Logically, they should have extended out of the engagement and used missiles to bring him down, but Ferris knew the Norts would take the loss of one of their own personally, especially at the hands of a cargo hauler. The Grendel pilots wanted to come up close and tear him apart, so that every moment of his death would be captured on their gun cameras.
The lead fighter turned inbound and came high, avoiding the belly turret and lancing red fire through the chem-clouds. More warning lights bloomed on the console as stray hits found vital components. "Rogue!" Ferris shouted into the intercom. "Hold on!"
He waited a fraction of a second longer than he needed to and then Ferris did something that violated every safety regulation in the strato-shuttle's flight manual. Yanking the steering yoke back to his chest, he slammed open the brake flaps and toggled the retros; the shuttle's fuselage moaned like a wounded animal as its airspeed suddenly bled away. Alert call-outs on Ferris's head-up display went mad with panic as the ship threw itself into a violent stall. Instantly, the shuttle flipped up like the head of an enraged snake, standing on the plume of exhaust flaring out of its engines. The Grendel pilot panicked and veered away, almost colliding with the ship as he passed. The insane manoeuvre bared the underside of the shuttle to the fleeing rear of the Nort fighter and put it squarely in Rogue's sights.
Ferris didn't see the beams track the target, but it was impossible to ignore the sudden and bright yellow explosion off the port as the Grendel was cut open.
"Splash two." The GI's voice was gruff; he probably hadn't appreciated having his head bounced off the canopy by Ferris's sudden cobra stall.
The pilot let the ship fall back into the pull of gravity and the wind kissed the wings, buffeting the shuttle as it clawed back precious lift to keep it airborne. A grin blossomed on Ferris's face; two down, one left! He started to allow himself to think that they might actually get through this alive; but when the third and final Grendel shrieked over the canopy in a tight reversal, he almost died of fright.
"Oh, shit!" He pumped the rudder pedals, but the strato-shuttle was lethargic. Perhaps one of those strafing hits from the second fighter had cut some hydraulic lines or his crazed stall had busted loose a flap, but whatever the cause, the hefty atmocraft was wallowing like a bloated ox. The shuttle flew like a brick on the best of days, but now she was howling with every input from the stick, fighting him for each snatch of air beneath her wings. The pilot couldn't see it from his vantage point, but thin grey streams of fluid were spitting out of ragged holes in the dorsal hull. The ship was bleeding to death.
Behind his air mask, the remaining Nort was red with rage, snarling a continuous stream of hard-edged and inventive curses about the shuttle pilot's parentage in gutter Nordsprache. He made a yo-yo turn that brought the shape of the crippled ship into his gun cues and turned his las-cannons to maximum yield. With a savage grunt, he pressed the trigger-switch and watched coherent light flay the rear of the shuttle, cutting great divots of hull metal with reckless abandon. Twists of smoke and steel shavings raced past his canopy.
He was bore-sighted on the enemy, his entire world shrinking to the tunnel of sky between the muzzles of his guns and the fuselage of the strato-shuttle. The Nort saw nothing else but his kill and his mouth flooded with saliva at the anticipation of it. The civilian ship would be ripped to bits by his salvoes.
In that second, the Grendel pilot was distracted enough to miss the flicker of his collision warning monitor; a bright white flare came off the shuttle's hull and brought with it a knife of metal the length of a man. The Nort had only a second to register it, to understand that he had brought his own end upon himself, before the steel spar lanced through the armoured glass of
The lead fighter turned inbound and came high, avoiding the belly turret and lancing red fire through the chem-clouds. More warning lights bloomed on the console as stray hits found vital components. "Rogue!" Ferris shouted into the intercom. "Hold on!"
He waited a fraction of a second longer than he needed to and then Ferris did something that violated every safety regulation in the strato-shuttle's flight manual. Yanking the steering yoke back to his chest, he slammed open the brake flaps and toggled the retros; the shuttle's fuselage moaned like a wounded animal as its airspeed suddenly bled away. Alert call-outs on Ferris's head-up display went mad with panic as the ship threw itself into a violent stall. Instantly, the shuttle flipped up like the head of an enraged snake, standing on the plume of exhaust flaring out of its engines. The Grendel pilot panicked and veered away, almost colliding with the ship as he passed. The insane manoeuvre bared the underside of the shuttle to the fleeing rear of the Nort fighter and put it squarely in Rogue's sights.
Ferris didn't see the beams track the target, but it was impossible to ignore the sudden and bright yellow explosion off the port as the Grendel was cut open.
"Splash two." The GI's voice was gruff; he probably hadn't appreciated having his head bounced off the canopy by Ferris's sudden cobra stall.
The pilot let the ship fall back into the pull of gravity and the wind kissed the wings, buffeting the shuttle as it clawed back precious lift to keep it airborne. A grin blossomed on Ferris's face; two down, one left! He started to allow himself to think that they might actually get through this alive; but when the third and final Grendel shrieked over the canopy in a tight reversal, he almost died of fright.
"Oh, shit!" He pumped the rudder pedals, but the strato-shuttle was lethargic. Perhaps one of those strafing hits from the second fighter had cut some hydraulic lines or his crazed stall had busted loose a flap, but whatever the cause, the hefty atmocraft was wallowing like a bloated ox. The shuttle flew like a brick on the best of days, but now she was howling with every input from the stick, fighting him for each snatch of air beneath her wings. The pilot couldn't see it from his vantage point, but thin grey streams of fluid were spitting out of ragged holes in the dorsal hull. The ship was bleeding to death.
Behind his air mask, the remaining Nort was red with rage, snarling a continuous stream of hard-edged and inventive curses about the shuttle pilot's parentage in gutter Nordsprache. He made a yo-yo turn that brought the shape of the crippled ship into his gun cues and turned his las-cannons to maximum yield. With a savage grunt, he pressed the trigger-switch and watched coherent light flay the rear of the shuttle, cutting great divots of hull metal with reckless abandon. Twists of smoke and steel shavings raced past his canopy.
He was bore-sighted on the enemy, his entire world shrinking to the tunnel of sky between the muzzles of his guns and the fuselage of the strato-shuttle. The Nort saw nothing else but his kill and his mouth flooded with saliva at the anticipation of it. The civilian ship would be ripped to bits by his salvoes.
In that second, the Grendel pilot was distracted enough to miss the flicker of his collision warning monitor; a bright white flare came off the shuttle's hull and brought with it a knife of metal the length of a man. The Nort had only a second to register it, to understand that he had brought his own end upon himself, before the steel spar lanced through the armoured glass of
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