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.
'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 VI
'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
