But the impulse for solitude left him when he spotted Rachel Coriolis at a table near the bar, viewing a holocassette that seemed to be displaying schematics of a fighter Blair didn't immediately recognize. The Chief tech was one of the few people on board he felt comfortable around, and he was certain she would know more than what information appeared in his official files: real stories of some of his pilots and their backgrounds. After the incident with Cobra Buckley the week before, Blair was still in the dark about the woman's attitudes, and so far he hadn't been able to find any answers.
He stopped at the bar and ordered a glass of Tamayoan fire wine, then walked over to Rachel's table. She looked up as he approached, giving him a welcoming smile. "Hello, Colonel, slumming with the troops today? Pull up a chair, if you don't mind being seen with one of us lowly techie types."
"Thanks, Chief," he said. He sat down across the table from her and studied the holographic schematics for a moment. "Don't think I recognize that design."
"One of the new Excaliburs," she said, her voice tinged with excitement. "Isn't she a beauty? Heavy fighter with more guns and armor than a Thunderbolt, but increased maneuverability to go with it. And I've heard a rumor they're going to be mounted with a sensor cloak, so the little darlings can sneak right past a Kilrathi defensive perimeter and nail the hairballs at close range!"
"Don't they classify that stuff any more?" Blair asked with a smile.
She gave an unladylike snort. "Get real, skipper. Maybe you flyboys don't hear anything until it gets declassified, but the techs have a network that reaches damn near everywhere. We know what's coming off the line before the brass does . . . and usually have all the design flaws spotted up front, too."
Blair chuckled. "Well, I hope your techs don't decide to turn on the rest of us. I doubt we'd last long if you did. You like your job, don't you, Chief?"
She switched off the hologram. "Yeah. I always liked working with machines and computers. An engine part either works or it doesn't. No gray areas. No double talk"
"Machines don't lie," Blair said, nodding.
"Not the way people do. And even when something's wrong with a machine, you always know just where the problem is."
Blair didn't say anything for a few minutes. Finally he looked her in the eye. "I've got a people problem right now, Chief. I was wondering if you could help me with it."
"It ain't what I'm paid for," she told him, "and my free advice is worth everything you spend for it. But I'll take a shot if you want."
"Lieutenant Buckley. What can you tell me about her? The straight dope, not the official file."
She looked down at the table. "I heard about her little blowup with Hobbes last week. Can't say anybody was surprised, though. She's never made any big secret out of the way she feels about the Kilrathi."
"What I want to know is why? I've been in the Navy for better than fifteen years, Chief I've been in all kinds of crews, seen all kinds of shipmates and their hangups. But I never met anybody so single-minded about the Kilrathi before. I mean, Maniac's got good reason to resent Hobbes personally . . . but with Cobra, we're talking blind hatred. She won't even give him a chance."
"Yeah. Look, I don't know the whole story, so don't take this as gospel." The tech leaned closer over the table and lowered her voice. "Right after she came on board a buddy of mine from the old Hermes pointed her out to me. She served there a year before she transferred here . . . her first assignment."
"I was curious about that in her file," Blair commented. "She seems older than that. I'd have put her at thirty or so . . ."
"That's about right," Rachel told him. "She got a late start. My friend told me that the story on Cobra was that she'd been a Kilrathi slave for ten years before the Marines rescued her from a labor camp. She spent some more time in reeducation, then joined up. She won top honors piloting, and just cut through everything with this single-minded determination. I think sometimes that the only thing holding Cobra's life together is the hate she has for the Kilrathi. And I can't really say I blame her.
Blair nodded slowly. "Maybe I can't, either," he said slowly. "I can't even begin to imagine what it would be like to grow up a Kilrathi slave. She must have been taken as a kid, raised to think of her own race as animals . . ."
"So it's no wonder she can't stomach Hobbes," the tech said bluntly. "You and I know he's okay, but to her he just represents everything she grew up hating and fearing." Rachel took a sip from her drink. "So cut her some slack, Colonel. If you really want to fix the problem, that is."
"I do," he said quietly. "But there are limits, you know. I sympathize with her, but sometimes you just can't bend things far enough in the Service to make all the square pegs fit."
"That's why I'd rather work with machines," she told him. "Sooner or later, people just screw up the works."
"Maybe you're being too hard on people," he said. "Some of us are okay when you get to know us."
She looked him up and down with a slow smile. "They need to pass inspection, same as anything else." She stood up, collected the holocassette, then tucked it into a pocket of her baggy coveralls. "I got certain hours for that kind of quality control work, of course."
Blair returned her smile, warming to her. "You keep that schedule posted somewhere, Chief?"
"Only for a select few, Colonel," she told him. "The ones with the best schematics."
Blair studied Eisen's face, trying to locate a hint of sarcasm in his expression. Since Gold Squadron's triumph over the Kilrathi cruiser and its escort, enemy activity in the Orsini system had virtually disappeared, and Victory had jumped to the Tamayo system, where they had been carrying out a seemingly endless string of routine patrols. Blair and Hobbes took their turn on the duty schedule along with the rest of the wing, but so far there was no further combat. The only excitement since the first big clash came when a pair of interceptors from Blue Squadron tangled with four light Kilrathi fighters, sending them running in short order.
Eisen was right about the missions to date being milk runs, but was there something more behind his comment? Meaning that was all Blair could handle, perhaps? His impassive face gave away nothing as he called up a holographic mission plan for Blair and Ralgha to study.
"The cats —" Eisen broke off, shooting a look at Hobbes. "The Kilrathi have been steering clear of the Victory, but they sent a couple of squadrons of raiders to work the edges of the system, near the jump point to Locanda. In the past week, they've picked off three transports outbound for the Locanda colony while we've come up empty."
Blair frowned. "I was posted in that system once, a few years back. There's not a hell of a lot there. I'm surprised we sent three transports that way in one week."
The captain didn't reply right away. Finally he gave a I shrug. "Some of our intelligence sources in the Empire received word that the enemy is planning a move against the Locanda System. Confed's been pumping resources that way to try to catch them unprepared. Apparently the main reason they are hanging around is to harass our supply lines." He looked from Blair to Hobbes, then back to Blair again. "Needless to say, that information stays in this room.
"Yes, sir," Blair said. Ralgha nodded assent.
"Right, then. Another transport is set to make a run today, but this time we're sending an escort. We want to see if we can break this little blockade of their's once and for all, then open the pipeline into Locanda again. Your job is to provide the escort and be ready for trouble. Like I said, with luck, they will miss this one. But if the bad guys return, we want that transport covered. Understood?"
"Aye, aye, sir," Blair replied formally.
"Good. Let's cover the details . . ."
It took a good ten minutes to go over the specifics of the mission, establishing rendezvous coordinates and other details. When it was all over, Blair and Hobbes stood. "We're ready, Captain," Blair said. "Come on, Hobbes, let's get saddled up."
"A moment more, Colonel, if you please," Eisen said, holding up a hand. He shot Ralgha a look. "In private."
"I will see you on the flight deck, Colonel," Hobbes said. The Kilrathi seemed calm and imperturbable as ever, but Blair thought he could detect a note of concern in his friend's tone.
Blair sat back down as the Kilrathi left the room. "What can I do for you, sir?"
"Colonel, I'd like to discuss your attitude," Eisen said as soon as the door had closed behind Hobbes. He sounded angry. "Seems to me you're under the impression that you're too good to mix with the rest of the pilots."
"I'm not sure I understand, Captain," Blair said slowly. "I've been getting to know them . . ."
"But in three weeks aboard this tub, the only wingman you've flown with is Hobbes." Eisen cut his attempted protest off. "I know he's your friend, and I know there's still some bad feelings among some of the others about working with him, but it isn't helping morale by you refusing to pair with anybody else. I know Chang would fly with him, and probably one or two of the others as well, so you could at least trade off now and then."
"Sir, with all due respect, that isn't your decision to make," Blair told him quietly. "You are CO of this ship, but the flight wing is my bailiwick. Mine alone. I run the wing my way. A pilot has to be able to trust his wingman, feeling complete total confidence in him, which is exactly the way I feel about Hobbes. I choose to fly with him."
"Even though he let you down your first time out?"
"Sir?" Blair had been careful to keep the details of the first patrol ambiguous in his official report.
"Come on, Colonel, you know the networks. Even the CO hears some things, no matter how much everybody works to cover them. Hobbes hared off after an enemy fighter and left you in the lurch when they jumped you.
"I don't blame him, sir. The whole situation just sort of . . . developed."
"Well, it's pretty difficult to see how you can continue to have confidence in Hobbes after that mess, no matter how much you close your eyes to it. And there's another point here, Blair. By saying how much you trust Hobbes, you're implying that you don't have any faith in the, others. I don't like that. It's bad for morale — not just in your precious flight wing, but involving the entire ship. I won't stand for anything that hampers the performance of Victory or her crew." Eisen studied him for a few seconds. "Do you have a problem with the rest of the wing?"
"Sir, I just don't know them well enough yet," Blair said. "The only one I do know is Marshall, and quite frankly I wouldn't fly with him if he was the only pilot on this ship. He's a menace who should have had his wings taken away a long time ago."
Eisen looked thoughtful, but didn't speak.
"As for the others," Blair went on. "Lieutenant Buckley has a good record, but I'm not sure her head's screwed on straight. Chang seems like a nice guy, but undisciplined and unpredictable. The others . . . I'm still finding out about them. They are accustomed to each other, and they're already paired into some pretty good teams. I don't think it is wise to rock the boat until I've got a better handle on how they perform."
"How will you find anything out about them if you don't fly with them?"
"Every time they go out the launch tubes, I follow the mission from Flight Control, Captain. Believe me, I'm starting to get a pretty good idea of how they fly . . . and how they think. I'll start rotating the roster when I'm ready . . . and not before then."
"Well, I strongly suggest you speed up the process a bit, Colonel," Eisen said. "Get to know them and start flying with them. If you don't, I think you're going to have a serious morale problem. Is that clear?"
"As a bell, sir."
"Then you're dismissed." Eisen hesitated a moment. "And . . . good luck out there today, Colonel."
"Thank you, sir." Blair stood and gave Eisen a quick salute, then left the ready room. As he rode down the elevator to the Flight Deck, he reviewed in his mind everything the captain said. By the time the doors slid open, he was seething inside.
Someone plainly ran to Eisen behind his back, carrying tales, and hinting that Blair was unfit. Blair was sure he knew just who it was.
"You wanted to see me, Colonel?" It was Maniac Marshall, wearing a flight suit and carrying his colorfully painted helmet under one arm. "I'm up for a patrol in fifteen minutes, so this'd better be quick."
"It will be, Marshall," Blair said coldly.
The major started to sit, but Blair fixed him with an angry stare. "I didn't give you permission to make yourself at home, Mister," he told the pilot. "You're at attention."
Marshall hesitated a moment, then straightened up. "Yes, sir, Colonel, sir," he responded.
"I have a little job for you, Major," Blair said, his voice low and dangerous. "This morning, before my escort run with Hobbes, Captain Eisen chatted with me about this unit's morale. He seemed to feel that I was not inspiring confidence and good feeling among my people here.
Marshall didn't respond. There was a long silence before Blair continued. "From some of the things he said, I suspect that someone in the wing has been going behind my back to him, carrying all sorts of complaints about the way I choose to run things. Needless to say, Major, I regard this as a very serious breach of protocol. Members of a flight wing do not go outside the chain of command with their petty jealousies and personal problems, and I intend to have no repetitions of this little incident. Therefore, Major, I'm putting you in charge of reporting any further violations of military procedure in the wing to me. If it comes to my attention that there have been additional incidents of wing personnel going outside the chain of command this way, I'll hold you responsible. Do I make myself clear, Major?"
"Crystal clear," Marshall said, enunciating each syllable precisely. After a long pause he added, "Sir."
"Very good, Major," Blair said. "I won't keep you from your patrol any longer. You're dismissed."
He leaned back in his chair as Marshall left the office, feeling some of the anger and tension draining from him. Blair was convinced from the very beginning that Marshall was the one who had been complaining to Eisen, but of course he had no proof. This put Maniac on notice without requiring any actual accusations.
The confrontation alleviated some of the frustrations of the morning operation. He and Hobbes had escorted the transport to the jump point without any sign of an enemy fighter. The return trip proved equally peaceful. That was good, in one sense, but it was beginning to seem as if he would never get a chance to compensate for their first unsuccessful mission. It was even more unnerving to discover that raiders had hit another ship leaving the Locanda System at the same jump point just an hour after Blair and Hobbes returned to the Victory.
The whole situation gave him pause for thought. He could not help mulling over the conversation with Hobbes after their first battle and the Kilrathi's speculations about the possibility of an intelligence breach. Could someone be feeding details of Confed ship movements to the enemy? And, if so, was there some specific reason why he and Hobbes might be singled out for special attention? Blair was still struck by the fact that the Kilrathi had seemed to want to avoid engaging Hobbes . . . .
He remembered old Cultural Intelligence briefings about Kilrathi social customs. Perhaps there was a high-ranking Imperial noble assigned to the Orsini System who had declared a formal state of feud with Ralgha nar Hhallas. That might make other pilots wary of getting involved, leading them to avoid action against Hobbes.
It sounded like a good working theory . . . but it still suggested that the Kilrathi knew much more about Confed operations than they should. Were they simply keeping close track of Terran communications or might there be spies in the fleet, even here aboard the Victory?
Did Cobra, the ex-slave, have any place in all this? Or was it all just an unfortunate but suspicious coincidence?
Blair hoped that was the case. He did not want to face the reality that someone in his flight wing was actually a Kilrathi spy.
Blair turned his chair to face the door to the Flight Control Center. It was nearly midnight, ship's time, but he had decided to spend some extra hours tonight going over flight plans for the Wing's projected operations for the next day. He hoped to extend patrols to cover the Locanda jump point more effectively so that future losses in that volume of space might be avoided. If he couldn't find a better way to keep the Kilrathi raiders under control, he would talk Eisen into actually moving the carrier closer to the jump point for a more constant watch.
He was glad of the interruption. It was difficult and tedious work at best. After working for hours, any break in the routine was welcome.
Blair studied the slender, slightly-built young woman standing in the open doorway. She was another of Gold Squadron's pilots, Lieutenant Robin Peters, but so far he had not spoken with her. Nonetheless, Blair was impressed by both her combat record and her patrol performance since he had joined the ship. She was most frequently teamed with Chang as wingman. The two made a competent team. "They call you Flint, right?" he asked.
She nodded. "Glad to see you've at least looked over the flight roster, sir," she said with a faint smile.
"I've given it a glance," Blair responded.
"Then maybe you've noticed, sir, that there are other pilots on board, aside from Colonel Ralgha."
"People on this ship sure as hell do take a lot of interest in my choice of partners," Blair said. "Wingman assignments were still my prerogative, last time I checked."
"Sir," the lieutenant began, sounding tentative. "I come from a long line of fighter pilots. My brother, my father, his father before him . . . I guess you could say flying's in my blood."
"Your point being . . . ?"
"I know your record, and I would expect you to at least look over ours. We have racked up our share of kills. We're not scrubs out here, sir."
"Nobody said you were," Blair told her.
"No, sir, nobody ever said anything. But you've made it pretty clear you don't think the rest of us are worth flying with." She looked away. "If you don't give us a try, how are you ever going to decide if we're up to your standards?"
"Oh, I've made a few decisions already, Lieutenant," Blair said. "Believe it or not, I do know something about how a flight wing works. I've only been serving in the damned things for my entire adult life." He paused for a moment. "So you feel I should be flying with other wingmen, not just Hobbes. You have any specific recommendations?"
She looked back at him with a hint of a smile. "Oh, I would never presume to do your job for you, sir. After all, choice of wingmen is your prerogative, isn't that right? I just work here . . ."
"Well, consider your message delivered, Lieutenant." He smiled, coming to a decision about the woman. "And tomorrow afternoon, when you take that fourth shift patrol you're scheduled for . . ."
"Yes, sir?"
"I hope you'll be willing to break in a new wingman. He's an old-timer, but not a scrub . . . at least I hope not."
"I'll be looking forward to it, sir."
CHAPTER VI
"Sounds good to me, sir," Flint responded.
The patrol was routine, like so many others the Victory's pilots encountered these past few weeks. It seemed that changing wingmen had not brought any corresponding change in Blair's luck.
"Watchdog Leader, this is Kennel. Do you copy, over?" The voice belonged to Lieutenant Rollins. Victory's Communications Officer sounded keyed up.
"This is Watchdog Leader," Blair said. "What've you got, Kennel?"
"Long-range sensors are picking up a large flight of incoming bogies, Colonel," Rollins said. "And they ain't friendly, by the looks of things. They're coming from quadrant Delta . . . looks like a full-scale attack force, not just a patrol. Captain requests you RTB immediately."
"Roger that, Kennel," Blair said. "We will Return To Base immediately." He was visualizing the tactical situation in his mind's eye. Relative to the carrier's position, ships coming out of Delta Quadrant would be almost exactly opposite the point he and Flint were covering on their patrol, and if the enemy appeared on the long-range sensors, they would be located within the same range of the ship as the two Thunderbolts. Blair could expect to get back to Victory at approximately the same time as the enemy, presuming they were planning to press home the attack.
Suddenly he wished that he had not complained about the lack of action quite so much . . . .
"Kennel, this is Watchdog Leader," Blair went on after a moment's pause. "Order Red and Gold Squadrons on a full magnum launch, all fighters up. Colonel Ralgha to take operational command until I arrive. And call in all Blue Squadron patrols as well. I want them to rendezvous with me at coordinates Beta-Ten-Niner."
"Rendezvous . . . Beta-Ten-Zero-Nine," the lieutenant repeated. "Understood."
"Have Chief Coriolis put up a refueling shuttle to meet us at those coordinates. Launch ASAP . . . before the furballs get close enough to interfere."
"A fuel shuttle, Colonel?" Rollins sounded uncertain.
"You heard me, Lieutenant," Blair said. "All of the patrol flights are near the end of their cycles out here. I was about to head for home, but I don't plan on any of us hitting an all-out donnybrook with dry tanks, so we'll do some in-flight refueling before we join the party. Any problems with that on your end?"
"Ah . . . wait one, Watchdog," Rollins said. Blair could picture the man, in the silence that followed, passing on the gist of his orders to Eisen for confirmation.
While he waited for a confirmation from Victory, Blair called up his navigation display and entered the rendezvous coordinates into the autopilot. "Flint, you copy all that?"
"Yeah, Colonel," she responded, sounding excited. "Looks like we get a little party after all."
"Watchdog, this is Kennel," Rollins said before he had a chance to respond to Peters. "Your instructions are being carried out. Captain says not to stop for any sightseeing along the way."
"Tell him the cavalry's on the way," Blair said, smiling. "Okay, Flint, you heard the man. Punch it!"
The computer took over the controls, steering the fighter toward the rendezvous point while Blair concentrated on monitoring the comm channels to keep track of the unfolding operation. It appeared things were going smoothly on the ship. Fighters were routinely kept on standby, prepped for a magnum launch on fifteen minute's notice or less. If Blair was right about Chief Coriolis, it would definitely be "or less" today. He had faith in her department . . . as well as in her.
What worried him more was the wing itself. Hobbes would have to take charge until Blair was close enough to do more than hurl advice, and with the previous bad feelings about the Kilrathi renegade, there could be trouble on the firing line. If a hot-head like Maniac or Cobra decided not to accept Ralgha's orders, the whole situation could degenerate into a disaster in minutes. Hobbes knew all the right moves, but did he have a sufficiently forceful personality to make a collection of Confed pilots, a notoriously independent breed at the best of times, carry out those moves the way they were supposed to?
"Rendezvous coordinates coming up, sir," Flint reported, jerking Blair out of his reverie. "The shuttle's on my scope now."
He checked his own monitor. "Confirmed. Looks like we're first." That made sense. The long-range interceptors on patrol in Alpha and Gamma Quadrants were further from the ship when he issued the recall order, probing ahead of the Victory. He and Flint took the rear patrol, covering both Beta and Delta in the carrier's wake. "All right, Flint, belly up to the bar and get your fighter a drink."
"Roger," was her laconic reply.
After a few minutes, she reported her tanks full and cast off from the shuttle, making room for Blair's fighter. He lined up the boxy little craft with practiced ease, letting the shuttle's tractor beams snag the Thunderbolt and pull it in slowly. When they were bare meters apart, a refueling hose extended from the belly of the shuttle to plug into the tank mounted amidships. "Contact," he announced as the green light showed on his status board. Fuel began to flow from shuttle to fighter.
When it was finally over, Blair released the hose and watched it reel into the shuttle before applying reverse thrusters to edge the Thunderbolt away. "Watchdog Leader to Shuttle Hardy. Thanks for a wonderful time. But I'm not always this easy on a first date, y'know?"
The shuttle's pilot chuckled. You mean you're not going to stick around and cuddle? You flyboys are all alike." There was a pause. "Nail a couple of kitty-cats for us, Colonel, since we can't be in the shooting."
"They also serve who only stand and pump fuel, Hardy," Blair misquoted. "You just keep our people flying."
Now that was changed. Operation Unseen Death was beginning, and Sar'hrai now was ordered to damage or destroy the Terran carrier stationed in this system, to further isolate the main target of the Kilrathi strike, the nearby system the humans called Locanda. Warriors of the Empire need not hold back any longer . . . .
"Hunt Flight, Hunt Flight, this is Sar'hrai Command." The voice belonged to Khantahr Baron Vurrig nar Tsahl, the carrier's commanding officer. "Remember standing orders. Engage all enemy craft encountered . . . but if you identify the fighter belonging to the renegade Ralgha, he is not to be attacked. Repeat, on positive identification of the Terran pilot called Ralgha, or Hobbes, break off action and do not press the attack."
The order made Arrak want to snarl in defiance. Didn't the High Command realize what a problem it was distinguishing Terran fighters in combat? The orders had been issued since the arrival of the Terran ship. They had already deprived Arrak of the chance to score a kill against the renegade the day before, his one chance of real action to date. Kilrathi ships monitored Terran communications closely to track the movements of the renegade, and a pilot in the Talon Squadron was executed by the Khantahr for protesting those orders in the name of a feud between his clan and the renegade.
Clearly the orders came from very high up indeed, if they overrode a clan feud. Arrak heard a rumor that the order originated within the Imperial Palace, which meant Crown Prince Thrakhath must have taken a personal interest in the matter. But it would not be easy, in the heat of a major battle, to carry out those instructions.
The renegade was better dead anyway. Years ago he had defected, carrying an entire capital ship and enough vital secrets to set back the Imperial war effort by a decade. Since that time, the scum (once a Lord of the Empire but now nothing more than an outcast) actually dared fly human fighters against his own kind.
Well, the confusion of battle made it difficult to know when orders were violated accidentally . . . or deliberately. And given any chance at all, Arrak knew he would not turn from destroying the traitor Ralgha if the chance presented itself.
"Hunt Flight," he said, exulting at the approach of battle. "Prepare to engage!"
"Maintain formation. Meet the enemy with overwhelming force, and he will be ours."
"Look sharp, people . . ."
The voices on the radio were growing more and more excited, except for the rigidly controlled growl from Hobbes. Blair could feel his own adrenaline pumping as if he was already on the firing line beside the other pilots. He fought to keep from adding encouraging comments of his own to the radio traffic that was already out there.
He checked his autopilot display again. ETA four minutes . . .
Blair was torn between waiting for the outlying patrol ships to assemble and refuel so the entire force could strike at once, and plunging straight into the fray as quickly as he and Flint could to reach the vicinity of the Victory. Eisen had urged them not to lose any time, but a larger relief force would certainly have been worth a few extra minutes.
In the end, though, Blair had decided that he and Flint needed to join the others as quickly as possible. The question of how well Hobbes could control the wing loomed over him in addition to the potential ill effects on morale if Blair missed the second large-scale fight mounted by his flight wing. So he left instructions for the two interceptor patrols to form a single relief flight, but he and Flint were already on their way into battle.
He was glad of the decision now. It would be four minutes before the two Thunderbolts could join their comrades, and in combat, four minutes could be an eternity.
"They're breaking formation," a voice announced. Blair thought it was Lieutenant Chang. "Starting their attack runs . . . now!"
"I've got the first hairball," Maniac Marshall announced. "Watch my tail, Sandman."
"Do not lose contact with your wingmen," Ralgha's voice urged. "And do not let them draw you away from the carrier."
From the chatter, Blair could picture the unfolding battle even before Rollins fed him tactical information on his monitors. They counted at least thirty incoming Kilrathi ships, a mix of Dralthi and lighter Darket, ranged against eighteen Confed fighters and the larger but less responsive hull-mounted defensive batteries aboard Victory. From the sound of things, Hobbes was trying to keep the Terran craft in a rough defensive line, with paired wingmen watching over one another. But hotheads like Marshall were likely to let themselves be distracted by individual opponents and drawn into dogfights, forgetting the big picture.
The Kilrathi had ships to spare. They would still be able to hurl a powerful force against the Terran carrier after all the screening fighters were accounted for.
"I've got the next one." That voice, cold and deadly, belonged to Lieutenant Buckley. Another pilot easily drawn by the enemy, if she took her attitude into the cockpit with her. "See how you like this, kitty!"
"I always heard about target-rich environments!" Blair recognized the voice as belonging to Captain Max "Mad Max" Lewis, another Gold Squadron pilot. "C'mon, Vaquero, let's show them a thing or two!"
"Scratch one! Scratch one! We have achieved kitty litter!" Marshall's cry was triumphant.
"Make that two," Cobra chimed in a moment later. Despite the depth of her hatred, she sounded as tightly controlled as Hobbes, as if the wild passion were translated into a cold, deadly intensity.
Blair checked his autopilot. Two minutes . . .
"Flint, go to afterburners," he ordered. "Full power. Let's get up there!" He shoved his throttles fully into the red zone, feeling the extra G-force press him against his seat.
"Maniac! Maniac! I've got two on my tail! Give me a hand, Maniac!" That was Marshall's wingman, Lieutenant Alex Sanders, running name Sandman. After a pause, he went on, voice rising with excitement . . . or panic. "For God's sake, Maniac, give me a hand!"
"Break left on my signal, Sandman," Ralgha's voice cut him off. "Steady . . . steady . . . break!"
The tactical sensors were picking up details of the battle now, and Blair watched as the symbols representing Hobbes and Vagabond moved together to support the beleaguered Sanders. Maniac Marshall was far away now, almost at the limit of the scans, hotly engaged with a Dralthi and paying little attention to the other Confed pilots.
One of the Kilrathi ships pursuing Sandrnan disappeared under the onslaught of Ralgha's sudden attack, while Chang dove in toward the second and forced it to break off.
"Thanks, Hobbes," Sanders said, a little breathless now. "I . . . thanks."
"I'm hit! Front armors gone . . . my shields . . ." Mad Max Lewis was almost incoherent. "He's coming in for another pass . . . Noooooo!!"
The symbol representing the Terran Thunderbolt faded from Blair's tactical screen. The rest of the fighters were jumbled together, a mad, chaotic dance played on the screen while Blair clenched his hands around his steering yoke in frustration. Gold Squadron was fully engaged now, while the lighter craft of Red Squadron operated on the fringes of the battle, surrounding any Kilrathi ships that penetrated the defensive line. But the sheer weight of numbers began to play a major role as more and more Kilrathi pilots jumped into the fray. Even though they flew as individuals, they were still a team determinedly pressing their Terran opponents.
"Enemy coming into range, Colonel!" Flint warned. "What's your pleasure?"
"Stick close, Flint," he said, powering up his weapons and locking his targeting array on the nearest Dralthi. "And watch my back. Things are going to get pretty damned rough out here in a second or two!"
His target chased a Thunderbolt, the two fighters circling each other, attempting to find some type of advantage. Now, as Blair and Flint appeared, the Dralthi broke off and rolled left, dodging and juking as it tried to gain some distance.
"Not this time, fuzzball," Blair said, lining up the crosshairs and opening fire with his blasters. The energy bolts raked along the top of the enemy fighter, hitting directly behind the cockpit, between two large, forward-sweeping bat-wings. The Kilrathi fighter seemed to stagger and wrenched away to port as the pilot tried to evade. Blair used his thrusters to spin his ship in flight and lined up on the Dralthi again before the Kilrathi could finish his turn.
His fingers tightened over the firing stud, and the blasters tore through the weakened shields and armor. The fighter disappeared in a ball of flame and spinning debris. "Got him!" Blair said. He checked his sensor rnonitor for a fresh target.
"Thanks for the assist, Colonel," said the pilot of the fighter he had rescued. It was Lieutenant Mitchell Lopez, Vaquero, who had been Mad Max's wingman.
"Welcome to the battle, my friend," Ralgha said. "Will you take over the command?"
"I relieve you, Hobbes," Blair told him. "Gold Squadron, from Blair. Reform on me! You're getting too damned spread out. Repeat, reform skirmish line around me. Hobbes, what's the story?"
"One Thunderbolt and two Hellcats destroyed, Colonel," Ralgha said formally. "And Lieutenant Jaeger's Thunderbolt is severely damaged."
"Right. Jaeger, disengage. If you think you can make a safe landing, get back to the carrier. Otherwise pull back and we'll help you in later. Who's your wingman?"
"Cobra, sir," Helmut "Beast" Jaeger responded.
"Okay. Vaquero, Cobra, you're teamed now. Cover Beast's withdrawal and then get back in formation. Got me?"
"Understood," Vaquero replied.
There was a pause before Cobra spoke up. The tactical display showed she was still engaged with a Darket, but her opponent suddenly vanished from the screen. "I'm on it, Colonel," Lieutenant Buckley said at last. "Let's do it, Vaquero, so we can get back in there and kill us some cats!"
The three Thunderbolts peeled off, while the rest of the Terran craft began to take their positions around Blair and Flint . . . all except one.
"Marshall!" Blair rasped. "Maniac, if you don't get your tail back here I'll open fire on you myself!"
"Coming, Mother," Maniac responded, unabashed.
The fighting was still going on, and Blair restrained himself from flinging himself into the action as he issued orders and studied the tactical situation. By now the battle had moved close enough to the Victory for the carrier's big guns to join in the defense, and that was forcing the Kilrathi force to be cautious. Their casualties were heavier than the Terrans', but they still outnumbered Blair's command slightly, and more of their ships were comparatively fresh and undamaged. The odds still didn't look too good.
Blair's mind raced, grappling with the tactical picture on his screen. Somehow the Terrans had to take the initiative force the Kilrathi to battle under conditions favoring the defenders. Victory's guns would go a long way toward redressing the balance. So would the four interceptors, but they were still at least six minutes away, and after the initial surprise of their arrival they could not sustain a long-term advantage under these circumstances. What they needed was a way to maximize all of the Terran assets in one thrust, something the Kilrathi would not see coming.
He found himself smiling grimly under his helmet. There was one maneuver that just might work . . .
"Kennel, Kennel, this is Watchdog Leader," he said urgently. "Come in, Kennel."
"Reading you, Colonel," Rollins replied.
"Go to tight-beam and scramble," he ordered, switching the circuits on his comm system. A moment later a green light shimmered under the comm screen, indicating that Rollins had set up a tight laser-link between the carrier and his fighter. The system was excellent for secure communications between large ships or between the carrier and an individual fighter, but it was inefficient for ship-to-ship transmissions between fighters due to their smaller size, higher speeds, and unpredictable maneuvering.
But what Blair wanted to do now must be kept secret until his trap was sprung.
"I want you to pass the word to each fighter, Lieutenant," Blair said without preamble. "New orders for all ships. On my mark . . .
We can't take any more of this!" the human commander was saying. "All ships, break off and withdraw! Break off while you still can!"
That was what Arrak had been waiting to hear. The Terrans put up a good fight, but they were outnumbered and outgunned, and he knew they would be stretched too thin sooner or later. This was his chance.
"They are beginning to withdraw," he said, the battle madness singing inside him. Concentrate fire on the carrier. We will deal with the apes once the capital ship is destroyed!"
On his tactical screen, the Terran fighters were breaking off to flee past the covering bulk of the carrier. Arrak showed his fangs and pushed his throttles forward. He sensed a moment's regret that he was unable to corner the ship he had identified as the renegade's, but his duty now was clear.
The renegade would still be out there, and helpless, once the carrier was destroyed.
"Talons of the Emperor!" he called, the old battle cry making him tremble with anticipation of glory. "Attack! Attack! Attack!"
CHAPTER VII
Only this time, the carrier wouldn't be quite as helpless as she appeared . . .
"Captain says any time you're ready, Colonel," Rollins said, a note of worry creeping into his voice.
He didn't let the lieutenant's fears push him into acting too soon. Blair checked his sensors again, saw the four interceptors beginning their swing to bring them squarely behind the attackers. His own fighters had started this maneuver feigning panic and disorder, but now they were beginning to reform into four distinct groups.
The time was almost right . . .
"Execute!" He almost shouted the order as he wrenched the steering yoke fiercely and advanced the throttles into the afterburner red zone again. By the time this counterthrust was over he would be nearly dry again, but hopefully none of the Confed fighters would need any fuel reserves after this. "Execute turn and attack at will!"
Inevitably, someone — it sounded like Maniac — gave a whoop and shouted "Who's Will?" Blair ignored it and concentrated on the enemy ships clustered ahead.
The carrier opened fire with a barrage from her main batteries. One of the attackers flew straight into the beams. It came apart, looking like a spectacular fireball that seemed to herald the beginning of the new phase of this savage fight.
Blair hoped it would be the final phase.
Arrak somehow refrained from cursing or snarling, but despite his control he still thought longingly of sinking his fangs into the neck of the pilot, whoever he was who filled the comm channel with his inspired revelations of the obvious. Yes, the apes had set a trap, drawn his fighters in closer to the Terran carrier where they would be caught between the capital ship's big guns and four . . . no, make it five converging groups of fighters. There were more Confederation craft out there now, a whole new group that had not been in the fight until now. It was a masterful trap, worthy of a Kilrathi hunter.
"Break off!" he snarled. "Break off the action against the carrier and regroup. It seems we have to give the hairless apes another lesson before we can finish this."
Then he had no more time for talk. A pair of heavy Terran fighters suddenly appeared out of nowhere and were trying to lock onto him from the rear. Arrak needed all his skill and concentration to keep the enemy from winning that decisive advantage. He pulled a tight, high-G turn to starboard, using his attitude thruster to make the Dralthi swing around even faster, and opened fire with all guns at once. The Terran fighters shields absorbed most of the damage, but his sensors registered a hit against the underlying armor as well.
"You fly well," the Terran pilot commented, using the standard Imperial tactical band. "Are you worth fighting? Declare yourself if you wish the honor of battle with Ralgha nar Hhallas."
Arrak showed his fangs under his flight helmet. The renegade! He couldn't reply, lest he reveal to his superiors his disobedience of standing orders, but he could defend himself against the enemy attack . . .
The Kilrathi passed mere meters from the Terran fighter, close enough to see the bulky spacesuited shape of his adversary through the viewport.
He stopped at the bar and ordered a glass of Tamayoan fire wine, then walked over to Rachel's table. She looked up as he approached, giving him a welcoming smile. "Hello, Colonel, slumming with the troops today? Pull up a chair, if you don't mind being seen with one of us lowly techie types."
"Thanks, Chief," he said. He sat down across the table from her and studied the holographic schematics for a moment. "Don't think I recognize that design."
"One of the new Excaliburs," she said, her voice tinged with excitement. "Isn't she a beauty? Heavy fighter with more guns and armor than a Thunderbolt, but increased maneuverability to go with it. And I've heard a rumor they're going to be mounted with a sensor cloak, so the little darlings can sneak right past a Kilrathi defensive perimeter and nail the hairballs at close range!"
"Don't they classify that stuff any more?" Blair asked with a smile.
She gave an unladylike snort. "Get real, skipper. Maybe you flyboys don't hear anything until it gets declassified, but the techs have a network that reaches damn near everywhere. We know what's coming off the line before the brass does . . . and usually have all the design flaws spotted up front, too."
Blair chuckled. "Well, I hope your techs don't decide to turn on the rest of us. I doubt we'd last long if you did. You like your job, don't you, Chief?"
She switched off the hologram. "Yeah. I always liked working with machines and computers. An engine part either works or it doesn't. No gray areas. No double talk"
"Machines don't lie," Blair said, nodding.
"Not the way people do. And even when something's wrong with a machine, you always know just where the problem is."
Blair didn't say anything for a few minutes. Finally he looked her in the eye. "I've got a people problem right now, Chief. I was wondering if you could help me with it."
"It ain't what I'm paid for," she told him, "and my free advice is worth everything you spend for it. But I'll take a shot if you want."
"Lieutenant Buckley. What can you tell me about her? The straight dope, not the official file."
She looked down at the table. "I heard about her little blowup with Hobbes last week. Can't say anybody was surprised, though. She's never made any big secret out of the way she feels about the Kilrathi."
"What I want to know is why? I've been in the Navy for better than fifteen years, Chief I've been in all kinds of crews, seen all kinds of shipmates and their hangups. But I never met anybody so single-minded about the Kilrathi before. I mean, Maniac's got good reason to resent Hobbes personally . . . but with Cobra, we're talking blind hatred. She won't even give him a chance."
"Yeah. Look, I don't know the whole story, so don't take this as gospel." The tech leaned closer over the table and lowered her voice. "Right after she came on board a buddy of mine from the old Hermes pointed her out to me. She served there a year before she transferred here . . . her first assignment."
"I was curious about that in her file," Blair commented. "She seems older than that. I'd have put her at thirty or so . . ."
"That's about right," Rachel told him. "She got a late start. My friend told me that the story on Cobra was that she'd been a Kilrathi slave for ten years before the Marines rescued her from a labor camp. She spent some more time in reeducation, then joined up. She won top honors piloting, and just cut through everything with this single-minded determination. I think sometimes that the only thing holding Cobra's life together is the hate she has for the Kilrathi. And I can't really say I blame her.
Blair nodded slowly. "Maybe I can't, either," he said slowly. "I can't even begin to imagine what it would be like to grow up a Kilrathi slave. She must have been taken as a kid, raised to think of her own race as animals . . ."
"So it's no wonder she can't stomach Hobbes," the tech said bluntly. "You and I know he's okay, but to her he just represents everything she grew up hating and fearing." Rachel took a sip from her drink. "So cut her some slack, Colonel. If you really want to fix the problem, that is."
"I do," he said quietly. "But there are limits, you know. I sympathize with her, but sometimes you just can't bend things far enough in the Service to make all the square pegs fit."
"That's why I'd rather work with machines," she told him. "Sooner or later, people just screw up the works."
"Maybe you're being too hard on people," he said. "Some of us are okay when you get to know us."
She looked him up and down with a slow smile. "They need to pass inspection, same as anything else." She stood up, collected the holocassette, then tucked it into a pocket of her baggy coveralls. "I got certain hours for that kind of quality control work, of course."
Blair returned her smile, warming to her. "You keep that schedule posted somewhere, Chief?"
"Only for a select few, Colonel," she told him. "The ones with the best schematics."
* * *
Ready Room, TCS Victory.
Tamayo System
"I hope you're not expecting anything too exciting, Blair. This is probably just another milk run, from the looks of it. At least that's what we're hoping for."Blair studied Eisen's face, trying to locate a hint of sarcasm in his expression. Since Gold Squadron's triumph over the Kilrathi cruiser and its escort, enemy activity in the Orsini system had virtually disappeared, and Victory had jumped to the Tamayo system, where they had been carrying out a seemingly endless string of routine patrols. Blair and Hobbes took their turn on the duty schedule along with the rest of the wing, but so far there was no further combat. The only excitement since the first big clash came when a pair of interceptors from Blue Squadron tangled with four light Kilrathi fighters, sending them running in short order.
Eisen was right about the missions to date being milk runs, but was there something more behind his comment? Meaning that was all Blair could handle, perhaps? His impassive face gave away nothing as he called up a holographic mission plan for Blair and Ralgha to study.
"The cats —" Eisen broke off, shooting a look at Hobbes. "The Kilrathi have been steering clear of the Victory, but they sent a couple of squadrons of raiders to work the edges of the system, near the jump point to Locanda. In the past week, they've picked off three transports outbound for the Locanda colony while we've come up empty."
Blair frowned. "I was posted in that system once, a few years back. There's not a hell of a lot there. I'm surprised we sent three transports that way in one week."
The captain didn't reply right away. Finally he gave a I shrug. "Some of our intelligence sources in the Empire received word that the enemy is planning a move against the Locanda System. Confed's been pumping resources that way to try to catch them unprepared. Apparently the main reason they are hanging around is to harass our supply lines." He looked from Blair to Hobbes, then back to Blair again. "Needless to say, that information stays in this room.
"Yes, sir," Blair said. Ralgha nodded assent.
"Right, then. Another transport is set to make a run today, but this time we're sending an escort. We want to see if we can break this little blockade of their's once and for all, then open the pipeline into Locanda again. Your job is to provide the escort and be ready for trouble. Like I said, with luck, they will miss this one. But if the bad guys return, we want that transport covered. Understood?"
"Aye, aye, sir," Blair replied formally.
"Good. Let's cover the details . . ."
It took a good ten minutes to go over the specifics of the mission, establishing rendezvous coordinates and other details. When it was all over, Blair and Hobbes stood. "We're ready, Captain," Blair said. "Come on, Hobbes, let's get saddled up."
"A moment more, Colonel, if you please," Eisen said, holding up a hand. He shot Ralgha a look. "In private."
"I will see you on the flight deck, Colonel," Hobbes said. The Kilrathi seemed calm and imperturbable as ever, but Blair thought he could detect a note of concern in his friend's tone.
Blair sat back down as the Kilrathi left the room. "What can I do for you, sir?"
"Colonel, I'd like to discuss your attitude," Eisen said as soon as the door had closed behind Hobbes. He sounded angry. "Seems to me you're under the impression that you're too good to mix with the rest of the pilots."
"I'm not sure I understand, Captain," Blair said slowly. "I've been getting to know them . . ."
"But in three weeks aboard this tub, the only wingman you've flown with is Hobbes." Eisen cut his attempted protest off. "I know he's your friend, and I know there's still some bad feelings among some of the others about working with him, but it isn't helping morale by you refusing to pair with anybody else. I know Chang would fly with him, and probably one or two of the others as well, so you could at least trade off now and then."
"Sir, with all due respect, that isn't your decision to make," Blair told him quietly. "You are CO of this ship, but the flight wing is my bailiwick. Mine alone. I run the wing my way. A pilot has to be able to trust his wingman, feeling complete total confidence in him, which is exactly the way I feel about Hobbes. I choose to fly with him."
"Even though he let you down your first time out?"
"Sir?" Blair had been careful to keep the details of the first patrol ambiguous in his official report.
"Come on, Colonel, you know the networks. Even the CO hears some things, no matter how much everybody works to cover them. Hobbes hared off after an enemy fighter and left you in the lurch when they jumped you.
"I don't blame him, sir. The whole situation just sort of . . . developed."
"Well, it's pretty difficult to see how you can continue to have confidence in Hobbes after that mess, no matter how much you close your eyes to it. And there's another point here, Blair. By saying how much you trust Hobbes, you're implying that you don't have any faith in the, others. I don't like that. It's bad for morale — not just in your precious flight wing, but involving the entire ship. I won't stand for anything that hampers the performance of Victory or her crew." Eisen studied him for a few seconds. "Do you have a problem with the rest of the wing?"
"Sir, I just don't know them well enough yet," Blair said. "The only one I do know is Marshall, and quite frankly I wouldn't fly with him if he was the only pilot on this ship. He's a menace who should have had his wings taken away a long time ago."
Eisen looked thoughtful, but didn't speak.
"As for the others," Blair went on. "Lieutenant Buckley has a good record, but I'm not sure her head's screwed on straight. Chang seems like a nice guy, but undisciplined and unpredictable. The others . . . I'm still finding out about them. They are accustomed to each other, and they're already paired into some pretty good teams. I don't think it is wise to rock the boat until I've got a better handle on how they perform."
"How will you find anything out about them if you don't fly with them?"
"Every time they go out the launch tubes, I follow the mission from Flight Control, Captain. Believe me, I'm starting to get a pretty good idea of how they fly . . . and how they think. I'll start rotating the roster when I'm ready . . . and not before then."
"Well, I strongly suggest you speed up the process a bit, Colonel," Eisen said. "Get to know them and start flying with them. If you don't, I think you're going to have a serious morale problem. Is that clear?"
"As a bell, sir."
"Then you're dismissed." Eisen hesitated a moment. "And . . . good luck out there today, Colonel."
"Thank you, sir." Blair stood and gave Eisen a quick salute, then left the ready room. As he rode down the elevator to the Flight Deck, he reviewed in his mind everything the captain said. By the time the doors slid open, he was seething inside.
Someone plainly ran to Eisen behind his back, carrying tales, and hinting that Blair was unfit. Blair was sure he knew just who it was.
* * *
Wing Commander's Office, TCS Victory.
Tamayo System
A knock on the door made Blair look up from his computer terminal. "Enter," he said."You wanted to see me, Colonel?" It was Maniac Marshall, wearing a flight suit and carrying his colorfully painted helmet under one arm. "I'm up for a patrol in fifteen minutes, so this'd better be quick."
"It will be, Marshall," Blair said coldly.
The major started to sit, but Blair fixed him with an angry stare. "I didn't give you permission to make yourself at home, Mister," he told the pilot. "You're at attention."
Marshall hesitated a moment, then straightened up. "Yes, sir, Colonel, sir," he responded.
"I have a little job for you, Major," Blair said, his voice low and dangerous. "This morning, before my escort run with Hobbes, Captain Eisen chatted with me about this unit's morale. He seemed to feel that I was not inspiring confidence and good feeling among my people here.
Marshall didn't respond. There was a long silence before Blair continued. "From some of the things he said, I suspect that someone in the wing has been going behind my back to him, carrying all sorts of complaints about the way I choose to run things. Needless to say, Major, I regard this as a very serious breach of protocol. Members of a flight wing do not go outside the chain of command with their petty jealousies and personal problems, and I intend to have no repetitions of this little incident. Therefore, Major, I'm putting you in charge of reporting any further violations of military procedure in the wing to me. If it comes to my attention that there have been additional incidents of wing personnel going outside the chain of command this way, I'll hold you responsible. Do I make myself clear, Major?"
"Crystal clear," Marshall said, enunciating each syllable precisely. After a long pause he added, "Sir."
"Very good, Major," Blair said. "I won't keep you from your patrol any longer. You're dismissed."
He leaned back in his chair as Marshall left the office, feeling some of the anger and tension draining from him. Blair was convinced from the very beginning that Marshall was the one who had been complaining to Eisen, but of course he had no proof. This put Maniac on notice without requiring any actual accusations.
The confrontation alleviated some of the frustrations of the morning operation. He and Hobbes had escorted the transport to the jump point without any sign of an enemy fighter. The return trip proved equally peaceful. That was good, in one sense, but it was beginning to seem as if he would never get a chance to compensate for their first unsuccessful mission. It was even more unnerving to discover that raiders had hit another ship leaving the Locanda System at the same jump point just an hour after Blair and Hobbes returned to the Victory.
The whole situation gave him pause for thought. He could not help mulling over the conversation with Hobbes after their first battle and the Kilrathi's speculations about the possibility of an intelligence breach. Could someone be feeding details of Confed ship movements to the enemy? And, if so, was there some specific reason why he and Hobbes might be singled out for special attention? Blair was still struck by the fact that the Kilrathi had seemed to want to avoid engaging Hobbes . . . .
He remembered old Cultural Intelligence briefings about Kilrathi social customs. Perhaps there was a high-ranking Imperial noble assigned to the Orsini System who had declared a formal state of feud with Ralgha nar Hhallas. That might make other pilots wary of getting involved, leading them to avoid action against Hobbes.
It sounded like a good working theory . . . but it still suggested that the Kilrathi knew much more about Confed operations than they should. Were they simply keeping close track of Terran communications or might there be spies in the fleet, even here aboard the Victory?
Did Cobra, the ex-slave, have any place in all this? Or was it all just an unfortunate but suspicious coincidence?
Blair hoped that was the case. He did not want to face the reality that someone in his flight wing was actually a Kilrathi spy.
* * *
Flight Control, TCS Victory.
Tamayo System
"Sir?"Blair turned his chair to face the door to the Flight Control Center. It was nearly midnight, ship's time, but he had decided to spend some extra hours tonight going over flight plans for the Wing's projected operations for the next day. He hoped to extend patrols to cover the Locanda jump point more effectively so that future losses in that volume of space might be avoided. If he couldn't find a better way to keep the Kilrathi raiders under control, he would talk Eisen into actually moving the carrier closer to the jump point for a more constant watch.
He was glad of the interruption. It was difficult and tedious work at best. After working for hours, any break in the routine was welcome.
Blair studied the slender, slightly-built young woman standing in the open doorway. She was another of Gold Squadron's pilots, Lieutenant Robin Peters, but so far he had not spoken with her. Nonetheless, Blair was impressed by both her combat record and her patrol performance since he had joined the ship. She was most frequently teamed with Chang as wingman. The two made a competent team. "They call you Flint, right?" he asked.
She nodded. "Glad to see you've at least looked over the flight roster, sir," she said with a faint smile.
"I've given it a glance," Blair responded.
"Then maybe you've noticed, sir, that there are other pilots on board, aside from Colonel Ralgha."
"People on this ship sure as hell do take a lot of interest in my choice of partners," Blair said. "Wingman assignments were still my prerogative, last time I checked."
"Sir," the lieutenant began, sounding tentative. "I come from a long line of fighter pilots. My brother, my father, his father before him . . . I guess you could say flying's in my blood."
"Your point being . . . ?"
"I know your record, and I would expect you to at least look over ours. We have racked up our share of kills. We're not scrubs out here, sir."
"Nobody said you were," Blair told her.
"No, sir, nobody ever said anything. But you've made it pretty clear you don't think the rest of us are worth flying with." She looked away. "If you don't give us a try, how are you ever going to decide if we're up to your standards?"
"Oh, I've made a few decisions already, Lieutenant," Blair said. "Believe it or not, I do know something about how a flight wing works. I've only been serving in the damned things for my entire adult life." He paused for a moment. "So you feel I should be flying with other wingmen, not just Hobbes. You have any specific recommendations?"
She looked back at him with a hint of a smile. "Oh, I would never presume to do your job for you, sir. After all, choice of wingmen is your prerogative, isn't that right? I just work here . . ."
"Well, consider your message delivered, Lieutenant." He smiled, coming to a decision about the woman. "And tomorrow afternoon, when you take that fourth shift patrol you're scheduled for . . ."
"Yes, sir?"
"I hope you'll be willing to break in a new wingman. He's an old-timer, but not a scrub . . . at least I hope not."
"I'll be looking forward to it, sir."
CHAPTER VI
Thunderbolt 300.
Tamayo System
"Well, looks like we came up dry again," Blair said over the comm channel, not bothering to hide his disgust. "Shall we head for home, Lieutenant?""Sounds good to me, sir," Flint responded.
The patrol was routine, like so many others the Victory's pilots encountered these past few weeks. It seemed that changing wingmen had not brought any corresponding change in Blair's luck.
"Watchdog Leader, this is Kennel. Do you copy, over?" The voice belonged to Lieutenant Rollins. Victory's Communications Officer sounded keyed up.
"This is Watchdog Leader," Blair said. "What've you got, Kennel?"
"Long-range sensors are picking up a large flight of incoming bogies, Colonel," Rollins said. "And they ain't friendly, by the looks of things. They're coming from quadrant Delta . . . looks like a full-scale attack force, not just a patrol. Captain requests you RTB immediately."
"Roger that, Kennel," Blair said. "We will Return To Base immediately." He was visualizing the tactical situation in his mind's eye. Relative to the carrier's position, ships coming out of Delta Quadrant would be almost exactly opposite the point he and Flint were covering on their patrol, and if the enemy appeared on the long-range sensors, they would be located within the same range of the ship as the two Thunderbolts. Blair could expect to get back to Victory at approximately the same time as the enemy, presuming they were planning to press home the attack.
Suddenly he wished that he had not complained about the lack of action quite so much . . . .
"Kennel, this is Watchdog Leader," Blair went on after a moment's pause. "Order Red and Gold Squadrons on a full magnum launch, all fighters up. Colonel Ralgha to take operational command until I arrive. And call in all Blue Squadron patrols as well. I want them to rendezvous with me at coordinates Beta-Ten-Niner."
"Rendezvous . . . Beta-Ten-Zero-Nine," the lieutenant repeated. "Understood."
"Have Chief Coriolis put up a refueling shuttle to meet us at those coordinates. Launch ASAP . . . before the furballs get close enough to interfere."
"A fuel shuttle, Colonel?" Rollins sounded uncertain.
"You heard me, Lieutenant," Blair said. "All of the patrol flights are near the end of their cycles out here. I was about to head for home, but I don't plan on any of us hitting an all-out donnybrook with dry tanks, so we'll do some in-flight refueling before we join the party. Any problems with that on your end?"
"Ah . . . wait one, Watchdog," Rollins said. Blair could picture the man, in the silence that followed, passing on the gist of his orders to Eisen for confirmation.
While he waited for a confirmation from Victory, Blair called up his navigation display and entered the rendezvous coordinates into the autopilot. "Flint, you copy all that?"
"Yeah, Colonel," she responded, sounding excited. "Looks like we get a little party after all."
"Watchdog, this is Kennel," Rollins said before he had a chance to respond to Peters. "Your instructions are being carried out. Captain says not to stop for any sightseeing along the way."
"Tell him the cavalry's on the way," Blair said, smiling. "Okay, Flint, you heard the man. Punch it!"
The computer took over the controls, steering the fighter toward the rendezvous point while Blair concentrated on monitoring the comm channels to keep track of the unfolding operation. It appeared things were going smoothly on the ship. Fighters were routinely kept on standby, prepped for a magnum launch on fifteen minute's notice or less. If Blair was right about Chief Coriolis, it would definitely be "or less" today. He had faith in her department . . . as well as in her.
What worried him more was the wing itself. Hobbes would have to take charge until Blair was close enough to do more than hurl advice, and with the previous bad feelings about the Kilrathi renegade, there could be trouble on the firing line. If a hot-head like Maniac or Cobra decided not to accept Ralgha's orders, the whole situation could degenerate into a disaster in minutes. Hobbes knew all the right moves, but did he have a sufficiently forceful personality to make a collection of Confed pilots, a notoriously independent breed at the best of times, carry out those moves the way they were supposed to?
"Rendezvous coordinates coming up, sir," Flint reported, jerking Blair out of his reverie. "The shuttle's on my scope now."
He checked his own monitor. "Confirmed. Looks like we're first." That made sense. The long-range interceptors on patrol in Alpha and Gamma Quadrants were further from the ship when he issued the recall order, probing ahead of the Victory. He and Flint took the rear patrol, covering both Beta and Delta in the carrier's wake. "All right, Flint, belly up to the bar and get your fighter a drink."
"Roger," was her laconic reply.
After a few minutes, she reported her tanks full and cast off from the shuttle, making room for Blair's fighter. He lined up the boxy little craft with practiced ease, letting the shuttle's tractor beams snag the Thunderbolt and pull it in slowly. When they were bare meters apart, a refueling hose extended from the belly of the shuttle to plug into the tank mounted amidships. "Contact," he announced as the green light showed on his status board. Fuel began to flow from shuttle to fighter.
When it was finally over, Blair released the hose and watched it reel into the shuttle before applying reverse thrusters to edge the Thunderbolt away. "Watchdog Leader to Shuttle Hardy. Thanks for a wonderful time. But I'm not always this easy on a first date, y'know?"
The shuttle's pilot chuckled. You mean you're not going to stick around and cuddle? You flyboys are all alike." There was a pause. "Nail a couple of kitty-cats for us, Colonel, since we can't be in the shooting."
"They also serve who only stand and pump fuel, Hardy," Blair misquoted. "You just keep our people flying."
* * *
Hunt Leader.
Tamayo System
Flight Commander Arrak could feel the battle lust surging through his veins. For better than eight days, his squadron operated in this human-held system, yet with orders not to press a full-scale battle with the enemy. Ambushes of enemy transport ships and clashes with Terran fighter patrols were reported by other squadrons off the carrier Sar'hrai, but all strictly limited to the point where pilots were beginning to complain of the stain on their honor.Now that was changed. Operation Unseen Death was beginning, and Sar'hrai now was ordered to damage or destroy the Terran carrier stationed in this system, to further isolate the main target of the Kilrathi strike, the nearby system the humans called Locanda. Warriors of the Empire need not hold back any longer . . . .
"Hunt Flight, Hunt Flight, this is Sar'hrai Command." The voice belonged to Khantahr Baron Vurrig nar Tsahl, the carrier's commanding officer. "Remember standing orders. Engage all enemy craft encountered . . . but if you identify the fighter belonging to the renegade Ralgha, he is not to be attacked. Repeat, on positive identification of the Terran pilot called Ralgha, or Hobbes, break off action and do not press the attack."
The order made Arrak want to snarl in defiance. Didn't the High Command realize what a problem it was distinguishing Terran fighters in combat? The orders had been issued since the arrival of the Terran ship. They had already deprived Arrak of the chance to score a kill against the renegade the day before, his one chance of real action to date. Kilrathi ships monitored Terran communications closely to track the movements of the renegade, and a pilot in the Talon Squadron was executed by the Khantahr for protesting those orders in the name of a feud between his clan and the renegade.
Clearly the orders came from very high up indeed, if they overrode a clan feud. Arrak heard a rumor that the order originated within the Imperial Palace, which meant Crown Prince Thrakhath must have taken a personal interest in the matter. But it would not be easy, in the heat of a major battle, to carry out those instructions.
The renegade was better dead anyway. Years ago he had defected, carrying an entire capital ship and enough vital secrets to set back the Imperial war effort by a decade. Since that time, the scum (once a Lord of the Empire but now nothing more than an outcast) actually dared fly human fighters against his own kind.
Well, the confusion of battle made it difficult to know when orders were violated accidentally . . . or deliberately. And given any chance at all, Arrak knew he would not turn from destroying the traitor Ralgha if the chance presented itself.
"Hunt Flight," he said, exulting at the approach of battle. "Prepare to engage!"
* * *
Thunderbolt 300.
Tamayo System
"Here they come!""Maintain formation. Meet the enemy with overwhelming force, and he will be ours."
"Look sharp, people . . ."
The voices on the radio were growing more and more excited, except for the rigidly controlled growl from Hobbes. Blair could feel his own adrenaline pumping as if he was already on the firing line beside the other pilots. He fought to keep from adding encouraging comments of his own to the radio traffic that was already out there.
He checked his autopilot display again. ETA four minutes . . .
Blair was torn between waiting for the outlying patrol ships to assemble and refuel so the entire force could strike at once, and plunging straight into the fray as quickly as he and Flint could to reach the vicinity of the Victory. Eisen had urged them not to lose any time, but a larger relief force would certainly have been worth a few extra minutes.
In the end, though, Blair had decided that he and Flint needed to join the others as quickly as possible. The question of how well Hobbes could control the wing loomed over him in addition to the potential ill effects on morale if Blair missed the second large-scale fight mounted by his flight wing. So he left instructions for the two interceptor patrols to form a single relief flight, but he and Flint were already on their way into battle.
He was glad of the decision now. It would be four minutes before the two Thunderbolts could join their comrades, and in combat, four minutes could be an eternity.
"They're breaking formation," a voice announced. Blair thought it was Lieutenant Chang. "Starting their attack runs . . . now!"
"I've got the first hairball," Maniac Marshall announced. "Watch my tail, Sandman."
"Do not lose contact with your wingmen," Ralgha's voice urged. "And do not let them draw you away from the carrier."
From the chatter, Blair could picture the unfolding battle even before Rollins fed him tactical information on his monitors. They counted at least thirty incoming Kilrathi ships, a mix of Dralthi and lighter Darket, ranged against eighteen Confed fighters and the larger but less responsive hull-mounted defensive batteries aboard Victory. From the sound of things, Hobbes was trying to keep the Terran craft in a rough defensive line, with paired wingmen watching over one another. But hotheads like Marshall were likely to let themselves be distracted by individual opponents and drawn into dogfights, forgetting the big picture.
The Kilrathi had ships to spare. They would still be able to hurl a powerful force against the Terran carrier after all the screening fighters were accounted for.
"I've got the next one." That voice, cold and deadly, belonged to Lieutenant Buckley. Another pilot easily drawn by the enemy, if she took her attitude into the cockpit with her. "See how you like this, kitty!"
"I always heard about target-rich environments!" Blair recognized the voice as belonging to Captain Max "Mad Max" Lewis, another Gold Squadron pilot. "C'mon, Vaquero, let's show them a thing or two!"
"Scratch one! Scratch one! We have achieved kitty litter!" Marshall's cry was triumphant.
"Make that two," Cobra chimed in a moment later. Despite the depth of her hatred, she sounded as tightly controlled as Hobbes, as if the wild passion were translated into a cold, deadly intensity.
Blair checked his autopilot. Two minutes . . .
"Flint, go to afterburners," he ordered. "Full power. Let's get up there!" He shoved his throttles fully into the red zone, feeling the extra G-force press him against his seat.
"Maniac! Maniac! I've got two on my tail! Give me a hand, Maniac!" That was Marshall's wingman, Lieutenant Alex Sanders, running name Sandman. After a pause, he went on, voice rising with excitement . . . or panic. "For God's sake, Maniac, give me a hand!"
"Break left on my signal, Sandman," Ralgha's voice cut him off. "Steady . . . steady . . . break!"
The tactical sensors were picking up details of the battle now, and Blair watched as the symbols representing Hobbes and Vagabond moved together to support the beleaguered Sanders. Maniac Marshall was far away now, almost at the limit of the scans, hotly engaged with a Dralthi and paying little attention to the other Confed pilots.
One of the Kilrathi ships pursuing Sandrnan disappeared under the onslaught of Ralgha's sudden attack, while Chang dove in toward the second and forced it to break off.
"Thanks, Hobbes," Sanders said, a little breathless now. "I . . . thanks."
"I'm hit! Front armors gone . . . my shields . . ." Mad Max Lewis was almost incoherent. "He's coming in for another pass . . . Noooooo!!"
The symbol representing the Terran Thunderbolt faded from Blair's tactical screen. The rest of the fighters were jumbled together, a mad, chaotic dance played on the screen while Blair clenched his hands around his steering yoke in frustration. Gold Squadron was fully engaged now, while the lighter craft of Red Squadron operated on the fringes of the battle, surrounding any Kilrathi ships that penetrated the defensive line. But the sheer weight of numbers began to play a major role as more and more Kilrathi pilots jumped into the fray. Even though they flew as individuals, they were still a team determinedly pressing their Terran opponents.
"Enemy coming into range, Colonel!" Flint warned. "What's your pleasure?"
"Stick close, Flint," he said, powering up his weapons and locking his targeting array on the nearest Dralthi. "And watch my back. Things are going to get pretty damned rough out here in a second or two!"
His target chased a Thunderbolt, the two fighters circling each other, attempting to find some type of advantage. Now, as Blair and Flint appeared, the Dralthi broke off and rolled left, dodging and juking as it tried to gain some distance.
"Not this time, fuzzball," Blair said, lining up the crosshairs and opening fire with his blasters. The energy bolts raked along the top of the enemy fighter, hitting directly behind the cockpit, between two large, forward-sweeping bat-wings. The Kilrathi fighter seemed to stagger and wrenched away to port as the pilot tried to evade. Blair used his thrusters to spin his ship in flight and lined up on the Dralthi again before the Kilrathi could finish his turn.
His fingers tightened over the firing stud, and the blasters tore through the weakened shields and armor. The fighter disappeared in a ball of flame and spinning debris. "Got him!" Blair said. He checked his sensor rnonitor for a fresh target.
"Thanks for the assist, Colonel," said the pilot of the fighter he had rescued. It was Lieutenant Mitchell Lopez, Vaquero, who had been Mad Max's wingman.
"Welcome to the battle, my friend," Ralgha said. "Will you take over the command?"
"I relieve you, Hobbes," Blair told him. "Gold Squadron, from Blair. Reform on me! You're getting too damned spread out. Repeat, reform skirmish line around me. Hobbes, what's the story?"
"One Thunderbolt and two Hellcats destroyed, Colonel," Ralgha said formally. "And Lieutenant Jaeger's Thunderbolt is severely damaged."
"Right. Jaeger, disengage. If you think you can make a safe landing, get back to the carrier. Otherwise pull back and we'll help you in later. Who's your wingman?"
"Cobra, sir," Helmut "Beast" Jaeger responded.
"Okay. Vaquero, Cobra, you're teamed now. Cover Beast's withdrawal and then get back in formation. Got me?"
"Understood," Vaquero replied.
There was a pause before Cobra spoke up. The tactical display showed she was still engaged with a Darket, but her opponent suddenly vanished from the screen. "I'm on it, Colonel," Lieutenant Buckley said at last. "Let's do it, Vaquero, so we can get back in there and kill us some cats!"
The three Thunderbolts peeled off, while the rest of the Terran craft began to take their positions around Blair and Flint . . . all except one.
"Marshall!" Blair rasped. "Maniac, if you don't get your tail back here I'll open fire on you myself!"
"Coming, Mother," Maniac responded, unabashed.
The fighting was still going on, and Blair restrained himself from flinging himself into the action as he issued orders and studied the tactical situation. By now the battle had moved close enough to the Victory for the carrier's big guns to join in the defense, and that was forcing the Kilrathi force to be cautious. Their casualties were heavier than the Terrans', but they still outnumbered Blair's command slightly, and more of their ships were comparatively fresh and undamaged. The odds still didn't look too good.
Blair's mind raced, grappling with the tactical picture on his screen. Somehow the Terrans had to take the initiative force the Kilrathi to battle under conditions favoring the defenders. Victory's guns would go a long way toward redressing the balance. So would the four interceptors, but they were still at least six minutes away, and after the initial surprise of their arrival they could not sustain a long-term advantage under these circumstances. What they needed was a way to maximize all of the Terran assets in one thrust, something the Kilrathi would not see coming.
He found himself smiling grimly under his helmet. There was one maneuver that just might work . . .
"Kennel, Kennel, this is Watchdog Leader," he said urgently. "Come in, Kennel."
"Reading you, Colonel," Rollins replied.
"Go to tight-beam and scramble," he ordered, switching the circuits on his comm system. A moment later a green light shimmered under the comm screen, indicating that Rollins had set up a tight laser-link between the carrier and his fighter. The system was excellent for secure communications between large ships or between the carrier and an individual fighter, but it was inefficient for ship-to-ship transmissions between fighters due to their smaller size, higher speeds, and unpredictable maneuvering.
But what Blair wanted to do now must be kept secret until his trap was sprung.
"I want you to pass the word to each fighter, Lieutenant," Blair said without preamble. "New orders for all ships. On my mark . . .
* * *
Hunt Leader.
Tamayo System
Flight Commander Arrak gave a snarl of triumph as he listened to the computer translation of the Terran command frequency radio broadcasts.We can't take any more of this!" the human commander was saying. "All ships, break off and withdraw! Break off while you still can!"
That was what Arrak had been waiting to hear. The Terrans put up a good fight, but they were outnumbered and outgunned, and he knew they would be stretched too thin sooner or later. This was his chance.
"They are beginning to withdraw," he said, the battle madness singing inside him. Concentrate fire on the carrier. We will deal with the apes once the capital ship is destroyed!"
On his tactical screen, the Terran fighters were breaking off to flee past the covering bulk of the carrier. Arrak showed his fangs and pushed his throttles forward. He sensed a moment's regret that he was unable to corner the ship he had identified as the renegade's, but his duty now was clear.
The renegade would still be out there, and helpless, once the carrier was destroyed.
"Talons of the Emperor!" he called, the old battle cry making him tremble with anticipation of glory. "Attack! Attack! Attack!"
CHAPTER VII
Thunderbolt 300.
Tamayo System
"They're heading in," Blair said. "Look sharp, people." On his screen, he saw the blips representing the Kilrathi attack force gathering speed as they advanced toward the Victory. With the Terran fighters withdrawing from the battle, the Kilrathi could begin high-speed attack runs on the carrier, using maneuverability and velocity to evade the beams from the capital ship's defensive batteries. It was exactly the kind of situation every pilot hoped for: a big, clumsy carrier stripped of its defensive fighters and lying almost helpless against a massed bombing run.Only this time, the carrier wouldn't be quite as helpless as she appeared . . .
"Captain says any time you're ready, Colonel," Rollins said, a note of worry creeping into his voice.
He didn't let the lieutenant's fears push him into acting too soon. Blair checked his sensors again, saw the four interceptors beginning their swing to bring them squarely behind the attackers. His own fighters had started this maneuver feigning panic and disorder, but now they were beginning to reform into four distinct groups.
The time was almost right . . .
"Execute!" He almost shouted the order as he wrenched the steering yoke fiercely and advanced the throttles into the afterburner red zone again. By the time this counterthrust was over he would be nearly dry again, but hopefully none of the Confed fighters would need any fuel reserves after this. "Execute turn and attack at will!"
Inevitably, someone — it sounded like Maniac — gave a whoop and shouted "Who's Will?" Blair ignored it and concentrated on the enemy ships clustered ahead.
The carrier opened fire with a barrage from her main batteries. One of the attackers flew straight into the beams. It came apart, looking like a spectacular fireball that seemed to herald the beginning of the new phase of this savage fight.
Blair hoped it would be the final phase.
* * *
Hunt Leader.
Tamayo System
"It is a trap! The apes have set a trap!"Arrak somehow refrained from cursing or snarling, but despite his control he still thought longingly of sinking his fangs into the neck of the pilot, whoever he was who filled the comm channel with his inspired revelations of the obvious. Yes, the apes had set a trap, drawn his fighters in closer to the Terran carrier where they would be caught between the capital ship's big guns and four . . . no, make it five converging groups of fighters. There were more Confederation craft out there now, a whole new group that had not been in the fight until now. It was a masterful trap, worthy of a Kilrathi hunter.
"Break off!" he snarled. "Break off the action against the carrier and regroup. It seems we have to give the hairless apes another lesson before we can finish this."
Then he had no more time for talk. A pair of heavy Terran fighters suddenly appeared out of nowhere and were trying to lock onto him from the rear. Arrak needed all his skill and concentration to keep the enemy from winning that decisive advantage. He pulled a tight, high-G turn to starboard, using his attitude thruster to make the Dralthi swing around even faster, and opened fire with all guns at once. The Terran fighters shields absorbed most of the damage, but his sensors registered a hit against the underlying armor as well.
"You fly well," the Terran pilot commented, using the standard Imperial tactical band. "Are you worth fighting? Declare yourself if you wish the honor of battle with Ralgha nar Hhallas."
Arrak showed his fangs under his flight helmet. The renegade! He couldn't reply, lest he reveal to his superiors his disobedience of standing orders, but he could defend himself against the enemy attack . . .
The Kilrathi passed mere meters from the Terran fighter, close enough to see the bulky spacesuited shape of his adversary through the viewport.