Diem Infamia Chapter 7
The cockpit enclosed him in its familiar embrace, the space barely wider than his shoulders. Before him a dizzying array of controls and screens covered every panel, while his canopy showed a startlingly clear view of the stars. His pressure-suit hugged every inch of his body, slotted with interface ports where oxygenated blood was pumped into his body and waste products were removed. His head was covered by his flight helmet, enhancing his vision and a neural shunt just behind his left ear fed auspex data and flight system information directly to his brain. He was Wing Commander Kaja Marco and his Fury Interceptor purred as it soared through the void.
Marco passed his eyes over the displays and was satisfied all was in order, his strike craft was flying smoothly and its machine spirit pulsed in his neural link, demanding action. Marco kept one hand on the stick and the other on the throttle, steering his Fury with the smoothness of long experience as he called, "Crew check."
Behind him his rear, Flight Systems Officer Yarka, reported mechanically, "All systems reporting Green1."
From the nose of the craft, turret gunner Darrio reported, "Multi-lasers ready."
Finally from the tiny space claustrophobic space between the plasma engines, servitor V10-654-a said monotonously, "Compliance."
Marco raised his eyes, looking out of the cockpit to see his fighter wing flying beside him. Each one was flying a Mark IVc pattern Fury interceptor, the mainstay of Battlefleet Karyl's fighter wings. There were countless models of Fury in the galaxy, each with distinctive idiosyncrasies and weapons load-outs, the Mark IVc was a fifty metre long, twin-engine interceptor fitted with ten wing-mounted lascannons, four hunter missiles and a chin turret. It was the workhorse of Battlefleet Karyl and Marco commanded twenty of them.
Marco set his vox to widespread and called out, "Pious-leader, Green1, all squadrons report in."
From the various squadrons came back reports, "Pastor-leader reporting, Saint-leader reporting, Cleric-leader reporting."
Marco heard the reports and knew all four squadrons of the 171st Fighter wing, 'the Holies' were ready and he ordered, "Holies, we have unknown sinners inbound, prepare for intercept. Go weapons live, Pious and Pastor will go straight in and probe their formation. Saint and Cleric, reduced thrust, fall back and stand by to engage if needed. Just like we practised."
"Understood," came the various calls and ten Furies peeled off, moving back and above, though that term was relative in the weightlessness of space. Marco settled his grip on the stick and steered his Fury towards the incoming contacts, using bursts of attitude thrust to make course corrections. His hands were always sweaty before the prospect of combat but he had flown for years and his nerves did not diminish his skills, they sharpened them. The blips pulsed in his neural link, growing more insistent as they closed but not resolving into definitive contacts yet. Marco fixed his eyes on the predicted spot but there was nothing to see, the distances of space meant they wouldn't see anything until they were right on top of each other.
His vox crackled and the familiar voice of Pious-2, Varce a steady and reliable wingman came forth, "You think the maggots can handle this?"
Marco replied, "It's a straight forward intercept, basic fare even for a rookie."
Varce didn't sound so reassured but said, "It's up to us old men to show them how it's done."
The unknown contacts were closing at a rapid rate and there was no more time to talk as they swept into visual range. Marco squinted as tiny specks came into view, glimmering against the stars behind. They were on an intercept course and details resolved with stunning alacrity. Marco spied recurved wings, swept forward in sickle shape and a dark blot for a hull, silhouetted by the glare of twin plasma drives. It looked like a blade cutting through space, coming at him far faster than he had anticipated. Marco's guts clenched and he yelled, "Blood hell, Shrikes! Break, break, break!"
The ten Furies scattered as the enemy dove in, lascannons spitting incandescent death. Marco wrenched his stick and felt enormous G-forces crush him down as his Fury viffed itself laterally aside, the thrusters along its length hurling him out of the way. A flash of dark colour went by as a Shrike hurtled past him and he opened the throttle to give pursuit. The dark blot was coming about, dropping onto Pious-4's tail but Marco squeezed his trigger and a flurry of lascannon bolts flew past its nose, forcing it to break off. Marco was too veteran to give chase, staying fixed on a target in combat was the surest way to get dead, and he instead peeled off looking for new threats.
All around him Furies danced in the void, desperately evading their more agile foes. There was no banking or yawing here, they were not atmospheric craft; instead they viffed laterally and spun, blazing forward with bursts of plasma thrust then spinning into new vectors. The Holies were outnumbered by their foes but fought as best they could, trading lascannon shots with their attackers. The vox was filled with cries, "He's on me he's on me, I can't shake him… I got a lock, Stake one... Pious-2 watch your six! Pious-2's gone!"
Marco saw the fight was turning against them and yelled, "Pious and Pastor squadrons have engaged. Saint, Cleric, we need you!"
"Copy," came an annoyingly calm voice, "Inbound now, sixty seconds to contact."
Marco swore to himself, what the hell were they doing so far away, but then there was no more time for thought. He saw a Shrike descending vertically before him and peeled onto its tail, thrusting hard to match velocities. G-forces pushed him back into his seat but he thrust harder, increasing speed. From the nose he heard the snapping of multi-lasers firing, as Darrio tried to hit the enemy, but it danced about like a Fodian skitterbug and all his shots went wide.
Marco knew they would have to do this the hard way and gritted his teeth as they closed on the twin flares of exhaust. His targeting reticule jumped in his HUD, trying to get a fix but it refused to lock on. "Come on, come on, you little Frak," he growled then suddenly the icon turned green and sang out a lock tone. Marco stabbed a gloved finger onto the firing stud and yelled, "Stake one!" as a hunter missile flew from his wings and flung itself at the shrike. Marco instantly peeled off, not staying on course to see the result. Crushing G-forces hammered him into his seat but his suit squeezed his body, forcing blood back into his head. Long seconds of evasion passed but then he heard Yarka stating coolly, "Direct hit, sinner absolved."
Marco had no time to celebrate, for space was filled with flaring death. Everywhere Furies were being overwhelmed by their enemies, outmanoeuvred and outflown. Pious-3 was beset by a pair of shrikes, he jerked to and fro but was helpless to avoid his fate as flurry of lascannon blasts hammered him repeatedly. Meanwhile Pastor-4 pointed his nose at a shrike and fired a missile, but he was been impatient and failed to wait for a lock, so the hunter sailed serenely off into the void. Elsewhere Pastor-2 was chasing a shrike, he fell onto its six in a textbook attack position, but the pilot fired all ten lascannons simultaneously just as the shrike jinked and his shots missed entirely. Instantly the Shrike cut power and flipped over, flying backwards as it unleashed a missile that blew him out of the sky. Another Fury, Pious-5, was flying straight and level, trying to give his turret gunner a clear shot, only to be torn to shreds as a trio of Shrikes dove and blew him to atoms.
Marco snarled in anger and heaved to the right, seeing a shrike darting past his three o'clock. He jerked laterally as a burst of las chopped over his right wing and returned fire, sequencing his ten lascannons so to create a storm of firepower. Darrio added his multi-lasers, the lighter armaments less powerful but firing at a much faster rate. The Shrike danced about in their combined onslaught, trying to avoid being hit, but a lone shot punched through its canopy, killing the pilot instantly.
Marco spun his Fury about and yelled, "Form up, watch each other's sixes and stop wasting your damned shots. Saint leader, Cleric leader where the hell are you?!"
But as he did so Yarka yelled, "Shrike below!"
Marco sensed it at the same instant through his neural link and threw his Fury aside, but it was too late. A trio of lascannon blasts tore off his left wing and blew out his thrusters on the port side. Spilling plasma sent him into an uncontrolled spin and plastered him to the side of his cockpit, unable to touch his controls let alone recover his plane. A heartbeat later a second volley ripped through his Fury, detonating the drive in a massive fireball.
Marco was dead, so he gritted his teeth and thumped his head back against his seat as he swore, "Damnation."
The cockpit windows went a pale grey and the sounds faded as Marco smashed his fist into the side of the cockpit, annoyed at being killed by a target he hadn't even seen. The cockpit slowly rose, revealing a tired face and the fitter leaned in to say, "Sorry Wing Commander, you're dead."
Marco reached up and yanked his helmet clamps free then negotiated it off his head as he grumbled, "You don't have to tell me."
The face revealed was old for a fighter pilot, nearing forty in Terran terms. His hair was starting to grey and his eyes were tired. Few pilots indeed lived long enough to retire to teaching posts and rejuvenant work couldn't replace the lightning fast reflexes and cocky confidence of youth. Fury pilot's careers were short and Marco had the look of man who knew his prime days were drawing to a close and wasn't looking forward to what came next. Marco was sitting in a grey box, shaped like a cockpit and set in a long row of similar boxes, connected by snaking cables. Between them strode Tech-priests, waving incense everywhere as they blessed the simulator room. Twenty simulators filled with defeated rookies, so new their qualifying badges still smelled of the factory press, buried deep within Salamis base's flight academy.
A few were still operating but the others were opening up, the pilots within being assisted to climb out by ground crew peons. There were a handful of older faces but not enough, the Holies had been decimated fighting Fra'al raiders in the Herculan Deeps and in typical Munitorum fashion the quill-pushers had replaced the lost en-masse with rookies straight out of flight school. Turning an elite fighter wing into a shambles. The newcomers looked abashed and sullen, as well they should, they had messed up a simple intercept exercise and got killed.
Marco reached up to his left ear and yanked out his pair of neural links, whose input had been so convincing it tricked his brain into thinking he was experiencing G-forces. Behind him Yarka was taking longer, the rear FSO had a dozen inputs lines so his bond with the machine spirit was far stronger. Darrio was off to the side, in his own turret box. Marco sat fuming as the peons disengaged his spinal links and then he could finally climb out and glare at his squadrons. All the simulators were empty now and Marco looked at their faces as he growled, "Briefing room… now."
Marco stormed off and his rookies followed, abashed by their abysmal performance. He led them into a side chamber, where sixty chairs faced a Hololithic projector. Marco strode to the front and watched his pilots, FSO and gunners file in and when they were all seated he spat, "Terrible, worse than useless. Your manoeuvres were all wrong."
Among the young faces Bescham, pilot of Pastor-3 dared to say, "But sir, it would have worked on Orks."
Marco growled angrily, "Is that what they are teaching you in flight school these days, to expect Orks? For Frak's sake, a galaxy is a big place and there are more than Orks out there. This exercise was unknown intercept training; you should have been expecting the unexpected, yet you all screwed up badly. Saint and Clerics squadron, you were our support, do not fall so far back you can't intercept in time. Pious-5, you were flying in a straight line for too long, what were you thinking Wesker?"
A fresh faced boy gulped and said, "My gunner kept calling for a clear shot."
Marco barked in annoyance, "Gunners always want you to fly straight, but they have to learn to lump it. If you fly straight for thirty seconds you're dead. And Pastor-4 you do not, ever fire a missile without getting a target lock. Missiles have inertia and in space the only thing that will stop one is another craft, for all you know that craft might be a friendly. That is why, pilot Caxlay, you do not eyeball it!"
Admonished faces looked back at him and Marco let them stew on their mistakes. But after a few moments he relented and said, "Did they teach you maggots anything about Shrikes in basic?"
Blank stares returned and Wesker replied, "No sir."
Marco took pity on them and said, "They kick you rookies out of flight school half-trained and expect me to beat you into shape. I despair for Battlefleet Karyl's future. Very well, if you're going to join the 171st wing you need to know what you're up against."
Marco activated the Hololith and a wire frame image of a hostile interceptor sprung into life. Everyone craned nearer as Marco explained, "The Shrike, a Swiftdeath pattern void interceptor, the primary strike fighter of the archenemy. Take a good look because you'll be seeing a lot of them. It's a sleek killer, smaller, faster and more manoeuvrable than any Fury. It may only have six lascannons, to your ten, but it will run rings around you if you let it. This thing has killed more Imperial pilots than you can imagine, but it has an Achilles heel. Its armour couldn't stop a baby's spit. A Fury can fly through a brick wall and barely notice but one good hit on this and its scrap metal. The trick is to land that hit before it kills you."
Rapt attention was on every face and Marco concluded by saying, "Right pay attention Holies, I'll walk you through its capabilities and how to counter them. Then we are going back to the simulators and trying this exercise again and again, till you get it right."
