hi 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 þ 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 interest in the matter. But it would not be easy, in the heat of a major battle, to carry out those instructions. The renegade was better dead anyway. Years ago he had defected, carrying an entire capital ship and enough vital secrets to set back the Imperial war effort by a decade. Since that time, the scum (once a Lord of the Empire but now nothing more than an outcast) actually dared fly human fighters against his own kind. Well, the confusion of battle made it difficult to know when orders were violated accidentally . . . or deliberately. And given any chance at all, Arrak knew he would not turn from destroying the traitor Ralgha if the chance presented itself. "Hunt Flight," he said, exulting at the approach of battle. "Prepare to engage!" Thunderbolt 300 Tamayo System "Here they come!" "Maintain formation. Meet the enemy with overwhelming force, and he will be ours." "Look sharp, people . . ." The voices on the radio were growing more and more excited, except for the rigidly controlled growl from Hobbes. Blair could feel his own adrenaline pumping as if he was already on the firing line beside the other pilots. He fought to keep from adding encouraging comments of his own to the radio traffic that was already out there. He checked his autopilot display again. ETA four minutes . . . Blair was torn between waiting for the outlying patrol ships to assemble and refuel so the entire force could strike at once, and plunging straight into the fray as quickly as he and Flint could to reach the vicinity of the Victory. Eisen had urged them not to lose any time, but a larger relief force would certainly have been worth a few extra minutes. In the end, though, Blair had decided that he and Flint needed to join the others as quickly as possible. The question of how well Hobbes could control the wing loomed over him in addition to the potential ill effects on morale if Blair missed the second large-scale fight mounted by his flight wing. So he left instructions for the two interceptor patrols to form a single relief flight, but he and Flint were already on their way into battle. He was glad of the decision now. It would be four minutes before the two Thunderbolts could join their comrades, and in combat, four minutes could be an eternity. "They're breaking formation," a voice announced. Blair thought it was Lieutenant Chang. "Starting their attack runs . . . now!" "I've got the first hairball," Maniac Marshall announced. "Watch my tail, Sandman." "Do not lose contact with your wingmen," Ralgha's voice urged. "And do not let them draw you away from the carrier." From the chatter, Blair could picture the unfolding battle even before Rollins fed him tactical information on his monitors. They counted at least thirty incoming Kilrathi ships, a mix of Dralthi and lighter Darket, ranged against eighteen Confed fighters and the larger but less responsive hull-mounted defensive batteries aboard Victory. From the sound of things, Hobbes was trying to keep the Terran craft in a rough defensive line, with paired wingmen watching over one another. But hotheads like Marshall were likely to let themselves be distracted by individual opponents and drawn into dogfights, forgetting the big picture. The Kilrathi had ships to spare. They would still be able to hurl a powerful force against the Terran carrier after all the screening fighters were accounted for. "I've got the next one." That voice, cold and deadly, belonged to Lieutenant Buckley. Another pilot easily drawn by the enemy, if she took her attitude into the cockpit with her. "See how you like this, kitty!" "I always heard about target-rich environments!" Blair recognized the voice as belonging to Captain Max "Mad Max" Lewis, another Gold Squadron pilot. "C'mon, Vaquero, let's show óem a thing or two!" "Scratch one! Scratch one! We have achieved kitty litter!" Marshall's cry was triumphant. "Make that two," Cobra chimed in a moment later. Despite the depth of her hatred, she sounded as tightly controlled as Hobbes, as if the wild passion were translated into a cold, deadly intensity. Blair checked his autopilot. Two minutes . . . "Flint, go to afterburners," he ordered. "Full power. Let's get up there!" He shoved his throttles fully into the red zone, feeling the extra G-force press him against his seat. "Maniac! Maniac! I've got two on my tail! Give me a hand, Maniac!" That was Marshall's wingman, Lieutenant Alex Sanders, running name Sandman. After a pause, he went on, voice rising with excitement . . . or panic. "For God's sake, Maniac, give me a hand!" "Break left on my signal, Sandman," Ralgha's voice cut him off. "Steady . . . steady . . . break!" The tactical sensors were picking up details of the battle now, and Blair watched as the symbols representing Hobbes and Vagabond moved together to support the beleaguered Sanders. Maniac Marshall was far away now, almost at the limit of the scans, hotly engaged with a Dralthi and paying little attention to the other Confed pilots. One of the Kilrathi ships pursuing Sandrnan disappeared under the onslaught of Ralgha's sudden attack, while Chang dove in toward the second and forced it to break off. "Thanks, Hobbes," Sanders said, a little breathless now. "I . . . thanks." "I'm hit! Front armors gone . . . my shields . . ." Mad Max Lewis was almost incoherent. "He's coming in for another pass . . . Noooooo!!" The symbol representing the Terran Thunderbolt faded from Blair's tactical screen. The rest of the fighters were jumbled together, a mad, chaotic dance played on the screen while Blair clenched his hands around his steering yoke in frustration. Gold Squadron was fully engaged now, while the lighter craft of Red Squadron operated on the fringes of the battle, surrounding any Kilrathi ships that penetrated the defensive line. But the sheer weight of numbers began to play a major role as more and more Kilrathi pilots jumped into the fray. Even though they flew as individuals, they were still a team determinedly pressing their Terran opponents. "Enemy coming into range, Colonel!" Flint warned. "What's your pleasure?" "Stick close, Flint," he said, powering up his weapons and locking his targeting array on the nearest Dralthi. "And watch my back. Things are going to get pretty damned rough out here in a second or two!" His target chased a Thunderbolt, the two fighters circling each other, attempting to find some type of advantage. Now, as Blair and Flint appeared, the Dralthi broke off and rolled left, dodging and juking as it tried to gain some distance. "Not this time, fuzzball," Blair said, lining up the crosshairs and opening fire with his blasters. The energy bolts raked along the top of the enemy fighter, hitting directly behind the cockpit, between two large, forward-sweeping bat-wings. The Kilrathi fighter seemed to stagger and wrenched away to port as the pilot tried to evade. Blair used his thrusters to spin his ship in flight and lined up on the Dralthi again before the Kilrathi could finish his turn. His fingers tightened over the firing stud, and the blasters tore through the weakened shields and armor. The fighter disappeared in a ball of flame and spinning debris. "Got him!" Blair said. He checked his sensor rnonitor for a fresh target. "Thanks for the assist, Colonel," said the pilot of the fighter he had rescued. It was Lieutenant Mitchell Lopez, Vaquero, who had been Mad Max's wingman. "Welcome to the battle, my friend," Ralgha said. "Will you take over the command?" "I relieve you, Hobbes," Blair told him. "Gold Squadron, from Blair. Reform on me! You're getting too damned spread out. Repeat, reform skirmish line around me. Hobbes, what's the story?" "One Thunderbolt and two Hellcats destroyed, Colonel," Ralgha said formally. "And Lieutenant Jaeger's Thunderbolt is severely damaged." "Right. Jaeger, disengage. If you think you can make a safe landing, get back to the carrier. Otherwise pull back and we'll help you in later. Who's your wingman?" "Cobra, sir," Helmut "Beast" Jaeger responded. "Okay. Vaquero, Cobra, you're teamed now. Cover Beast's withdrawal and then get back in formation. Got me?" "Understood," Vaquero replied. There was a pause before Cobra spoke up. The tactical display showed she was still engaged with a Darket, but her opponent suddenly vanished from the screen. "I'm on it, Colonel," Lieutenant Buckley said at last. "Let's do it, Vaquero, so we can get back in there and kill us some cats!" The three Thunderbolts peeled off, while the rest of the Terran craft began to take their positions around Blair and Flint . . . all except one. "Marshall!" Blair rasped. "Maniac, if you don't get your tail back here I'll open fire on you myself!" "Coming, Mother," Maniac responded, unabashed. The fighting was still going on, and Blair restrained himself from flinging himself into the action as he issued orders and studied the tactical situation. By now the battle had moved close enough to the Victory for the carrier's big guns to join in the defense, and that was forcing the Kilrathi force to be cautious. Their casualties were heavier than the Terrans', but they still outnumbered Blair's command slightly, and more of their ships were comparatively fresh and undamaged. The odds still didn't look too good. Blair's mind raced, grappling with the tactical picture on his screen. Somehow the Terrans had to take the initiative force the Kilrathi to battle under conditions favoring the defenders. Victory's guns would go a long way toward redressing the balance. So would the four interceptors, but they were still at least six minutes away, and after the initial surprise of their arrival they could not sustain a long-term advantage under these circumstances. What they needed was a way to maximize all of the Terran assets in one thrust, something the Kilrathi would not see coming. He found himself smiling grimly under his helmet. There was one maneuver that just might work . . . "Kennel, Kennel, this is Watchdog Leader," he said urgently. "Come in, Kennel." "Reading you, Colonel," Rollins replied. "Go to tight-beam and scramble," he ordered, switching the circuits on his comm system. A moment later a green light shimmered under the comm screen, indicating that Rollins had set up a tight laser-link between the carrier and his fighter. The system was excellent for secure communications between large ships or between the carrier and an individual fighter, but it was inefficient for ship-to-ship transmissions between fighters due to their smaller size, higher speeds, and unpredictable maneuvering. But what Blair wanted to do now must be kept secret until his trap was sprung. "I want you to pass the word to each fighter, Lieutenant," Blair said without preamble. "New orders for all ships. On my mark . . . Hunt Leader Tamayo System Flight Commander Arrak gave a snarl of triumph as he listened to the computer translation of the Terran command frequency radio broadcasts. We can't take any more of this!" the human commander was saying. "All ships, break off and withdraw! Break off while you still can!" That was what Arrak had been waiting to hear. The Terrans put up a good fight, but they were outnumbered and outgunned, and he knew they would be stretched too thin sooner or later. This was his chance. "They are beginning to withdraw," he said, the battle madness singing inside him. Concentrate fire on the carrier. We will deal with the apes once the capital ship is destroyed!" On his tactical screen, the Terran fighters were breaking off to flee past the covering bulk of the carrier. Arrak showed his fangs and pushed his throttles forward. He sensed a moment's regret that he was unable to corner the ship he had identified as the renegade's, but his duty now was clear. The renegade would still be out there, and helpless, once the carrier was destroyed. "Talons of the Emperor!" he called, the old battle cry making him tremble with anticipation of glory. "Attack! Attack! Attack!" CHAPTER SEVEN Thunderbolt 300 Tamayo System "They're heading in," Blair said. "Look sharp, people." On his screen, he saw the blips representing the Kilrathi attack force gathering speed as they advanced toward the Victory. With the Terran fighters withdrawing from the battle, the Kilrathi could begin high-speed attack runs on the carrier, using maneuverability and velocity to evade the beams from the capital ship's defensive batteries. It was exactly the kind of situation every pilot hoped for: a big, clumsy carrier stripped of its defensive fighters and lying almost helpless against a massed bombing run. Only this time, the carrier wouldn't be quite as helpless as she appeared . . . "Captain says any time you're ready, Colonel," Rollins said, a note of worry creeping into his voice. He didn't let the lieutenant's fears push him into acting too soon. Blair checked his sensors again, saw the four interceptors beginning their swing to bring them squarely behind the attackers. His own fighters had started this maneuver feigning panic and disorder, but now they were beginning to reform into four distinct groups. The time was almost right . . . "Execute!" He almost shouted the order as he wrenched the steering yoke fiercely and advanced the throttles into the afterburner red zone again. By the time this counterthrust was over he would be nearly dry again, but hopefully none of the Confed fighters would need any fuel reserves after this. "Execute turn and attack at will!" Inevitably, someone þ it sounded like Maniac þ gave a whoop and shouted "Who's Will?" Blair ignored it and concentrated on the enemy ships clustered ahead. The carrier opened fire with a barrage from her main batteries. One of the attackers flew straight into the beams. It came apart, looking like a spectacular fireball that seemed to herald the beginning of the new phase of this savage fight. Blair hoped it would be the final phase. Hunt Leader Tamayo System "It is a trap! The apes have set a trap!" Arrak somehow refrained from cursing or snarling, but despite his control he still thought longingly of sinking his fangs into the neck of the pilot, whoever he was who filled the comm channel with his inspired revelations of the obvious. Yes, the apes had set a trap, drawn his fighters in closer to the Terran carrier where they would be caught between the capital ship's big guns and four . . . no, make it five converging groups of fighters. There were more Confederation craft out there now, a whole new group that had not been in the fight until now. It was a masterful trap, worthy of a Kilrathi hunter. "Break off!" he snarled. "Break off the action against the carrier and regroup. It seems we have to give the hairless apes another lesson before we can finish this." Then he had no more time for talk. A pair of heavy Terran fighters suddenly appeared out of nowhere and were trying to lock onto him from the rear. Arrak needed all his skill and concentration to keep the enemy from winning that decisive advantage. He pulled a tight, high-G turn to starboard, using his attitude thruster to make the Dralthi swing around even faster, and opened fire with all guns at once. The Terran fighters shields absorbed most of the damage, but his sensors registered a hit against the underlying armor as well. "You fly well," the Terran pilot commented, using the standard Imperial tactical band. "Are you worth fighting? Declare yourself if you wish the honor of battle with Ralgha nar Hhallas." Arrak showed his fangs under his flight helmet. The renegade! He couldn't reply, lest he reveal to his superiors his disobedience of standing orders, but he could defend himself against the enemy attack . . . The Kilrathi passed mere meters from the Terran fighter, close enough to see the bulky spacesuited shape of his adversary through the viewport. It would be a battle to remember. Thunderbolt 300 Tamayo System "A hit! A hit! That'll show the kitty who's the boss!" "Rein it in, Maniac, and do your job," Blair snapped. He lined up a shot and launched a heat-seeker at the nearest Darket, his eyes already searching the sensor screen for a fresh target. He hardly needed to look to know when the lighter Kilrathi ship blew up. He had encountered these fighters often enough over the years to know just about what level of punishment they could take, and he was rarely wrong. Close by, Flint was heavily engaged with a Dralthi, the two fighters weaving a complex pattern as they circled and dodged, looking for a moment's advantage to administer a lethal strike. "You need an assist, Flint?" Blair asked, steering toward the dogfighters. The Thunderbolt delivered a sustained burst of energy beams at the Dralthi and dived in hard and fast. "Find your own party, Colonel," Flint said. "This furball is all mine!" A pair of missiles streaked from the underside of her wings and struck home just above the Dralthis engine mountings. An expanding ball of superheated gas and whirling debris consumed the Kilrathi ship, and Peters drove her Thunderbolt straight through the fireball with a triumphant shout, "Yes! That's another one for you, Davie!" Blair wondered who she was talking about or to, but only for a moment. His attention returned to the monitor showing the Terran trap closing perfectly. By having Rollins pass his orders by tight-beam communications links, he was able to prime the entire Terran force to fall back on his broadcast command. It looked and sounded like a panic-stricken withdrawal, but in fact everyone knew their precise jobs and prepared for a counterattack as soon as he gave the signal. Now the carrier was laying down a withering barrage, and the four refueled interceptors from Blue Squadron appeared to join the Hellcats and Thunderbolts in closing off the enemy escape route. Now the Terran fighters were spread in a rough hemispherical formation, trying to keep the Kilrathi from escaping the trap. Even if they did, the Kilrathi took heavy losses in the counterthrust. They knew they were in a fight, that much was certain. "Hobbes, can you help me out?" That was Vagabond, his breathing sharp and rapid. "I got two of these guys all over my tail! I need help here . . ." "I cannot assist," Ralgha replied. "My opponent is pressing me very hard." Blair checked his screen, noted the two fighters. They weren't far away. "Flint, you back up Chang," he ordered. "I'll backstop Hobbes. Got it?" "Got it," Flint confirmed. "Vagabond, you just keep the little bastards busy. I'm on the way! Ralgha and his opponent were well-matched, though the heavier Thunderbolt should have given Hobbes an edge. That was probably offset by the fact that the Dralthi was more maneuverable, at least in the hands of a good pilot, and from the looks of things this one was little short of brilliant. Before Blair could get into effective range, the enemy ship executed a perfect fishhook maneuver, angling away from the Thunderbolt until just the right moment, then suddenly turning back on itself and driving in fast with guns blazing. Somehow Ralgha managed to evade the worst of the fire and loop around to settle on the other pilot's tail as he shot past, but a moment later the Dralthi applied full braking thrusters and Hobbes shot past him. Now their roles were reversed, with the enemy pilot tailing Ralgha. The targeting reticule on Blair's HUD flashed red, the signal for a target lock. Blair opened fire, concentrating on a weakened spot in the Kilrathi's shields. The enemy ship took a hit, then rolled out of the line of fire and accelerated off at an unexpected angle. "Damn," Blair muttered. "This guy's good." "Agreed," Ralgha said gravely. "But not, I think, good enough to fight us both, my friend. He withdraws now." His sensor screen confirmed Ralgha's comment. The enemy pilot was still accelerating away from the two Terrans, evidently content to leave them alone for the time being. Hunt Leader Tamayo System Flight Commander Arrak felt his blood lust begin to fade. For a few moments he nearly lost himself to the battle madness, until the second Terran fighter appeared and launched its devastating attack. Although he managed to evade the worst of it the enemy fire shorted out his weapons systems and left Arrak without armaments, unable to carry on the dogfight. Some Kilrathi pilots might have continued in the battle anyway, seeking one good chance to ram an opponent and die with his claws figuratively at the enemy's throat. That was the stuff of battle songs and the Warrior's Path. But Arrak was a flight commander, and he owed duty to his warriors as well as to his Clan and his honor. Right now it was Arrak's duty to extricate as many of his pilots from this debacle as possible. There was no way that throwing himself into a collision with the renegade or another Terran ship would help to accomplish what needed to be done. He studied his tactical display with a sinking feeling that was only partial regret for failing to finish the fight. Only one fighter in four of his original force of four eights was still flying, and most of those were damaged. Still they broke clear of the Terran defensive line while the Confederation fighters engaged their less fortunate comrades. Now it was the Imperial force that was outnumbered and outgunned, and there was little hope of achieving any sort of dramatic success now. They might take out a few of the Terrans, but at an even heavier price than they had paid already. "All ships return to Sar'hrai," Arrak ordered reluctantly. "Withdraw and return to Sar'hrai immediately." "Flight Commander, not all of our comrades have disengaged," a pilot argued, snarling anger. "If we withdraw they will fall to the fangs and claws of the apes . . ." "Then stay and die with them!" Arrak snapped. "And your Clan will know the dishonor of owning a warrior who disobeys a direct order in the face of battle!" He didn't wait for a reply. At full acceleration, the Dralthi turned away from the disastrous battle and drove through the empty dark, seeking the security of home. Flight Deck, TCS Victory Tamayo System Blair's fighter was last to return after the battle, and it took several minutes for the backed-up traffic handlers on the flight deck to get to him. By the time his Thunderbolt rolled to a stop in its repair bay, the deck was fully pressurized and the gravity was restored to Earth-normal. All three shifts of technicians were assembled to handle the returning fighters, and there was a lot of activity on the deck when Blair finally climbed out of his cockpit and started toward the entrance to Flight Control. A welcoming committee met him, not just technicians and some of his pilots but crewmen from every department of the ship, surging into the expanse of the flight deck, cheering loudly. Eisen was at the head of the pack, with Lieutenant Rollins close behind him. Rachel Coriolis stood to one side with a grin on her face, flashing him a thumbs-up sign. "Good job, Colonel, Eisen said. "A credit to the ship. You did the old girl proud today." "Outstanding!" Rollins added. "You really outfoxed those kitties today!" Blair returned their smiles, but inside he was feeling anything but triumphant. They had barely beaten off the Kilrathi attack; a few more enemy fighters would have turned the tide against the Terrans. Then there was the inevitable butcher's bill: Mad Max Lewis was dead, along with five pilots from Red Squadron and one from Blue. Seven dead out of twenty-four pilots engaged . . . steep losses indeed. And some of the ones who made it back suffered serious damage in the fighting. They could easily have lost twice as many ships if the Kilrathi had only been a little luckier or a little better armed. Everyone else saw it as a great victory, but for Blair it was just one more battle. One more chance for good men to die staving off defeat for a little while longer without accomplishing anything significant in the process. That had been the story of the war for as long as he could remember now: meaningless victories, defeats that drove the Confederation further and further down, and always death. Death was the only constant through it all. He left the cheering throng behind and pushed through to the steps that led up to Flight Control. Maybe the others could celebrate, but all Blair felt like doing now was mourning the dead. Flight Wing Rec Room, TCS Victory Tamayo System There was another victory party scheduled for the evening, and it promised to be even bigger and more boisterous than the earlier one. Blair knew he would have to put in an appearance, but he decided to drop by the rec room early to get a drink or two under his belt before things got too far out of hand. When he arrived, he thought for a moment that he was already too late. He opened the door to a blast of raucous music just as he had at the previous celebration. But this time there were only a handful of people clustered around the bar. An officer was sitting at the terminal controlling the sound system, one hand making tiny adjustments to the board while the other tapped to the rhythm of the music. The man slumped in his chair, his eyes closed, completely mesmerized by the sound. Blair recognized his aquiline profile. He was Lieutenant Mitchell Lopez, callsign Vaquero, the man he had assigned as wingman for Cobra in the middle of the battle. He stood behind the man and waited for a long while, wincing a little at the loud music. When it was clear that Lopez wasn't planning to come up for air any time soon, he finally tapped the pilot on the shoulder. "Hey, man, can't you have the decency to wait for the piece to end?" Vaquero said without opening his eyes. "Lieutenant . . ." Blair said the word blandly, but Lopez recognized his voice at once. He was out of his chair and standing at attention in one quick movement. Blair had to fight to keep from smiling at the man's reaction. "Uh, sorry, sir," Lopez said, stammering a little. "Didn't expect you here until the party, sir." "At ease, Lieutenant," Blair said, smiling. Vaquero relaxed. He caught the look Blair gave in the direction of the speakers and hastened to turn down the volume. "Just getting the system set for tonight, sir," he explained. "Aren't there technical people who're supposed to do that?" Blair asked. He gestured to the seat Vaquero had vacated, and when the lieutenant was sitting, Blair took another chair nearby. "The last guy who did this job had a tin ear and ten thumbs," Lopez said with a grin. "And his musical taste left a lot to be desired, too. So I just kind of took over." "Musical taste," Blair repeated. "Yes, sir. You know, music really does set the mood. Playing something with nothing but minor chords makes you want to run a suicide mission. But this is different." He waved a hand toward the board. "Rockero from the Celeste System. It's bright, it heats your blood, it makes you want to live a long life." Blair gave him a sour look. "It makes me want to put on a flight helmet to filter out some of the noise," he said, smiling briefly to take the sting out of the comment. "I like something a little more soothing . . . like a bagpipe duet or a couple of cats in heat." The Argentine pilot laughed. "I guess my musical taste isn't for everyone. But I've had no complaints so far . . . until you, that is." "I'm not complaining, Lieutenant. Just pleading for a little moderation." Blair signaled a waiter. "Can I buy you something to drink?" "Tequila," Vaquero said. The waiter nodded, taking Blair's order for a scotch as he left. "That was quite a fight today, wasn't it, Colonel?" Blair nodded. "I'll say. We were damned lucky." "Yes, sir. Uh . . . thanks again for the way you bailed me out. Thought I'd played my last tune for sure." "Are you a pilot or a musician, Lopez?" "Oh, I'm a pilot, sir. Pretty good one, too. Check my kills; you'll see." He looked down at the table. "But my family, they made guitars for many generations. I've got one that's almost two hundred years old. The sound just gets richer as it gets older, you know?" Blair nodded, but didn't speak. There was something in the man s eyes that made him unwilling to break his mood. "I'm the first one from my family to go into space," Lopez went on a moment later. He sounded wistful. "The first to be a fighter instead of a craftsman or a musician. But some day I'm going to open a cantina and bring in the best to play that guitar. We need a place for old fighter jockeys like you and me, Colonel, where we can get together and swap lies about our battles and tell each other how much different things are without the war . . ." Blair looked away. It was a pleasant dream, but he wondered if Lopez would ever really get his wish. The war had existed longer than either of them had been alive, and it didn't look like humanity was likely to end it soon. He was afraid that the only way the war would end in his lifetime was in a Kilrathi victory. More likely it would claim them all, and drag on to claim another generation's hopes and dreams. "Hope there's enough of us to keep you in business, Vaquero," he said quietly. "Don't you worry, sir. We'll make it through. And you and I can sit at a quiet table, watch the beautiful women and listen to the music of that guitar . . ." "You still don't sound much like a pilot, Vaquero," Blair told him. "Don't get me wrong, sir. I do my job, whatever it takes. But some of the others, they actually like the killing. Me, I do it because I have to, but I take no pleasure from it. And when it's over, I will walk away with no regrets." Command Hall, KIS Hvar'kann Locanda System "My Prince, the shuttle from the Sar'hrai has arrived. With Baron Vurrig and the prisoner." Thrakhath, Crown Prince of the Empire of Kilrah, showed his teeth. "Bring them, Melek," he said, not bothering to hide the contempt in his voice. His talons twitched reflexively in their sheaths. A pair of Imperial Guardsmen ushered two newcomers before the lonely throne at the end of the Command Audience Hall. Here, by long tradition, the noble commander of a ship in space dispensed justice to the warriors under his command. Today Thrakhath upheld that tradition yet again. "My Lord Prince." Khantahr Baron Vurrig nar Tsahl dropped to one knee. The other officer, hands in manacles, sank awkwardly to both knees beside the noble. "Sar'hrai is at your command, as ever." "Indeed?" Thrakhath fixed the Baron with an icy stare. "I wanted the jump point from Orsini cut, and the Terran carrier damaged beyond capability to interfere with Operation Unseen Death. But the blockade was only partially effective and the attack on the carrier was repulsed without touching the ape ship. Is that a fair assessment of your performance?" "Lord Prince . . ." Vurrig quailed under his stare. "Lord Prince, there were many . . . complications, especially due to the renegade. We could not press home attacks against ships he escorted without risking a breach of your orders . . ." "This one did, or so your report claimed." "Yes, Lord Prince. This is Flight Commander Arrak. He engaged the traitor in battle despite my specific orders to the contrary." "But Ralgha was not harmed?" "No, Lord Prince." "So, Arrak, you are inept as well as insubordinate, is that it?" Arrak met Thrakhath's stare with unexpected spirit. "In battle, Lord Prince, it is not always so easy to set conditions," he said defiantly. Thrakhath felt a stir of admiration. The flight commander knew he was doomed for his disobedience, so he met his fate with a warrior's pride. Baron Vurrig on the other hand, danced and dodged like prey on the run from the hunter. "Let Arrak have a warrior's death. He may fight any champion or champions who wish the honor of dispatching him." Thrakhath noted Arrak's nod. He was proud to the bitter end. "As for you, Baron . . . because of you we must push back the timetable for Operation Unseen Death. We must await additional ships so that we may ensure the Terrans not intervening when we launch our strike. You will be relieved as commander of Sar'hrai . . . and suffer the penalty for your incompetence. Death . . . by isolation. The coward's end, alone, ignored, cut off until you die from thirst, starvation, or madness. See to it, Melek." "Lord Prince þ " Vurrig began. He was grabbed by the guardsmen and dragged away, his appeals for mercy echoing hollowly in the chamber. "I regret the failure, Lord Prince," Melek said quietly, "but at least the renegade came to no harm." "We must hope that the War God continues to smile on us, Melek," Thrakhath said coldly. "The time is not yet ripe to deal with Lord Ralgha . . . but it is coming. As is the day of our final victory." CHAPTER EIGHT Captain's Ready Room. TCS Victory Tamayo System "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 óem 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, TCS Victory Tamayo System 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. Wing Commander's Office, TCS Victory Locanda System 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 þ 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 þ simple and straightforward þ was all that remained for him. CHAPTER IX Flight Wing Rec Room, TCS Victory Locanda System 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 . . ." "I could try to get you some planet leave, while we're here," Blair offered. "You must have some family left? Or friends, at least?" "Just my uncle's family," she said. "I haven't been in touch with any of them for years." Flint hesitated, still staring at the distant point of light that had been her home. "No, thanks, Colonel. I appreciate the offer, I really do, but I've got too much I need to do here with the rest of the wing. I can't be on the sidelines if the cats are really planning a fight. Not here of all places. I need to be a part of whatever comes down." Blair studied her with a penetratingly probing gaze. "Look, Flint," he said at last, "I know something about the way you feel. Lord knows I've lost many people who were important to me over the years. But when we climb into our cockpits and get out there in space, I'm not sure I can afford to be with both you and your brother on my wing. I need you fighting for yourself, for the Wing, for the ship . . . not for a memory, not for vengeance. It cost your father his life. I don't want you to have to pay the same price." She looked at him, the tears in her eyes catching the light. "I just can't give up now, Colonel," she told him. "It's too much a part of who I am and what I've become. You've seen me fly; seen me fight. You know I can get the job done. Don't take it away from me. Please . . ." Blair took a long time to answer, sipping his drink to give himself more time to think. "All right," he said at last. "I guess you're not carrying around any more baggage than the rest of us. Maniac's still trying to prove he's the best, Hobbes is trying to live down being from the wrong damned species, and Cobra just . . . hates cats. You're in pretty good company, all things considered." "What about you, Colonel? What baggage is Maverick Blair carrying around after a whole lifetime spent fighting in the war?" Flint's eyes held a glint of interest that made her whole face seem more alive. He thought about Concordia . . . and about Angel, still out there somewhere on her secret mission. "Classified information, Lieutenant," he said, trying to muster a smile. "One of the privileges of being a colonel is never having to let the troops know you're human." "And are you?" she asked. He let out a sigh. "All too human, Lieutenant. Believe me, I am all too human." They stood side by side and watched the stars for a long time in silence. Flight Wing Briefing Room, TCS Victory Locanda System "Okay, people, let's get down to business," Blair said. "I'd like to conclude this briefing sometime before peace is signed, if you don't mind." A few scattered chuckles greeted his sally, and the ready room quieted. Blair glanced at the faces grouped around the table: the squadron commanders, deputies from each of the four squadrons, and representatives from the Wing's technical and maintenance staff and from Victory's Intelligence Office. Rollins was there as well, still functioning as Blair's aide and liaison between the flight wing and the bridge crew "Okay," Blair went on. "Here's the drill. For those of you who don't pay attention to the daily shipboard news, we've jumped into the Locanda System. It's been on or near the front lines for years now, and subjected to repeated raids by the Kilrathi Empire." He pushed a stray thought of Flint and her family from his mind and continued. "Until sometime early last month, there was an Imperial base deep in the asteroid belt on a fairly large rock designated Felix on our charts." He activated a holographic projector to display the star system. "But three weeks ago, a patrol out of Locanda Four discovered that the Empire was no longer maintaining perimeter patrols around Felix, so a well-equipped force was sent to check it out a destroyer, a heavy fighter escort, and a transport carrying a company of Marines. They met no resistance, and they discovered that the Kilrathi base was completely abandoned. Everything had been cleaned out. That base supported at least three squadrons of fighters and a depot large enough for a carrier to do a field refit. But they gave it up þ lock, stock, and fighter bay." "But I heard there was supposed to be all this activity here." That was Denise Mbuto, callsign Amazon, the major commanding the interceptors of Blue Squadron. "Everybody said there was going to be some kind of big push.' Blair nodded. "Yeah. Felix was abandoned while reports were received concerning increased Kilrathi ship activities in these parts, such as several capital ships, including three carriers. One was the Sar'hrai, which launched that strike on us at Tamayo. There was also a report placing Crown Prince Thrakhath's brand-new flagship here. Certainly there have been a lot of little dustups involving Kilrathi fighter patrols and a few light cap ships, destroyers and such. "It would make little sense to abandon a well-defended base while building up the fleet presence," Ralgha said slowly. "Thrakhath is many things þ arrogant, ambitious, ruthless þ but I have never considered him to be a fool. There is something here which we cannot see as yet." "Maybe the local boys are just seeing things," Marshall said. "One carrier passes through on the way to hit us at Tamayo, and it turns into a whole damned fleet with the head kitty-cat in person commanding." Blair shook his head. "No. Most of the reports are too well supported by evidence. We have tracking and sensor data that bears out the notion of three carriers and maybe eight smaller capital ships. That's a pretty fair sized force to be hanging around a backwater like Locanda. And Hobbes is right. The asteroid base would have been a useful adjunct to operations . . . too useful to be abandoned casually." "Perhaps the fleet was sent to cover the withdrawal of the base contingent," Warlock Whittaker suggested. "It would take a lot of transports to dismantle a base that size, and if they thought we had enough ships to interfere with them, they would have a powerful escort in place." "They might even be moving the base," Major Luigi Berterelli, commander of Green Squadron, added. "If they were looking to expand their facilities, or if they just thought our patrols had learned too much about the post on Felix, they might have decided to set up something bigger and better elsewhere. That would require an escort, too, while the new base was still getting up and operating . . . and if they had a new base, it could be supporting whatever else the cats have planned for that flotilla of theirs." Berterelli had an anticipatory gleam in his eyes, as if he could already see this new base lined up in his bombsights. Green Squadron had not seen much active service lately, but a Kilrathi base would give the bombers a chance to show what they could do. "Those are possibilities," Blair agreed, "but by no means the only ones." He nodded toward Commander Thomas Fairfax, Victory's senior intelligence officer. "Commander?" "Headquarters has been monitoring Kilrathi radio transmissions regarding Locanda for several weeks now, trying to discover just what their intentions are with regard to the system. A courier in from Torgo this morning brought a summary of the most recent findings." Fairfax paused, consulting a portable computer terminal. "First of all, it is believed that their original timetable for whatever is happening at Locanda has been rendered inoperative, possibly due to problems which have arisen in related missions elsewhere." "Tamayo, maybe?" Mbuto suggested with a savage smile. "Uncertain," Fairfax said seriously. "At any rate, we believe them to be behind schedule already, which means the action could get heavy any time now. "The real question is, what action?" Major Ellen Pierce, Whittaker's Exec, put in. "Linguistics are relating trouble with certain intercepted Kilrathi broadcasts." The Intelligence Officer plunged ahead as if she hadn't spoken. "One message in particular definitely refers to Kilrathi intentions for the Locanda System . . . it uses a word we've never seen before. Trav'hra'nigath." "Bless you," Maniac said with a grin. Blair glared at him. "Hobbes . . . does that mean anything to you?" Ralgha was giving the Kilrathi equivalent of a frown. "The nearest English translation, my friend, would be literally to grant the prize without struggle." He paused. "Surrender? That is not a concept my people embrace. Struggle is the one constant in life." "They are planning to surrender the system?" Blair asked. "That doesn't explain the buildup, though it would at least account for abandoning the base." "The implications of the messages we've intercepted suggest that the Empire intends some gesture at Locanda," Fairfax said. "A demonstration of power . . . or of intentions. Again, we're not entirely sure about the exact meaning of all that we've intercepted." Whittaker was nodding. "I could see that. Even if they're starting to think in terms of giving up real estate, the cats aren't likely to just quietly turn tail and run That wouldn't fit into their system of honor, would it, Colonel?" He was looking at Hobbes. "Ceasing to struggle for a prize one deems worthwhile is not honorable at all," Hobbes said slowly. "A tactical retreat, yes, especially if there is duty to one's followers involved, but the ultimate object is never abandoned." "Well, I say they feel the need for a parting shot," Whittaker insisted. "Something to salve their pride when they withdraw. Three carriers could deliver a real punch and flatten the colony facilities before anybody knew what hit them. Then they sail away toward their real target." "Perhaps," Fairfax said He looked down at his terminal again. "The only other possibility Intelligence can release to us right now is what appears to be a code name for the Kilrathi operation here. Krahnakh Ghayeer . . ." "Unseen Death," Ralgha said. Blair exchanged a quick glance with Rollins. Nobody spoke for a many moments. "Unseen Death," Maniac repeated at last. He sounded unusually thoughtful. "I don t like the sound of that. It reminds me of something I heard back at Torgo . . ." He trailed off, frowning. "Yeah, that was it. I remember a guy telling me about some backwater system the Kilrathi raided a few months back. Only instead of just dropping in for a quick loot'n'scoot, they cleaned the place with some kind of new bioweapon. Pandemic, he called it." "I heard about that, too," Pierce said with a nod. "Rumor has it that Confed HQ slapped a blackout on the whole thing and quarantined the system." Rollins was about to speak until he caught the look in Blair's eye. "The war's bad enough without listening to all the rumors flying around," Blair said sharply. "If the cats have a bioweapon, we'll locate it soon enough, you can count on that. In the meantime, we have to concentrate on what we do know þ and on learning what we don't know. Isn't that right, Commander Fairfax?" The intelligence officer nodded, looking unhappy. "Right, then," Blair went on. "For the moment the name of the game is recon. We know there's a Kilrathi squadron in these parts, and we think they're planning something nasty. If Major Berterelli is right, we need to look for signs of a new base. At the very least, we need to pinpoint areas of enemy activity and try to estimate both their intentions and their exact strength." "So it's back to patrols, then," Amazon Mbuto said. "Unless one of you has a crystal ball that can show us where they're hiding," Blair said. "We're drawing up a full schedule of recon ops. I'm doubling the shifts by putting more fighters out at any given time, so I'm afraid we'll all be contracting extra duty for a while. Major Berterelli, I would like an assessment from you on whether we can adapt Green Squadron to take over point defense work. That would give us the Hellcats for other patrol ops." "Range would be pretty short on Hellcats," Whittaker said. "They were never meant for long-duration patrol work." "After our little scrap back at Tamayo, I started thinking about in-flight refueling," Blair told him. "A refueling shuttle with an escort of Thunderbolts could allow your whole squadron to operate over a normal patrol route. He shrugged. "We'd better see if the bombers can replace them before we talk about it further. At any rate, people, we've got to find out everything we can about the Empire's plans before they spring them. So make sure your pilots are sharp and ready for anything. When this thing goes down, whatever it is, we'll need to be ready. Dismissed." Command Hall. KIS Hvar'kann Locanda System Thrakhath lounged in his chair, his thoughts far away. The war was entering its final stage now, and soon the Terrans would be brought down like prey caught in an open field. That would be his doing, Thrakhath, Crown Prince, victor over the Terran prey, hero of Kilrah . . . And some day soon his grandfather would be dead and Thrakhath's claws would grasp the Empire with a grip that would draw blood. "Lord Prince . . ." It was Melek, his closest retainer bowing as he approached the throne. "Your report, Melek," he said mildly. "Lord Prince, the Terran carrier has been identified as the Victory. As you predicted . . . the ship that carries the renegade." "The ship Sar'hrai failed to neutralize," Thrakhath added, showing his fangs. "It is of small consequence. The forces we are mustering now will guarantee the success of Unseen Death, no matter what attempts the apes make to intervene. But be sure to emphasize that all pilots must avoid contact with the renegade. I want no repetitions of the incident with Arrak." "Understood, my liege," Melek said with a bow. "Lord Prince . . . we know that the new weapon will work. The field tests revealed that. Why do we not simply mount a raid on Earth now? It need not be a full-scale attack. All that is necessary is a single ship, a single missile, and the Terran homeworld is infected and wiped clean. That would shatter the apes, making them helpless prey under our talons." "Not quite, Melek," Thrakhath said quietly. "Do not forget, we have attacked their homeworld before, to devastating effect, and yet done them only minor harm in the greater scheme of things. Our agents claim they have powerful new weapons in preparation now, weapons capable of destroying entire planets . . . even golden Kilrah itself. These weapons are not deployed around Terra, so a strike on their homeworld will only trigger massive retaliation. We cannot allow that to happen. I will not trade one homeworld for another, Melek. That would be disaster." "But the loss of Terra . . ." "Would mean less to the apes than the loss of Kilrah would to us," Thrakhath said, leaning forward. "You have not studied the humans as I have. You do not grasp their nature. If Kilrah was lost to us, we would suffer great harm. The Emperor, the heads of the great Clans, the ancient landholds and monuments of our people . . . these are what tie our race together, separate us from the animals. Take those things away and the Empire withers. But the apes are savages. Terrans would mourn the loss of their home, but it would not destroy them. They would continue to swarm in their multitudes, disorganized but still determined." "Then can we truly win this war?" Melek asked. "If we are so much more vulnerable than they, do we have any choice but a glorious death?" Thrakhath smiled. "We know only a little of their doomsday weapon, this . . . Behemoth, as they call it. Our agents say it is untested, but they have not been able to penetrate its secrets as of yet. We must draw out the apes; force them to commit their new weapon before it is fully ready, in a way we can control and manipulate. Unseen Death will be the first stage. By demonstrating our bioweapon and proving our willingness to use it, we will leave the Terrans no choice but to deploy the Behemoth." "Against . . . against Kilrah?" Melek's look was one of horror and fear, but Thrakhath didn't reprimand him for his shameful display. "Not at once," the Prince told him. "They will test it first. We will learn where the weapon is to be tested and we will discover its weaknesses. For this purpose we keep the Heart of the Tiger in readiness. And when we have destroyed their one hope of retaliation, leaving their Navy demoralized and confused . . ." "Then Terra dies," Melek said softly. "Then Terra dies," Thrakhath agreed. "The first of many human worlds . . . until their race is gone forever." CHAPTER X Thunderbolt 300 Locanda System It felt strange to be in the cockpit of a fighter and yet drifting free, without acceleration or preprogrammed destination. Blair had never thought of flying a Thunderbolt as a claustrophobic experience, not with all of space in full glory around him . . . but he was ready to admit that it could be cramped, constricted, and more than a little bit boring. They had been in the Locanda System now for three days, operating frequent recon flights in search of some sign of the Kilrathi fleet. Today was the first time they had put up the Hellcats in a recon role, and Blair had elected to fly escort on the refueling shuttle with Flint rather than assign the job to one of the other Gold Squadron teams. The entire force, four Hellcats, the two Thunderbolts, and the shuttle, had flown together to this prearranged rendezvous point at the edge of the point defense fighters' maximum range. They topped off their tanks and set out in two patrols to sweep a wide arc before they returned. Then they would refuel and make the return trip to the Victory together. Everything went like clockwork Blair hoped their luck would continue to hold. The worst part of being alone in deep space for long amounts of time was the scope it provided for brooding. The lack of specific information on Kilrathi intentions and dispositions made for a game of hide and seek extending over an entire solar system, and it was a game where the Kilrathi had all the advantages. The idea that they might be planning a biological attack on Locanda bothered Blair more than he cared to admit. It suggested that the Empire was upping the ante by introducing the prospect of mass slaughter, possibly escalating to an all-out genocide. Blair had felt that, before, both sides had agreed on what "winning" meant. And now the Kilrathi mi