You don’t dogfight with an Avenger.

I can remember Flight Instructor Willingham drilling that phrase into us. It was his mantra. If there was one thing he wanted us to take away from his class, it was that. 

You don’t dogfight with an Avenger.

It was nothing against the craft. She was a fine airframe in her own right. But she wasn’t as sturdy as a Thunderbolt or as nimble as a Lightning. Even with the rear gunner, if you took an Avenger into what pilots call the cauldron, the roiling expanse of airspace that houses the dogfight itself, you were as good as dead. You would be out-turned, out-climbed, out-manoeuvred in a heartbeat. And then you’d be out-lived.

You don’t dogfight with an Avenger.

The Avenger has two things going for it. Guns, for one. And speed for two. She is fast, but that speed is a double edge sword. In a foot race, there are few that can beat her in a straight line. But try going that fast while manoeuvring and the g-forces will black you out in an instant. She’s a sprinter, not a dancer. Her targets are long columns of armour, formations of trundling bombers, and stationary bastions and complexes that need to be cracked open for ground forces. 

You don’t dogfight with an Avenger. 

She’s a knife, a broadsword that cuts sweeping strokes across her target. She dives in, unleashes her fury, and is gone just as quickly, pulling away into a wide turn before streaking back in from a new direction and repeating the performance. Where the Thunderbolt is a pugilist, able to take a licking and keep throwing punches, the Avenger is a ballet dancer. Everything must be executed to perfection. One slip, and the performance is ruined. One slip, and some bandit on your six has you dead. 

You don’t dogfight with an Avenger. 

Unless you’re not given a choice. 

I am the Flight Leader. It is my responsibility to make sure my pilots get home safely. The Imperium won’t notice if one dies. The machine can be replaced. A new pilot can be trained. The loss of a single pilot to the Imperium is like the loss of a fly striking a windshield. Barely worth the notice. But I will notice. I will notice the empty cot in the barracks room. I will notice the open locker, empty as it waits for the replacement. I will notice the lack of a laugh at the bar after a successful strike mission. And the rest of the wing will notice too.

You don’t dogfight with an Avenger. 

I ignore the lock tone. This is the third time it has screamed at me, warning me some bandit has me targeted and locked on. I yank hard on the control stick. The g-forces punch me into the back of my seat but after a few seconds I get the lock tone to cease. I look over my shoulder. The bandit overshot but it’s an interceptor. It’s only a matter of seconds before it corrects and gets back on me. 

It would be easier to keep the bandit off if Einrich, my rear gunner, were firing. But Einrich’s blood is painted across the canopy and I can hear the whistle of wind through the holes punched through the armaglass behind me. The holes punched by the rounds that killed him. I wonder if he had the easier death, Emperor rest his soul. 

You don’t dogfight with an Avenger.

Lock tone sounds again only this time it is mine. I don’t hesitate. I don’t even think. I press the firing stud built into the control stick and feel the airframe shudder as a pair of Skystrikes zip away from their wing mounts, leaving trails of white smoke in their wake. The fighter coming across my vector explodes and I have to viff to the side to avoid having debris smash the bolt cannon mounted under my nose. Not that it would have mattered. It ran dry thirty minutes ago. 

Lock tone again. Not mine. It shrieks its warning as I try to viff, jink, and dive. But I cannot escape it. The airframe shudders and I hear the distinctive metallic smack of hard rounds striking the fuselage. Another warning tone starts. I’m bleeding hydraulics. Too quickly. The Avenger becomes sluggish and stiff. I glance at my auspex. It is just me and a half dozen bandits. The rest of the flight are gone. That is good. 

You don’t dogfight with an Avenger. 

I touch the aquila pendant around my neck. The Imperium won’t notice the death of one pilot. It won’t notice the death of two. But Flight will notice. They will notice the empty cots in the barracks. They will notice the empty lockers. They will notice the missing laughs and smiles at the bar. They will notice all these things and more because they will be alive to notice them. 

And for that, this is all worth it. 

The lock tone shifts pitch and in the half of a second I have left to live I know there is a missile let loose. I don’t even have the time to look for it on the auspex, let alone turn my head and peer over my shoulder. I wouldn’t be able to see it through Einrich’s blood anyway. 

You don’t dogfight with an Avenger.