nce, but in the end it was surmised that the Baron was
merely smoke screening and had not stumbled on any hard information.
A nervous rustle seemed to sweep through the room.
"Damn it, isn't anyone catching on?" someone grumbled from the back of
the room.
"Some people are, Commodore," Tolwyn replied. "Call it war weariness, I
don't know. I think after thirty years people wanted peace so badly that
they were willing to grasp at straws and this Baron knew how to play into
it. There was an old American military leader named Marshall who once said
‘no democracy can endure a seven years war, and we've had thirty."
"Admiral, let's get to the point," the commodore replied. You dragged
us here for a reason, and not just so we could cry on each other's
shoulders."
Tolwyn smiled.
"You always did get straight to the point, Weiss," and Tolwyn clicked
the hand unit once more and the figures in the holo field dissolved to be
replaced by a sector map.
"You're looking at the Landreich System."
"What a hell hole," someone growled.
"Its a hell hole all right, in fact one of their favorite planets is
named just that," Tolwyn replied. "As you can see from the map, the forward
edge of it borders on the Empire, and it's about the furthest you can get
from Confederation territory. Most of the worlds haven't even reached G
status for colonial outpost ranking."
He hit a couple of buttons on his controller and a number of flashing
red and yellow dots appeared.
"Each red dot represents a reported violation of the demilitarized zone
by Kilrathi vessels, each yellow dot by Terran or others. Incidents are
happening at better than two a day. Back here on Terra they might be
claiming peace, and the same on Kilrah, but the frontier regions are just
about as hot as ever. There's a lot of freebooting going on, organized
raiding cartels are forming and even some free corp units of ex-military on
both sides, who have no place else to go, are setting themselves up as petty
governments or as raiding groups.
"Now according to the peace agreement, the central government is
supposed to patrol these areas," and the group chuckled, "but hell, we could
barely do that when we had a full fleet and the war was on. Thirty years of
fighting has caused a lot of breaking down out on the edges."
He paused for a moment to throw another log in the fire.
"They might call it rebellious down here on Earth, but from the
viewpoint of the frontier governments it's being independent. They know what
it's like to live on the edge of total annihilation if the Empire ever broke
through, and they are none too pleased with the armistice, since if anything
it means that there's no Confederation fleet at all to back them up."
A thin smile creased his features.
"So they're quietly building their own for what they're calling
‘reasons of internal security,' and that, my friends, is why you're here."
Jason felt a cool shiver run down his back.
"It might not be much but it's something. I'll not call it an ace in
the hole. When you look at the figures I just showed you it's more like a
deuce; but at least it's a start, a backup if things turn ugly.
"Shall we say, for convenience sake, that in my current disgraced
position I have been forced into a commercial venture in order to make ends
meet. I have been approached by a private contractor who wishes to purchase
a number of decommissioned ships that could be reconfigured for," and he
grinned, "civilian transport. It just so happens that I've located five of
these ships in a mothball yard orbiting the moon."
He paused for a moment
They're CVEs, light escort carriers, and I need some crews to run
them."
Jason broke into a grin.
Prince Thrakhath stood up, extending his arms and groaning.
"So what you are telling me is that you cannot speed up the completion
of the fleet."
"No, my lord," and the admiral before him lowered his head to the
ground.
"Stand up and stop this groveling, I'm not going to tear your throat
out. I need leaders, not dead bodies just because you bring bad news."
The admiral came to his feet.
"It's the problem with the transports," the admiral said. "We simply
don't have enough to keep moving the material out to the Hari at the rate
you wish for."
"But what about those older ships we decommissioned?" and he almost
laughed at the thought of that. The vessels had been ready to fall apart and
yet they were checked off by the Confederation observers as first line
battle worthy. And even as he thought of it he realized that was precisely
why they were useless. The three eights number of jumps required to get to
the Hari base exceeded their need for overhauls after every two eights jumps
which older ships still required.
"Couldn't we establish an overhaul base at the half way point?"
"It might draw notice. It could be within detection range if they ever
slipped deep enough into our territory.
"Do it anyhow, and find a way to heighten security.
"There is another problem as well."
"And that is?"
"Fleet procedures have always been able to provide complete situation
updates by burst signal from fleet commanders on a daily basis. Some concern
has been expressed that the Confederation, with the rumor that they suspect
something in the Hari sector, might turn their attention there and detect
these signals. If they can decode enough of the signal it might reveal the
existence of the new fleet."
"The range of their detection equipment isn't that good," Thrakhath
replied, and then paused, "or is it?"
"We've received a couple of reports over the last year of a new project
of theirs to improve their equipment. But nothing is confirmed."
Thrakhath nodded.
"Use courier ships, then."
"It is too far away to be efficient and too dangerous. The tactical,
strategic, and operational updates comprise tens of trillions of bits of
information right down to the need for a replacement screw. The signals back
from Kilrah also send out the key information obtained by our intelligence
operatives regarding all new information regarding Earth defenses. If we had
to suddenly launch a preemptive strike without warning, the fleet must know
on a daily basis the latest information regarding events across the Empire,
the demilitarized zones, and inside Confederation space. The fleet in hiding
needs this information instantly, and we need to know instantly what its
needs are, a time delay of eight and four or more days is dangerous."
"So what do you suggest?"
"Keep the communications open."
The Prince hesitated for a moment.
"How secure is the encoding?"
"Our intelligence indicates that the Confederation was breaking our
latest fleet code just as the armistice was reached. However, every five
eights of standard days, we changed the code anyhow. We could place our
latest one in, and reduce signal traffic to essentials only, keeping the
burst signals to under a second each way."
Thrakhath nodded. He could see the admiral's point. If the
Confederation picked up signal traffic going in and out of Hari territory,
it might draw notice, but then in order to do so, even if they could upgrade
their equipment, it would require a penetration into the Empire.
"Do so and inform our counter intelligence to keep careful watch inside
the Confederation as to any actions which might indicate that they know
something or are planning some action."
"So far we have detected absolutely none."
"There is never an absolute in war, the friction of war always causes a
breakdown. You have your orders, now leave me."
The admiral backed out of the room,
Prince Thrakhath settled back down at his desk and then turned to look
out the small oval window. In the darkness of space beyond he could see a
long sliver of reflected light. Craxha, the third of the new carriers to
have just completed its first transjump engine testing, was coming back in
to dock. Tomorrow the first squadron of fighters, transferred from one of
the now drydocked carriers would start to come aboard.
The ship turned slowly, lining up on the drydock pylon which jutted out
from the massive orbital base. He sat quietly, watching the maneuver
intently.
Docking a ship of such massive size was a difficult maneuver and the
commander on board performed it flawlessly.
Good, he had chosen that one well.
He turned away and looked back at his commscreen, intently studying the
latest intelligence report provided by the hrai spies of the Imperial
family.
It wasn't good.
He closed his eyes, silently cursing the Baron. There was no denying
that the initial plan of the Baron, to have a temporary armistice, was
indeed a good one, no matter how humiliating it might be. Later, once things
were finished, the blame for the humiliation could be shifted back to the
Baron and away from the shoulders of the Imperial line.
It was the inner intent of the Baron which was disturbing. Already he
was trying to marshal support from the other clans against the Imperial
blood, while quietly working to extend the armistice far out beyond the
original intent. It was obvious now that the true intent was to let the
armistice continue, place the ultimate blame on the Emperor, and then
somehow seize power himself. When that was accomplished this new fleet would
fall into his hands, he would overawe the humans with it and thus secure
victory and his own control of the throne.
The alternative, the Prince realized, was to preemptively strike on the
humans right now. But the problem was that the fleet was not yet ready for
that. It would be at least another six eights of days before the fourth
carrier came on line. All battle simulations had shown that the full
strength of twelve carriers was needed for an overwhelming victory. Beyond
that, the twelve carriers would need more than forty eighties of fighters
and. more importantly, trained pilots, for them to be useful. So far he had
drawn pilots only from those hrai truly loyal to the throne. That was the
difficult part of the equation. Far too many of the Imperial Guard pilots
had been lost at Vukar, and it would be at least another year before their
losses were made good.
If he delayed, his military strength would grow, and the humans would
weaken, lulled by the false peace. That they would be so stupid had caused
him to lose whatever respect he had once held for them as foes worthy of the
testing of steel.
There was the chance as well that some in the Confederation military
might try to get the hard evidence regarding the new fleet and its intended
target. That they even had suspicion of its existence had been a blow, the
information revealed by their all so foolish traitor.
Turning her had been so easy, he thought with a cold smile. Her only
son had been captured during the Third Enigma campaign. That was a prize to
be sure. Her discontent with the war, and her political ambitions to replace
the president were known. The discreet passing of a holo of her son alive,
and in confinement had broken her will. To have a Foreign Minister of the
enemy working for you was indeed a great thing. She had been promised much
and if, when the Confederation was destroyed and she was still useful, they
would keep her as a puppet. The only problem with her was that it appeared
that she was under suspicion and thus blocked from certain key information,
especially regarding the reports of a Confederation secret project to build
a new class of weapons. That was a concern as well, for if their side
delayed, they might reach their goal and shift the balance of the war. It
was another argument against delay, even though every passing day made the
Confederation weaker and the Empire stronger.
Yet if he delayed, the discontent in the Empire at the humiliation of
peace would grow as well, and be focused upon the Emperor by the maneuvering
of the Baron.
It was a balancing act which had to be played out delicately, and he
sat in the silence of his war room, lights dimmed, and quietly formed his
plans.
Prince Thrakhath returned to his desk and settled back down, punching
up the latest reports on his screen. From the ambassador all was still going
well. The Confederation government was starting to protest more loudly about
the endless minor violations of the truce.
"Look, it's all perfectly legal, you've got the papers, the titles are
transferred, now get off this bridge," Jason snapped.
The lieutenant looked down again at the sheaf of paper in his hand and
back up at Jason.
"Ah, Mr. Bondarevsky, I've been ordered to have you wait until the
peace commission has fully reviewed this matter. You and your people are to
leave this ship at once."
Jason turned away and punched into a ship comm line.
"Gloria, how's reactor?"
"Up and cooking, sir."
"Masumi, we on line yet with pulse engines?"
"Can give you maneuvering thrust."
Jason looked back at the lieutenant.
"Mister, if you don't want to go for this ride, you'd better clear the
bridge."
The lieutenant looked at him and a thin smile crossed his features.
"Good luck, sir," he whispered, snapped off a salute, and left the
bridge.
Jason went over to his old command chair, and sat down, a light puff of
dust swirling up around him. He looked around at his skeleton crew which
were manning the bridge. Normal ship's complement was just under five
hundred personnel — he had only thirty-five. Nearly three quarters of a full
crew were either support for the three squadrons the ship would normally be
carrying, or for the weapons systems, but even without them, running the
ship was going to be a chancy operation. And with only three Ferrets, and a
Sabre on board that had yet to be transferred off, he felt very naked.
"The Lieutenant has cleared the landing bay," Sparks announced on the
comm, "and is back aboard the docking station."
"Close off the docking collar, Sparks, and disconnect external power."
"Already done, sir, docking collar disconnected, external power cut and
withdrawn."
Jason looked over at his helm crew.
"Take us out of here."
A barely perceptible vibration ran through the ship as Masumi tapped
into the reactors, lighting up the nuclear pulse maneuvering engines. He
felt a cold shiver run down his back.
"Velocity at 225 meters per second," helm announced, "heading 31
degrees, negative 8."
"By God, we're on our way," Jason laughed, coming to his feet
A cheer went up on the bridge, the crew laughing, slapping each other
on the back.
"Ship 2291, respond please."
It took a moment for Jason to realize that the incoming message was for
him, the caller using his ship's decommissioned identification number.
The communications officer looked over at him and Jason raised his
hand, signaling for her not to open a line.
"Ship 2291, you are in violation of peace commission procedures for
title transfer. You are ordered to turn your vessel about and return to the
decommissioning yard at once.
"Ship 2291, you are . . ."
"Turn that damn thing off, Jason snapped and the communications officer
switched the speaker off.
"Helm, set course for jump transit point 17A and let's get the hell out
of here."
"Come on, you two," Jason said, looking over at Ian and Doomsday and
they followed him off the bridge.
Picking up a small package he left the bridge and started down the
corridor out to the hangar bay. Reaching the bay he paused and looked
around. It actually looked big for a change. It was, of course, almost empty
of fighters, and it seemed strange to see it like this. He opened the
package up and unfolded the commissioning flag of Tarawa. He hung it back up
in its old spot, next to the roll of honor. A light film of dust was on the
honor roll and using his shirt sleeve he wiped it off, stepped back and
without any feeling of self-consciousness, he came to attention and saluted
He heard a light clicking of heels and looked over his shoulder to see
Sparks at attention, saluting as well. She came to at ease and smiled.
"It's good to be back with our friends, Jason."
He smiled, realizing that for the first time since he had known her she
had called him by his name. It took him a moment to even recall hers.
"It certainly is, Janet."
Her features flushed a bit
Ian coughed in a very self-conscious manner and nudged Doomsday.
"Come on, buddy, let's go clean up the pilot ready room," and the two
left.
"Funny, folks back home called me by my name of course, but you know, I
can't remember the last time somebody didn't call me Sparks."
She had changed so much since becoming an officer, the hard edges
polished into a smooth professionalism, the dirty coveralls and oil-smudged
face long since gone. She was wearing a standard B class jump suit and he
realized yet again that it made her look awfully damn attractive. But he had
to push that away. Even though they were not part of the Confederation Fleet
anymore, he still wanted his ship run by Fleet rules, and one of them was
that no personal relationships were allowed between commanding officers and
those serving under them.
He lowered his gaze for a second and then looked back and her smile
faded a bit
"Sorry, Jason, I guess we're back to the old routine, aren't we? Funny,
I couldn't wait to get back, but I knew if I did, I'd have to give up
something to do it, a chance for you.
He nodded. He knew she was interested but maybe it was simply that the
sharp edge of pain in losing Svetlana still cut a bit too deeply. The few
encounters since her death had left him feeling cold and empty.
Before he could say anything she drew closer, leaned up, and kissed him
lightly on the lips, the kiss lingering. Startled, he looked at her and saw
the sparkling in her eyes. He suddenly felt so tempted to put his arms
around her — but she drew back.
"I'd better get to work, sir," she said, sniffling slightly. "This
flight deck is filthy and I'll be damned if I'll allow a launch from it
before it's been cleaned up,"
"I'm glad Tolwyn let me take you as my maintenance officer, Janet, " he
hesitated, "and I'm just glad to have you with me as well."
She looked at him, shrugging a bit awkwardly, and went across the deck,
leaving him alone.
He exhaled hard and shook his head.
"Captain?"
"On the flight deck."
"We've got a laser hookup from CVE 6 Normandy."
"Patch it through to flight operations bridge."
He double-timed over to the flight bridge and climbed up into the empty
room. The control positions were all empty and it seemed eerie with not a
single soul around. He switched on a comm channel and a holo image formed.
"How're you doing, laddie?"
"Little complaining from the decommissioning crowd but we're away and
clear."
Paladin smiled.
"Even though those papers are nice and legal like, we are bending a
couple of the rules a wee bit," he said with a laugh. "I'm coming up now off
your starboard beam, Iwo and Wake and Crete are clear as well. How's Tarawa
look?"
"Everything nominal. We got a bonus of four fighters on board her as
well. The mothball maintenance seemed pretty damn good, all things
considered, but I feel awfully naked without at least one squadron aboard."
"One thing at a time, laddie. I've got to get off the line now, I'm
getting a bit swamped here with calls from those peace commission buggers,
and even one now from ConFleet. I tell you it'll be right good fun telling
an admiral to go to hell. They've got a couple of frigates out at the jump
point who might try to stop us, but we've got a dozen lawyers out at
headquarters arguing away right now that the sale is legal. Hopefully
nobody'll shoot. Hell, by the time they get it resolved we'll be on the
other side of the universe. And then what are they going to do, sue us?"
Laughing, he shut down the laser link and the holo screen went dead.
Stepping down from the flight bridge Jason saw the pinpoint of light of
Paladin's ship moving against the eternal night of space.
"Captain, this is helm."
"Go ahead."
"Cleared of near Earth orbit, ready to power up to full pulse drive on
course heading for jump point 17A."
"Get us out of here, then."
He felt the surge of power rumble through the ship as nearly all
reactor power was fed straight into the engines. The ship turned to line up
on the jump point and as he walked up to the hangar bay's magnetic airlock,
Earth drifted into view, a crescent blue-green ball hanging in the eternal
darkness. It gave him a curious sort of feeling. It was, after all, the home
world of his entire race, the Russia of his ancestors clearly visible even
from half a million clicks out, and yet now, he felt strangely detached from
it. He was a product of space, born on a world five hundred light years
away. If he had a home, it was this ship, a family, the people aboard her.
He knew that this insane adventure he was setting out on was motivated in
part by his allegiance to the Confederation and for the protection of the
world in front of him, even for the protection of those people who were so
ready to reject him and the military that he served. He knew that perhaps
that was always the lot of a warrior, to be turned to when trouble loomed,
and to be rejected and hidden away when it was believed that peace had
returned.
He was fighting for them but he realized as well that if he were
fighting for anything it was for his ship, his comrades, and the fleet which
they had so loyally served and now faced the most serious crisis in its
history, a crisis created not so much by their enemies, but rather by their
friends.
CHAPTER FIVE
In a swirling cloud of dust, Hunter switched off power on his engines,
shut down the emergency ejector system, and cracked the canopy open.
A choking swirl of hot dry air rushed into the cockpit, taking his
breath away as he unsnapped his helmet.
"Damn, even worse than the outback," he mumbled, standing up to
stretch.
A ground crew team strolled over, lazily pushing a ladder as he waited.
There was no sense in getting upset by their lackadaisical attitude, this
wasn't ConFleet — the base belonged to the Landreich Colonial Air Guard and
a crew working in one hundred twenty plus heat had his sympathy.
The crew hooked the ladder against the side of his Sabre and he
scrambled down out of the cockpit
"Where's fleet headquarters?" he asked
"Over there," one of the crew announced, trying to be heard above the
cacophony of ships landing and taking off, and the sudden sonic boom of a
Ferret snapping by overhead, the shockwave causing him to wince and
instinctively look for cover.
He looked up and saw the Ferret climbing straight up, standing on its
tail. The Ferret punched a hole through the high thin overcast and then he
was gone, the ship's vapor trail climbing and then winking out as the Ferret
crossed into the far reaches of the upper atmosphere. The crew barely
noticed the show and obviously weren't running to combat positions.
"Is there a scramble on?"
"Nay, Charlie Boys just having a little fun."
"Who's Charlie Boy?"
"Why, he's the head of the squadron here."
Ian wanted to comment that at any fleet base punching sonic without a
scramble on would have cost Charlie Boy a month's pay and a possible
grounding. He had a feeling it was, if anything, a thumbing of the nose at
all the outsiders gathering on the base and he started to smile. Hell, he
might even like this place after all.
The ground crew looked at him and Ian was suddenly aware his old
ConFleet flight suit made him stick out like a sore thumb.
"A lot of you Fleet boys showing up here today," one of the crew
drawled.
"The usual gab session," Ian replied. "You know how it is, ConFleet or
Colonial, the big wigs always like to have their meetings."
"And I suppose we oughta salute you, is that it, captain?"
Ian laughed and replied with a universal rude gesture.
One of the crew members smiled, reached into a tool box and pulled out
a can which was dripping with moisture.
"Have a cold one on us, cap'n."
Ian grinned with delight as he popped the lid. Landreich beer was rated
almost as good as the Outback Lager and Fosters of home. He took a long deep
pull on the can and then another, draining it off. With a contented sigh he
tossed the empty back to his benefactor.
"Ah, thanks, mate, now take care of my ship and by the way, if you
don't tell those customs people, you'll find a pint of Vega's best stashed
in the carry bag strapped behind my seat and I don't want to find it there
when I get back." The crew grinned.
There was nothing like a little gift giving with the locals to make
sure that things were taken care of right.
Turning, he started across the landing field, eager to get to the
shade. The twin suns of the planet were murder when both were at noon, the
red giant and white dwarf combining to cast a strange pattern of colored
shadows. He looked around, realizing that this military outpost of the
Landreich colonial worlds was definitely at the butt end of the universe.
There were a few modern buildings on the base, made of the standard poured
plasta-concrete. But most of it, and the small garrison and mining town
beyond the base, was made of either adobe or rough sandstone. If it wasn't
for the rich titanium deposits underneath the surrounding mountains this
world would have been bypassed except for the usual crop of hermits, crazy
cults, and freebooters looking for a place to hide. Buford's World they
called this place, after the first prospector to land here, but it was more
commonly referred to as the Hell Hole. Its inclination of axis was exactly
at zero degrees and there was no season except red hot summer with 90
degrees passing as a cool day.
It had but two jump points in the system, one heading away from the
demilitarized zone towards the capital world of Landreich, the other leading
off on a long lopping pattern through half a dozen uninhabited systems into
the flank of the Kilrathi Empire. Both in a strategic and tactical sense it
was nothing more than an outpost at the very edge of the war and totally
ignored by the main fleets of both sides. Thus space in this region was
controlled, if at all, by colonial guards of both sides, and more often by
freebooters which, in the eyes of the Confederation, was what the Landreich
system was anyhow.
He passed a plasta-concrete bunker, the lid partially open to reveal a
cluster of surface-to-space point defense missile-anti-missiles, the latest
Sprint 8s, no less. He paused to look in at the crew which was running a
service check.
"Got a lot of those, mates?"
"Who the hell wants to know?" and a tech sergeant wearing the tan
coveralls of a colonial guard non-com looked up at him, shading his eyes.
"Hey, just curious, that's all."
"Curiosity like that will get you in the brig right quick," the
sergeant growled.
The sergeant turned back to his work and Ian realized that maybe it was
best to simply move on.
Tucked into the hangars lining the field was a bizarre assortment of
ships. The heaviest was a medium corvette and it took Ian a moment to
recognize it as an old Granicus-class, a line discontinued more than twenty
years ago. The ship, however, was refitted with a couple of E-8 engines
attached to anchor points on the side of the hull, with half a dozen mass
driver turrets patched on as well. It was a hell of a smuggler's craft with
the firepower of a light frigate thrown in. A number of fighters were on the
field as well and it was easy to see which ones had ferried in the staff
attending today's meeting, their Confed insignia simply painted over with
standard fleet gray.
It was the other ships, however, that caught his eye. It looked like
the Landreich was planning to set up a museum, with some of the fighters
actual prewar ships of more than thirty years vintage. All of them, however,
were no longer spec in any way whatsoever. An early Ferret A had a new
engine housing with of all things a Mark 10 engine off an old Falcon light
corvette. It looked absolutely absurd, like nothing but an engine with a
cockpit up front, with a gatling mass driver gun strapped on underneath.
It'd be a hell of a ride, he realized.
Most of the ships were painted Stealth black without identification
numbers or even the blue circle and red Saint Andrew's cross of the
Landreich. He slowly walked past the hangars, noticing the less than
friendly stares of most of the crews. He wanted to take the time to go up
and chat, to ask about the specs on the strange array of ships, maybe even
try a climb into the cockpits but thought better of it. Ever since the
armistice the uneasy cooperation of the Confederation with the colonials was
now strained even further. He couldn't blame them, for when the stuff
finally hit the fan, it would be the outpost worlds that would get covered
by it first.
"Iannn!"
The high pitched voice was unmistakable and startled he looked around,
and then noticed a shadow cross over him. He looked up and saw a Firekka
hovering overhead.
"K'Kai, how the hell are you!"
K'Kai, folding her wings, landed beside him and moved up close, pecked
him lightly on the head and around the back of his neck in what he now knew
was a grooming which served as the Firekka equivalent of a handshake.
Overjoyed at seeing an old friend he threw his arms around her.
"Last time I saw you was when your niece told the Confederation to go
to hell."
K'Kai clicked her beak and he knew that it was the Firekka equivalent
of an expression of pride.
"That speech was hers alone, a fine accomplishment for not much more
than a hatchling."
"How goes it on Firekka?"
"A lot of harassing raids, skirmishes, ships disappearing, not really
outright war, but definitely not peace." She cocked her head and looked at
him closely, an act which he always found a bit disturbing when an eyeball
the size of an orange aimed in straight at him.
"So you're part of this Landreich colonial fleet?" she asked.
"That's what I'm here for, and you?"
"Sent as a representative."
"Well, I think we're late," and he motioned for her to follow along.
They finally gained the shade of a broad veranda and he drew a breath
of relief. Two guards stood at the door and again it struck him how
different the colonials were. The men looked sharp enough, with standard
M-48 laser rifles on their shoulders. But the uniforms looked like they'd
seen better days, the tan coveralls faded from sun and washing, top collars
unbuttoned in the dry desert heat. They lacked the spit and polish of fleet
Marine guards and he found it appealing.
Both looked with open curiosity at K'Kai.
"Firekka, they make the best drink in the universe,," Ian announced,
and the guards grinned weakly.
"I take it this is headquarters?"
"This is the place."
"Well, I'm here to see Kruger."
A sergeant stepped out from inside the doorway, took their papers and
IDs, then handed them back.
"Down the hall, you can't miss it."
Ian opened the door for K'Kai and followed her in. At least the place
had cooling, but it seemed to be barely working. He strode down the open
corridor which angled down below the surface, K'Kai at his side. They turned
through a double set of blast doors and into the situation room which was
packed nearly to overflowing. They were stopped by what he assumed was a
security officer, though it was hard to tell by the uniform. He checked
their IDs once again and then marked off his and K'Kai's name on a list.
Ian immediately recognized more than one of those present: Jason and
Doomsday, who had flown down the day before from Tarawa, were in the back
corner engaged in what was obviously a heated conversation with several
colonial pilots. Sparks, waving a hand computer unit, was shouting at whom
he guessed was a supply officer, who in turn was shouting back with equal
vigor, and hunched over a table up in the front was a tall gaunt man with
sun scorched features and dark eyes. He glanced up at Ian and his gaze
seemed to pierce right through him and then, as if he didn't even exist, the
man looked back down at a shelf of printouts.
"Say, that's Kruger himself," Ian whispered
K'Kai bobbed her head.
Technically Kruger was a wanted felon within Confederation territory,
having once hijacked his fleet destroyer, which he was in command of, during
the early days of the war, when through "strategic necessity," the old
C-in-C ConFleet had decided to abandon the Landreich system in the face of a
Kilrathi offensive. Using the ship and an assortment of scrounged up
freighters and smuggler craft he fought the battle of the Hell Hole,
stopping a Kilrathi attack into this sector and according to legend chased
them back through twelve jumps.
His own ship was blown out from under him on the last jump through by a
Kilrathi ambush and Kruger, with the remaining members of his crew, survived
for three years on a planet inside the Kilrathi system, driving the locals
nearly insane with his commando style raiding until being picked up by a
freebooter who took them back to the Landreich. In the interim, ConFleet had
tried him in absentia and found him guilty of mutiny and hijacking of a
Confederation warship, a capital offense in time of war. He was hailed,
however, as a returning hero by the colonials and elected president of the
Landreich system within the year. The election made matters somewhat
complicated, presenting the Confederation with the unique problem of having
a felon serving as an elected member of the planetary senate and thus being
immune from arrest and trial.
Max Kruger had a hell of a reputation and was viewed either as a genius
improviser of small unit irregular tactics or a barbarian. In Ian's opinion,
he was both. The colonials definitely fought their wars with the Kilrathi,
and at times with each other, using cast-off equipment, shoestring budgets,
and a hell of a lot of guts. They also fought it with a cold ferocity that
rarely asked for or expected quarter. For Kruger there was only one rule of
war, ultimate victory.
"Everything back aboard Tarawa OK?'
Ian turned and smiled as Jason came up to join him.
"Another hundred crew members signed in last night off a transport that
ran out from Sirius. We've got eight more pilots and four Ferrets that were
strapped to the transports hull."
"Is that all, we were promised twenty."
"They had some problems getting the four, the peace commission kicked
up a royal stink. We're lucky we got what we did."
"It figures," Jason sighed. "That commission really screwed us up."
"What do you mean?"
That report that we'd have ten squadrons of Rapiers and Sabres, well
forget it."
"What the hell happened?"
"The shipment was blocked by the commission. Seems that the Kilrathi
ambassador caught wind of the deal, screamed holy hell, and the Baron even
got into it, threatening to end all peace negotiations if the ships were
allowed to leave Earth system. Rodham, of course, caved in. The three
transports, loaded down with fighters and spare parts were blocked from
leaving moon orbit. So now we've got to scrounge up whatever we can find
around here."
"We ve got five escort carriers, and a grand total of twenty-nine
fighters and that's it, not counting the stuff the locals have."
More people crowded into the room behind Ian so that he, Jason, and
K'Kai were gradually shoved to the back of the room.
"Andrews, everybody here yet?" the gaunt man asked, looking over at the
guard at the door.
"Near about."
Well, damn it, we can't wait, let's get started then."
The gaunt man moved up to a small podium.
"For those of you Confed people who don't know it, I'm General Kruger."
Ian looked around the room and saw the outright admiration on the faces
of the men and women wearing the hodgepodge of jumpsuits, assault trousers
and vests, and coveralls that passed for colonial guards uniforms.
"First off, I welcome all you white and blue suits into the service of
the Landreich," Kruger began. "As already agreed upon, all ships that the
Landreich has purchased," and with that there was a ripple of laughter from
the colonial personnel, have been incorporated into our fleet. You will,
however, still have your own chain of command, answering to Admiral Tolwyn."
For the first time Ian realized that Tolwyn was in the room, his nephew
by his side. Tolwyn stepped out from a back corner of the meeting hall and
raised his hand in acknowledgment. It seemed strange to Ian to see the
Admiral not in standard fleet uniform, but in the khaki of a Landreich
officer.
Just how the hell did he get out here so fast? Ian wondered, what with
Jason's ship arriving only last night into orbit above Landreich.
"Those of you in colonial forces that are assigned aboard former Confed
ships will take orders from the duly appointed commander of that ship."
A low groan went up from the colonial personnel in the room.
We've got to coordinate this effort," Kruger snapped, "so no
complaints."
"Any questions?"
The colonial officers looked at each other, mumbled a bit and said
nothing.
Kruger nodded towards Tolwyn, who came up to the front of the room.
"Well, I'm glad to see that most of you at least made it out here.
"First off . . ." and Tolwyn was interrupted by the sharp spine
tingling wail of a klaxon.
The room went quiet as Kruger raced to a monitor, leaned over it, and
then turned back.
"Any pilots with strike craft please man them immediately."
Ian pushed his way out of the room, a stream of colonial pilots pushing
around him, Jason, Kevin, and Doomsday falling in at his side.
They ran up the corridor and out into the blazing heat, scattering
towards hangars, the high wail of sirens echoing against the surrounding
hills. The ground crew, which had so lazily come out to meet Ian when he
landed, were moving with a cool precision, unchocking the wheels, the crew
chief inside the cockpit, the engine already up and whining, four crew
members lifting two missiles up onto the Sabre's wing pylons. Ian ran to the
ladder, one of the ground crew tossing him his helmet which he snapped on,
the chief coming down the ladder and clearing it just as Ian leaped on to
the third rung and scrambled up, the chief now behind him. Ian saw Jason and
Doomsday running past, heading for the Ferrets they had flown down from
Tarawa.
"Engine green, nav system loaded by combat control, all weapons green
with two radar trackers loaded, emergency eject armed and ready, good luck,
sir!" the chief shouted, even as he reached over and helped buckle Ian's
safety harness on, cinching the shoulder straps tight.
This is Hunter in Sabre 239A ready," Ian announced to the control
tower.
"Will advise, Hunter, ground chief will signal your clearance," the
ground control officer snapped and then switched off.
Ian gave a thumbs-up as the chief slid down the ladder and the canopy
snapped shut, the green light of airtight lock flashing on. The chief was
now out in front of Ian's fighter, hands held high over his head with fists
crossed, signaling t