Double Eagle(科幻战争)-第15章

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“No。　Is　there　anywhere　else　you　know？”
“A　few　places。　Get　in。”
He　drove　down　through　the　Gillehal　Plaza；　and；　as　there　was　no　one　around；　took　a　shortcut　up　a
one…way　ramp　onto　the　shelving　streets　of　the　Zagerhanz。　The　truck’s　gears　wallowed　as　he
downshifted　on　the　steep　slope。
“Where　are　we　going？”　she　asked。
“There　are　a　couple　of　places　up　here。　The　Lullabye　and　the　Midwinter。　They’re　often　open　after
hours。”
She　nodded。
“How　long’s　he　been　gone？”
“Since　22。00　yesterday。”
“And　you　don’t　want　to　make　this　official？”
“No；　I—No。”
“What’s　your　name？”　he　asked。
“Jagdea；”　she　said；　reluctantly。
He　waited　for　her　at　the　Lullabye　and　the　Midwinter；　but　she　came　back　from　both　on　her　own。
“One　last　idea。　There’s　a　place　on　the　Grand　Canal。”
He　drove　the　truck　expertly　along　the　narrow　Old　Town　streets。　There　was　just　the　tiniest　hint　of
dawn　in　the　air　now。　When　they　got　to　the　place；　he　turned　off　the　engine　and　climbed　down　with
her。
“You　can　stay　with　the　transport；　driver。”
Kaminsky　shook　his　head。　“Actually　no；　Commander　Jagdea。　You’ll　need　me　to　get　in。”
“Why？”
“Zara’s　is　an　old　drinking　den。　Not　a　bar。　Women　are　only　allowed　in　if　they　are　the　companions
of　male　clientele。”
She　stared　at　him。
“It’s　true；”　he　said。　“Maybe…　maybe　that’s　why　your　FTR　came　here。”
Together；　they　walked　to　an　iron…hinged　door；　set　down　from　the　street　by　three　little　steps。
Kaminsky　knocked；　and　the　door　opened。
The　door…guard　was　a　massive　Ingeburgan　with　fat…hooded　eyes。　He　looked　them　up　and　down；
then　waved　them　through。
The　den　was　almost　empty。　Some　chairs　were　already　up　on　tables。　Half　a　dozen
Commonwealth　fliers；　all　male；　were　playing　cards　around　a　corner　table。　A　yawning　waitress　was
serving　them　another　bottle　of　joiliq。　Two　Navy　fliers　shared　another　booth；　talking　in　low；　fierce
voices　about　something。　A　few　other　patrons　sat　alone；　or　played　the　chancer　machines　with　their
last　pieces　of　change。
“Is　he　here？”　whispered　Kaminsky。
“That’s　him。　At　the　bar。”
There　was　a　boy　sitting　at　the　bar　side。　A　handsome　sort；　Kaminsky　realised。　He　put　the　thought
aside。　Any　one　of　the　bastards　in　the　room　was　handsome　compared　to　him。
But　still；　this　boy　was　especially　handsome。　Dark…haired；　fair…skinned；　tall…　clearly　from　the
same　gene…pool　that　had　produced　the　striking　Commander　Jagdea。
The　boy　was　very　drunk。　A　weary　barman　was　cleaning　a　glass　and　watching　in　horrid
fascination　as　the　boy　tried　to　find　his　mouth　with　a　shot…cup。　He　missed；　emptied　the　dregs　of　the
liquor　down　his　front；　and　then　settled　the　glass　on　the　marble　bartop　again。
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He　tapped　it　with　an　index　finger。
“Whu’more。”
The　barman　shook　his　head。
“Oh　fershizake。　Whu’more；　s’all　I　ask。”
“No；”　said　the　barman。
“Time　to　go　home；　Vander；”　Jagdea　said。
The　boy　looked　at　her；　blinked；　and　shook　his　head。
“Yes；　Vander。　Come　home　now；　and　we　can　forget　this。”
“No。　No。　No…no。　I’m　woshup。”
“You’re　in　your　cups；　but　you’re　not　washed　up。　Come　on。　I’ve　got　transport。”
The　boy—Vander—fixed　her　with　suddenly　probing　eyes。　“Espere！”　he　spat。
“He’s　in　the　infirmary。　They’re　patching　him　up。”
“Espere。　He　won”　fly　“gain。”
“No；　he　won’t。　But　that’s　not　down　to　you。”
“I　got　him　hurt。”
“No；　you　didn’t。”
“Y’esss！　Yes；　I　got　him　hurt。　I　got　him　hurt。　I　got　him。　Hurt。　I　did。　Me。　I　screwed　up。”
“Maybe　you　did；　Vander。　Maybe　you　didn’t。　No　one’s　blaming　you　for　what　happened　to　Pers。”
“Killacyclone　too。”
“What？”
The　boy　made　a　shrugging　movement　with　his　hands。　“Killacyclone。　Killed。　Killed　a　Cyclone。
Shot　the　frigging　thing　to　pieces；　like—”
“No；　Vander。　We　went　over　the　gun…cam　footage。　The　Cyclone　was　stung　by　a　bat。　Not　you。”
“Yeah？”
“Yes。　Not　you。”
“Hnh。　Thassomething。”
“Yes；　it　is。　Now　come　on；　pilot。　Get　up。　We’re　going　now。”
Vander　shook　his　head。　“Espere…”　he　muttered。
Jagdea　took　a　step　towards　him　and　put　her　hand　on　his　arm。　“That’s　it；　Marquall。　Enough　with
the　self…pity。　Get　your　arse　upright　and　follow　me。”
“G’way！”
“Marquall；　I’ve　stuck　my　neck　out　for　you。　My　whole　neck。　I　came　looking　for　you　rather　than
report　you　were　overdue。　So　far；　it’s　off　the　record。”　She　looked　round　at　Kaminsky。　“It　is　off　the
record；　isn’t　it？”
Kaminsky　shrugged。　“Sure。”
She　shook　Marquall。　“See　what　I　do　for　you？　It’s　off　the　record。　I　didn’t　report　you　to　the
Commissariat。　I　could　lose　command　for　letting　you　run　off　like　this。　FTR。　Failed　To　Return。　You’re
four　hours　late　back　at　billet。　The　commissars　would　shoot　you　for　this。　Shoot　me；　too。　Don’t　mess
me　up；　Marquall。　Don’t　you　dare　earn　the　Phantine　a　rep　for　screw…ups　and　disobedience。　We’re
running　with　the　frigging　Navy　now！　Get　up；　Marquall！　Don’t　you　disgrace　me！　I　need　you！”
He　looked　at　her；　blinking　to　focus。　“Y’don’　need　me…”
“I　lost　a　pilot　yesterday。　I’ll　be　damned　if　I　lose　two！”
She　pulled　his　arm；　and　he　struggled　back。　Kaminsky　winced　as　the　boy　fell　off　his　seat。　He
spilled　Commander　Jagdea　over　with　him　as　he　went；　and　a　glass　broke。
“That’s　enough！”　the　barman　cried。　The　Ingeburgan　thug　was　closing　in。
“It’s　okay；”　Kaminsky　said；　holding　up　his　hand。　He　helped　Jagdea　up　and　pushed　her　aside。
Then　he　stood　over　the　boy。
“Call　yourself　a　flier？”　he　said。
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“What？”　Marquall　gurgled。
“What　are　you　doing？”　Jagdea　began。
“Don’t　worry；”　Kaminsky　told　her。　“Let　me　speak　to　the　lad。　I　don’t　want　any　trouble。”
He　looked　down　at　the　boy　again。
“You’re　a　pilot？　You　get　to　fly？　I　tell　you　what…　you’re　a　piece　of　crap。”
“What？”
“A。　Piece。　Of。　Crap。　You　disgust　me。　Your　mamzel　there　has　gone　out　on　a　line　to　pull　your　arse
in；　and　this　is　what　you　do？　Can　you　fly？　Can　you　fly？”
“Y…yes…”
“Can　you　fly？”
“Yes！”
“Why　don’t　you　then？”
“I…　I　don’t　know…”
Kaminsky　reached　under　his　coat　and　pulled　out　his　service　auto。　He　dropped　it　onto　the　boy’s
belly。　The　falling　weight　winded　him。
“Just　use　it。”
“What？”
“Use　it。　Use　it　now。”
“What？”
“Use　the　frigging　gun；　you　waste　of　space。　Put　a　shot　through　your　stupid　brain。　It’d　be　quicker
than　drinking　yourself　to　death。　Do　us　all　a　favour。”
Marquall　stared　at　the　gun　on　his　belly　as　if　it　was　a　venomous　arachnid。
“What　are　you　waiting　for？　Eh？　You　get　to　fly；　you　bastard！　You　get　to　fly！　Why　would　you　run
away　from　that？　I　used　to　fly　too！　But　I　got　crisped！　See　this？　My　face？　My　hand？　They　say　I　can
never　fly　again！　I’m　not　airworthy！　I’d　give　anything　to　be　you！　Anything！　So　pick　up　that　frigging
gun　and　stop　me　envying　your　stupid　little　life！”
“Shit…”　said　Marquall。　“You　can’t　say　that　to　me…”
“No；　he　can’t；”　said　Jagdea；　kneeling　beside　him。　“But　it　seems　he　just　did。　Now　are　we　going
home　or　am　I　going　to　leave　you　with　him？”
“Home；”　agreed　Marquall；　closing　his　eyes。
Jagdea　tossed　the　service　pistol　back　to　Kaminsky。　He　caught　it。　“Yours；　I　believe。”　Then　she
hauled　Marquall　up　on　her　shoulder　and　carried　him　out　of　the　bar。
She　was　sitting　with　him　in　the　back　space　of　the　truck　when　Kaminsky　came　out。　He　looked　at
her。
“Drive；　please；”　she　said　firmly。
Kaminsky　got　up　into　the　cab。　Alone　again；　he　started　the　engine。
South　of　the　Makanites；　08。30
Thirty　thousand　metres；　not　a　cloud　in　the　sky；　just　twenty…four　silver　giants　leaving　white　lines　of
vapour　across　the　blue。
Viltry　felt　much　more　at　ease　on　this　early　run；　Halo　Flight’s　second　sortie　of　the　tour。　He
wondered　if　it　was　strength　of　numbers：　Halo　was　running　in　formation　with　Marauders　of　2212th
Navy；　and　they　had　a　wing　of　Thunderbolts　five　thousand　metres　above　them；　flying　top　cover。
Formation　safety。
Or　maybe　it　was　the　soothing　effects　of　a　long　afternoon　spent　gazing　at　the　sea。
Whatever；　he　was　more　relaxed。　Greta　felt　good　and　responsive。　Sunlight　filled　the　cabin　with　a
golden　glaze；　and　the　world　seemed　almost　silent。　At　this　altitude；　the　engines　were　a　muffled　throb。
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The　loudest　sounds　were　the　hiss　of　the　air…mix　and　the　pump　of　his　mask。　He　imagined　this　serenity
was　what　it　was　like　to　be　deep　under　the　sea。
Lacombe　passed　a　sheaf　of　plastek…sheathed　charts　over　to　him。　He　took　another　look　at　the
recon　data。　As　of　17。00　hours　the　day　before；　it　had　been　confirmed　（thanks；　he　was　proud　to　note；　to
the　action　of　a　Phantine　wing—Jagdea’s　mob；　bless　them）　that　the　enemy　had　secured　air…range
beyond　the　mountain　limits。　That　meant　almost　certainly　they　had　established　forward　air　bases　in
the　Interior　Desert；　maybe　even　mobile　land…carriers；　far　further　north　than　had　been　previously
estimated　by　Operations。　Aerial　recon　had　spotted　a　few　probable　heat…sources　overnight；　and　now
their　formation—call　sign　Hightail—and　nine　other　formations　like　them　were　aloft　on　interdiction
missions。　If　the　enemy　had　air　bases　in　the　northern　desert；　they　had　to　be　hit　now　and　taken　out；　or
the　show　would　be　over　before　it　began。
Hightail　had　already　spotted　half　a　dozen　possibles　during　their　flying　time；　but　all　had　turned
out　to　be　masses　of　Imperial　ground　forces　labouring　north。
From　this　great　height；　Viltry　enjoyed　an　awesome　panorama　of　the　desert；　intractable　and　vast。
It　was　ragged　terrain；　resembling　worn　sandpaper。　Over　to　the　west；　hundreds　of　kilometres　away；
he　could　make　out　the　margins　of　the　Cicatrice；　a　huge　rift　of　scarred　land　that　ancient　geology　had
gouged　out　across　the　continent；　probably　around　the　same　time　it　had　lifted　the　Makanites　to
overlook　it。　Flying　in　that　region　was　said　to　be　tough；　especially　at　lower　levels。　The　scar…valleys
caused　savage　and　unpredictable　wind　shears　and　crosscurrents。
According　to　the　recon　brief；　they　were　now　just　fifty　kilometres　short　of　one　of　the　most　likely
target　areas；　a　high…density　heat　and　magnetics　return　from　a　dune　sea　region　called　the　Dish　of
Sand。
There　was　a　Navy　Marauder—Hightail　One—flying　about　twenty　kilometres　ahead　of　them。
Carrying　zero　payload　to　remain　svelte　and　fleet；　its　auspex　boosted　and　amped；　Hightail　One　was
their　pathfinder。
Viltry　waited　patiently　for　the　go　or　no。　He　had　a　good　feeling　about　this　one。
Then　he　saw　the　bats。
It　was　the　strangest　thing。　It　was　li