-class targets. At least four eights of them!"
     "Position?" Thrakhath rasped.
     "Bearing to port and low, range five thousand octomak and closing." The
officer paused. "They are Terran by their signatures, Lord Prince . . ."
     "Of  course they are  Terran, fool!"  Thrakhath raged. "Who else  would
send fighters against us? But how . . . ?"
     "The Terran carrier," Melek said. "Victory."
     "Victory," Thrakhath repeated, his claws twitching in and  out of their
sheaths with the violence of  his emotion. "The Terrans must  not be allowed
to stop  Unseen Death. Order all Vrag'chath  missiles fired immediately, and
launch fighters. Do it now!
     "We could deploy the Red Fang squadron to engage them, Lord Prince — "
     "No! Red Fang has its own role to play. They will  adhere to the battle
plan!"
     "As you wish, Lord Prince. But I am  afraid that the Terrans might have
more  surprises  planned for us."  Melek's words  were  grim as he turned to
carry out Thrakhath's orders.
     The Prince summoned up a holographic tactical chart in the air in front
of his command seat. He glared into it as if the very  anger in his eyes was
a weapon to destroy the Terran with. "It  is they  who will be surprised,  I
think," he said quietly.
     Melek  glanced up from  his  console. The renegade  will be among these
pilots, Lord Prince," he pointed out. "Do the orders regarding him stand?"
     Thrakhath didn't  answer  right away. If only Sar'hrai  had carried out
the  job  of  crippling   the  Terran  carrier  at  Tamayo,  none  of  these
complications would he around to plague him now. Carrier and renegade  would
be safely ensconced in some  Confederation shipyard,  waiting for the moment
when they would join in the intricate dance  of Thrakhath's grand design. He
hoped Sar'hrai's late captain was suffering on the unending barren plains of
the Kilrathi netherworld for his failure. "If detected, the renegade must be
avoided," the Prince said at last. "It is not yet time for Ralgha to realize
his destiny . . ."

     Thunderbolt 300 Locanda System

     "The  big boys  are launching missiles, skipper." The voice in  Blair's
headphones had  been scrambled, decoded, and computer-reconstructed, but  he
recognized Vagabond's smooth, laid-back  tones. "Big suckers . .  . must  be
those Skippers you warned us about."
     "Time to give them something else to think  about,  Blair  said. "Green
Squadron, execute Plan Hammer. Amazon, give ‘em cover . . ."
     "Acknowledged," Major Berterelli said, his tone bland and professional.
     "On  it,  Colonel,"  Mbuto  chimed  in  a moment later. "Come  on, Blue
Squadron, let's give the cats something they can really chew on!"
     The Longbows and  Arrows peeled away, headed toward Thrakhath's command
carrier. Blair had been forced to improvise an attack plan quickly  once the
Kilrathi fleet  had been spotted, and Plan Hammer  was a  modification of  a
standing tactical operation he hoped would do the job.
     The main vulnerability  of the  Kilrathi was their reliance on a highly
organized leader  cult at all levels of their society. From the Emperor down
to  the most  ordinary noncom, leaders  were  looked  to  for  virtually all
decisions, even minor tactical choices a human  would automatically make  on
his own initiative. The chain of command in the Empire allowed for a certain
amount of  flexibility, but an Imperial force without a leader  grew rapidly
unstable.
     And Kilrathi leaders were well aware  of this. They fought honorably in
battle, like any  of their race, but they were also all too conscious of the
need for protection.
     A threat  to Thrakhath's  flagship,  then,  might  just  get  the  full
attention  of  the Kilrathi  prince, at least for  a time. He  would  almost
certainly concentrate his capital ships  to meet the danger, and  that might
just give Blair and Gold Squadron the time they needed to do something about
the Kilrathi missiles  that  were  already accelerating away from  the enemy
fleet. If the Kilrathi concentrated  on defending themselves, their missiles
might just be vulnerable.
     "Gold Squadron, stay with me," he went on.  "Let's give the heavy stuff
a wide berth if we can."
     "I'm for that!" Vaquero said. "The wider, the better."
     Still at full thrust, the Thunderbolts raced in pursuit of the Kilrathi
fighters, but despite Blair's preference their course led them directly past
one of the enemy destroyers. For a moment  he debated steering  clear of the
ship,  but that would give  the Kilrathi  strike  force too  much lead time.
Blair decided their  only choice was  to  risk the capitol ship's  defensive
fire. . . .
     "Check  your  shields, people,"  he ordered. "And  hold your fire.  Our
targets are the fighters."
     "Goddamn,"  Maniac said, almost too soft  to hear.  "We could nail this
bastard if we wanted to. . . ."
     "Stick to the program, Maniac," Blair warned.
     "I know,  I  know,"  Marshall  said.  "But  you can't  blame a  guy for
dreaming can you?"
     The  destroyer  opened fire, massive energy discharges  crackling  from
each of her turret batteries. One shot grazed Blair's starboard shields, and
his status board  lit  up red as the computer  assessed  the power loss.  It
wouldn't  take  too many such  hits  to overwhelm the  shielding  and  start
sloughing off armor.
     The biggest problem, though,  was just gripping  the steering yoke  and
trying to stay on course. Every nerve and  muscle within him  wanted to take
action,  any kind of action, but Blair forced himself to maintain his course
and press on. He hoped the others would follow his lead.
     "I'm  hit!  I'm  hit!" That  was  Beast  Jaeger.  "Direct  hit  on  bow
shielding. The generator's overloaded — "
     "Hold  on, partner," Cobra  said.  She was flying  as his wingman again
today.  "Ease  off a bit. I'll slide in ahead of you." Blair  glanced at his
tactical display  and saw that the  lieutenant was suiting actions to words,
bringing her Thunderbolt in directly ahead of Jaeger's. She could soak up at
least some of the energy that came his way  now . . . but it was a dangerous
move, keeping such a tight formation.
     "What's your status, Beast?" he asked.
     "Bow shield  generator's off-line, Colonel,"  Jaeger  reported,  calmer
now. "But  I'm re-routing the  system now. It'll  be makeshift, but I'll get
the shields back up."
     "You could abort . . ."
     "No way, Colonel. I'm in it for the long haul."
     "Bastard's still firing," Maniac commented. "Damn near singed my wings.
I still wish I could take him down."
     "Maniac,  if  we take out  those  missiles, I  personally guarantee you
we'll  come back and toast this cat's  whiskers," Blair told him. "Any other
damage?"
     There was none. They had cleared the destroyer's primary kill zone now,
though a few stray shots might  still find them even here. But the worst was
over. . . .
     Except, of course, for stopping those missiles.

     Flag Bridge. KIS Hvar'kann Locanda System

     "The stalker  is loose among the meat-herd, Lord Prince.  Their bombers
have  damaged  the  forward  shields and  knocked  out our  primary  missile
launcher."
     "The  Terrans are prey, not predators,"  Thrakhath  snarled.  He didn't
like the  way Melek was beginning to regard the enemy. Respect or admiration
was an accolade to be accorded only to  predators, and the Terrans certainly
didn't qualify for that status  no matter how hard they fought to stay clear
of the Imperial claws and fangs.
     "Perhaps not," Melek said, almost  mildly. "But at the moment that prey
is dangerous. The threat to the flagship cannot be ignored, Lord Prince. And
it is not the only problem — "
     "The Terran success  will not last,"  Thrakhath told him. "They are too
badly outnumbered to deal with all our ships. Particularly once the fighters
are fully deployed.''
     "The attacks  on the  flagship may be  no more  than  a diversion, Lord
Prince. The Terrans feint and threaten, but do not press home their thrusts.
Nor  are  they  eager to  engage our fighters.  We have destroyed two medium
interceptors  and  a bomber,  and  others  are  damaged. But  one  of  their
squadrons  is  pursuing the  missile  flight.  If  they  can  intercept  the
missiles,  the  whole  plan  will  be  lost. We  should  consider  diverting
additional fighters to cover the missile strike."
     "No, Melek," he said at last. "No, the Red Fangs will be sufficient for
that task. The other fighters will remain here, to support the fleet. And to
threaten the Terran carrier, once they break off their attacks here."
     "As  you  command,  Lord  Prince,"  Melek  acknowledged.  But Thrakhath
thought he could detect  an undercurrent of dispute in his  retainer's tone.
That would  have to be dealt with, at  some  point, lest it  grow  into open
rebellion.
     A pity, really, if Thrakhath ultimately was forced to do away with him.
Melek was too useful a subordinate to dispose of casually.

     Thunderbolt 300 Locanda System

     "Stay on ‘em," Blair said through tight-clenched teeth. "Stay on them .
. ."
     A  cluster  of  Kilrathi  missiles  glowed  bright on  his  short-range
scanner, almost  within  weapons  range now as the  Terrans continued  their
pursuit. Then they were gone again, cloaked, equally invisible to electronic
scanning and the naked  eye. It  made  the chase a  frustrating  one,  never
knowing just  when the targets might be  visible or where their  essentially
random course changes might  put them next. But patience and a little bit of
luck would still be enough to stop the Kilrathi  warheads . . . provided the
Terrans  kept  on  top  of  the  Skippers.  If  any of  them  got  past  the
Confederation  fighters,  picking  up  their  trail  again  later  would  be
well-nigh impossible.
     "Hobbes,  you and  Flash  get  to play  tag  with  these  boys,"  Blair
announced  on the tactical channel. "Stick  with it until you clean them up.
and try to let us  know if any  of them get past you. Save your missiles  if
you can .  . . there  might  be  some tougher opponents for you to go  after
later on." He paused.  "The rest of  you stay with me. We'll track down that
next batch while Hobbes has his fun here. Fire at any target of opportunity,
beams only . . . and don't deviate from your flight paths. Let's do it!"

     Red Fang Leader Locanda System

     Flight Captain Graldak nar Sutaghi accelerated  his Strakha fighter  to
full power  and studied the tell-tales flickering on his sensor screen.  The
Terrans were among  the missiles now,  beginning to  fire as the  Vrag'chath
popped  in  and  out  of  view  to  allow  their  computers  to make  course
corrections in flight.  It was time for  Graldak's  warriors  to make  their
presence known.
     He outnumbered the Terrans, with  two eights of fighters in his command
against  eight-and-two of the Terran Thunderbolts. But it  wasn't  much of a
margin  of  superiority.  If  only Prince  Thrakhath had provided additional
fighter support for the missiles! But instead he had chosen to hold back the
bulk  of the  Imperial  fighters  to defend  his  flagship,  even  though  a
half-blind churnah could see that the Terran attack had been a mere feint to
hold Imperial assets in place around the fleet  while they tried to stop the
missiles.
     It  would be fitting if  Thrakhath's  flagship was  blown away, Graldak
thought. The  Prince and his half-senile grandfather had  done nothing right
since  the  war  with  the  Terrans  had first begun. There was  a  stirring
throughout the Empire these days, the first scent of change on  the wind. If
only the Imperial familys iron talons could be pried  loose for a  time, the
Clans would  rise and sweep  them aside. Then  the  Empire  could  end  this
fruitless  war with the humans,  come to terms with them as predators rather
than continuing to view them, as Thrakhath did, as prey.
     But  meantime  the War went  on, and  Graldak  had  duty  and honor  to
maintain.
     "Red Fang Leader to Gleaming Talon Squadron," Graldak said aloud. "Drop
out of cloak and engage the Terrans. The honor of battle is yours."
     Gleaming   Talon's   fighters   were  a  good   match  for  the  Terran
Thunderbolts, especially with  the  element of surprise  on their side. They
would  tie the Terrans up for a  few  critical minutes, at least,  and  that
would give the other flights of missiles time to get further away. Once they
were more than a few thousand  octomaks from the Terran fighters, they would
be even harder to detect.
     And, meanwhile, Red Fang squadron  would remain clear of the  fighting,
until Graldak could decide how best to intervene. After all, it  wasn't just
missiles that could hide behind a cloak.


        CHAPTER XIII

     Thunderbolt 300 Locanda System

     "We got us some company, Colonel. I count eight on an intercept course,
bearing zero-one-six by three-five-eight."
     The target reticule flashed on his HUD,  and Blair glanced  down at the
targeting data display  to his right even as Flint's words were registering.
Targets . . . ? Where had they come from?
     The  answer made a cold lump in his stomach as the computer displayed a
diagram of the nearest target, asymmetrical, with projecting horns that gave
it a menacing, alien shape. Even before he saw the name Blair recognized the
design and cursed under his  breath. He should have realized  what he was up
against immediately.
     Strakha fighters.
     They  were  comparatively  rare in  the  Kilrathi arsenal  as  yet,  an
advanced-technology  space fighter on the cutting  edge of Kilrathi science.
Intelligence had nicknamed  them "Stealth Cats"  before they'd ever actually
been  encountered  in  combat,  and  they lived  up  to the  name. They were
designed for  sneaking, pure  and simple,  with sensor-distorting  materials
incorporated into the hull and a  shape that tended to confuse most scanning
systems.  Worst of all, though, they  mounted a  cloaking device that  could
actually obscure the craft from any detection whatsoever, at least for short
periods of time. But unlike the Skipper missiles, they  could  stay  hidden,
without having to drop the cloak to make navigation checks.
     The new Excaliburs Rachel Coriolis had been drooling over a  few  weeks
back  had  been designed to incorporate  a  Terran knock-off  of a  captured
Kilrathi cloak,  but the Excaliburs weren't in production  yet Strakha were.
And they were here, in the Locanda system, right now.
     "I see them, Flint," Blair  acknowledged his wingman's call.  "Escorts,
to take our minds off the missiles."
     "Hard to ignore ‘em," Flint said. When they want to meet us so bad  and
all . . ."
     He  didn't answer her.  "Maniac,  Cobra,  engage  the escort  fighters.
Wingmen, stay with your leaders. The  rest  of you, stay on course  and only
engage if you have to.
     "Ready to rock'n roll!" Marshall  responded. "C'mon Sandy,  let's teach
these kitties a few new flying tricks!"
     "We're on it," Cobra added a moment later.
     Four Thunderbolts  broke formation,  Maniac and Sandman  rolling  left,
Cobra and  Beast to  the  right as  they  spread  out  to meet the  oncoming
Kilrathi craft. He hoped his people could deal with two-to-one odds.
     That left four  Terran fighters to pursue the Imperial missiles. And if
even one of them got through . . .
     Blair forced the thought from his mind. He couldn't afford doubts now.
     "Here, kitty,  kitty," Maniac was taunting. "Get  ready to  become  cat
chow!"
     The Thunderbolts  maintained formation as they drove through the  enemy
squadron. Blair's  target computer  selected the closest fighter and  locked
on, and as  the  crosshairs glowed on  his HUD Blair triggered his blasters.
Energy beams  raked  the Kilrathi  ship, not quite  enough to penetrate  the
shields. But a moment later Flint was firing. The target ship tried to dodge
out of range, but too late. Flint's blaster tore through shields, armor, and
hull, and the Strakha blew.
     "Twenty-one!"  Flint  called. She sounded  excited,  eager. "Thanks for
laying him open for me, Colonel!"
     "Any  time,  Lieutenant," Blair  told  her. "Just remember to keep your
wits about you. Keep it frosty."
     Another explosion flared  to  port, where  Vagabond  had scored  a hit.
Hobbes  and Flash, meantime,  had  broken formation to pursue the  flight of
missiles. The four remaining Thunderbolts  in Blair's  dwindling force raced
on,  past another Skipper  that Vaquero and Blair each  managed to  tag.  It
didn't blow, but Blair's targeting computer reported extensive damage to the
guidance systems and  steering jets. That made it virtually certain to  miss
its target.
     They didn't  have to destroy  their targets, just disable them. Another
advantage, however slight . . .
     They still needed every advantage they could muster.

     Thunderbolt 308 Locanda System

     "Look  out,  Beast,  you've  got  one on your tail!"  Lieutenant Laurel
Buckley bit off a curse as she brought her fighter around to support Jaeger.
Almost from the moment they'd come into weapons range  the Kilrathi had been
pressing their attack hard,  their  fighters  swarming  like  angry  hornets
around the  outnumbered Terrans.  Strakha were dangerous foes when the  odds
were even. When they had numbers on their side as well they were deadly.
     But the four  Thunderbolts could keep them  busy for a while,  and that
might give Blair the time he needed. Cobra found herself wondering, briefly,
if  the colonel's decision to order her  and Maniac to deal with the escorts
was Blair's way of getting  rid of the pilots he trusted  least. Everyone in
the Wing knew how he felt about Marshall . and she suspected he had the same
opinion of her, after their clashes over Ralgha and Flint.
     And Jaeger had the only fighter damaged by the destroyer's fire. Was he
being left as a diversion because he, too, was considered expendable?
     On the other hand, he'd kept Dillon  paired with his  precious Kilrathi
friend, and nobody figured Flash as anything but deadwood.
     No,  Blair  didn't  strike  her as the kind  to  let personal  feelings
dictate his tactical choices. He probably figured  that she and Maniac would
be better at this kind of free-for-all dogfighting than they were  likely to
be pursuing and attacking the strike craft.  Four Thunderbolts against eight
Strakha — no, six, now, after Flint and Maniac had each managed  to take one
out — called for aggressive flying, and that was one thing Cobra Buckley was
good at.
     "Hold  her steady, Beast,"  she said, lining up  on the fighter  behind
Jaeger. "Steady  . . . turn  port!  Port!" She squeezed  the  trigger on her
blasters as she shouted.
     Jaeger cut sharply to  the  left, then broke right  again as he applied
braking  thrust.  The  Strakha,  pounded by Cobra's beams, shot past Beast's
Thunderbolt,  and  Jaeger opened fire on the  exposed tail where the shields
were still shimmering from the fury of Buckley's attack.
     For a moment nothing  happened. Then the shields collapsed and Jaeger's
blasters tore through armor. A shot penetrated to the  power plant, and  the
Strakha exploded.
     "Nice shooting, partner!" Cobra called, grinning.
     You set it up," Jaeger said. "Only five more to go!"
     "Four!" Maniac  cut in. "I've already nailed two of the bastards.  Come
on, you two, join the party! Plenty of little kitty asses for everybody!"
     "Two more coming in, Cobra," Jaeger reported. "Up ahead . . .  shit! My
shield generator's fritzing on me again!"
     "Back off, Beast, let me handle —
     The two Strakha dived straight in, concentrating their fire on Jaeger's
Thunderbolt. Shot after  shot raked the fighter. He was trying to turn away,
but Buckley could see he was too late. The bow shield was failing . . .
     Then it was over. The  fireball consumed Jaeger's fighter so bright her
computer cut in the polarizers for an instant to protect  her eyes. When she
could  see  again,   nothing  remained  of  Helmut  Jaeger's  craft  but   a
rapidly-expanding cloud of twisted, scorched metal fragments.
     She  could  hardly  believe it had happened so  suddenly.  One  instant
Jaeger  had  been  out there  .  . . now, nothing.  It took her  back to the
horrors of  the  Kilrathi labor camp to guards who would strike down a slave
without warning  and  to people she knew who vanished in the night. The cats
were always the  same, always killing  without warning  and  without  mercy,
taking joy from death and fear and pain . . .
     "Bastards!" she screamed,  hitting her afterburners to dive toward  the
nearest  Strakha as she  opened fire  with  all  her energy weapons at once.
"Damn cat bastards! I'll see you all in hell!"

     Strike Leader Locanda System

     Graldak nar Sutaghi bared his fangs as four Terran fighters accelerated
away from the developing battle. So, the Terran strike  leader knows how  to
hunt,  he  thought  grimly. Prince  Thrakhath had bestowed a name upon their
Flight Wing commander: The Heart of the Tiger. Today the human was living up
to the honor of that name, clinging to his mission despite all the  barriers
the Empire raised in his path.
     Did Thrakhath realize  what kind of  warrior  this ape  was? The Prince
wasn't  known  for esteeming  his  Terran  foes, even those who  received  a
Kilrathi vendetta-name.
     No matter, now. The only thing that counted at the moment was  victory,
and  that was very nearly under Graldak's claws. The Terrans  had managed to
destroy two of the four flights of missiles, and they had almost reached the
third. But they would get no further.
     "Red  Fang squadron," he  said aloud,  feeling the battle-lust  surging
through his veins. "Decloak and engage at will!"

     Thunderbolt 300 Locanda System

     "Keep  them off me!  Keep  them off me!" Vaquero's  voice was urgent in
Blair's headphones. "Where the hell are you, Vagabond?"
     "Just hang in there a little longer," the Chinese pilot responded. "The
cavalry's coming."
     Blair wrenched his attention back to his  HUD as a Strakha dived toward
him, guns blazing. This last batch of enemy fighters had come at them out of
nowhere  eight against  his four, and the Terrans  were fighting  for  their
lives. Even as he flipped the Thunderbolt  into a tight, high-G evasive turn
a part of his mind was on another part of  the  battle entirely . . . and on
the  clock.  Each  second  ticking  away took the  final  flight of Kilrathi
missiles further from  the Terran fighters, letting them spread out. Soon it
would be all but impossible to detect them even when they weren't cloaked.
     He tracked the Strakha in, holding his fire and waiting for an opening.
Then Flint swept  past, her blasters searing,  battering at the other ship's
shields. Blair joined the barrage, and the Strakha came apart.
     "Twenty-two, Lieutenant " he remarked dryly.
     "No, sir, that one was yours. I just softened him up." Flint sounded as
tired as he felt.
     "We'll debate it when we get back to Old Vic," he said, trying to sound
encouraging.  Flint  had  done  yeoman  duty  on  his  wing  today,  keeping
formation,  supporting  him constantly, never forgetting herself or yielding
to temptation. Since that first hit she hadn't scored a clean kill,  but she
didn't  seem to be concerned at missing her chance to rack up more points in
her  quest  for revenge.  After this, he wouldn't doubt her  again, he  told
himself as he turned his  attention back to his  sensor  readouts. "Scanning
for new targets."
     There were four more Strakha ahead.
     "Everybody  up  to  another  dogfight?"  he  asked. "Targets at  eleven
o'clock, low. Let's nail them!"
     The four Thunderbolts closed up into tight formation and drove for  the
newest  targets. The Strakha broke  formation promptly, not waiting for  the
usual  round  of  individual  sorties that usually  marked  a fight with the
Kilrathi. Their CO must he one hell of a leader, Blair thought.
     "Vaquero, Vagabond, you guys dance  with these four, Blair  called.  "I
want to try for the rest of the missiles. You with me, Flint?"
     "On your wing, Colonel," she told him.
     He broke  to port and increased  thrust, with Flint's fighter  sticking
close by. The other two Thunderbolts drove straight  toward the Strakha, but
these Kilrathi pilots didn't rise to the bait of close combat. Blair saw the
images on his scanner flicker and go out as the Strakha engaged their cloaks
again. He muttered a curse under his breath.
     "Keep a sharp eye out, people," he said over the comm channel. "They'll
be back. Bet on it."
     And  suddenly  they  were back,  two  of  them, at least.  The  pair of
Kilrathi fighters materialized right  on  his  tail,  releasing missiles and
then fading out of sight once again. Blair dumped a decoy missile and banked
sharply, feeling the familiar rush of adrenaline in his  blood.  One  of the
enemy missiles picked up the decoy and homed in on it, but the second wasn't
fooled  by the electronic  signature  and  continued  to  hurtle  after  the
Thunderbolt. Blair  altered course  sharply again,  veering back toward  the
decoy's flight path. The timing would have to be damned tight. . . .
     His  fighter  flashed past the  two  missiles  just  seconds before the
Kilrathi warhead detonated. The  blast that  erupted behind him  was  like a
false  dawn.  His  shield indicators registered a noticeable power loss, but
nothing close to what he would have suffered if  the full force of the blast
had been absorbed by the shields  themselves. After a moment he checked  his
screens, and let out  a  sigh.  The explosion had  caught  the second  enemy
missile.
     Then  another  Strakha  was in  sight,  firing on  him  with beams  and
missiles  from  dead ahead. Blair  returned fire,  and seconds  later  Flint
joined the fray  with  all  her guns blazing. Just as Blair's forward shield
was registering zero, the  Strakha went up in a magnificent  fireball. Blair
heard  Flint cheering. A  moment later Vaquero and Vagabond were joining in,
proclaiming another kill.
     "The  other two boys are  running!"  Vaquero shouted  all  trace of the
peaceful musician submerged now. "Looks like  we've  taught em a real lesson
this time!"
     "Permission to pursue, sir?" Flint added a moment later.
     "Negative," he  snapped.  "Negative! We've still  got missiles to track
down! Get on your scanners, people. Now!"
     But it was too  late. His sensors turned up nothing but debris and open
space, out to their maximum limit  The remaining Skipper missiles,  five  at
least, were gone
     Blair  stared at  the  empty screens, unable to  accept what  they were
telling him. They'd come so damned close.

     Flag Bridge, KIS Hvar'kann Locanda System

     "A report, Lord Prince."
     "What have  you got, Melek?"  Thrakhath leaned forward in his chair  to
study the bulky figure of the retainer.
     "The  Strakha have  eluded the  Terran Thunderbolts Lord Prince." Melek
paused. "The  surviving missiles are well on  their way, and interception by
the Terrans now is most unlikely. The colony will not survive."
     Thrakhath bared his  fangs. "Good. Then we have done what we came  here
to  do.  This  will  surely  spur   the  Terrans  into  a  rash  attempt  at
retaliation."  He could barely  contain the pleasure that burned inside him.
This was the first step to  ending the long war. "The  fleet  will disengage
and set  course  to the jump  point  to the  Ariel system. Let us leave  the
Terrans  to their . . .  possession. Let them decide  if they are pleased at
the price they have paid to drive us away from their colony."
     "Lord Prince  . . . many of  the  fighters are damaged and low on fuel.
The Strakha are at the very limit of their range. Should we not move to pick
them up first?" Melek's look was almost challenging.
     "The Terran reaction will be unpredictable, Melek. They could decide to
launch  a retaliatory  strike, once  they realize that all they have left is
vengeance. We must not delay too long. Any fighters that can rendezvous with
us may do so, but we will  not wait for stragglers." Thrakhath paused.  "You
may order tankers  to refuel them  if you wish. Carry  out my orders  .  . .
now."

     Thunderbolt 300 Locanda System

     "Good  God, Colonel, what do we do now?" Flint's voice was ragged, with
fatigue or shock or  disappointment. Blair wasn't sure which. "They're . . .
gone."
     "We  do  whatever  we  still  can," he  said, hard-pressed to keep  the
despair out of his own voice. "And we pray the in-system defenses spot those
bastards before they do any damage to the colony . . ."
     "I  counted five of them all  told, Colonel,"  Vaquero said.  "Can t we
blanket the approaches and pick them up before they reach the planet?"
     "We can try," Blair said.
     "So . . we head for home, skipper?" Vaquero asked.
     "But . .  . the colony," Flint  said.  "We can t just turn back now. We
have to try to stop those missiles!"
     "We'll do  what  we  can,  Lieutenant," Blair told her. "Spread out and
keep hunting,  and  call for refueling  from  Victory.  The  Home Guard  and
whatever  other ships are  closer in to Four can search,  too.  But we can't
track what we can't see. And I don't hold out much hope at this point."


        CHAPTER XIV

     Thunderbolt 300 Locanda System

     "The last  word we received put the Kilrathi concentrating  around  the
jump point to Ariel. Looks like they  re  pulling out. Not even bothering to
gather in all their fighters, either. Could be we can round up a few more of
the bastards before the whole thing's over."
     Blair wasn't particularly interested in the Kilrathi, not any more.  He
had other concerns. "Any word on the situation on Four, Lieutenant?"
     "It doesn't look good,  sir," Rollins  said heavily. "The  reports from
the  colony indicate at least  five missiles  got through. They were set for
high airbursts, so the  ground defenses never had a chance to fire at  them.
We won't know for a while if the pandemic is as bad as everybody claims, but
. . . well, like I said, it doesn't look good."
     "Acknowledged, Victory. Leader clear." Blair nodded slowly. The  report
was about  what he expected, but that didn't  make it any easier to swallow.
Five Kilrathi  biowarheads  exploding high  above the surface of the  colony
world  . . .  that would ensure a  fast spread of the  tailored disease they
carried. It would  not  be long  before the  effects of  the  attack  became
visible.
     Locanda IV  was as good as  dead already, and Maverick Blair, the great
pilot and war hero, was the man to blame for it all. The man who failed. . .
.
     He forced the thought aside and concentrated on his fighter's controls.
Blair's Thunderbolt came through the long fight with  only light damage, but
he had trouble with  the port-side  maneuvering  thrusters, and the computer
was unable to reroute the circuits through a more dependable network.
     They were near  the  original coordinates of the Kilrathi  fleet, which
thankfully  was moving away at full speed  toward  a nearby jump point. Blue
and  Green Squadrons,  after maintaining  a  prolonged  diversionary  action
against  Thrakhath's  flagship,  had  returned  to  Victory.  Gold  Squadron
remained out, however, searching for a lost sheep.
     Incredibly, only  Beast Jaeger's fighter was confirmed  as destroyed in
battle,  though several  of the  others were in terrible  shape.  How Hobbes
still  flew  at all  was a mystery, and  Vaquero's  weapons  systems finally
overloaded  in   the  last  fight  against  the  Strakha.  But  one  of  the
Thunderbolts remained missing, and Blair ordered Gold Squadron to spread out
and search for the missing man . . . or some sign of his fate.
     Lieutenant Alexander Sanders. callsign Sandman . . . Blair never really
knew  him.  He  had  served  as  Maniac's  wingman  throughout  the  current
deployment  and  spent  most of his  off-duty hours  hanging  with Marshall.
Although he always struck  Blair as a complete opposite to Maniac  — steady,
dependable, loyal, reliable — Sanders and Marshall were good friends as well
as wingmates.  Neither Blair nor  the lieutenant were very comfortable  with
each other  as a result of the  on going feud dividing the colonel  from the
major.
     Now it looked as if Blair  would never  get a chance  to know the  man.
Maniac had allowed  himself to be separated  from his  wingman in the battle
with the Kilrathi escort squadron while Cobra covered herself after Jaeger's
death,  so no one saw Sandman fighting. He  might have  been  destroyed,  or
simply  damaged and left adrift .  . . or  he  might  have ejected  from his
fighter. Until they were sure, they had to look.
     A  refueling  shuttle  arrived  from Victory  to  rendezvous  with  the
squadron and top off their tanks,  and now the eight remaining fighters were
to form a  broad search pattern, hunting for some signs of  the lost  pilot.
They  were  barely within sensor range of each other, and the  comm channels
were  mostly  quiet. Everyone  knew the  mission  had failed.  Everyone  was
exhausted  by  hours of  continuous  stress and tension  punctuated  by more
fighting than any of them had seen in a long, long time.
     "Bad news, Colonel," Cobra broke  into his reverie.  "I've got a debris
field  here.  Material analysis  reads consistent with  a Thunderbolt's hull
armor . . . It's gotta be Sandy's."
     "You're sure it isn't part of Jaeger's ship?"
     "No way, sir. Too far from where Beast caught it."
     "Start a close scan, Cobra. If there's an escape pod around there, find
it.
     "I'll try, sir, but  you know the cats.  If they spot  a pilot after he
ejects, they'll either blast him  where they find him or tractor him  in for
interrogation and a sporting death entertaining a ship's nobles."
     "Check  it out,  anyway,  Lieutenant. If  there's any  chance Sandman's
still alive, I want  to find him." Blair paused. "All fighters, from Leader.
Converge on Cobra's beacon and concentrate your search there."
     Bringing the  fighter around, he increased his thrust. Cobra was right,
of course.  The  odds against finding Sanders  alive were too high a bet for
anyone but a blind optimist, but he had to try.
     It was a pitiful gesture set against  his failure defending the colony,
but it was all he could do right now.

     Bridge, TCS Victory Locanda System

     ‘'Approaching Gold Squadron's search grid now, sir.
     "Very good, Mr. DuBois," Eisen  acknowledged the helmsman's report. "Go
to station-keeping. Sensors to full sweep.  Let's help the  Colonel look for
his man. Any word, Lieutenant Rollins?"
     "Nothing from Gold Squadron, sir." Rollins turned in  his chair to face
the captain. "Coventry's broadcasting updates on the Kilrathi fleet. Several
of their ships have jumped, but it looks like Sar'hrai is delaying. Probably
to pick up stragglers from the  cat fighter strike. If we teamed up with the
cruiser, sir, we might get a few licks in . . ."
     "This is a carrier, not a dreadnought, Lieutenant,"  Eisen told him. "A
carrier with a  fighter wing that isn't likely to  be able  to pull a strike
mission for quite a while. And that close to a jump point you always run the
risk of something popping in when you least expect it."
     "Yes, sir," Rollins said. He sounded disappointed.
     "Look,  I know how everybody feels.  The  cats broke through,  and  the
colony's probably . . . in  trouble. You want to  hit back. So do I, believe
me.  But there's no sense in compounding  one tragedy with another. ConFleet
can't afford to throw away ships on meaningless gestures, and that's what it
would be if we tried to take Sar'hrai."
     They were the right  words, Eisen told himself. But he didn't like them
at all.
     "Captain?"  That was Tanaka, the Sensor Officer. "Sir, I'm only reading
seven fighters in the search grid. There ought to be eight . . ."
     "What the devil?" Eisen demanded. "Find that other fighter. And Rollins
. . . get on the line and tell Blair it's time he took roll call!"

     Thunderbolt 300 Locanda System

     "Sensors confirm it, Colonel. Lieutenant Peters didn't  respond to your
orders to tighten the search grid.  Instead she's  vectored  off toward  the
Ariel jump point."
     "Goddamn.  .  ."  Blair  didn't  finish  the  curse.  "She must've been
listening  on the comm channel when you filled me  in  on  enemy  movements.
Decided to even some scores  with the Kilrathi fighters you said were likely
to get left behind."
     He should have watched Flint  more closely,  he told himself, angry and
bitter. She had been a model wingman throughout the battle, but it must have
been dreadful for her to see those last few fighters  escape to launch their
deadly missiles at the colony.
     At her homeworld . . .
     All she needed  was one  more  kill  to  fill  the score to avenge  her
brother, with nearly sixty more for her father.  But  how many more Kilrathi
would Flint have to kill to avenge the population of an entire world?
     "Colonel,"  Eisen  broke onto the  channel.  "There  s still a Kilrathi
carrier near  the jump point. Possibly some undamaged fighters as well. Your
Lieutenant  Peters  is  heading  right into a  slaughterhouse, and she's not
acknowledging our  return-to-ship orders. Can you do  anything to stop her?"
The captain paused for several seconds. "It's your call, Blair."
     He stared at Eisen's image on his comm  screen, his mind racing.  Flint
had a huge head start, and by the time he mounted any sort of rescue mission
she  might  be  dead.  Gold  Squadron  was battered, exhausted, with missile
stocks low and battle damage  plaguing every one of the Thunderbolts. Common
sense dictated that they cut their losses now and let Flint have  her final,
suicidal  gesture.  No matter how upset she  might  be,  Robin Peters was no
fool. She just wanted to go down fighting.
     But there was another  part of Blair that couldn't just give up on her.
The same  part that prolonged the search for Sandman. Good pilots don't give
up on their own, especially not on their wingmen.
     "I'll go after her, sir," he said at  last. "See  if there's anything I
can do."
     Eisen  didn't  respond right away. "Understood, Colonel,"  he  said  at
last. "And . . . Godspeed."
     "This is Leader," Blair said, more  crisp than before. "If  Sanders had
managed  to eject,  we  would have found  him  by  now.  Pack it in, people.
Hobbes, get ‘em down to the deck I'm going after Flint."
     "My friend, you cannot go alone — " Hobbes protested.
     "I'm  with you, Colonel," Cobra  overrode  Ralgha's  soft voice.  "Lets
move!"
     "I'm alone on this one," Blair said firmly. "That's a direct order. All
fighters return to Victory. One rogue pilot in a day is enough."
     "But — " Cobra sounded ready to start another war.
     "A  direct order,  I said." Blair paused. "But  .  .  . Cobra,  you and
Vagabond  have the least damage,  after  me. Get  down on  the deck, let the
techs patch anything essential that's damaged,  and then rearm  and  refuel.
Prep another  fuel shuttle  and escort it toward the Ariel jump point. Flint
and I will be needing fuel before we get back."
     "If  you get back" Ralgha said. "I  do not understand why you are doing
this, my friend. You are putting yourself in danger for no good purpose  . .
."
     "She's my wingman, Hobbes. I have to go. Now carry out your orders." He
cut the channel with  a savage stab at the comm button, then switched on the
navigation computer to plot a course after Flint.
     Blair's only hope  was that he wasn't making the  same empty gesture as
she was.

     Thunderbolt 305 Locanda System

     Flint glanced mechanically from  her sensor board to the weapon  status
display, hardly aware of what she was doing  any more.  Somehow the shock of
what had happened was dull and  distant, as  though she was watching someone
else react in her place. The emotion that  nearly overpowered her as she had
realized her planet was under a slow, savage death  sentence faded away now,
replaced by grim determination.
     It felt the same way when Davie died . . . and when the news came in to
the  Academy about her father. The grief  and pain were there, but they were
suppressed by the overwhelming need to act, to do something.
     She must do  something,  even though she knew it  was hopeless.  If she
didn't die on the firing line, her career would probably  be over  anyway by
the time Blair  got through  with her. She had disobeyed  orders and let her
vengeance get in  the way of the mission once again, even  after the Colonel
gave  her