Jagdea glanced at the chronograph strapped around the thick cuff of her flightsuit. They were
right on time. Their transport had left the perimeter track and was bumping towards the nearest of
the huge drome hangars.
“Up and ready. Umbra Flight,” she ordered. The eleven aviators under her command gathered
up their kits as the transport rolled to a stop.
Jagdea jumped down and took a deep breath. “Here we go,” she muttered to Milan Blansher, her
number two. Blansher was a grizzled veteran in his forties, his career tally of twenty-two kills the
finest in Umbra Flight. He said little, but she trusted him with her life. He had unusually pale,
distant eyes for a Phantine and sported a thick grey moustache, partly to lend himself an air of
avuncular seniority, mostly to help conceal the ridge of white scar tissue where a piece of shell
casing had split his face from his right nostril, down across both lips, to the point of his chin.
“Here we go indeed,” he murmured, and hoisted his kit onto his shoulder. The others clambered
down. Van Tull, Espere, Larice Asche with her hair up in a non-regulation bun, Del Ruth, Clovin,
the boy Marquall, Waldon, forever whistling a melody-less tune, Zemmic, jangling with his cluster
of lucky charms, Cordiale, Ranfre. Almost all of them made the superstitious bob down to touch the
ground.
Vander Marquall didn’t. He was gazing across the field, watching three machines of the
Enothian Commonwealth Air Force crank up for launch. They were powerful, twin-engine deltaform
planes, an Interceptor pattern known as Cyclones. Started from trolley-mounted primer coils,
their massive piston engines sucked and thundered into life, kicking out plumes of blue smoke from
the exhaust vents as the heavy props began to turn to a flickering blur. They rocked impatiently at
their blocks as the ground crews rolled the carts aside. Marquall could see the two-man crews in the
glass nose cockpits making final checks. Though most Commonwealth wings had been withdrawn
to make way for the offworlders, a flight of these Cyclones had been left on station to fly top-cover
tours while the Imperials bedded in.
“Coming, Marquall?” Jagdea asked. He turned and nodded.
17
“Yes, commander.” Marquall was the youngest aviator in Umbra by four years, and the only one
with no operational combat experience. Everyone else had seen at least some action during the
Phantine liberation. Marquall had still been in the accelerated program at Hessenville when
hostilities ended. He was eager and, Jagdea believed, reasonably gifted, but only time would really
tell his worth. He had the classic saturnine good looks of a Phantine male, and a white, toothy grin
that people either found winningly charming or unpleasantly cocky.
Umbra Flight strode off across the apron towards the hangar, followed by another flight of
aviators spilling down from a second transport. Jagdea took a glance back at their own ride. In the
cab, the Munitorum driver nodded briefly to her. She could clearly see how one half of his face was
lost in burn scarring, as if soft, pink rose petals had been plastered across his skin.
They walked into the vast drome hangar. The air inside smelled cold and damp, with a tang of
promethium. The interior space had been cleared, except for a lone Shrike under tarps in a corner,
and a stage of flak-boards supported by empty munition crates had been raised along the west wall.
A chart stand and a hololithic displayer had been set up on the staging.
A group of more than twenty aviators was already waiting inside. They stood near the stage,
their kit bags at their feet. Like the men who had come off the second truck, they were Navy pilots,
wearing grey flight armour and black coats. Some of them sported augmetic eyes. They greeted their
colleagues from the second truck, but both groups looked dubiously at the Phantine as they came in,
and stayed apart from them in segregated groups. Jagdea regarded them casually as Umbra Flight
dropped their bags and made a huddle. The Navy fliers kept glancing their way. Jagdea knew the
Phantine Corps was unusual, and that set them apart from the regular Imperial aviators. It
undoubtedly would mean rivalry and a pecking order, she accepted.
They were tough-looking brutes, sturdy and thickset, with pale skins and cropped hair. Most of
their flight-suits were reinforced with plating sections or coats of chainmail, and their heavy leather
coats were often fur-trimmed. Many had ugly facial scars. Several displayed medal ribbons and
other honour sashes.
“Sixty-Third Imperial Fighter Wing,” Blansher whispered discreetly in her ear. “The Sundogs,
as they like to be styled. I believe that one there, the big fellow with the flight commander pins, is
Leksander Godel. Forty kills last count.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard of him,” she answered lightly.
“The other bunch are the 409 Raptors, I believe,” Blansher went on, “which would make that
unassuming fellow there Wing Leader Ortho Blaguer.”
“The same?”
“The very same. One hundred and ten kills. See, he’s looking at us.”
“Then let’s look somewhere else,” Jagdea said and turned away.
“Orbis at your six!” Pilot Officer Zemmic suddenly cried out loudly, his voice echoing round the
drome. Dismounting from another transport just now drawn up outside, a dozen more Phantine fliers
were marching into the hangar. Jagdea felt instant relief at the sight of familiar faces. Orbis Flight,
comrades and friends. At the head of them strolled their commander, Wilhem Hayyes.
The two wings clustered together and greeted each other.
“Nice of you to join us,” Jagdea grinned as she shook Hayyes by the hand.
“Nice of you to wait for us,” Hayyes replied. “I trust there are still some bats flying for us to
hunt.”
A hush suddenly fell. A final group of aviators, all Navy men, had just entered the hangar,
making a late entrance that seemed to Jagdea calculatedly theatrical. There were only eight of them.
Their armoured flight-suits were matt black and their suede jackets cloud-white. They wore no
insignia or rank markings whatsoever, except silver Imperial aquilae at their collars.
“Holy crap!” Jagdea heard Del Ruth whisper. “The Apostles!”
18
The Apostles, indeed. The celebrated wing of aces, the very elite. Jagdea wondered which one
was Quint, ace of aces, which one Gettering. The tall one, was that Seekan or Harlsson? Which one
was Suhr?
There was no time to ask Blansher. Escorted by a dozen aides and tactical officers, an imposing
figure in the uniform of a fleet admiral came in and took the stage. It was Ornoff himself.
All eyes turned to him.
“Aviators,” he began, his voice soft but carrying. “At 18.00 yesterday evening, I met with Lord
Militant Humel in the War Ministry at Enothopolis. The lord militant, as you must be aware, has
been prosecuting the war here on Enothis for the last nine months, in the name of Warmaster
Macaroth and the God-Emperor of us all.”
“The Emperor protects!” one of the Apostles said smartly, and everyone eagerly echoed the
words.
Ornoff nodded appreciatively. “I hope he does, Captain Gettering. In the meantime, we will have
to do. I presented the formal orders sent to me by the Warmaster to Lord Militant Humel, and at
18.30 hours precisely, the Lord Militant formally handed command of the Enothis theatre to me.”
Spontaneous applause broke out across the hangar floor.
“For now, the land war on Enothis is done. Now the air war begins.”
Theda MAB South, 07.46
Major Frans Scalter glanced at the co-pilot alongside him in the cramped bubble canopy of the
thundering Cyclone, got a thumbs-up, then turned to wave the ground crew off.
He adjusted his mask. “Operations, Operations. This is Seeker One. Seeker Flight is ready for
departure. Awaiting permission.”
Scalter had his hand on the wheel-brake lever.
“Seeker One, Operations. Roll them out. Main is open. Fly true and may the Emperor protect
you.”
“Thank you, Operations. Seeker Flight, on my lead.”
Scalter released the brake, and opened the throttle gently. Bucking, the twin-engined plane
began to creep out off the hardstand towards the main runway. Its wingmen followed. The combined
roar of the six engines resounded across the field.
Scalter rolled to the start position, and made a final adjustment to the trim. At his side, Artone
opened the radiators and made the fuel mix a little richer for a lusty take-off.
“Seeker Flight—” Scalter began.
Artone suddenly held up a hand.
“What?”
“Red flag!” said Artone urgently, pointing down the field.
“Throne! What now?” snarled Scalter. “Operations, this is Seeker One. We’ve got a red flag.
Please confirm our clearance.”
There was a pause. Then the vox fizzled. “Negative clearance, negative clearance, Seeker Flight.
Abort now and clear main. Roll off to revetments fifteen through seventeen and stand down.
Repeat—Negative clearance, abort and clear main.”
“What the hell’s going on?” Scalter demanded.
“Wounded birds,” the vox replied. “Wounded birds inbound.”
Twenty kilometres short of Theda MAB South, 07.46
They could see the spread of the field, slightly hazy in the morning light. Guide paths were popping
off. The knocking from behind Darrow was now constant.
Major Heckel called in the fuel load from each Cub in turn. All were miserably low. Darrow
could only answer full as he had no other reading. Hunt Sixteen had begun to dribble smoke in the
19
last ten minutes, and its pilot reported rapidly dropping hydraulic pressure. Hunt Sixteen had taken
at least two hits to the belly during the brawl over the mountains.
“Hunt Flight, this is Hunt Leader. Sixteen and Four have landing priority. Let them go in first
and we’ll follow as soon as they’re down. Confirm.”
Darrow stretched his shoulders against the harness. Heckel wanted Sixteen down before it died,
and he wanted Darrow down as quickly because he was most likely flying on empty.
“After you, Hunt Sixteen,” Darrow voxed, allowing the Wolfcub to come around ahead of him.
The Cub’s streamer of smoke pulsed clear then white, clear then white, like a ticker tape.
The knocking grew yet more insistent. Darrow began his approach.
Theda MAB South, 07.47
“Your fighter wings,” Ornoff told them, “are five of the first to arrive on station here along the
southern coast. In the next seventy-two hours, a total of fifty-eight wings of the Imperial Navy…
and its affiliates…” he added, with a nod to the Phantine, “will be deployed at airfields along the
entire littoral. Forty-two fighter wings, sixteen bomber flights. To say that you will be supporting
the local Commonwealth squadrons here is a misstatement. You will form the front line in the air.
The stalwart Commonwealth forces who have, let me remind you, been fighting this theatre for
months now, will take a supportive role. God-Emperor willing, this may allow them precious time to
repair, refit, recrew and rest.”
He turned to the chart behind him. “I don’t need to tell you to familiarise yourself with the
topography, channel use, and the location of friendly fields. Encryption codes will be changed on a
daily basis. The Archenemy is listening.”
Ornoff paused and slid his open hand down the chart pensively. “The situation here is grave.
Lord Militant Humel’s land forces, ably supported by the Commonwealth armies, almost succeeded
in driving the Archenemy off this world. However, in the last two months, fortunes have reversed
disastrously. The Archenemy, whose remaining surface stronghold is around the Southern Trinity
Hives—here—has resupplied in great force as part of the counter-offensive launched last year
through the Khan Group as a whole. The Lord Militant’s land forces are now in harried retreat
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.
20
“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
