Heart Of The Tiger wc-4

by William R. Forstchen

  "We must attack, Leader," urged his surviving pilot, Kurthag. He never doubted. He saw everything in black and white, honor against dishonor, victory against death.

  "No, Kurthag," Kavark said. "One of us must report to the Fleet. They must know where the Terrans are operating."

  "I will fight, Leader, while you withdraw . . ."

  "Sharvath!" Kavark snarled. "Would you have me abandon honor? I command here. Mine is the honor of battle!"

  There was a long pause. "Yes . . . Leader," Kurthag said at last. "I obey . . . despite the dishonor."

  "The warrior who obeys can never be dishonored," Kavark told him, quoting from the famous words of the Emperor Joor'ath. "Now, go. And . . . tell my mate my last battle song will be of her."

  He cut the channel and changed course to place his fighter between the Terrans and Kurthag's craft.

  Sometimes the only way to deal with doubts was to face them . . . no matter what the price.

  * * *

  Thunderbolt 300.

  Locanda System

  "They're splitting up," Blair said, studying his sensor screen. "One of them is making a run for it. Why is this other idiot sticking around? Doesn't he know he's no match for two heavy fighters?"

  "Who knows what a cats thinking?" Flint said sounding distracted. "Let's get him before he changes his mind! ''

  "On my wing, Lieutenant. We'll take down this baby by the book . . ." Blair continued to study the screen as he spoke. If that Kilrathi fighter was heading for home, maybe he'd be able to lead the Terrans to the missing Imperial fleet. Assuming they could track him somehow . . .

  "I can get the one who's running, Colonel," Flint announced suddenly. "Going to afterburners. I'll be back before you finish toasting the dumb one."

  She suited actions to words before he could respond, her fighter streaking away at maximum thrust. Blair wanted to call her back, but at that moment the remaining Darket opened fire and accelerated toward him. There was no time to remonstrate with his headstrong wingman now.

  He looped into a reciprocal course, trying to keep his sights framed on the Kilrathi, but this pilot was no hotheaded amateur. His maneuvers were unpredictable, and he knew just how to get the most out of his fighter..

  The combination was dangerous, even in an uneven matchup like this one. Before Blair could line up a shot, the Darket pulled a tight turn and passed directly under his port wing, blasters firing. None of the hits pierced the shield, but they weakened it. Then the Darket turned away to avoid the arc of the Thunderbolt's rear turret.

  Blair turned again at maximum thrust, the G-force pressing him firmly into his seat. The enemy ship appeared on his HUD again, and he tried to center the targeting reticule on the fighter despite the Kilrathi pilot's evasive action. But the other pilot seemed to anticipate his every move, weaving in under him a second time, unloading a full volley of beams and missiles against the same weakened spot.

  A red light flashed on his console. "Burn-through, port shield. Armor damage. Structural fatigue at ten percent." The computer's flat, unemotional report was incongruous, and Blair didn't know if he wanted to scream or laugh.

  The Kilrathi fighter spun in a tight turn and started another run. "Not this time, my friend," Blair muttered under his breath.

  The weakness on the port side of the Thunderbolt would be a real danger now; another good hit in the same area could seriously damage the fighter. Ironically, it gave Blair an opportunity. There was little doubt as to what the Kilrathi pilot would do this time. He would be drawn to repeat that same attack a third time . . .

  Blair initiated a turn before the attack developed, letting his nose swing down and left. The enemy pilot opened fire, but the shots caught the forward shields, not the port side. Simultaneously, Blair triggered his own weapons, and the Kilrathi ship flew right into the firing arc. A pair of missile launches exhausted Blair's stocks, but they were sufficient.

  The pilot had time for one last transmission before the end. "There must be . . . something more . . . than Death without end . . ."

  And then the fighter was gone.

  * * *

  Flight Deck, TCS Victory.

  Locanda System

  Blair scrambled from the cockpit as soon as the environmental systems in the hangar were restored, brushing past the technicians and ignoring Rachel's grinning "Looks like you took a real pounding out there" comment. Seething, he crossed to Flint's fighter and waited for the woman to come down.

  By the time he'd dealt with the Darket, Flint had already engaged the fleeing ship. She had dealt with it quickly and competently, taking none of the damage Blair had suffered in his engagement. Her target had turned into expanding gases in a matter of seconds.

  Before Blair could read her the riot act, though, the shuttle had returned, and the sensors registered the approach of the four Hellcats on the return leg of their patrol. He refused to dress down another pilot over an open channel. But all the way back. his anger had been building. Flint had blown their best chance to track the enemy.

  She let go of the ladder halfway down and dropped to the deck beside him, pulling off her flight helmet to reveal a grin. "Score's twenty now, Colonel," she said. "Davie'll have his escort soon enough."

  "Only if you're flying, Lieutenant," he said, his voice low but harsh. "And I'm not sure how long that's going to be, after what I saw out there today."

  "But —"

  "You talk when I say you can talk, Lieutenant," he cut her off. "First you listen. I gave you a direct order to stay on my wing when I engaged that second Darket. Instead, you went charging after the other one. I expect that kind of attitude from Maniac or even a rookie like Flash but not from the pilot I pick as my wingman."

  "But, Colonel, you didn't need me to deal with a Darket," she protested, looking stricken, "and I was able to make it a clean sweep."

  "A clean sweep," he repeated. "That's what it was, all right. Of course, if there had been one survivor running for cover we might have been able to lie back at extreme sensor range and track him back to his mother ship. Maybe we'd find the whole damned Kilrathi fleet. But a clean sweep . . . that's certainly worth passing up a result like that for, isn't it?"

  She took a step back. "Oh, God . . . Colonel, I never thought . . ."

  "No, you didn't," he said. "You never thought. Well, Lieutenant, think about this. Intelligence thinks the cats are planning an all-out attack on Locanda Four, not just a raid but something big and nasty. And if we don t find their fleet and pinpoint it pretty damned soon they will have a clear shot. So when your pretty purple skies are filled with Kilrathi missiles, you think about whether we could have nailed them today if you had just obeyed orders instead of playing your little revenge game."

  She looked down. "I . . . I don't know what to say, sir," she said slowly. "I'm sorry. Were you serious . . . about yanking my flight status, I mean?"

  He didn't answer right away. "I don't want to," Blair finally told her. "You're a damned good pilot, Flint, and you know how to make that Thunderbolt dance. But I told you before that I need a wingman I can trust." He paused. "Consider this a final warning. You screw up again, Flint, and I'll have your wings. You get me?"

  "Yes, sir." She met his angry eyes. "And. . . thanks, Colonel, for giving me a second chance."

  As she turned and walked slowly away, Blair hoped he wouldn't regret the decision later.

  CHAPTER XI

  Flight Wing Rec Room, TCS Victory.

  Locanda System

  Blair paused at the entrance to the rec room and glanced around. This evening the lounge was fairly busy, the Gold Squadron particularly well represented. Vagabond, Maniac, Beast Jaeger, and Blue Squadron's Amazon Mbuto were playing cards. Judging from the stack of chips in front of Lieutenant Chang, he was ahead. Vaquero was alone at another table with headphones over his ears, his eyes closed, and his hands tapping out a beat as he blissed out on his rockero music. Hobbes and Flash were talking earnestly at a table by the viewport, and
Sandman was sharing drinks with a blonde from the carrier's weaponry division.

  Lieutenant Buckley, alone at the bar with a drink in her hand and a half-empty bottle on the counter in front of her, looked up at Blair. She stood with exaggerated care and walked over to him.

  "I hear you're down on Flint," she said, the words slurring a little. "What's the matter, Colonel, you only like pilots who've got fur?"

  He looked at her coldly. "You've had too much to drink Lieutenant," he said. "I think you'd better head back to your quarters and get some rest."

  "Or what? You'll ground me? Like you threatened Flint?" She jabbed a finger at him. "You save your high-and-mighty Colonel act for the flight deck or the firing line. I'm on down-time now . . ."

  He grabbed her shoulder as she staggered, steering her back to the bar. "I don't know what set you off, Lieutenant, but. . ."

  "What set me off? I'll tell you what set me off, Colonel, sir. Flint's one of the best damned pilots on this tub, and you treat her like dirt. Just like you treat all the pilots, except your furball buddy over there. After she came off the flight deck this afternoon, she was ready to find an airlock and cycle herself into space. I spent the whole damned afternoon trying to straighten out the damage you created, chewing her out that way."

  "She screwed up," Blair said softly. "And we can't afford any mistakes."

  "Can t you let her be human once in a while? Do you have any idea what kind of strain Flint's under? This is her home system, you know . . . and everybody's talkin' about the cats planning to use bioweapons here."

  "There have been stories about bioweapons," he said guardedly. Inwardly he wondered who had been talking. Probably not Rollins; he'd sounded sincere when he promised not to spread the story. But everyone at the squadron commanders' briefing knew about the rumors now, and some of them — Maniac, for example — wouldn't think twice before sharing the stories with the rest of the crew. "Right now they're just that: stories. Whoever's been circulating them probably wouldn't know a bioweapon from a biosphere."

  "Oh, come off it, Colonel," Cobra said. "The cats've been working on these kinds of weapons for years. They use human test subjects from their slave camps. They've tried their bugs out on other human planets already. It's only a matter of time before they start using them routinely. If the grapevine says it'll be here, I wouldn't argue with it.

  "You know a hell of a lot about what the Kilrathi are doing, Lieutenant," Blair said "Maybe you should spend more of your time talking to Intell, and a little less on telling me how to run my Wing."

  "Intell! I've had enough of Intell people and their questions!" She shook her head. "Anyway, you're just trying to change the subject. The simple fact is, Colonel, that there are some damn fine people on this ship who deserve better than what you're givin' them. Flint's jus' the worst case. But if I was you, I'd start treating people right, or you just might find out what friendly fire's all about sometime —" She broke off and started to stagger to another seat but ended up sitting down heavily where she was and putting her head down on the bar next to her bottle.

  "Should I call Security to give her an escort to her quarters, sir?" Rostov asked from behind the bar. Blair wasn't sure how long he'd been there.

  He shook his head. "Let's keep this in the family," he said, looking around. He caught Flash's eye and summoned him with a wave. "Major, I need a favor. Could you help lieutenant Buckley back to her quarters please? She's had a little too much to drink . . ."

  "Sure, Colonel," Flash said with a grin. "I was starting to wonder how much booze she was going to be able to put away before she pulled a crash-and-burn." He helped Cobra to her feet, wrapped one of her arms around his shoulders. "Come on, Cobra, let's get you home."

  Blair watched them leave, then let out a sigh. "Give me a drink, Rosty," he said, feeling suddenly weary. "A double anything. It's been that kind of a day."

  He took the glass from the one-armed bartender, but didn't drink it right away. Instead he stared into the amber liquid, his mind a whirl of conflicting emotions. From the very start he was an outsider here, unable to pass the barriers his pilots held against him. Sometimes it felt as if he was flailing the air. Most of these pilots had been through a lot together and felt the same type of comradeship he had shared with the men and women of the Concordia. They resented him, resisted him, and everything Blair did only seemed to make things worse.

  At least there were a few people he could still trust. Blair picked up the glass and took a sip, then walked to the table where Ralgha was still sitting, alone now. "Mind if I join you, Hobbes?" he asked.

  "Please, my friend," the Kilrathi said, gesturing courteously toward the chair Flash had relinquished. "It would be good to spend some time with someone who . . . truly understands what this war is about."

  "I take it you and Flash don't see eye to eye?" Blair sat down across from his old comrade.

  "That cub!" Ralgha was uncharacteristically vehement. "He sees everything through the eyes of youth. No judgment. No experience. No concept of the truth of war."

  "When he gets to be our age, he'll know better," Blair said. "If he lives that long. But I know what you mean. Things sure have changed since the old days."

  Ralgha gave him a very human smile. "Maybe not so much," he said. "I can recall times when I thought I was immortal . . . and when you would get drunk and tell off a superior officer."

  Blair shot him a look. "You heard all that?"

  "My race has better hearing than yours," Hobbes reminded him. "And the lieutenant was not exactly concerned with keeping her voice low. Alcohol may cause some people to speak and act in very strange ways, my friend. I do not think there was any serious intent behind her words."

  "In vino veritas," Blair said.

  "I am not familiar with those words," the Kilrathi said, looking puzzled.

  "It's Latin. A dead Terran language. It means 'there is truth in wine.'"

  "I do not think Cobra would actually fire on you," Ralgha said. "Perhaps me, given the intensity of her dislike. But despite her anger tonight, I believe she respects you as a pilot. . . and even as a leader. Unfortunately, she also has a high regard for Lieutenant Peters, who saved her life in the last battle before the ship refitted at Torgo. And you should understand what it means to defend a friend from what you see as unjustified persecution."

  "Yeah, I understand. I just wish there was a way to get through to her . . . to all of them."

  "Perhaps you should consider unbending somewhat," Hobbes said slowly. "You have seemed . . . aloof . . . on this mission. That contributes to the trouble."

  "I know that, too," Blair admitted. "But. . . I don't know, Hobbes. I just keep thinking about all the other times aboard the Tigers Claw and the Concordia. It seems like every time I make friends and start to share something with good people, they end up dead. When I first arrived, I thought I would be better off keeping my distance. I thought maybe it wouldn't hurt as much, if it happened again. But that isn't the answer, either, because even if I can't call them my friends, I still feel responsible for these people. I respect them. And I'll still mourn them if they buy it out there."

  "I doubt it could be any other way, my friend," Hobbes said gravely. "Not as long as you are . . . yourself."

  "Maybe so." Blair drained his glass. "Well, who knows? Maybe we're into the last game, after all, like all the Confed press releases claim. Maybe the Kilrathi Empire is about to give up the whole thing as a bad idea, and we'll have peace and harmony and all that sweetness and light."

  Ralgha shook his head slowly. "It is a time for strange ideas," he said. "My people have invented a word for surrender, a concept I can still barely grasp after years among your kind." He gestured toward the viewport. "I used to raid these worlds with my brethren. Now I defend them . . . and my people talk of giving themselves up without further struggle."

  The Kilrathi paused, and for a moment Blair thought he looked lost. "I cannot guess at what my one-time comrades might do next. But I
do not believe that the Imperial family can change so totally. If there is peace, it will be because the Emperor and Thrakhath are overthrown, and their supporters broken. That will not happen without a major change in the way this war progresses"

  * * *

  Flight Wing Officer's Quarters, TCS Victory.

  Locanda System

  Angel was with him, looking just as she had the day she left Concordia with her kit bag slung over one arm and the open ramp to the shuttle yawning behind her like a black, toothless maw.

  "Farewell, mon ami," she said. "Look after the others for me, all our comrades. I will come back when Paladin does not need me . . ."

  "Don't go, Angel," Blair heard himself saying the words as if from some great distance. "Stay here. If you go everything will fall apart . . . everything . . ."

  The words were wrong. He knew it, even as a shrill screech rang in his ear and brought him out of the dream. The words were all wrong . . .

  He had let her go that day without a protest. He told Angel that he understood, told her that he would wait for her. But she hadn't come back to the Concordia. And he wasn't sure she'd ever come back to him. Angel . . .

  The noise didn't go away even after he had sat up, his eyes wide open, staring at the bare walls of his quarters. It took Blair quite a while to realize the noise was the shrilling sound of the General Quarters alarm. He started to rise when a computer voice joined the cacophony. "Now, General Quarters, General Quarters. All hands to Combat Stations. This is not a drill. General Quarters, General Quarters . . ."

  A moment later the computer voice was replaced by Rollins, sounding excited. "Colonel Blair, to the Captain's Ready Room, please. Colonel Blair to Captain's Ready Room!"

  As he finished tugging on his uniform, Blair glanced at the watch implanted in his wrist. It read 0135 hours, ship time. With a muttered curse, he grabbed his boots and started wrestling them onto his feet.

  He wasn't sure which was worse the dream of his loss or the reality of the war