ure alike, even when it left a bitter taste in his mouth. He squared his shoulders and opened the rec room door. The noise was almost overpowering at first, with the blare of music competing for dominance with the babble of conversation, laughs, and cheers coming from a cluster of men and women around the flight simulator in one corner of the compartment. Blair stopped just inside scanning the room. Gradually some of the noise died away as pilots became aware of his presence. "See, the conquering hero comes!" Maniac Marshall proclaimed loudly. The half-empty glass in his hand and the slur in his voice made it clear he was well under way with his own celebration of the successful afternoon's battle. The major had a female crew member with comm department shoulder tabs backed into a corner, but as he turned toward Blair, she quickly slipped away to join the spectators by the flight simulators, looking relieved. "So," Marshall went on. "Come to join the victory party, is it, Colonel? Guess you have to find ‘em wherever you can, huh? When you can't manage to earn one, that is." That provoked a few nervous laughs. Luckily, one of the pilots approached Maniac with a pitcher of beer, offering him a refill. Marshall held out his glass unsteadily and let her fill it for him. In the comparative quiet that followed, Blair took a step forward and cleared his throat. "I just wanted to drop by and congratulate Gold Squadron for a job well done today," he said loudly. "I'm sure there's nobody as proud of you people tonight as I am." "Damn straight," Maniac interrupted. "Not just ten Kilrathi fighters — two of ‘em killed by yours truly — but also a cap ship. And a supply depot hidden inside that asteroid. All cleared out courtesy of Maniac Marshall and the Gold Squadron . . . with an able assist by those two brilliant scouts, Wrong-Way Blair and the King of the Kitty Litter! What would we do without ‘em, huh?" Blair fought down a flash of anger. Marshall was drunk and offensive, but he was entitled to a little boasting. The major had led three other fighters to probe the same region where Blair and Hobbes had run into trouble, and flushed out a nest of Kilrathi fighters and a light cruiser that had moved in after the first battle. According to all reports, Marshall had done a decent job of keeping his command together while awaiting the back-up flight's arrival. They accounted for ten Dralthi and managed to knock out the capital ship as well. Although some of the Thunderbolts were heavily damaged, none had been destroyed. All in all it had been an excellent job. "Captain Eisen asked me to let you know that the drinks tonight are being charged to the shipboard recreation fund," Blair went on as if Marshall hadn't spoken. Usually, drinks were paid for by the individual officers and crewmen, with their cost charged against shipboard pay accounts. But this was a special occasion — the first triumph of Victory's new tour of duty. "So enjoy yourselves while you can. You'll be back on the flight line soon enough!" That brought cheers from everyone. Most of the flight wing's personnel were in the rec room for the party, except for pilots and technicians who had duty tonight or first thing in the morning. There were also a fair number of people from other carrier departments. Blair saw Lieutenant Rollins at the bar, deep in conversation with a pretty redhead from Blue Squadron. He looked around the room again and noticed a woman sitting alone at one of the tables, her eyes resting on him with a coldly intense expression. He recognized her from the Wing's personnel files: Lieutenant Laurel Buckley (callsign Cobra), a member of Gold Squadron. That was all he knew about her since her family and background records were sketchy. She consistently received high marks in Colonel Dulbrunin's quarterly evaluations in her file, but beyond that she was a mystery. The door opened behind Blair. He glanced over his shoulder and smiled at Ralgha, receiving a slight bow in response before the Kilrathi moved on toward the bar. "Hey, Hobbes," a new voice cut over the chatter that filled the room. "How about going a round with me, huh? Bet you a week's pay on one hand." The Kilrathi shook his head gravely. "Thank you, no," he said, turning to the bartender to order a drink. Blair studied the man who had hailed his friend. He was seated nearby, a Chinese flight lieutenant who looked about thirty standard years old until you saw the age in his eyes. The man caught Blair's look and flashed him a lazy grin, holding up a deck of cards in one hand. "What about you, Colonel?" he asked, riffling the cards expertly. "Want to play a hand? Since you're the new boy in town, I'll let you call the game." "I think I'll keep my money if it's all the same to you," Blair said, sitting down. The man was another pilot from Gold Squadron, and from all appearances didn't have any problem serving with Hobbes. That recommended him to Blair right away. "I learned a long, long time ago never to play cards with the shipboard shark." "Well, it's a free Confed." The lieutenant put down the cards and stuck out a hand. "I'm Vagabond. A belated welcome aboard's in order, I guess. Or would condolences for your little scrap this morning be more appropriate?" "Not much for protocol, are you?" Blair said, taking the proffered hand in his. "Do you always go by your callsign or do you just have something against the name Winston Chang?" He shrugged. "Formalities tend to be forgotten when you spend most of your time just trying to survive, wouldn't you say?" He smiled, lifted his drink, and took a sip. "What little spare time we have should not be wasted on practicing salutes and mastering the intricacies of military make-work." Blair looked him over, liking the man despite Chang's irreverent manner, or maybe because of it. "With that attitude, I'm surprised you've been able to adapt to the military life at all." Vagabond shrugged again. "I've always felt that the military should learn how to adapt to me, Colonel," he said with another grin. "After all, I'm a genuine high-flying hero type, with pilot's wings and everything!" Blair was about to make a sarcastic reply when his attention was drawn to Hobbes. The Kilrathi had finished his drink in silence and turned from the bar, heading for the door again, probably uncomfortable in the crowd of humans. Ralgha, a Kilrathi noble before his defection, never relinquished his aversion to large groups and noisy surroundings, especially when they involved non-Kilrathi gatherings. It was one of the reasons people found him so aloof and seemingly unfriendly, but it was nearly as much a matter of carnivore instinct as of aristocratic breeding. As he approached the exit he brushed against the woman Blair had seen watching him earlier, Lieutenant Buckley. She reached the door just before Hobbes and stopped to listen to someone. Hobbes barely touched her, but she spun quickly to confront him with an angry expression which marred her attractive features. "Don't touch me!" she grated. "Don't ever touch me, you goddamned furball!" Ralgha recoiled from her as if stricken, started to speak, then seemed to think better of it. Instead he gave one of his bows and circled cautiously around her. She glared at him until the door closed behind him. "Excuse me, Lieutenant," Blair said, suppressing the anger welling inside him. "I have . . . a matter that needs to be attended." Chang looked from Blair to Buckley and back again, his smile gone. "I understand," he said with a nod. "But I hope you'll keep something in mind, Colonel. We've got a lot of good people on this ship. Even the ones who may not fit in with your idea of . . . decorum." Blair stood up and crossed to the door. Buckley was still standing nearby, flushed and angry. He took her elbow and pointed toward the door. "Time we had a little talk, Lieutenant," he said quietly. "Outside." She let him lead her into the corridor. When the door closed and the party sounds were no longer heard, they faced each other for a long moment in silence. "Want to tell me what that little outburst was all about, Lieutenant?" Blair asked. Buckley fixed him with an angry stare. "Ain't much to say, Colonel," she said, managing to make the rank sound more like a swear word. "You insisted on flying with it, and even after it let you down you'll probably still take its part. Doesn't leave much scope for conversation, does it?" "Lieutenant Colonel Ralgha nar Hhallas is a superior officer, Lieutenant," Blair said sharply. "You will refer to him with respect. I will not have one of my officers treating another member of the wing with such blatant bigotry and hatred. Some day you might have to fly on his wing, and when that happens . . ." "That won't happen, Colonel," she said stiffly. "I can't fly with . . . him, and if you order it, I will resign my commission on the spot. That's all there is to it." "I should take you up on that resignation right now, Lieutenant," Blair said. "But you're a good pilot, and we need all the good pilots we can get. I'd rather work this thing out. If you'd just give Hobbes a chance — " "You don't want me flying with him, sir," she said. "Because I won't defend him in a fight. Better we go our separate ways . . . one way or another." "Why? What's he ever done to you?" "He's Kilrathi," she said harshly. "That's enough. And there's nothing you can do to change the way I feel." "I . . . see." Blair studied her face. It was a bad idea to let something like this simmer inside the wing, but he wasn't willing to force a confrontation. Not yet, at least. "I'll try to keep the two of you apart for the moment, Lieutenant, but I expect you to behave like a Confed officer and not a spoiled brat. Do you understand me?" "I wasn't asking for special favors, sir," she said, shrugging. "Just thought you should know how things stand." "Just so you know where you stand, Lieutenant," he said softly. "If I have to pick between the two of you, I'll pick Hobbes every time. I'd trust him with my life." She gave him a chilly smile. "That, Colonel, is your mistake to make." CHAPTER FIVE Flight Wing Rec Room, TCS Victory Orsini System The rec room was much quieter tonight than the night of the party and considerably less crowded. Blair finished another long shift of poring over reports and requisitions. He decided that a quick drink and a few moments of simply sitting alone, perhaps watching the stars through the compartment's viewport, would help him get over the feeling of confinement and constriction which plagued him more and more lately. As he walked briskly through the door, he was hoping for some solitude. He wanted to forget, just for a few minutes, that he had anything to do with Victory, or the flight wing . . . or the war. 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 ‘til 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 SIX 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 inte