stand-up fight with seven cap ships. And our battle group isn't strong enough to even up the odds, either.'
That prompted nods around the table. Three destroyers, Coventry, Sheffield, and Ajax, had joined the carrier at Tamayo as escorts, but two of them were as old and outdated as Victory herself. Only Coventry carried her own half-wing of fighters. All in all, they weren't much when set against the Kilrathi force.
'Do you have any recommendations, Colonel?' Eisen went on.
Blair studied the chart. 'Yeah,' he said slowly. He allowed himself a wolfish grin. 'Hit them now. . . and hit them hard.'
Eisen looked doubtful. 'It'll be a mismatch,' he said. 'Can you do anything against those odds?'
'Yes, sir, I can,' Blair said, although a part of him didn't share the confidence he tried to project. 'We won't be going in to take on the whole Kilrathi fleet. My notion is to threaten them with an attack and make them launch their missiles early. That's what I'd do, if I wasn't sure what was hitting me. So we stir them up, make them commit. And then we go after those missiles with everything we've got. Victory won't be in any danger, because I don't see how they could mount a counterstrike in the middle of their attack op. The risk falls entirely to the Wing.'
'I was hoping you'd come up with something better Colonel,' Eisen said, sounding weary, 'because that was the only plan I was able to rough out, too. And I'm afraid your pilots are going to be in for one hell of a fight.'
'Yeah,' Blair said. 'I know. But I don't see anything else we can do without throwing away the one advantage we have right now.'
'Advantage? We have an advantage?' Rollins looked and sounded incredulous.
'Surprise, Mr. Rollins,' Blair told him with a slow smile. 'Fact is, nobody would be crazy enough to do what we're talking about doing.'
CHAPTER XII
'Battle Alert! Battle Alert!' the computer announced. 'Now, scramble! Scramble! Scramble! All Flight Wing personnel to magnum launch stations. Scramble!'
A monitor showed the view as the ready rooms erupted in a sudden outburst of activity. For a few seconds it was a scene of utter chaos, with pilots running for the Hangar Deck. Some were still zipping up flight suits or dogging down helmets as they moved, but there was an underlying sense of order beneath all the confusion. These people were professionals who knew their jobs.
Blair glanced around Flight Control Center, nodding in satisfaction. The room was fully crewed, with captain Ted 'Marker' Markham, Victory's Flight Boss, presiding over the technicians with his usual autocratic flair. Ignoring the others, Blair focused his attention on Maniac Marshall, who was with Rachel Coriolis near the door. The major seemed to be debating his fighter's combat loadout with the technician, waving his hands in the air and talking with an excited intensity.
He waited until the discussion was over before crossing to Maniac. 'We don't have any room for grandstanding today, Major,' he said quietly. 'This mission has to be flown perfectly. Otherwise . . . scratch a whole colony world and everyone on it. You read me, mister?'
Marshall met his eyes defiantly. 'I know my duty, damn it. And I've never let my end down.'
'Just remember what's at stake. You don't have to like me, major, any more than I have to like you. But today you'll follow my orders, or I'll have your head.'
'I'll do my job,' Maniac told him. 'You just do yours.'
Blair and Flint launched last, joining the other fighters already on station around the carrier. All four squadrons were up, thirty-three fighters in all. Leyland and Svensson had two of Blue Squadron's interceptors in position closer to the enemy flight, and the techs had down-checked five fighters — two Arrows, two Hellcats, and a Longbow — as unable to fly the mission.
He was glad Gold Squadron hadn't suffered any down-checks. At least all ten Thunderbolts would be going in today.
'All squadrons, this is Wing Commander,'' he announced as he settled his fighter into formation between Flint and Hobbes. 'We've gone over the drill often enough, so I expect you all know your jobs by now. Warlock, I wish you were with us on this one, but in-flight refueling would complicate things too much. Keep your guard up, and make sure the old rust-bucket's still here for us when we get home.'
'Godspeed, Colonel,' Whittaker replied.
'The rest of us have a fleet to catch,' Blair continued. 'Amazon, take the lead. Green Squadron to follow, Gold in the rear. Let's punch it, boys and girls!' He rammed his throttles forward as if to punctuate the order, felt the engines surging to full power and the G-force pressing him down. 'Engage autopilots,' he said. 'Anybody who thinks he can sleep, this is your last chance for a catnap before things start getting hot!'
He doubted if anyone actually slept, though with the autopilots set it would have been possible — assuming adrenaline and anticipation left any room for any of them to relax. It was a forty-five minute flight at maximum thrust, and Blair spent the time reviewing his plans and trying to spot ways to improve their chances of success. He saw precious little hope of shortening the daunting odds against them. Everything depended on luck, now.
Blair was surprised when the computer alarm sounded the warning. They were close to their navigation checkpoint now, and the autopilots were disengaging automatically. He checked his scanners, saw the blips representing the two watchdog interceptors trailing the Kilrathi fleet ahead. The enemy showed up on long-range sensors, which showed the presence of large vessels, but so far his monitor showed nothing in range of the more accurate but less powerful short-range scan.
That was exactly as it should be. So far, so good . . .
'Shepherd to flock,' he said, breaking radio silence. 'Commence your run . . . NOW!'
'Lord Prince!'
Thrakhath looked up from his computer display. The Tactical Officer sounded frightened, but whether it was due to something on his scanners or the danger of bothering Thrakhath was difficult to tell. 'Lord Prince, I have multiple targets on close-range sensors. Small . . . a cluster of fighter-class targets. At least four eights of them!'
'Position?' Thrakhath rasped.
'Bearing to port and low, range five thousand octomak and closing.' The officer paused. 'They are Terran by their signatures, Lord Prince . . .'
