'Harlen, keep it down for a second will you?' said Pelaur over the internal vox-net. 'Let's find out where we're supposed to patrol before you start driving us all mad, huh?'
'Understood, Lieutenant. We were beginning to wonder that ourselves,' replied Harlen's gunnery officer, Caleb Martoq.
The Furies circled the Kharloss Vincennes as they awaited navigational data to be transferred into their own attack logisters.
The voice of the ordnance officer came again. 'Angel squadrons, confirm patrol circuit.'
Kiell Pelaur checked the pict-slate before him as the tactical plot of their squadron appeared and thumbed the vox. 'Confirmed. Circuit is acquired.'
'Confirmed. Angel squadrons one and two are weapons-free and cleared to engage. Good hunting.'
'You bet we'll have good hunting. We don't take prisoners,' said Harlen. He glanced through the toughened canopy to where his squadron commander and the rest of his squadron were flying on station with him.
'Ready, Captain Morten?' he said, the anticipation in his voice unmistakable even over the vox-net. Morten smiled beneath his helmet and said, 'Angel squadron nine-zero-one has the lead. Harlen, take our lower quadrant and stay close.'
'Understood, Captain. Nine-zero-one has the lead.'
Captain Morten turned his control column to the required heading, took a deep breath and opened up the Fury's throttle.
It felt as though he had suddenly been kicked in the back as the giant engines thundered and hurled the craft forwards. The suspensor wired pressure suit expanded to prevent his blood from pooling, counteracting the horrendous forces exerted on his body by such rapid acceleration.
Super-oxygenated blood pumped directly into his body via spinal connections and the contoured helmets both he and his gunnery officer wore exerted outward pressure on the surrounding air to prevent them from blacking out.
This was what it was all about, he thought to himself with a wide, boyish grin. The long years of training, the unbelievable physical demands and the risks were more than made up for by moments like this. Powering through space at the command of one of the most sacred pieces of military hardware ever forged, with the power to bring righteous death to the enemies of the Emperor, was as close to perfection as life ever got.
His two wingmen were keeping station with him in a standard V formation. Satisfied, he rolled his fighter slightly to make sure that Harlen was in position below him. Morten knew that despite his often cavalier attitude, Erin Harlen was one of the best pilots in the squadron, if not Battlefleet Tempestus itself. For that reason and that reason alone he was cut a little more slack than would normally be allowed in such a regimented place as an Imperial Navy starship.
As Harlen's squadron commander he was entrusted with the often troublesome job of keeping him in line and not allowing him to stray beyond his already widened boundaries of discipline.
Sure enough, Harlen's squadron of Furies were right where they were supposed to be, slightly below and behind him on his starboard wing. He rolled level again and continued on course. This intercept should take less than an hour and until then there was very little to do except sit back and keep an eye on the gauges to make sure they were flying within the tolerances of the craft. There wasn't much of anything to look at through the canopy, and, without a fixed point of reference, it was impossible to perceive their motion.
Thirty minutes of their patrol circuit had passed before the surveyor screen before Lieutenant Pelaur picked up their target.
'Target acquired, captain. Bio readings consistent with tyranid life forms. Bearing, zero-three-six right, range one thousand kilometres,' said Pelaur from his slightly elevated position in the cockpit behind Morten, 'Recommend approach vector mark four-six.'
'Affirmative, lieutenant,' said Morten, adjusting his course so as to come in from the optimum attack position in space combat - behind and above the target. Pelaur's course would also put the light of the sun behind them, such as it was, and hopefully mask their presence a fraction longer.
In space combat, where death could travel the distance between combatants in seconds, the difference between life and death could often rest on those fractions.
'Lieutenant Harlen, come in.'
'Captain Morten! My gunnery officer has a contact.'
'As does mine, Lieutenant Harlen. Approach vector mark four-six.'
'I concur,' said Caleb Martoq.
'Thirty seconds to attack run,' said Pelaur.
They were fast approaching the point where they would make their final turn before beginning their attack. From here onwards they were on a war footing.
'Confirmed,' said Morten, starting the countdown to their turn and cutting the throttle back, decelerating towards combat speed.
'Twenty seconds,' counted down Pelaur.
The pilots rapidly bled off speed from their engines, slowing so that they would be able to attack without shooting past their target.
'Lieutenant Harlen. Ten seconds, be ready,' said Morten, flexing his fingers on the control stick.
'Aye, captain. In ten.'
'Turn on my mark,' said Pelaur, his face fixed on the pict-slate before him. 'Mark!'
Morten banked the Fury sharply right and downwards, following the plot on his attack logister. The other Furies swung in smoothly behind his fighter like a flock of hunting birds.
'What do you have, lieutenant?' he asked.
The icon displayed on Pelaur's screen flashed and held a steady red.
'I have a hostile contact, captain.'
'Affirmative,' said Martoq.
'Attack pattern delta four,' ordered Morten. 'I want a volley from your squadron, Lieutenant Harlen.'
'Attack pattern delta four confirmed,' said Harlen. 'Breaking right.'
The three Furies in Harlen's squadron peeled away to the right and increased speed as they closed with the target.
'Missiles ready,' said Martoq.
'Fire at will,' returned Morten.
Morten watched the Furies of Harlen's squadron shudder as a missile detached from each of their wings and his cockpit was suddenly brilliantly illuminated as the rocket motors ignited and the six missiles flashed into the darkness.
'Missiles away!' shouted Harlen.
'Angel flight nine-zero-one, with me. Let's go,' ordered Morten.
He pushed the throttle open again and sped off after the missiles, arming his own and powering up the lascannon. If anything flew out from the target to try and intercept the missiles, he and his Furies would be waiting for them. He mouthed a quick prayer to the Emperor and checked his display. The pict-slate showed the flashing red icon of the target with two green arrowheads rapidly converging on its position.
His own flight were following the missiles in, leapfrogging Lieutenant Harlen's and leaving his flight to cover them. Any element of surprise had been lost the instant they had fired, but it had been maintained long enough.
'Impact in two seconds,' said his gunnery officer.
Morten focused his eyes beyond the canopy and saw a blossom of white fire in the distance.
'Missiles have impacted. I say again, missiles have impacted,' called Martoq over the vox-net. 'We got him!'
'Good shooting, Angel nine-zero-two!' said Morten, even though he knew that Martoq's assessment of the target's destruction was premature. They couldn't know that for certain yet.
'Did they get it, Kiell?' asked Morten.
'Looks like it, sir. I'm not getting any bio-readings any more. I think we got it.'
'You bet we got it! We blew it back to the warp!' cawed Harlen.
'Alright, we're going in for a closer look. Cut speed and we'll go in and see what we can see. Harlen, you're covering.'
'No problem, captain,' acknowledged Harlen. 'Lascannons are armed and ready. Anything that so much as twitches is going to be sucking vacuum.'