line, and he
said he thought a Phantine outfit was stationed here, so I came to see for myself. I can’t pretend I’m
not disappointed you’re not Halo, but it’s good to see a face from home.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Jagdea.
“I don’t know, exactly,” he confessed. “Even if I do find out where in this theatre Halo’s been
posted, I don’t stand much chance of rejoining them. Until the Munitorum acknowledges my
existence, I’m not eligible for transit back to my outfit. I’m… stuck.”
“Not necessarily,” said Jagdea. “Do you want to fly?”
“Well, yes. If I can.”
“You’re fit. You’ve done tours on Thunderbolts too, right?”
“Yes. Bree, what do you have in mind?”
161
DAY 268
Lucerna AB, 07.30
A clear day over the desert. Fine, bright, light conditions. Slight crosswind. He opened the throttle
and the big, brutal Imperial plane climbed effortlessly.
Ironic, Kaminsky thought. Conditions had been just like this that day he’d—
The last time he’d flown.
“Make your track four-one-six,” the vox said.
“Copy that, Lead,” Kaminsky replied.
“And keep an eye on your auspex. The dial top right of the screen-plate adjusts gain if you need
better resolution on a merged return.”
“Got that, thank you.”
Kaminsky pushed the stick over gently, depressing the rudder bar. Good response. The
Thunderbolt was everything he’d imagined it would be.
“Contacts! Ten o’clock!” the vox suddenly chimed.
Kaminsky glanced round, saw the flash on the auspex. Nothing in visual… No, there it was. A
glint of sunlight off metal, hard and high up.
He started to climb again. The bat came down sharply, screwing out of its dive. He thought he’d
paced the intercept well, but the hostile had gone under him.
“Break! Break, or he’ll have you!”
“Trying!” Kaminsky responded. He made a violent left-hand roll. It was right on his tail now.
