CHAPTER III

"Now hear this, now hear this," the shipboard tannoy blared. "Prepare for Flight Operations. Flight Deck personnel to launch stations."

Blair's stride was brisk and purposeful as he entered the Flight Control Center, his helmet under one arm. It was good to be back in his G suit again, even if the mission at hand was no more than a routine patrol. In his two weeks aboard the Victory, he had been unable to strap on a fighter once, but today he would finally get a chance to be free of a wing commander's console work and move among the stars where he truly belonged.

Chief Technician Rachel Coriolis looked up from a computer display with a grin. He had met her only once, in a general meeting of the flight wing's support personnel, without time to exchange more than a few words. That was Blair's problem ever since he took command of the wing: plenty of work, reports, plans, forms, and requisitions to be filled out, but precious little chance to know the rest of the crew.

Chief Coriolis was Gold Squadron's senior crew chief, and as such led the team of technical experts who maintained Thunderbolt 300, the fighter set aside for Blair's use. She was young — not yet thirty — and attractive, though her customary baggy coveralls and the inevitable layer of dirt and grime streaking her clothes and face tended to obscure her beauty. According to her personnel file, she was a competent technician with an excellent service record. Blair hoped she would live up to those reports.

"Colonel," she said, straightening as he approached. "They say you're taking this patrol yourself. Your bird's just about ready."

"Good," Blair responded.

"Kinda strange seeing the big brass flying a routine patrol, though," she continued, apparently not affected by rank or seniority. "I don't think I ever saw Colonel Dulbrunin fly anything short of a full all-fighters magnum launch."

"I'm not Dulbrunin," Blair told her. "I like to get a few hours of flight time as often as possible, so don't be surprised if you discover that my bird needs more servicing than you planned."

She gave a nod in satisfaction. "Glad to hear it, skipper. Your predecessor knew how to fly a console well enough, a top-notch administrator. But I like pilots who fly the real thing. Know what I mean?" She cocked her head to one side. "Are you really taking on Hobbes as your wingman?"

"You got a problem with that, Chief?" Blair growled.

"No, sir," the technician said, shaking her head. "I say it's about jolly well time. That cat's one hell of a good pilot, and I'm glad to see him back on the roster."

Blair studied her for a long moment, then gave an approving nod. "Glad to hear it, Chief," he said, warming to her. At least there was someone on the flight deck who appreciated Ralgha nar Hhallas. Her praise sounded sincere. Rachel Coriolis struck him as the kind of tech who judged a pilot on how he handled his fighter, not on superficial things like species or background. "So . . . give me a status report on my bird."

Using a remote, she switched on a set of viewscreens filled with data readouts on the fighter. "Here she is one Thunderbolt; prepped, primed, locked, and loaded . . . and ready to kick some serious ass out there."

Blair studied the data display for a few moments then gave an approving nod. "Looks good, Chief," he finally said. "What about the ordinance?"

"All taken care of, skipper. The Captain downloaded the mission specs while you boys were finishing your briefing. I doped out the weapons requirements and loaded her. You're all set for this one.

Blair frowned. "Better let me review the load, Chief," he said slowly.

"Typical," she said, calling up the ordinance display on one of the monitors. "You flyboys just don't think anybody else knows what you're going to need out there."

He checked the weapons mix, then reluctantly nodded. "Looks good enough," he admitted.

"Maybe next time you'll trust your Auntie Rachel with the loadout, huh, skipper?" She gave him a quick smile. "I promise you, Colonel, I'll never disappoint you."

"I'll bet you won't," he said. Blair took a last look at the fighter stats then turned toward the door. It was time to launch.

"Good luck, skipper," the technician said, "and Godspeed."

He left Flight Control and took the elevator to the next level down, emerging on the main hangar deck in the midst of a confusion of people and machines engaged in the familiar purposeful chaos of pre-launch operations. Hobbes was already there, with his helmet on but his faceplate open. "Fighters up, Colonel," he said seriously. "Ready to fly."

"Then let's get out there," Blair responded, lifting his own helmet and settling it over his head carefully. His flight suit and gauntlets made the motion awkward, but Hobbes helped him get seated and dogged down. A pair of technicians bustled around guiding them toward the fighters resting side by side in their launch cradles.

Blair climbed into the cockpit, his stomach churning the way it always did in anticipation of a launch, as techs supervised the final preparations, checked the seals on the cockpit canopy, removed external power and fuel feeds, studied readouts, and compared them with the incoming data from Flight Control. Blair ran through his own checklist.

When all the lights on his panel glowed green, he nodded his head and lowered his faceplate into place. He switched his radio to the command channel. "Thunderbolt three-double-zero," he said. "Ready for launch."

"Flight Control," Rachel's voice sounded in his ear. "Confirming, Thunderbolt three zero zero ready for launch."

Blair's faceplate came alive with a Heads Up Display of the fighter's major systems. Seconds ticked away on a countdown clock in the lower left-hand corner of the HUD readout. The time seemed to drag into an eternity, but at last the readout flashed through the final few seconds. Blair took a firm grip on the steering yoke with one hand while the other rested on the engine throttles. Three . . . two . . . one . . .

Blair rammed the throttles forward and felt the engines engage. "Thunderbolt three-double-zero, under power," he reported. Then he was free of the carrier, climbing outward into the star-studded depths of open space.

A moment later Hobbes came on the line, his voice slightly distorted by the computer reconstruction of his encoded transmission. "Thunderbolt three-zero-one, under power."

"Roger that, three hundred, three-o-one," the voice of Lieutenant Rollins rang loudly in his headphones. "Your mission designation is Snoop Flight, repeating Snoop Flight."

"Confirming," Blair replied. "Snoop Leader, establishing flight coordinates now." As Hobbes added his own response, Blair tapped a key to check the autopilot's flight plan on the navcomp. A flight from Blue Squadron had detected signs of possible enemy activity on long-range sensors around three different coordinate points, but pursuant to standing orders had not investigated closely. Instead, they brought their information back to the Victory. Now Eisen wanted those potential trouble spots checked more thoroughly, with Gold Squadron's heavier Thunderbolts doing the scouting in case they ran into opposition.

A routine patrol . . . except that Blair had long since learned that no mission was ever entirely routine.

The two fighters flew in close formation, side by side, with a minimum of conversation passing back and forth between them or the carrier. The first of the three target areas were free of enemy ships, although some random space debris did show up on sensors to suggest what the first flight had detected. They remained in the area long enough to double-check all their sensor readings, then set course for the second navigation point on the flight plan.

"Range to navpoint, eight thousand kilometers," Hobbes reported finally. "Switching to full-spectrum sensor sweep . . . now."

"Confirmed," Blair replied tersely, activating his own sensor array. What seemed like extremely long seconds passed as the computer began to process the information pouring through the system. The tracking screen in the center of his control console lit up with a trio of red lights.

"Fighters, fighters, fighters," Hobbes chanted over the tactical channel. "I read three fighters, bearing three-four-six by zero-one-one, range two thousand, closing."

Blair checked his own target readouts. "Confirmed. Three bad guys, two of us. But I'll bet you they're only a little bit nervous at the odds!" He paused for a moment, studying the sensor data. "I read them as Dralthi-class, probably type fours."

"Then they should offer only a mild challenge," Hobbes said. The Dralthi IV was a good craft, but classed as a medium fighter with less weaponry and lighter armor than the Terran Thunderbolt. "May I have the honor of the first engagement, Colonel?"

Blair frowned. His instincts were at odds with what he could see on the screen. Something wasn't quite right . . . "Wait, Hobbes," he said. "I want to finish the scan."

The sensors covered the whole volume around the Terran fighters to their extreme limits, but the computer was still crunching numbers and trying to extrapolate detailed information from their readings. There was a single, massive asteroid near the same bearing as the enemy fighters, yet closer and several degrees to port. An asteroid that size could hold a Kilrathi depot or advanced base, perhaps armed . . . .

"Steer clear of that rock, Hobbes," he said, still frowning. "I don't like the looks of it. Let's keep in supporting distance until we see which way those boys are going to break."

"Acknowledged," Ralgha responded. Blair thought he could detect a note of disappointment in the alien's voice.

"Going to afterburners," Blair said, pushing the throttles into the red zone and feeling the press of acceleration on his chest. Hobbes stayed close, matching his course and speed.

"They see us, Colonel," Ralgha reported a moment later.

On Blair's targeting screen, he could see the three fighters breaking formation. It looked as if they were getting ready for a typical Kilrathi attack pattern, with individual ships hurling themselves into action in succession rather than attempting a coordinated assault. That was the legacy of their carnivore forebears: the instinct to fight as individual hunters and warriors rather than group together in a mass effort. Blair knew Hobbes was feeling the pull of that same age-old instinct, but he also knew his friend's rigid sense of duty and self-control, which would hold him in formation until he was released.

The first Dralthi accelerated toward them, driving at maximum thrust. Over the open radio channel the enemy pilot screamed a challenge. "Die, hairless apes!" translated the communications computer. "Die as you live, without honor or value!"

"I am no ape," Hobbes replied. "I am Ralgha nar Hhallas, and my honor is not to be questioned by a Kilra'hra like you!" Blair's wingman rolled left, opening fire on the Dralthi with blasters and a pair of anti-ship missiles.

The lead Kilrathi fighter dodged and juked, eluding one of the missiles and increasing thrust as it turned onto a new heading angling away from Hobbes. The other missile scored a hit on shields already weakened by blaster fire, raising a cloud of debris amidships as the blast ripped into armor plating.

Blair started to follow his comrade's course, ready to maintain a close formation and keep enemies off Ralgha's back. But he spotted motion on his sensor grid, and swore softly. "Damn it, the other two aren't sticking around to fight," he said.

"Pursue them if you wish, my friend," Hobbes replied grimly. "I wish to finish this one."

He hesitated a moment. Blair was a firm believer in the value of formation fighting and mutual support between wingmen, but the mission profile called for the Terran fighters to eliminate as many opponents as possible once an engagement began. The idea was to sweep each of the suspect areas clean and not to allow escaping Kilrathi to regroup or summon reinforcements to redeem an initial defeat. If those two broke off, there was no telling how many of their friends they would contact.

Blair changed his vector to follow the two ships as they veered toward the shelter of the asteroid he had noted earlier. On their present heading, they would not pass close enough to pose any particular danger to either pursued or pursuer. If they could put the irregular lump of rock and ore between their ships and Blair's Thunderbolt, they might be able to confuse his sensors long enough to make their escape.

On their present course they were opening the range separating them from the first Dralthi, which was running in the opposite direction with Hobbes close on the enemy fighter's tail. That was one less thing to worry about. Apparently the Kilrathi had no great interest in rescuing their comrade.

Blair kept one eye on his fuel gauge and the other on the enemy ships. High-thrust operations burned fuel at a terrible rate, and the last thing he needed now was to use so much of his reserve that he wouldn't be able to make it home. Judging from the heat outputs of the two Dralthi, they were not using their full thrusters. They were probably already low on fuel, nearing the end of an extended patrol. That meant he could still close the gap and engage them . . . .

Then the enemy exhaust plumes started burning hotter. The two craft suddenly began to swing around, their symbols changing quickly on his sensor readouts. They were turning, but not to run. This time they planned to attack.

In the same moment, three more targets appeared on Blair's screens, closing from starboard.

These, too, were Dralthi. Blair cursed. The new arrivals had been lurking in the lee of that asteroid, dangerously close to the huge rock. Evidently the Kilrathi picked up the first patrol flight and realized there would be a follow-up mission, so they organized an ambush. With Hobbes distracted by his one-on-one fight with the original attacker, the enemy squadron could concentrate on knocking Blair out of action while he was still unsupported.

"Hobbes," he said urgently. "Talk to me, buddy. I've got five bandits surrounding me with damn little running room. Break off whatever you're doing and give me an assist."

Blair was already reversing course as one of the Dralthi broke and plunged toward him. His fingers danced over the autopilot keyboard as he programmed the computer to begin random bursts of thrust at odd vectors to keep his opponent from getting a firm lock on the Thunderbolt. Then there was nothing more he could do except wait, jaw clenched, as he watched the Dralthi slowly close in. Soon the enemy pilot would be able to match his vector, and when that happened . . .

He fired his maneuvering jets to execute a tumbling turn just as the Dralthi settled on the Terran fighter's tail. Suddenly, the Kilrathi ship filled his forward viewport, and Blair opened fire with his blasters in a quick succession of shots that burned power too quickly for the weapons generators to respond. His last shot was with a Dart unguided missile, the type pilots referred to as "dumb-fires." But even without a homing system, the missile wasn't likely to miss at this range.

The missile barely left his ship before Blair's fighter was twisting again. He didn't see the missile punch through the weakened shields and detonate over the weakest armor, around the Dralthi's cockpit. But his sensors registered the blast, and Blair felt a momentary thrill as he realized he had scored a kill.

But that still left four-to-one odds.

He did not waste time. The other Kilrathi fighters were still out of range even though they were closing in fast. Blair reignited his afterburners and tried to put some distance between his fighter and the pursuers, but this time it was Blair who was concerned about his fuel supply. The four Dralthi were running flat out, apparently unconcerned about their reserves.