CHAPTER VIII

"According to Chief Coriolis, the last of the battle damage should be repaired by this afternoon," Blair concluded. "So the wing will be up and running . . . except for the ships we lost."

"Good job, Colonel," Eisen said. "I'd say three days is a pretty good turn-around time, considering the way your fighters looked when they touched down. Give my compliments to the Chief for a job well done by her techs."

"Yes, sir. They did a fine job." Blair paused, then cleared his throat. "About the losses . . ."

"We've already taken care of the situation," Eisen told him. "Mr. Rollins?"

The Communications Officer consulted his portable computer terminal. "No problem at all on the Hellcats, sir," he said. "The CO at Tamayo Base called for volunteers from the point defense squadron stationed there. They'll be aboard first thing tomorrow."

"Fast work, Lieutenant," Blair commented.

"The commander was pleased with the support he's been getting from the Navy. He was eager to help." Rollins frowned. "I'm not so sure about Mad Max's replacement."

"What's the problem, Lieutenant?" Eisen asked.

"There's a home defense squadron on Tamayo that flies Thunderbolts, sir," Rollins said slowly. "Strictly reservists, mostly rich kids who figured it was a good dodge to avoid active military service and still get to wear a pretty uniform and boast about being hot fighter pilots. The squadron was activated into Confed service when the cats moved into the system."

"Well, we've had green pilots before," Eisen said. "I dare say the Colonel can break in one of these kids fast enough. Or are they being sticky about transferring someone?"

"Oh, they're willing to give us a pilot and his fighter, sir, Rollins said. "A little too willing, the way I see it. I think they're planning on handing us one of their discipline problems."

Eisen shrugged. "Hardly unusual. We'll just have to ride him until he snaps to attention. Right, Colonel?"

"Or ground him and find another qualified pilot," Blair said, nodding. "What makes you think he's going to be a problem, Lieutenant?"

"Hey, I told you, Colonel," he responded with a grin. "Radio Rollins always has his ear to the ground. One of my . . . sources at Tamayo Base was warned by the Home Defense boys that they were looking for a place to dump this guy. I just gotta wonder though, what kind of a screwup gets thrown out of an HD squadron? Know what I mean?"

"As long as he can fly and he's got a Thunderbolt, I can use him in Gold Squadron," Blair said. "He can't be any more difficult to handle than Maniac Marshall."

"I hope you and Major Marshall can work out your little . . . problem, Colonel," Eisen said quietly. "I don't like to have this kind of conflict between two senior officers. Marshall's record is impressive, even if it's not quite as outstanding as yours. I'm not sure I understand why the two of you have such difficulties with each other."

"Part of it's purely personal, Captain," Blair said. "We've been competing against each other since the day we met. At least he's been competing with me." He smiled. "I, of course, am blameless in the whole thing."

"Of course," Eisen said blandly. Rollins chuckled.

"But I do my best to keep the personal problems and the cockpit apart, Captain," Blair went on seriously. "I mean, you don't have to like a guy to serve with him. But Marshall's flying style . . . it scares me, sir, and just about everybody else who flies with him. You saw the tactical tapes on the battle?"

Eisen nodded. "Yeah. Marshall got heavily involved out there a couple of times."

"He chased anything he could see," Blair told him.

"Hobbes saved Sandman because Marshall was too busy playing the personal glory game to support his own wingman. He gets kills, sir, but he does it by ignoring the team. You of all people should know that the team must always come first."

"Sounds like you don't want him on your team at all," Eisen said. "I'd rather not try to transfer him . . ."

"I'm not asking you to, sir," Blair told him. "Look Maniac is not my idea of the ideal wingman, but he's better than when we were on the old Tiger's Claw together. And despite his lack of discipline, he's a good pilot who knows how to score kills. Right now we need everyone like that we can find." He paused. "I know you're concerned about having us clash, but I guarantee that when the Kilrathi come into range we're on the same side. If there's one thing we agree on, it's our duty."

"Glad to hear it, Colonel," the captain said. "I think things are about to get a lot rougher for us, so I want to he sure we're all up to it."

"Rougher, sir?" Blair asked.

Eisen nodded. "That's the reason for the big scramble to get the wing up to full strength again. We've been given new orders, Colonel. Seems the situation in the Locanda System is getting tense. There has been a sharp uptick in Kilrathi activity there, even a couple of sightings that could be the Hvar'kann, Crown Prince Thrakhath's new flagship. And we know for a fact the carrier that launched the attack on us, the Sar'hrai, withdrew through the Locanda jump point shortly after the battle. It seems that a major installation of troops will arrive on Locanda, so the High Command wants us to reinforce them.

"Seems a damned strange place for a push," Blair commented. He remembered the Locanda System: a struggling colony world with a few scattered outposts, all of which had seen better days. "Twenty years back, maybe, it would have made sense, but they've tapped out most of the really valuable mineral resources. When I was stationed there, they were in the middle of an economic depression because a couple of their biggest industries decided to relocate out-system. I don't see the attraction for the Empire's attention . . . certainly not the Prince himself."

"Yeah," Eisen grunted. "Intelligence hasn't been able to come up with anything yet. But ours is not to reason why."

Rollins looked like he was about to say something, but he didn't. After a moment's silence, Blair spoke up. "When do we jump?"

"Two days. Time enough to get our rookies settled and take on fresh stores. Then we're out of here."

"And smack in the middle of trouble," Rollins muttered. Blair doubted that Eisen heard the comment.

"The flight wing'll be ready, sir," he said formally.

"Good. If it's true the cats are building around Locanda, we'll have to be ready for anything." Eisen looked from Blair to Rollins. "That's all for now. Dismissed."

Outside the ready room door, Blair touched the comm officer's sleeve. "A moment, Lieutenant," he said.

"Sir?"

"I had the feeling you knew something more about this Locanda op. Am I imagining things, or have you been listening to more of your . . . sources?"

Rollins met his eyes with a steady gaze. "You sure you want another dose of paranoia, Colonel?"

"Cut the crap, Lieutenant. If you know something about this operation . . ."

"It's nothing definite, Colonel," Rollins said reluctantly. "Not even from the official channels. Captain doesn't know anything about it."

"Tell?"

"I know a guy on General Taggart's staff in Covert Ops. He said Thrakhath was reportedly working on some new terror weapon which was just about ready for testing. I don't know if this has anything to do with that, but if Thrakhath's really in Locanda then this could be the test. It makes sense, when you think about it."

"How so?"

"Well, like you said, Locanda's past its prime. It's of no real strategic value, depleted of all valuable resources. The Kilrathi could raid it for slaves, but they can get slaves anywhere. If they really do have some new weapon something big enough that it will cause mass destruction, Locanda Four would be a pretty good place to try it. Whether it works or not, the cats don t take out anything they want . . . but if it did work, it would be a pretty damn good demonstration.

"Any idea what this wonder weapon is?"

"My guy didn't say. But I've got my suspicions that Intelligence knows more than they're telling us about the whole mess." Rollins lowered his voice. "You know those transports we've been trying to pump through the jump point to Locanda? They've all been medical ships like the High Command was getting ready for a lot of casualties."

"Bioweapons," Blair said, feeling sick.

"That's my take," the Communications Officer agreed. "Think about it. Thrakhath would love to get his hands on the Confed infrastructure. Except for a small stock of slaves, the Kilrathi don't want humans around to compete with them. Seeding choice colony worlds with some new kind of plague would be the perfect way to kill us with a minimum of damage to technology or resources. If the weapon tests well, you can bet the Kilrathi will be hitting someplace important the next time around: Earth."

"Yeah . . . maybe. We certainly showed them the way, back when the Tarawa made the raid on Kilrah a couple of years ago. If they've got an effective biological agent and a reliable delivery system, a handful of raiders could wipe us out. Blair fixed Rollins with a stern look. "Still this is all just speculation, Lieutenant, based on your leak over at covert Ops and a lot of guesswork.

"Theory fits the facts, sir . . ."

"Maybe so. But it's still just a theory until you get genuine proof. Don't spread this around, Rollins. There's no point in getting everybody in an uproar over a possibility. You read me?"

The lieutenant nodded slowly. "Yes, sir. I'll keep it to myself. But you mark my words, Colonel, this is going to be one hell of a nasty fight this time."

Flight Control was fully crewed with a dozen techs and specialists monitoring the activity going on around the carrier and on the flight deck. This morning, Blair decided to preside over operations himself. He took his place on the raised platform which dominated the center of the compartment at a horseshoe-shaped console that could tap into all aspects of wing activities.

"Last of the new Hellcats is down and safe, Colonel," a tech reported from a nearby work station. "Deck will be clear for the Thunderbolt in two minutes."

"Two minutes, Blair repeated. "Well, Major, what do you think? Will they do?"

Major Daniel Whittaker, Red Squadron's CO, watched over Blair's shoulder while the new arrivals were coming in. He was old for his rank and position, with iron-gray hair and an air of cautious deliberation. His callsign was Warlock, and Blair had to admit he could have passed for a high-tech sorcerer.

"They fly well enough," Whittaker said quietly. "I've seen better carrier landings, but these boys and girls have been rotting away in a planetside base where you don't get much chance to practice carrier ops. We'll whip them into shape quick enough, I'd say."

"We'll have to, Major. If the bad guys are out in force around Locanda, point defense will get a real workout."

"Thunderbolt HD Seven-zero-two, you are cleared for approach," a speaker announced. "Feeding approach vectors to your navcomp . . . now."

Blair turned his attention back to the external camera view. The computer enhanced the image so he could see the Thunderbolt clearly against the backdrop of brilliant stars. As he watched, he could see the flare of the fighter's engines as the pilot maneuvered his ship onto its approach path.

"What the hell is that idiot doing?" someone demanded. "He's ignoring the approach vectors we're feeding him!"

"HD Seven-zero-two, you are deviating from flight plan," the comm tech said. "Recheck approach vectors and assume designated course.

The image on Blair's screen swelled as the fighter stooped in toward the carrier, still gathering speed. Blair punched up a computer course projection and was relieved to see that the projected flight path would cause the ship to steer clear of the carrier, but it would be a near miss. If the idiot deviated from his path now, he could easily dive right into the deck. "Belay that transmission," he snapped, "and have the flight deck emergency crews on standby."

An alarm, low but insistent, rang across the flight deck, and Blair could see technicians scrambling to their emergency stations.

The Thunderbolt streaked over the flight deck with bare meters to spare, executing a roll-over as it passed. Then it looped away, killing its speed with a sharp braking thrust and dropping effortlessly into the original approach path. Blair let out a sigh of relief.

"He's on target," someone announced laconically.

"He does that again and he'll be a target," someone else said. Blair shared the sentiment. Rollins had warned Blair that the new pilot was likely to be a problem, but he'd never imagined the man would pull a stupid stunt even before he reported aboard. Fancy victory rolls looked good in holomovies and stunt flying by elite fighter show teams, but they were strictly prohibited in normal carrier operations.

The new pilot had a lot to learn.

The Thunderbolt performed perfectly, hitting the tractor beams precisely and touching the deck in a landing maneuver that could have been used in an Academy training film. Moments later, the fighter rolled to a stop inside the hangar deck. Gravity and pressure were quickly restored as the technicians secured from their emergency preparations.

Blair, seething, was on his way to the deck before the gravity hit one-half G.

The pilot climbed down the ladder from his cockpit and paused to remove his helmet, an ornately decorated rig which carried the word FLASH in bright letters, presumably his running name. He was a young man, under thirty from his appearance, but his flight suit carried a major's insignia. He glanced around the hangar with an easy grin, stopped to wipe away a speck on the underside of the Thunderbolt's wing, then sauntered casually toward the exit. He seemed completely oblivious to Blair.

"Hold it right there, Mister," Blair snapped.

The man gave him a quick look that turned into a double-take as he caught sight of the bird insignia on Blair's collar tabs. He drew himself erect in something that approximated attention and rendered a casual salute. "Didn't expect a high-ranking welcoming committee, sir," he said. His tones were lazy, relaxed. "Major Jace Dillon, Tamayo Home Defense Airspace Command. I'm your replacement pilot."

"That remains to be seen," Blair said. "What's the idea of pulling that damned stunt on your approach, Dillon?"

"Stunt, sir? Oh, the flyby. Hell, Colonel, it was just a little bit of showmanship. They don't call me Flash for nothing, you know." Dillon paused, seeming to realize the depth of Blair's anger for the first time. "Look, I'm sorry if I did something wrong. I just thought I had to show you Regular boys that Home Defense isn't a bunch of no-talent weekend warriors, like everybody thinks. Figured if you saw I knew how to handle my bird then you'd know I could pull my weight, that's all."

Blair didn't answer right away. He could almost understand the man's thinking. Home Defense units had a poor reputation with the regular Navy, often entirely undeserved. There had been a time, back when Blair was this kid's age, that he might have pulled the same kind of stunt to make a point with a new command.

"All right, Dillon, you can fly. You proved that much. Next time I see you in that bird of yours you better show me you know how to obey regs, too. You hear me?"

"Yes, sir," Dillon replied.

"Your Home Defense unit. . . does it use standard Confed ranks?"

"Yes, Colonel."

"And you're a major . . ."

Dillon flushed. "Yes, sir, I am."

"I find that a little difficult to believe, Dillon. A major is usually more seasoned."

"The rank's legitimate, sir," Dillon said, sounding defensive. "Rank earned in Home Defense units is automatically granted in the Confed Regulars upon activation of the unit."

"Of course." Blair studied him for a moment. "So you hold a major's commission in the Home Defense. Let me guess . . . your father's either the unit commander or a prominent local backer who helped fund the unit, and you were bumped through the ranks to Major in consequence, right?"

"Sir, I'm fully qualified as a pilot . . ."

"We established that, Major. I'm interested in your rank qualifications. Is my assessment correct?"

Dillon nodded reluctantly. "My father donated some funds when the unit was put together," he admitted.

"But the rank is legitimate, sir. I was a test pilot with Camelot Industries before I signed on with the HDS and I've been with my squadron for two years now."

"Two years," Blair repeated. "Any combat action?"

"Er. . . no, sir."

He sighed. "Well, Dillon, you're a major in the Confed Navy Flight Branch now, heaven help you . . . and the rest of us. Try to conduct yourself as a responsible officer of this ship and this flight wing. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, Colonel."

"Then . . . welcome aboard, Major Dillon. Report to Lieutenant Colonel Ralgha for indoctrination and assignments. You're dismissed."

He watched the young man leave the hangar not quite as cocky or relaxed any longer. It seemed that the Home Defense squadron had truly dumped a hard-shelled case on the Navy. Dillon was an inexperienced kid who carried a major's rank and the powerful protection of a wealthy family to boot. Dillon would soon learn that neither benefit would mean much when the wing went into action. It was ironic, in a way His father had probably put him into the HDS to get him out of the dangerous job of test pilot

Blair found himself hoping the kid would not have to learn his lesson the hard way. Not that he particularly cared what happened to this young showoff. . . but if he turned out to be the weak link in the wing, he could take better men and women down with him before it was all over.

The ship completed the jump to the Locanda System and began normal operations immediately. Blair spent a long day in Flight Control, supervising the first patrols dispatched to scout the region of space around the jump point and trying to get a feel for the new pilots in his command. As Whittaker had predicted, the new additions to Red Squadron seemed to be settling in well, but Flash was another matter. It still bothered Blair to have an inexperienced combat pilot with such a high rank, and the problem had caused him a sleepless night before he finally decided how to handle it.

He needed to team Dillon with a wingman who outranked him, that much was evident. Let Flash be the ranking officer on some patrol mission which ran into trouble and the result would be disaster. Blair knew he would have to match Dillon with either himself Hobbes, or Maniac Marshall — the only three pilots in Gold Squadron with the rank to keep Dillon under tight control.

Blair was sorely tempted to assign Flash as Maniac's wingman. The two deserved each other, and it might have been a valuable lesson for Marshall to see what it was like to fly with someone unreliable on his wing. But that would have been a risky choice at best. If Maniac didn't rise to the challenge, Blair would end up with two dead pilots. Even unreliable fighter jocks were assets not to be squandered so carelessly.

So the choice remained between himself and Hobbes. He hesitated over it for a long time before finally putting Flash on Ralgha's wing. Blair was concerned that he was letting his personal distaste for the younger man cloud his judgment. but in the end, he decided that the Kilrathi renegade's calm, tightly-controlled manner was the right counterbalance to Dillon's inexperience and enthusiasm.

Flash accepted the match-up with equanimity. Apparently he harbored no special feelings against the Kilrathi, and seemed content to fly with Hobbes. The two left on patrol soon after the jump and the patrol was successful, without incident.

But Blair found himself resenting the necessity which forced him to assign Hobbes and Flash together. He missed flying with Ralgha on his wing. Flint had done a competent job, and he had flown a couple of patrols with Vaquero that went well, but it wasn't the same. He still didn't know the others in the squadron the way he knew Hobbes, and he couldn't count on them to know his mind the way the Kilrathi always did.

Blair wearily straightened in his desk chair. Sometimes it seemed as if he would never get a handle on the assignment to Victory. He had always found it easy to meld into a new ship's company, but this time was different. He came on board determined to remain distant from the others. Blair needed to avoid getting too close, as he had done with his comrades on the Concordia. Blair doubted he could handle losing another shipload of friends . . . but he was finding it difficult to deal with day-to-day life among people who were still essentially strangers. Perhaps he had made the wrong decision from the start.

He slowly rose. The day's work was done and his bunk was waiting for him.

All that really seemed to matter anymore was getting through one more day, performing his duties, and somehow staying sane in the face of a war that seemed more insane every day. It was a far cry from the dreams of glory that had once beckoned Christopher Blair into the life of a fighter pilot, but duty — simple and straightforward — was all that remained for him.

CHAPTER IX

At first glance, there were no customers in the Rec Room when Blair entered, only the grizzled old petty officer who ran the bar. He was a member of the crew from the old Leningrad years ago; one of the handful of survivors who managed to escape the Kilrathi attack that destroyed her. The wounds he suffered in the escape were enough to have him invalided out of active duty, but Dmitri Rostov loved the Service too much to really retire. So he tended bar and swapped stories about the old days, never complaining about the arm and the eye sacrificed in the service of the Confederation.

Ironically, Leningrad was destroyed by the Imperial cruiser Ras Nik'hra, under the command of Ralgha nar Hhallas before his decision to defect. Blair had been pleasantly surprised to learn that Rostov didn't seem to hold a grudge against the Kilrathi, indeed he rather seemed to enjoy talking to the renegade when Hobbes came in to drink.

It was a pity some of the people who served with the Kilrathi pilot could not bury the hatchet the same way.

"Hey, Rosty, how's it going?" Blair gave him a friendly wave. "Don't tell me none of my drunks are hanging out here tonight."

Rostov shrugged and grunted as Blair approached the bar, gesturing toward the observation window on the far side of the compartment. One lonely figure stood framed against the star field, staring out at the void. It was Flint.

"A slow night tonight, Comrade Colonel," Rostov agreed. He ventured a heavy smile. "Perhaps you work them too hard, tire them out too much. Even when I get a customer, it is to look, not to drink."

"I'll take a scotch," Blair said. He waited while the one-armed bartender programmed the order then handed him the glass, using his thumbprint to charge the drink to his account. "Thanks, Bear."

He crossed to the window where Flint stood, but didn't speak. Part of him wanted to respect her privacy, but another part wanted to draw her out, discover something about the woman behind the barriers she put around herself. She was his wingman, and Blair needed to know more about her, even if she was reluctant to be open with others.

The lieutenant seemed totally absorbed in her own thoughts, and Blair doubted she even noticed him. But after a moment she glanced at him. "Sir," she said quietly. That one word carried a range of emotion, sadness, and loneliness mixed with a hint of stubborn pride, exposing a glimpse into Flint's soul.

"I didn't mean to disturb you, Lieutenant," Blair said. "I was just wondering what it was about the view that had you so . . . involved."

"Just . . . thinking, '' she said reluctantly.

"I flew here once," Blair went on. "A lot of places to hide in this system, with the moons and the asteroids. Your first time?"

Flint shook her head ruefully. "This is my home system sir," she told him. "My father commanded a Home Defense squadron after we settled here from Earth. Taught me everything he knew about flying."

"A family tradition, then," Blair commented.

She looked away. "He planned to pass it on to my brother David, but . . . the Kilrathi had their own plans."

"I'm sorry," Blair said, knowing the inadequacy of words. He should never have questioned her, dredging up the past this way.

"Everyone's lost someone, I guess," Flint said with a little shrug. "They don't give you medals for it. But coming back like this . . . it brings back a lot of memories, is all. A lot of stuff I haven't thought about since I went away to the Academy."

"You haven't been back since then?"

She shook her head. "Not much point. My mother took Davie's death hard. She just . . . gave up. He died when I was fifteen. My Dad was killed in the cockpit fighting the cats when they raided here the year after I left. He scored twenty-one kills over the years after Davie was killed. He said each one of them was dedicated to Davie's memory, so he'd have a proper escort of cats to join him in the afterlife. They said . . . they said he died trying to nail number twenty-two, which would have matched Davie's age, but Dad didn't make it." Her voice was flat, level, but Blair could see a hint of tears in her eyes. "I've made eighteen kills since I left the Academy. Four more for Davie, and then I start racking them up for Dad. Maybe I won't score fifty-seven for him, but I'm damned well going to try."

Blair didn't say anything for a long time. He wasn't sure what bothered him most, the woman s preoccupation with vengeance or the cold, matter-of-fact way she talked about it. It was almost as if she was so wrapped up in her quest that she had lost touch with the emotions that set her on the path in the first place.

Finally he changed the subject, gesturing toward the viewport. "Which one was home?"

She pointed to a distant gleam of blue-green, barely showing a disk. "Locanda Four. The main colony world." She paused. "It's a pretty world . . . or it was. Dark purple nights, with bright moons that chased each other across the sky. The insects would sing . . . different serenades, depending on the closeness of the moons. Davie and I would sit up late together, just listening . . ."