understood.”
“Following your lead, Halo Leader.”
A photo-scout Lightning from the 1267th Navy (recon) had run this pathway at dawn, identifying a cluster of Imperial armour and artillery units halfway up the pass, with Archenemy heavies tight on its tail. Apparently, a local squadron had spotted the area the day before, shortly before getting stung by enemy air cover.
“Halo Flight, watch the air,” Viltry voxed. He switched to intercom. “Gunners? Locks off. Eyeball scans now, like your lives depend on it. For they surely do. Judd?”
A crackle. “Captain, sir?”
“Kiss the children for me, bombardier.”
Crackle. “I’ll tell them you said night-night.”
In the bomb bay below Viltry, Judd gently armed the payload, and then snuggled up to the foresight reticule on his belly.
The ragged pinnacle of Yacob’s Peak rose up ahead of them, a snow-caked jab of rock. Viltry could see the mouth of the pass now. His heart began to beat faster. It was going to be tight.
“Halo Flight, Halo Flight. On it now.” He tried to keep his voice calm. “Come about the point marker and drop hard by number sequence. The Emperor protects.”
All of the planes repeated that catechism.
Three… two… one…
The six Marauders, now formed in line astern, banked hard around the rock spire and followed Gee Force down the chute, swinging low and chasing hard. The promised wind shear rattled them brutally. Then, for a few moments, the canyon walls were so close on either side that the pilots expected to see friction sparks at their wingtips. But the chasm began to widen out. The pass descended. Snow cover, a ridgeway, a well of black rock with curling ice-sheets. It widened to five hundred metres-plus. Viltry kicked in some throttle, dropping Gee Force down to a sense-whizzing low fifty. At the stick of Mamzel Mayhem, right behind Gee Force, Kyrklan grinned. Low fifty, in a Marauder doing 400 kph, boxed in by a granite canyon. Only Oskar Viltry had the balls to lead off like that.
Kyrklan had been flying Marauders for just a year less than Viltry, and for the last six had been Viltry’s second in Halo. He loved the man, and would follow him anywhere. In Wassimir Kyrklan’s opinion, no one quite knew how to play a four-ram bird the way Viltry did. It was a gut thing, a nerve thing. Like he was born to it. When Viltry had gone missing, presumed lost, over the Scald in 771, Kyrklan had mourned not just for his friend but for the generations of Phantine pilots to come. They would never see Viltry fly, never learn, never understand. The fact that Kyrklan had gained flight command was no consolation. He’d had to lead the wing in on the Ouranberg raid. Viltry would have done that job better. Now the captain was back and everything would be four-A.
Kyrklan pushed his dangling mask up to his face. “Slow down, eh, Osk?” he laughed into the vox.
“Say again, Halo Two?”
“Nothing, Halo Leader. Let’s go get.”
In the juddering cockpit of Halo Lead, Viltry shivered. Inside his armoured gauntlets, his knuckles were white. This is it. This is the one. Fortune’s frigging wheel. This is the payback. Death. Death now. Death now—
“Target sighted!” Judd sang out.
They had just whipped over a straggled formation of Imperial armour, over two hundred vehicles hemmed in on a shelf of the steep pass. Up ahead, mobile batteries and heavy cannon began to punch the air with shot.
Viltry’s hands were quivering on the stick. “I can’t…” he began.
“Captain?” Lacombe asked, looking round at him.
Holy Throne! Just do it. Just do it! Viltry shook himself, and screamed into his mic. “Forward guns fire now! Now! Judd! Fry them!”
Naxol, in the bow turret, began firing, kicking out backwashing flame around the plane’s nose as he raked the ground positions.
“Load away!” Judd reported. Gee Force lifted suddenly as the belly and wing weight let go.
A ripple of flame below. Then Mamzel Mayhem added to it,
“Following your lead, Halo Leader.”
A photo-scout Lightning from the 1267th Navy (recon) had run this pathway at dawn, identifying a cluster of Imperial armour and artillery units halfway up the pass, with Archenemy heavies tight on its tail. Apparently, a local squadron had spotted the area the day before, shortly before getting stung by enemy air cover.
“Halo Flight, watch the air,” Viltry voxed. He switched to intercom. “Gunners? Locks off. Eyeball scans now, like your lives depend on it. For they surely do. Judd?”
A crackle. “Captain, sir?”
“Kiss the children for me, bombardier.”
Crackle. “I’ll tell them you said night-night.”
In the bomb bay below Viltry, Judd gently armed the payload, and then snuggled up to the foresight reticule on his belly.
The ragged pinnacle of Yacob’s Peak rose up ahead of them, a snow-caked jab of rock. Viltry could see the mouth of the pass now. His heart began to beat faster. It was going to be tight.
“Halo Flight, Halo Flight. On it now.” He tried to keep his voice calm. “Come about the point marker and drop hard by number sequence. The Emperor protects.”
All of the planes repeated that catechism.
Three… two… one…
The six Marauders, now formed in line astern, banked hard around the rock spire and followed Gee Force down the chute, swinging low and chasing hard. The promised wind shear rattled them brutally. Then, for a few moments, the canyon walls were so close on either side that the pilots expected to see friction sparks at their wingtips. But the chasm began to widen out. The pass descended. Snow cover, a ridgeway, a well of black rock with curling ice-sheets. It widened to five hundred metres-plus. Viltry kicked in some throttle, dropping Gee Force down to a sense-whizzing low fifty. At the stick of Mamzel Mayhem, right behind Gee Force, Kyrklan grinned. Low fifty, in a Marauder doing 400 kph, boxed in by a granite canyon. Only Oskar Viltry had the balls to lead off like that.
Kyrklan had been flying Marauders for just a year less than Viltry, and for the last six had been Viltry’s second in Halo. He loved the man, and would follow him anywhere. In Wassimir Kyrklan’s opinion, no one quite knew how to play a four-ram bird the way Viltry did. It was a gut thing, a nerve thing. Like he was born to it. When Viltry had gone missing, presumed lost, over the Scald in 771, Kyrklan had mourned not just for his friend but for the generations of Phantine pilots to come. They would never see Viltry fly, never learn, never understand. The fact that Kyrklan had gained flight command was no consolation. He’d had to lead the wing in on the Ouranberg raid. Viltry would have done that job better. Now the captain was back and everything would be four-A.
Kyrklan pushed his dangling mask up to his face. “Slow down, eh, Osk?” he laughed into the vox.
“Say again, Halo Two?”
“Nothing, Halo Leader. Let’s go get.”
In the juddering cockpit of Halo Lead, Viltry shivered. Inside his armoured gauntlets, his knuckles were white. This is it. This is the one. Fortune’s frigging wheel. This is the payback. Death. Death now. Death now—
“Target sighted!” Judd sang out.
They had just whipped over a straggled formation of Imperial armour, over two hundred vehicles hemmed in on a shelf of the steep pass. Up ahead, mobile batteries and heavy cannon began to punch the air with shot.
Viltry’s hands were quivering on the stick. “I can’t…” he began.
“Captain?” Lacombe asked, looking round at him.
Holy Throne! Just do it. Just do it! Viltry shook himself, and screamed into his mic. “Forward guns fire now! Now! Judd! Fry them!”
Naxol, in the bow turret, began firing, kicking out backwashing flame around the plane’s nose as he raked the ground positions.
“Load away!” Judd reported. Gee Force lifted suddenly as the belly and wing weight let go.
A ripple of flame below. Then Mamzel Mayhem added to it,
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