In the bomb bay below Viltry； Judd gently armed the payload； and then snuggled up to the
foresight reticule on his belly。
28
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； then Hello Hellfire。 It whipped up
into a firestorm。 The others； in swift succession； followed。
By then； G for Greta was banking up out of the pass； the crystal mountainscape under her。
Sucked back into their harness rigs by the extreme G； her crew was still cheering。
Levelling out at five kilometres over the peaks； Viltry sagged over the controls for a moment；
breathing hard。
“We cooked them！ We cooked the bastards and—”
The voice was shrilling from Gaize； the turret gunner。
29
“Shut up。 Shut up！” Viltry yelled。 “Shut up for Throne’s sake！ Pick up your visual scanning right
now or we won’t get home！ Do you hear me？ We won’t frigging well get home！”
Theda MAB South； 12。12
The sky was empty； but Pilot Officer Vander Marquall wasn’t looking at it。 He was looking at his
bird。
The I…XXI Thunderbolt sat on its skids in an anti…blast revetment on the east side of the Theda
South field。 It was a hefty beast； fourteen tonnes dead weight without fuel； with a blunt group of
cannons for a nose and a body that swelled out into forward swept wings around the thrust tunnels
of the double turbofan engines。 The canopy was set amidships； giving the Bolt a reclined； louche
look。
It was painted matt grey； with the marks of the Phantine XX on its tail and nose。 Its exposed
engine ducts glinted copper。
Racklae； Marquall’s chief fitter； looked up from under one of the gun housings。 “Be good as
new； I promise；” he said。
Marquall grinned。 Racklae’s subs were just finishing up the nose art paint job on the bird。 The
Phantine stylised eagle； clasping the jagged lightning bolt； with the name “Double Eagle” beneath it
in inverted commas。
Marquall became aware of someone coming up behind him。 He turned； and stiffened in surprise。
It was Captain Guis Gettering of the Apostles； his white suede flight coat almost glowing in the
midday sunlight。
“Sir； I—” Marquall began。
Gettering calmly removed one of his chainmail gauntlets and slapped Marquall across the face
with it so hard that the young man was knocked down onto one knee。
Dazed； stunned； his face grazed by the chain； Marquall looked up。
Guis Gettering was striding back to his hardstand。
“What…” gasped Marquall； rising with the assistance of his fitters。 “What the bloody hell was
that about？”
Theda MAB North； 12。26
When Darrow finally got back to his station； it seemed like the place had been abandoned。 He stood
for a few minutes on the sunlit assembly yard and looked out across the main field。 A kilometre
away； along the western side of the area； he could see rows of big machines under nets。 Imperial
birds； Marauders。 Darrow could just make out fitter crews at work on the heavy fighter…bombers。 To
his north； Munitorum crews were dismantling six of the twelve launching ramps used by the
Wolfcubs。 Activity； but all of it remote。
The complex of operations and barrack buildings behind him felt deserted and empty。 He
wandered up the main steps and into the cool gloom of the main hall。 Darrow was wearing a
borrowed pair of old overalls。 His clothing had been ruined in the crash。 He’d managed to keep hold
of his aviator boots； and his heavy leather flying coat； though one sleeve of it had been badly torn。
He’d refused to let the medics toss it away。
They’d insisted on keeping him in Theda South’s infirmary overnight for observation； even
though it was clear to anybody that he was fine apart from a few scratches and bruises。 In the
morning； he’d been forced to wait； twitchy with impatience； to fill out forms and incident
statements。 Only then had he been written up cleared and allowed to snag the first available
transport back to North。
He just wanted to get back； get into the routine again and put the previous day； that terrible day；
behind him。
30
No one seemed to want to let him do that。 The forms； the medical checks； the incident
statements。 Even the transport driver who’d brought him back from Theda South seemed like a sick
jibe。 The man’s face had been a mess of pink scar tissue。
The entry hall was empty。 Nobody hurried past along the polished wood…tile floor。 He walked
past the gilt…lettered rolls of honour on the panelled walls； one for each Commonwealth squadron；
including his own； the 34th General Intercept； and under the brooding hololith of the late Air
Commander Tenthis Belks。 It was a time…honoured custom for all pilots to salute the old man’s
portrait as they went past。 Darrow didn’t feel like such frippery today。
There was no one in the day office； or behind the desk at company and area。 Darrow went down
to the dispersal room； but there was nobody there either。 The air smelled of over…brewed caffeine
and stale smoke。 A circular regicide board； its game unfinished； sat on one of the small tables；
Darrow went back out into the hall； and walked down to the station chapel。 On the wall beside the
double doors hung a blackboard where the names of the dead and missing were written up prior to
the morning service。 He stood for a moment and stared at the list written there now。 The dead cadets
of Hunt Flight。 Such a damnably long list。 But for five names； it was a roll call for the entire wing。
He opened the doors and looked into the chapel。 It was quiet and very dark； save for the daylight
falling in multi…coloured rays through the lancet windows at the far end。 There was an odour of
wood…wax and floor polish； and also fading flowers。 Someone was sitting down at the front； at the
end of the first pew。 Darrow couldn’t make out who it was； and felt reluctant to disturb them。
Retreating back into the hall； Darrow noticed for the first time the printed posts tacked up on the
wallboards outside the day office。
He started to read them。
Major Heckel came out of the chapel and walked over to him。 “Darrow？”
“What… what is this？” Darrow murmured。
Heckel could hear the tinge of anger in the pilot cadet’s voice。 “You just got back then？” he
asked。 “You’re checked out？ You’re all right？”
“What does this mean？” Darrow snapped； pointing at the posts。
Heckel’s face was pinched and pale； and he seemed to shrink back timidly from Darrow’s
bitterness。 “It’s just the way things have worked out； Darrow。”
“Did Eads sign off on this？”
“It was his decision； he—”
“Is he here？”
“Yes。 Yes； he is。”
“I want to see him。”
Heckel bit his lower lip and then nodded。 “Come on。”
The major led the way up the front stairs to the main operations chambers。 Their boots rang on
the hard wood。 Heckel seemed to have a need for small talk。
“Everyone’s been given day leave；” he said； almost cheerfully。 “As of this morning。 Everyone…
Well； news like that； yesterday。 Sort of knocked everybody back。 And as we were about to go into
turnaround and move out to make way for the Imperials； well； it seemed like the best thing； so
Commander Eads issued passes and…”
Darrow wasn’t really listening。 The door to the main operations room was open； and he saw
unfamiliar