Interceptor city, p.1
Interceptor City, page 1
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Contents
Cover
Warhammer 40,000
Interceptor City
Quotes
DEAD DROP
Prologue
GLORY STORIES
Day 86
Day 87
Day 88
Day 89
‘DRIVER’
Day 89
Day 90
Day 91
Day 92
Day 93
Day 94
BACK FROM THE DEAD
Day 94
Day 95
Day 96
Day –
Day –
Day 101
Day 102
Day 103
WHO ARE YOU NOW?
Day 105
About the Author
An Extract from ‘The Lion: Son of the Forest’
Backlist
A Black Library Publication
eBook license
For more than a hundred centuries the Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth. He is the Master of Mankind. By the might of his inexhaustible armies a million worlds stand against the dark.
Yet, he is a rotting carcass, the Carrion Lord of the Imperium held in life by marvels from the Dark Age of Technology and the thousand souls sacrificed each day so his may continue to burn.
To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live in the cruelest and most bloody regime imaginable. It is to suffer an eternity of carnage and slaughter. It is to have cries of anguish and sorrow drowned by the thirsting laughter of dark gods.
This is a dark and terrible era where you will find little comfort or hope. Forget the power of technology and science. Forget the promise of progress and advancement. Forget any notion of common humanity or compassion.
There is no peace amongst the stars, for in the grim darkness of the far future, there is only war.
‘Death rides in the seat behind you.’
– Old Aeronautica saying
‘For Orison to prevail, indeed for Lysander to remain free, Great Haven must be denied. This is the focus of our efforts. I am told the Archenemy is using indirect routes to strike at Orison Hive, accessing airspace via dead zones. I direct the Aeronautica to interdict these routes at once, especially those that run the line via Vesperus. We’ve killed that hive once. It will not come back from the dead to bite at us. You will fill the tomb-streets of Vesperus with hunters, with killers. Without delay, make that dead place a city of interceptors.’
– Lord Militant Jahkel to the joint chiefs,
Lysander Theatre, 795.M41
‘The cold start or “dead drop” practice of machine launch is not recommended or approved for use under any circumstances.’
– Munitorum Advisory 435F, item 1161521,
issued 520.M41
‘Given that the bastards are putting some effort into killing us, why are we trying so hard to kill ourselves?’
– Pilot Officer Bree Jagdea, at Vesperus
DEAD DROP
VESPERUS HIVE
IMPERIAL YEAR 795.M41, DAY 81
The ADF-C module weighs three-quarters of an ounce and is approximately the size of a human fingernail.
It is one of 38,047 micro components in the fuselage systems of the Voss-pattern (Primaris) Lightning, situated below and slightly aft of the compressor assembly, between wiring loom 14-kappa (primary) and wiring loom 126-ki (aux). It may also be found in flight systems of other Aeronautica craft, including earlier Cypra-M-pattern Lightnings, Thunderbolts and, in a slightly revised form, Avengers (which have two ADF modules, fore and aft, synchronised in combinatory flow). The ADF-C (Standard Template Construct number 4562-77-1) is a hydraulic pressure sensor, data-linked to the Systems Monitor Package (FFG-24) and thence to the Cockpit Advisory Display. Its purpose is to monitor hydraulic capacity and integrity. It may be inspected and, if necessary, replaced, via inspection plate 16 (belly) or during a top-down overfit of the turboram engine assembly. It is item 672 on the pre-flight mechanical check.
The ADF-C module in Voss-pattern Lightning tail number 451091 was in perfect order, and had passed inspection at 04:23 that morning, when the enginseers and fitter crew checked it both manually and via a logis diagnostic. At 05:55, with the pre-flight complete, Tail 091 was rolled out, anointed, and secured for launch on its landing claws, nose-down, tail raised at an angle of seventy degrees to the platform lip. Fuelling then commenced, and the bombardier did a walk-around to remove the tagged pins in the underslung air-to-air munitions.
The ADF-C module was not damaged, but the hydraulic flex it was attached to had suffered an accidental perforation point four inches from the module. The puncture was less than two millimetres wide, and had been caused when the probe-limb of a servitor had accidentally snagged against it during inspection of the 126-ki loom at 04:31. This contact had not been observed or noticed, not even by the high-grade servitor responsible. The ADF-C did not detect the puncture because, with the aircraft sitting level, hydraulic pressure remained stable.
When Tail 091 was raised into launch, or ‘dead drop’, position, the tiny puncture began to bleed hydraulic fluid due to gravity. In the first ten minutes, less than a quart of hydraulic fluid was lost, and this was not spotted, because the aircraft was nose-down over the drop and no one could see the small but steady drip as it was obscured by the platform lip. The ADF-C module did not detect the fluid loss, because it was attached to a loop of the flex below the perforation, which acted as a reservoir for hydraulic fluid below the leak point.
After thirty minutes, the aircraft had lost almost five quarts of hydraulic fluid. The puncture had not increased in size, because the flex was an armoured composite weave designed not to split or rupture in the event of damage, but the angle of the aircraft optimised vascular flow rate.
At 07:03, a remote observation post at Maladine Circus (ROP 54) reported engine noise in its vicinity. No visual observation was made, but doppler mapping showed the sound-source to be moving east, and the acoustic signature was an eighty-nine per cent match for a hostile power plant. ROP 54 relayed this track immediately to Squadron 66 (Intercept). Campanile Control verified the track, and an intercept was instructed. At 07:10, Squadron Leader Hyram Lungrim quit the morning huddle early, leaving his executive officer, Garrant, to finish the blessing, and went directly to his aircraft. Lungrim was alert-ready and already wearing his flightsuit. By 07:16 he was strapped in, and running a slam-check of Tail 091’s control displays. The fitter crew closed the canopy, disconnected the fuelling lines, and withdrew the bulk-lifter truck that had been sitting behind the raised aircraft. As the truck’s forks withdrew, Tail 091 settled fully onto its landing claws. There was a creak of metal as the weight shifted, and Tail 091’s tilt angle increased to seventy-three degrees to the platform lip.
Lungrim was a veteran combat pilot, with five thousand hours logged and a tally of forty-six. He was an undisputed bat-killer. His slam-check was a fluid and efficient combination of experience and familiarity. He had been flying the formidable Voss-pattern for most of his career. He threw the voltaic master switch, and watched the instruments light up. All gauges, including hydraulic pressure, showed prime. He cleared the stick, and checked the display for rudder response, and then for all flight surfaces including flaps and speed brakes. All showed green. He then, as per recommended practice, worked left to right around the cockpit, prepping the vector thrust secondaries, and presetting the nozzles for both attitude and aperture. He activated auspex and modar systems, allowing their pre-start diagnostics to run, primed the starter, engaged the fuel pump, adjusted ad-mix, and then manually checked target acquisition settings. He toggled the guns on, off, and on again (an old, superstitious habit), armed the countermeasure package, and verified the hardpoint connections. By then, the starter compressor was beginning to whine as it spun up, and the auspex was painting the prediction track as relayed from ROP 54. Lungrim tightened his harness, connected his air-line, comms-line and visor-display cable, ran a vox check, and armed the seat. All flight instrumentation showed prime and green.
Just six minutes after the shout had reached the war deck, he was go-ready. He signalled his status to Control, and Control cleared him for immediate release. Auspex prediction gave a time-on-target estimate of two hundred and forty-five seconds, but Lungrim was confident he could shave fifteen seconds off that.
He released the landing claws. Tail 091, with a ramp weight of ten and three-quarter tons, dropped nose-down off the lip.
The landing claws were a non-standard variant used for urban zones. Each ‘foot’, avian in pattern, had four digits of dendritic design. Hydraulic pressure governed their ability to close and grip, but a simple mechanical system actuated their release. They were used, against Munitorum advice, for dead drop launches, which conserved fuel load and optimised fast-launch in crowded or obstructed airspace environments, greatly improving time-on-target intercept response times.
Engine primed but unstarted, Tail 091 fell nose-first down the side of the Campanile. The hive floor level, in this case Orundo Street, was three thousand feet below. A second after he threw the release lever and the bird began to plunge, Lungrim fired the starter. The forced-plasma exciter, also used in flight for afterburner boost, was designed to ignite the fuel aspirating into the already spinning turbine. The principle was to flash-start the turboram once the aircraft was already in free-fall, obviating both the fuel-cost and time-lag of a traditional launch. The engine would light on the way down, and as the pilot pulled the plane up, it would already be approaching engagement speed.
Lungrim’s indicators were all still green and prime.
However, the aircraft’s hydraulics had almost entirely drained by that point. Only two fluid ounces remained, trapped below the puncture in the reservoir of the flex loop. These two fluid ounces caused the ADF-C module to report a false green. To the sensor, the hydraulics were still fluid-rich, with only a slight, non-optimal but non-critical loss of pressure.
In reality, the plane had bled out.
When Lungrim fired the starter, there was a thump of negative response. Despite the fact that he was dropping, powerless, towards the street at terminal velocity, he remained unfazed. He was a veteran combat pilot. He had known plenty of misfire starts. Calmly, he tried the starter again. Negative response. This time, his board went red, as all systems, including engine, vector thrust secondary, and flight surfaces tried to draw on a hydraulic system that was unavailable. With hydraulics dry, the plasma starter would not fire. The engine would not light. The fuel pumps seized and locked. The rudder went soft.
Lungrim didn’t speak, or attempt to alert Control to his situation. There were only seconds left. He did not even bother trying the starter again. Five thousand hours’ experience told him when a bird was stone dead. He wrenched on the over-seat handle, knowing the chances of surviving an ejection at this height and angle were slim, though comparatively greater than the alternative. He knew he was likely to hit one of the neighbouring buildings before his chute deployed. He knew that even if his chute opened clean, windshear would probably throw him into an architectural obstruction. He knew he was looking at a high probability of severe injury, and the end of his flying career.
All of this, in one or two seconds. One or two seconds that lasted forever. All of this, and the thought of the woman he would never see or hold again, the fraternity of the Intercept 66 blessing huddle, the dark and caustic humour of the nights in the refectory, the rapturous liberty of flight.
The ejection system, a chemical/mechanical process, fired. Seat-release was synched to the canopy jettison system, which was designed to blow the armoured canopy off and away from the cockpit as the seat fired, but the canopy-jettison system relied on hydraulic pressure.
Lungrim ejected directly into the locked frame of his armoured canopy. The rocket-assisted impact pulped and killed him instantly. Two seconds later, Tail 091 hit the deck nose-first and fireballed.
Though Lungrim was not alive to see it, at the last instant before impact, his Cockpit Advisory Display showed red everywhere except the lone, green indicator of hydraulics.
GLORY STORIES
ORISON HIVE-PLEX
IMPERIAL YEAR 795.M41, DAY 86 – DAY 89
DAY 86
Oceanic Approach (Safe Lane 345), 16:56
They had been flying through rain for nine hours, following Transoceanic 27, the convoy spread out in a long, straggled line, like migrating geese.
Bree Jagdea was lead stick on the convoy principal, a ponderous Kazin-pattern Firmament. It had been dark for more than an hour; they had flown towards the encroaching terminator and into nightfall. With the darkness, and the rain, visibility was now zero-zero. But the convoy was so spaced out, none of the other birds would have been in sight even in clear conditions. Eased back in the pilot seat, she watched the progress of the tiny amber cross-runes on the scope, a chain of aircraft almost forty miles long. The runes blinked, repositioned, blinked, repositioned…
Rain pissed against the cockpit’s side windows, but the main screen was kept clear by air ducts below the seal. There was nothing to see; just a vacuum of darkness. Somewhere far below, the heaving sea. Somewhere far ahead, the invisible destination.
‘A ping soon, surely?’ murmured Menomar, her co-pilot. He was in the pit space directly behind her, hunched on a pull-down seat, playing tarotti with the payload specialist and two cargomen. The ping came almost at once, a tone bleat from the transponder console.
Jagdea smiled. Klay Menomar was like that. He had an instinctive knack for time and distance logging that ticked over in his head as accurately as any logis-engine. They’d been flying together for eight months. Menomar never set a wake-up alarm.
She yawned, and took her feet down off the instrument panel. Behind her, Menomar picked up his cards, riffled them into a block, and offered his commiserations to the payload boys. They left the pit, grumbling. Menomar latched the bay door behind them, inviting them to try again next run, strapped the pull-downs upright, and damped the cockpit lights. In the blue gloom, he took his place beside her, their faces lit by the coloured constellation of the flight board.
The ping came again. The automated request pulse from Orison Traffic. Jagdea dragged her headset off her neck.
‘OT Control, OT Control, this is Glacier Heavy Five-Nine. Verification request acknowledged, over.’
She threw a switch on the transponder. Her bird was now transmitting its identification signal. She checked the modar screen, watching the chain of runes, and tutted as she switched vox-channels.
‘Glacier Heavy Five-Nine to all elements. Wake the hell up and verify, over.’
On the screen, one by one, green tags blinked into life alongside each amber cross-rune as transponders came on. Twenty-six freightbirds in the line. A couple were slow. She waited until they were all showing. Sometimes bats snuggled into a convoy line, passing as just another link in the chain. There were stories of intercept wings splashing whole convoys because some shithead forgot to activate verification. Orison Hive wasn’t playing games these days. The last thing she needed was the thought of a Thunderbolt pack out there in the zero-zero dark, stalking her with weapons hot.
The vox crackled in her phones.
‘Glacier Heavy Five-Nine, this is OTC. Verifying twenty-six – two, six – elements inbound at this time. Confirm, over.’
She switched channels back to Traffic.
‘Confirm twenty-six – two, six, OTC. Approaching the marker. Request permission to depart Transoceanic Twenty-Seven and join Safe Lane Three-Four-Five, over.’
‘Permission granted, Five-Nine. Make your height four thousand, and join Three-Four-Five. Advise cross-winds, over.’
‘It’s a dirty night, OTC.’
‘It’s always a dirty night here, Five-Nine, over.’
‘Confirming instruction, OTC. Glacier Heavy Five-Nine turning north-north-east to join Safe Lane Three-Four-Five and descending to four thousand, over.’
Jagdea looked at Menomar.
‘Remind them,’ she told him.
He nodded, adjusted the sit of his headset, and began repeating the routing instruction to the other convoy elements. Jagdea took a breath, settled at the controls, and took the multiengine off autoguide.
At once, she sensed its cumbersome weight through the stick, a huge mass sliding, ungainly, in the wet air. Firmaments were among the largest Aeronautica transporters, eight-engine transatmospheric mammoths that dwarfed even the hulking Oneros. They were almost entirely logis-driven. Someone once joked they could fly and land themselves, but Jagdea knew it wasn’t a joke. She’d seen basic-function servitors run them up and down the cargo lanes on Gereon after liberation. She and Menomar were present in what seemed a purely ceremonial role.
A pilot didn’t ride a Firmament the way she would ride a single-seat fightbird. There was no connection, no synergy, no ongoing contest with the stick. A Bolt was a racing animal, a steed, full of spittle and fury. You clung on and coaxed until it knew you. You tamed it and you broke it, or it broke you. You were in it together, fused as one, every second of the way. The heavies, like the Firmament, had personality too, but it was distant and aloof, the stubborn resentment of a pack animal as sensed through slack reins by a driver on the laden cart behind. It went where it was going, stoic and unspeaking, and you nudged it now and then to keep it true.
