Double Eagle(科幻战争)-第3章

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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　and　steel；　promethium；　nitrous；　fyceline。　The　feel
of　being　aloft；　alive…
God…Emperor；　how　he　missed　it。
At　the　gate；　beside　the　staked　revets　and　the　heavy　blast…fences；　he　pulled　over　to　let　a　munitions
convoy　roll　in。　He　glanced　up　into　the　driving　mirror　and；　for　a　moment；　saw　himself。
More　than　anything；　more　than　even　the　airfield　full　of　prepping　warplanes；　the　sight　of　himself
reminded　August　Kaminsky　that　his　cherished　game　was　only　pretend。
There　was；　inescapably；　a　war　on。
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Theda　Old　Town；　07。09
He　couldn’t　sleep。　It　was　anticipation　mostly；　the　prospect　of　a　new　war　to　survive；　but　his　body
clock　was　still　running　on　shipboard　time；　and　to　him　it　was　late　afternoon。
Just　before　six　by　the　chronograph　on　his　night　stand；　he　gave　up　on　his　bed　and　got　up。　It　was
cold　and　not　yet　light。　In　the　adjacent　rooms；　the　other　men　of　G　for　Greta　were　sleeping。　He　could
hear　snoring；　particularly　the　volcanic　rumble　of　Bombardier　Judd。　The　Munitorum　had　issued　them
billets　in　a　once…handsome　pension　on　Kazergat　Canal；　and　they’d　piled　in　late　the　previous
afternoon；　leaving　their　packs　in　a　heap　in　the　hallway；　eagerly　laying　claim　to　rooms。　The　younger
men　had　broken　open　liquor　and　got　down　to　the　business　of　getting　drunk　so　they　could　better　sleep
off　voyage…lag。　He’d　had　a　glass　or　two；　but　the　cheap　escape　held　little　attraction。
He　and　the　other　flight　officers　had　swung　the　best　rooms。　He’d　had　to　order　a　disappointed
Orsone　out　to　make　way　for　him。　“Find　somewhere　else；”　he’d　told　the　young　tail…gunner。　But　the
room　wasn’t　much　of　a　trophy。　The　carpet　had　long　gone　and　the　plaster　was　crumbling。　Pitchwashed
sheets　were　nailed　over　the　windows　in　place　of　curtains。　Damp　patches　blotched　the　ceiling
like　sores。　There　was　a　smell　of　fatigue　and　faded　grandeur。　That’s　what　years　of　warfare　did　to　a
place。　They　certainly　did　the　same　to　a　man；　after　all。
The　old　woman　who　ran　the　pension　had　told　him　that　there　would　be　no　hot　water　until　after
eight；　and　he　hadn’t　come　that　many　parsecs　to　start　a　tour　by　standing　under　a　piss…cold　shower。
He’d　got　dressed　in　the　half…light—boots；　breeches；　fleece…vest—and　started　to　pull　on　his　flight
coat。　But　his　fingers　had　then　encountered　the　insignia　seent；　the
captain’s　bars；　the　squadron　badge；　the　name…strip　that　read　“Viltry；　Oskar”。　He　had　put　it　aside　and
opted　instead　for　a　more　anonymous　tan　leather　coat。
The　landing　was　dark。　On　the　floor　above；　the　crewmen　of　Hello　Hellstorm　were　slumbering；
with　the　crews　of　Throne　of　Terror　and　Widowmaker　on　the　floor　above　that。　The　retinues　of　K　for
Killshot　and　Get　Them　All　Back　were　billeted　on　the　ground　floor。　The　other　six　crews　of　XXI　Wing
“Halo　Flight”；　Imperial　（Phantine）　Air　Force　were　tucked　up　in　another　pension　down　the　street。
Viltry　activated　a　glow…globe。　The　light　was　dim；　but　enough　to　light　his　way　down　the　creaking
staircase。　In　the　hall；　there　were　ancient　books　stacked　on　the　mantel　of　the　ornate　but　flaking
fireplace；　but　those　that　he　touched　in　the　hope　of　finding　an　hour　or　two’s　distraction　fell　into　dust。
He　let　himself　out　onto　the　street。　It　was　chilly　and　quiet；　except　for　the　gurgle　of　the　canal。　A
van　rumbled　by　on　the　far　side　of　the　canal；　its　headlights　cowled　as　per　blackout　procedures。　He
walked　a　few　paces；　noticing　the　stumps；　regularly　spaced；　where　iron　lamp　stands　had　been
removed　from　the　boulevard　for　the　war　effort。　He　tried　to　imagine　the　place　in　peacetime。　Elegant；
glass…hooded　lamps；　purring　electric　cruisers　on　the　grand　canal；　prosperous　Imperial　citizens　going
about　their　business；　stopping　to　greet　and　talk；　dining　at　terrace　taverns　now　long　boarded…up。
There　would　have　been　students　too。　The　briefing　documents　said　that　Theda　was　a　scholam　town。
In　truth；　he　realised；　he　knew　precious　little　about　Enothis。　Precious　little　apart　from　three　things：
it　was　an　old；　proud　Imperial　world；　it　was　strategically　vital　to　this　zone　of　the　Sabbat　Worlds；　and
he；　and　thousands　of　other　aviators　like　him；　had　been　drafted　here　from　off…world　at　short　notice　to
save　it　from　extinction。
He　noticed　passers…by　suddenly—other　pedestrians　out　in　the　early　light；　dressed　in　dark　clothes；
all　hurrying　in　the　same　direction。　He　heard　the　chime　of　a　chapel　bell　ringing　out　seven　of　the
clock；　calling　them　to　worship。　Viltry　followed　them；　crossing　a　bridge　over　the　canal；　hanging
back。
By　the　time　he　reached　the　Ministorum　chapel　on　the　far　bank　side；　the　dawn　service　had　already
begun。　He　stood　for　a　moment　outside；　listening　to　the　plainsong　chants。　Above　him；　in　the　cold；
grey　light；　the　bas…relief　facade　showed　the　figure　of　the　God…Emperor　gazing　down　on　all　mankind。
Viltry　felt　ashamed。　He　bowed　his　head。　When；　eight　years　earlier；　he　had　sworn　to　give　his　life
as　a　warrior　in　the　service　of　the　God…Emperor；　he　hadn’t　realised　how　damn　hard　it　would　be。　He’d
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always　wanted　to　be　an　aviator；　of　course。　Phantine’s　unusual　topography　bred　that　instinct　into　all
its　sons　and　daughters。　But　the　cost　had　been　great。　Two　years　before；　during　the　final　onslaught　to
liberate　his　home　world　from　the　toxic　clutches　of　the　Archenemy；　fighting　alongside　the　Imperial
Crusade　forces　of　Warmaster　Macaroth；　he　had　almost　died　twice。　Once　as　wind　waste　over　the
Scald；　then　as　a　prisoner　of　the　vile　warlord　Sagittar　Slaith　at　Ouranberg。
In　the　two　years　since　then；　Viltry　had　been　unable　to　shrug　off　the　idea　that　he　should　be　dead
already。　He　was　living　on　borrowed　time。　His　tutor　at　the　scholam　had　drummed　into　him　the
concept　of　Fate’s　wheel。　He’d　said　that　it　spun　at　the　Emperor’s　right　hand。　It　spun　for　balance；　for
symmetry。　What　was　given　would　be　taken；　what　was　loaned　would　be　paid　back。　A　life　saved　was
only　a　life　spared。
His　had　been　saved　twice　over。　There　was　a　reckoning　to　be　had。　And　here　he　was；　on　another
world；　charged　with　the　duty　of　fighting　to　save　it。　The　reckoning　would　be　here；　he　was　sure　of　it。
Fate’s　wheel　would　turn。　He　had　been　spared　twice　so　he　could　live　long　enough　to　see　his　home
world　saved。　Now　he　was　fi