The Black Lung Captain - By Chris Wooding Page 0,183
away from Sakkan, up into the dark morning. As they rose, Frey saw the devastation that had been visited on the city below. Sakkan was pitted and scarred with the impact of fallen craft. Crashed frigates had ploughed furrows through entire districts, leaving fire and rubble in their wake. A pall of oily smoke was spreading into the air.
Ahead of them was a deadly muddle of swooping fighters. Frigates and dreadnoughts exchanged artillery, battered heavyweights duking it out. Frey flew fast and straight, right through the middle, climbing steeply.
'Err . . . Cap'n?' Malvery called from the cupola. 'Can't help noticing that we're heading towards the terrifying vortex.'
Frey didn't reply. He kept going, face hard and jaw set.
'We're going after the sphere?' asked Crake, who was hanging on to the doorway. Frey thought he detected a certain pride in the daemonist's voice. The possibility of a noble act appealed to him.
'We're not going after the sphere,' he said. The citizens of Sakkan could fend for themselves. He had other priorities.
'We'd better not be going after that pestilent white-skinned cow you're sweet on,' Malvery warned.
Crake stared at Frey in wonderment. 'You are, aren't you? Even after everything she's done to you. You're going to try and save her.'
There was a strangled cry from the cupola. Jez joined Crake in staring at her captain. He glanced at her. There was something like admiration in her eyes.
'Some things are worth risking everything for, eh, Cap'n?'
He faced forward and hunched down in his seat. 'Damn right.'
Harkins whimpered as the air was shredded by tracer bullets, lethal fireflies darting past his cockpit. He threw his craft into a roll, and came out of it in a hard dive. His face and scalp reddened as the blood was forced to his head.
Three Blackhawks on his tail. Again.
'Pinn? Pinn? What's . . . how . . . Where are you?' he demanded.
'Five more seconds,' came the reply in his ear.
'I don't have five more—' he began, but then he saw Pinn come in from his starboard side, machine guns flashing. The Blackhawks were caught in a shattering rain of lead. One swerved to evade, hit its neighbour, and all three went down in a raging ball of flame and metal.
'Yeah, you do,' said Pinn.
Harkins slumped back in his seat and wiped sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. He wasn't sure he liked this bait-and-ambush game they were playing, but he had to admit it was effective. The Blackhawk pilots flew well, but they were unpractised in a real battle. Tight formation was all well and good for aerobatic displays, but if one member of the squad was hit in just the right way, even the inhumanly synchronised Manes couldn't avoid a mid-air collision. A fact that Pinn was exploiting.
The Navy were finding their opponents harder to handle. The Windblades hadn't got the trick of dealing with the Blackhawks yet, and they were being whittled down. The dreadnoughts and frigates were engaged in cumbersome manoeuvres, each trying to find an advantage. But the Navy had only a limited amount of craft, while more and more dreadnoughts were appearing through that frightening gateway in the sky.
To make things worse, the Navy were handicapped by the need to protect their citizens. They were doing their best to draw the dreadnoughts away from the city because they didn't want any more aircraft crashing down on Sakkan. But the dreadnoughts were staying put. Perhaps they realised their advantage; perhaps they wouldn't abandon their crews, running riot in the streets below.
The Navy aimed to disable rather than destroy. The Manes had no such compunctions. The massive aircraft exchanged barrage after barrage, but the Manes had the best of it.
We're not going to win this one.
Harkins passed a Navy frigate that was listing to one side, dipping slowly and unstoppably towards the streets below. It seethed smoke from a huge tear in its hull. Harkins didn't want to think about what would happen when it reached the ground. He was too busy thinking about himself. Trying to stay alive.
How many more lucky escapes would he get before his number was up? How much longer could he keep doing this? Combat flying was a young man's game. He didn't have the constitution for it any more. The physical and mental stresses were too much. He was getting seriously worried that he'd suffer a heart attack at some point, if he wasn't blown out of the sky first.