Heart Of The Tiger wc-4 Page 2

  * * *

  Command Ready Room, TCS Victory.

  Torgo System

  "Come in, Colonel. Come in. Have a seat."

  Blair glanced around the room, moving from the door to the chair Eisen gestured toward in front of the captain's desk. He noted that the tasteful if spartan decor and the well-kept atmosphere produced a startling contrast to most of what he had observed aboard the Victory.

  "So, Colonel, I trust Mr. Rollins has been seeing to your needs." The Captain stood, crossing to a counter at one end of the room. "Will you have something to drink? We picked up a load of New Samarkand vodka a few months back that has a kick like a Gratha's blasters."

  "Thank you, sir." Actually, Blair didn't particularly want a drink, but it was never wise to turn down a commanding officer's hospitality, especially not on the first day aboard.

  Eisen returned with two glasses and handed one to Blair. "A toast, then, Colonel. To Victory!"

  They touched their glasses and Blair took a cautious sip. "Is that the ship or the concept, sir?" he asked.

  "Both," Eisen said, sitting down. Thoughtfully Eisen added, "We're going to win this war, Colonel, and I think this old ship will play a large part in it before the shooting's over."

  Blair tried to keep his expression neutral. "I hope so, sir."

  The captain regarded him with a penetrating look. "I'll admit, Blair, she's no Concordia . . ."

  "Neither is the Concordia . . . any more." This time Blair didn't bother to hide his feelings.

  "It was a terrible loss," Eisen said. "It's never easy to lose so much. You have my sympathies." He paused, looking into his glass. "Nevertheless, you're here now, and I expect nothing less than complete dedication and loyalty from every officer and rating on board this ship."

  "You'll have mine, sir," Blair said quietly. "But if I may speak freely . . . ?"

  "Always, Colonel."

  "From what I've seen so far, you need a little less dedication and a lot more maintenance work from this crew."

  Eisen leaned forward. "I'll admit she doesn't look like much, Blair," he said solemnly. "We're shorthanded in every department, and age and too damn many battles have taken their toll . The old girl was slated for retirement over a decade ago, but they put her back on the line instead. Maybe she doesn't look as good as the big ships you've served on in the past, but that doesn't mean she's not able to do her job. And it's the crew, the men and women who work overtime day after day just to keep her up and running, who are responsible for keeping us on the firing line. That dedication makes all the difference, Colonel, and even if it doesn't extend to slapping on a fresh coat of paint or making sure the food dispensers in the Rec Room have a full stock of chicken soup every day, it still means something to me."

  Blair didn't answer right away. "I . . . take your point, sir," he said at last. "I'm sorry if I seem to be running down your command . . ."

  Eisen smiled easily. "I'm used to it by now, Colonel, believe me. She doesn't look like much, I'll grant you that. But I was communications officer on Victory's maiden voyage, my first assignment out of the Academy. I've been with her many times throughout my career, and I guess I'm just a little bit protective about the old girl after all."

  "I can understand that, sir. You can get . . . attached to a ship, over time." He was thinking of the old Tiger's Claw . . . and Concordia. "I'll admit I wasn't looking forward to this assignment when Admiral Tolwyn told me about it. But I'm feeling much better about it now."

  "My pep talk was that good?" Eisen asked with a grin.

  "That . . . and finding out you have Ralgha nar Hhallas aboard. He's one of the best."

  "Commander nar Hhallas? Yes, he's a good officer. He'll be my Exec this trip . . ."

  "Sir . . . with all due respect, that's a real waste of talent. Hobbes is a natural-born fighter pilot. Putting him in a Line slot . . . I think it's a mistake."

  "It was his own request, Colonel. I know his record, but . . ." Eisen trailed off, then shrugged. "Fact is, no one aboard will fly with a Kilrathi on his wing."

  "Fifteen years of loyal service and a string of combat kills as long as my arm doesn't count for anything?"

  The captain looked away. "Not with these people, Blair. Not after everything they've been through in this damned war. Anyway, he made the request for the good of the flight wing."

  "Well, I'm in command of the wing now," Blair said. "And I want him restored to flight status immediately, for the good of the wing." He paused. "Not that I would try to tell you how to run your ship, of course . . ."

  "Why not? Isn't that the accepted role of every wing commander in the fleet? You guys always felt the Line was nothing but a bunch of glorified taxi drivers." Eisen's smile faded quickly. "Look, Colonel, your loyalty is admirable, and I'll willingly transfer him back to flight, but the problem still remains — who would have a Kilrathi as a wingman?"

  "I'll fly with him," Blair said coldly. "Even if none of the others will. He's the best damned wingman I ever flew with, and I have a feeling we're going to need him if we're heading into a combat zone."

  "If you say so, Colonel," Eisen said, shrugging again. "But I think you're asking for trouble. Not that I'd tell you how to run your wing, of course . . ."

  CHAPTER II

  Wing Commander's Office, TCS Victory.

  Torgo System

  Blair's office was small, tucked between the Flight Control Center and one of the wing's four ready rooms. Aside from a desk with built-in computer links and a set of monitors, it was sparsely furnished. The only really noteworthy touch was the wall behind the desk: a single sheet of transplast revealing a view into the main hangar deck.

  As Blair entered, Rollins looked up from one of the desktop monitors. "Just setting your schedule, Colonel," he said, rising to give Blair the chair. "So, I take it you got the full pep talk from the Old Man, eh?"

  "Something like that," Blair said shortly. Rollins was young and eager to please, but there was an edge about him that made Blair uncomfortable. Rollins had a cynical air and a sharp tongue, and apparently felt free to say whatever he thought. Blair was a skeptic himself and often outspoken, but it seemed out of place coming from a kid fresh out of training.

  "Well, take heart, Colonel. we've still got an ample supply of hot water to shower away all the bull-shit."

  Blair fixed him with a long, penetrating stare. "Captain Eisen seems to genuinely believe in his ship . . . and in his crew. That's a good attitude for morale."

  "You haven't been monitoring the command traffic the way I have, sir," Rollins said. "If the Old Man told the crew half of what he knows, they'd jump sector in half a nanosec and never come back!"

  "Look, Lieutenant, I don't care what kind of paranoid fantasies you indulge in during your down-time," Blair told him harshly. "But I'd better not hear you sharing them with the rest of the crew. You read me, Mister?"

  "Yes, sir," Rollins replied stiffly. "But I wouldn't just ignore what's going on out there, Colonel. Maybe it's not just paranoia, you know? If you change your mind and decide you want the straight dope, you just come to old Radio Rollins." He paused. "Might save your life someday."

  "Yeah . . . and the Kilrathi might all become pacifist vegetarians overnight, too." Blair looked down at his desk. "I won't need you any more today, Rollins, so you can get back to your other duties. But on your way out, would you pass the word that I want to see Ralgha nar Hhallas? And whoever's my Exec, too, in that order. It's time I got this outfit properly frightened for the safety and comfort of their butts."

  "Aye, aye, sir," Rollins said.

  Blair's eyes followed the younger man as he left the office. It seemed ironic for Blair to be championing the establishment, given his own bitter feelings about the High Command and the state of the war in general, but he didn't have much choice. Private doubts were one thing, but doubts spread throughout the ship by someone in a position to leak classified information . . . that was an open invitation to disaster. One sour apple
like Rollins could ruin the best of crews.

  He put aside his concerns and turned to work; punching up the computer files on Flight Wing Thirty-Six. They had been assigned to Victory for over a year now with operations mostly in secondary theaters and rear echelons. There were four combat squadrons in the wing plus a support squadron which operated Victory's contingent of shuttles, small boats, and other utility craft.

  Four squadrons . . . forty fighters, interceptors, and fighter-bombers. Red Squadron flew Arrow-class point-defense fighters designed to fly close escort for the carrier and other capital ships. Though limited in range and endurance, they were well-armed for their size. In a close combat situation, they'd be worth their weight in platinum.

  Blue Squadron flew space superiority fighters, Arrow-class interceptors. These had range, speed, and endurance for long patrol operations or sustained dogfights, but they were rather light when it came to arms and armor. Blair had flown Arrows before but never cared much for them. He liked a heavier ship, one with teeth, but still maneuverable enough to outfly as well as outfight an enemy.

  Heavy fighter-bombers constituted the complement of the Green Squadron. Using the F/A-76 Longbow-class attack craft, the squadron gave Victory real striking power for offensive operations. The Longbow had a reputation for being underpowered and clumsy, but it had a good combat record nonetheless. Blair never considered himself a bomber pilot and had only flown an F/A-76 in simulations.

  The Gold Squadron remained, based on the HF-66 Thunderbolt heavy fighter. Heavy fighters were used during offense and defense alike, with enough ordinance capacity to be pressed into service as bombers if the need arose. They still maintained the firepower and speed to be superb dogfighters. He was glad to see the Thunderbolts listed in the inventory. When the wing went into combat, Blair planned to be flying with Gold Squadron in the cockpit of one of those steady and reliable old fighters. He would have to reorganize the flight roster accordingly to accommodate Hobbes and himself . . . .

  As if on cue, there was a knock at the door. "Enter," Blair said, and the computer picked up the order, opening the door. It was Hobbes.

  Blair stood and met him halfway with one hand extended to grasp a large, stubby-fingered paw in a hearty handshake.

  "It is good to see you, old friend," Hobbes said. "You are looking fine and fit. Does this war, then, agree with you so much?"

  Blair chuckled. "Yeah, right, about as much as a pair of busted wing flaps on an atmospheric run." He stepped back, clasping the big Kilrathi renegade by the shoulders and looking him up and down. "Damn, it's good to see you, buddy. Nobody told me I'd find you aboard."

  "Nor did we ever expect to see the likes of Maverick Blair on the Victory, my friend," Ralgha responded. "You must admit, it is quite a change from Concordia and her kind."

  "Yeah . . . it is that." Blair said, looking away. "Come on, sit down. We've got some things to talk about."

  "Old times?" the Kilrathi asked, lowering himself carefully into a seat that had never been built with a Kilrathi's bulk in mind.

  "Nope. New ones. I've got good news for you, buddy. You're back on the flight roster, starting immediately, on the Gold Squadron — pushing a Thunderbolt."

  Ralgha hesitated. "But I requested —"

  "Yeah, Eisen told me. But just because you ran into a couple of bigots is no reason to sit on the sidelines now. We need you on the firing line, Hobbes. I need you. You'll be flying as my wingman, at least until I knock a few heads together and show these people the error of their ways."

  "Colonel . . ." Ralgha trailed off. "There are many brave and noble pilots on this ship, my friend."

  "When my ass is on the line, I want a wingman I can trust. And you're one of the damned few pilots I do trust, Hobbes. Like I said, I need you out there."

  "Then I shall try not to disappoint you, old friend."

  "I haven't had a chance to review the rosters yet," Blair said. "You rate as a Lieutenant Colonel in the Space Force. Do you know where that puts you in the chain of command?"

  "Now that you are with us, I will be number two," Ralgha answered solemnly.

  "My Exec?"

  The Kilrathi nodded gravely, the human gesture seeming out of place. "I believe that was the principal reason for the opposition to my presence," he said "Colonel Dulbrunin was the previous wing commander. He was killed in a battle just before I was transferred aboard, and I believe some of the other pilots were reluctant to serve with a Kilrathi as their commanding officer. Perhaps there will be fewer objections with you in command."

  "I'll guarantee that much. Anyone with objections will keep them to themselves or I'll move them to another wing."

  "Do not judge them too harshly. This has been a bitter conflict. It is difficult to avoid hatred between two such different species as yours and mine, and there are few who can learn to distinguish between allegiance and race when the differences are so plain to see."

  "You're too damned noble, Hobbes. That's the only thing about you I still can't deal with. I keep expecting you to act like a human being and have a hidden dark side, but if you've got one it never shows."

  "Humans, too, have hidden depths, for good or ill." Ralgha paused. "But there are better things to discuss than philosophy, such as old friends and comrades in arms. How is your mate, that fine pilot and comrade, Angel?"

  Blair looked away again, his smile fading. He had been trying not to think about Angel. "I don't know, Hobbes," he said reluctantly. "I haven't heard from her in months. She's been assigned to some damn covert op, and even Paladin's keeping quiet about it."

  "I . . . am sorry if I have stirred up bad feelings," Ralgha said. "But you know as well as I do that Angel can take care of herself. She will return to you in time, if the War God so wills it."

  "Yeah." Blair nodded, but the sinking feeling in his stomach would not go away. Jeannette Devereaux (callsign Angel) began with Blair aboard the old Tiger's Claw, first as a fellow pilot, then a friend, and then . . . more, much more. But when Blair was offered the wing commander's slot aboard the Concordia, Angel transferred to Brigadier General James Taggart's Covert Operations Division. Blair never understood or accepted the decision, prompted so she said, by her regard for Taggart (who had flown with them on the Tiger's Claw under the running name of Paladin). Covert Ops seemed such a complete departure for Angel, who was usually so cool and rational, so completely dedicated to the science rather than the emotions of warfare.

  But she joined Taggart's outfit, and though Blair continued to see her (when possible), they had drifted apart. Finally, just after the Battle of Earth and Blair's long confinement in the military hospital, she simply vanished. Paladin admitted she was on a mission when Blair confronted him, but nothing more. Covert Ops drew the most difficult and dangerous assignments in the Confed fleet. By now, she might well be dead . . . .

  Blair forced himself to put aside that bitter thought. "Look, Hobbes," he said slowly, "I don't want to cut this short. I'd like nothing better than to grab a couple of jugs of booze in the Rec Room and toast the old days with you, but I've got a pile of stuff to wade through before I can declare it quitting time."

  "I understand, my friend," Ralgha said, rising slowly. He gave Blair a slight bow, the Kilrathi gesture of respect. "When the Captain makes my transfer official, perhaps I can take up some of the burden as your Exec."

  "Tomorrow will do fine, Hobbes. And . . . thanks."

  The Kilrathi pilot had not even reached the door when there was another knock. Ralgha ushered in the newcomer as he left, leaving Blair face-to-face with a familiar figure, another reminder of missions past.

  The man had changed little over the years. He was a little heavier than Blair remembered him, and there was a touch of gray in his dark hair. But he still had the same air of brooding intensity and fire in his eyes.

  "Maniac Marshall," Blair said slowly. "So you managed to stay alive somehow. Who'd have guessed it?"

  "Colonel Blair." Major Todd Marshall looked any
thing but glad to see him, and the feeling was entirely mutual. Marshall was another of the old Tigers Claw hands. In fact, he and Blair had a history together. As classmates in the Academy, they had been rivals in everything from the flight competitions in their final year as midshipmen to gaining the attentions of a particular young lady.

  Marshall earned his running name in the Academy from his slapdash, hell-for-leather flying style. Always volatile and eager for glory, Maniac never fit in quite as well as Blair. He barely squeaked through graduation whereas Blair earned honors. While aboard Tiger's Claw, Marshall proved an unpopular wingman who was considered unreliable, even dangerous, by the rest of his squadron. He blamed Blair from the start for always managing to come out ahead in kills, awards, and promotions. Blair had been delighted when the two were posted in different ships after their tour aboard Tiger's Claw.

  Now Marshall was a major, and Blair was a colonel and the high command or some vengeful god of fate had thrown them together again.

  "It's been a long time, Major." Blair didn't bother to stand, but gestured toward the chair Hobbes had vacated. "Sit down and tell me what I can do for you."

  "Radio Rollins said you wanted to see your Exec," Marshall said as he took the chair. He smiled, but the expression held no warmth at all. "I guess that's me."

  "That was you," Blair said bluntly. "But I've just asked the Captain to restore Hobbes to flight status, and he outranks you, I'm afraid. He'll be Exec and double as CO of Gold Squadron."

  Marshall's face fell. "That damned kitty . . ." He stopped as he caught the look on Blair's face. "All right, all right. Can't go around maligning a fellow officer, and all that, right? But I never could understand what you saw in that cat, and that's the plain and simple truth."

  "That's simple enough. He's a wingman I can trust."

  Maniac gave a derisive snort. "Trust someone who'll kill his own kind? There's a great piece of command wisdom for you."

  "At least I've never known Hobbes to break formation on me the way you did at Gimle. I need to know that I can count on a wingman to back me up, and not go hunting for glory, then yell for help when he gets in too deep . . ." Blair shrugged. He had gone over this same speech with Maniac time and again, but it had never done any good. He didn't imagine the man was going to change now. "When it comes right down to it, Major, I can choose whoever I want as my wingman. That's one of the privileges of rank, you know."