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 them 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 . . .
Flight Commander Arrak gave a snarl of triumph as he listened to the computer translation of the Terran
