Heart Of The Tiger (3 page)

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 anything 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."

"Yeah," Marshall said, his tone hollow, bitter. "Yeah, those gold tracers on your collar look real sharp, Colonel Blair, sir. Bet you have to stay up pretty late at night to keep them polished so pretty.

"No, I don't," Blair said coldly. "I assign majors to do it for me."

"The difference in our rank, sir, is just a formality," Marshall said, standing up. "We both know who's the better man in the cockpit."

"That's right. We both do. And that's what has been eating at you ever since the Academy, isn't it, Major?"

Maniac's look was one of pure hatred. "Will there be anything else . . . sir? Or may I be dismissed?"

"That's all, ' Blair said, turning away to look through the window into the hangar. He waited until the door slid shut behind Marshall, then he wearily sat down.

Blair leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, trying to calm himself after the angry confrontation. He had wanted to sit down with the wing XO to get an idea of the unit's strengths and weaknesses in equipment personnel, and experience. But seeing Marshall after so many years had driven it all out of his mind, and he had let his personal feelings overcome his judgment. Maniac always had a talent for bringing out the worst in him.

Blair turned back to his desktop computer and called up the wing's personnel files on his screen. He picked Marshall's records first. Studying them, he began to understand the man's belligerence a little better.

He'd been the Exec under Colonel Dulbrunin with enough seniority to hope for a promotion to lieutenant colonel and to become Victory's wing commander. No doubt the arrival of Hobbes had been a blow. Blair was sure now that Marshall was behind the ill feelings toward the Kilrathi renegade, since Hobbes had snatched his chance at commanding the wing.

Then Hobbes bowed out, and Blair arrived aboard to dash Marshall's hopes again. No wonder the man was feeling bitter . . . .

Another detail caught his eye. Marshall was also the CO of Gold Squadron. Blair had decided to have Hobbes take over that command, too. It was one more blow to Maniac's fragile ego.

He could reconsider the decision, of course, and let Marshall keep his squadron. But if Hobbes was going to be Blair's wingman, the two of them would have to fly with the same squadron, and Blair still felt more comfortable sticking with the heavy fighters in Gold Squadron. Should he reshuffle the roster to put Marshall in command of another squadron? Maniac certainly had the seniority, even if Blair doubted he had the temperament for squadron command.

But which squadron could Maniac handle best? He was not suited to command bombers, and point defense work required a leader who could subordinate himself totally to the needs of the fleet. Marshall would probably be happiest in command of the interceptors of Blue Squadron, but Blair shuddered at the thought of putting Victory's crucial long-range strike fighters in Maniac's hands. Patrol duties would take Blue Squadron out of reach of higher authority, and it needed a man with a good head on his shoulders who knew when to fight when to break away, and when to get word of a distant contact with the enemy back to the carrier. No, Major Marshall wasn't really suitable for any other squadrons. Colonel Dulbrunin probably made the same decision when making his original assignments. The kind of utility combat work which heavy fighters drew was the sort of operation Maniac was least likely to knock off course if he lost his head in a fight.