So, where to now? he asked himself. He picked a direction away from the Fralthi, and brought the speed up to a reasonable clip. The Dralthi's controls were very fine, the ship handled beautifully, if a little delicately, and it was definitely as much fun to fly as any of the Confederation fighters. Maybe even a little more fun, since it had better wing stabilizers.
Maybe that's why they built it in this "flyingpancake" style, he thought, to spread out the stabilizers over a larger area, make it easier to stabilize at high speed. Lousy shields and armor on these babies, though… how many of these have I toasted so far? At least five or six. That defect that Jimmy was talking about, that's probably why they've been so easy to kill.
He tried the different control switches on the front console, curious as to what they controlled. One switch plunged the ship into total darkness, which gave him a few panicked moments as he fumbled to switch the lights back on. As he pushed another button, the video monitor clicked on. Complete with a helmeted Kilrathi face, cat whiskers and all, on the screen.
"Krajksh nai variksh h'hassrai?" the Kilrathi voice said. Hunter instantly looked around for a Transmit button, wanting to say something long and descriptive in English to the alien pilot, then stopped himself, realizing just what the appearance of the cat on a vid-screen meant. And it wasn't good.
Ah hell. How did a cat patrol get within transmission range of the Tiger's Claw and the Austin? They must've slipped past our patrols somehow. That Kilrathi can't be too far away, his vid signal is very clear.
Damn, damn, damn! There's no time to figure out how to make this thing transmit on the Terran Confederation frequencies, so I can't warn the carrier!
Hunter looked around for the vid pickup, then reached up for the small camera. He yanked hard, pulling free a handful of tangled wires. Now at least they can't tell that there's a human in this Dralthi, at least not until they're close enough to see the whites of my eyes.
I have to track this patrol down ASAP!
How the hell do I get myself into these things?
He scanned the controls of the Dralthi, trying to figure out how to enable the long-distance sensors. Momentarily, he thought about just turning around and heading back to the Claw at top speed, then abandoned the idea. For one, there probably wasn't enough time, and for another…
Here he was in an enemy ship, the perfect disguise. There was no way for the enemy patrol to know that he was flying one of their ships. Maybe the situation wasn't so bad after all!
I just can't resist an opportunity like this, he thought with a grin at his own foolishness. Who could?
Ten minutes later, after finally figuring out how to enable the long-range sensor array, he tracked down and visually sighted the Kilrathi patrol. It was a wing of Gratha fighters in a tight V formation.
And just in time, he thought, maneuvering into a high-six position behind the enemy squadron. We're not even five minutes away from the Austin! What's going on there, why didn't any of their patrols spot these blokes?
The five Gratha suddenly accelerated, banking down in tight formation toward the waiting cruiser.
Oh, hell! They're startin' their missile run! Hunter brought his Dralthi fighter up to full speed, sliding into position behind the Kilrathi fighters. As he angled for a good firing solution, he saw a single Rapier fighter launched from the Austin, too late to stop the attack run.
Hunter steered the Dralthi with one hand, desperately searching for missile controls on the cockpit panel with his other hand. I know there's a missile switch here somewhere, Iknowit, whereinthehellisit?
There!
He enabled the missiles and fired a split-second later, yanking the stick to veer away at the last moment as the lead Gratha was engulfed in a fireball, taking two of the closest Gratha with it. The other two Gratha banked away to avoid the explosion, aborting their missile run.
Hunter whooped and brought the Dralthi down on top of one of the Gratha, a perfect firing solution. He clicked down on the gun controls, and—
—and nothing happened.
"Jesus!" He dived away as the second Gratha came at him head-on, all guns blazing. Ah hell! Ah bloody hell! Why didn't the guns fire? There must be a safety switch somewhere, I have to find it or I'm dead! He shoved the stick hard to the left, twisting into a tight roll as he tried to find the gun controls. The Gratha followed as closely as it could with its wide turn radius, lumbering around to bring Hunter's fighter back into its targeting sights.
Come on, come on… hell! He pulled up sharply as the Dralthi shuddered with the close explosion of a missile. Hunter glanced back to see half of one of the Dralthi's wings peel away from the blast. He fought to keep the Dralthi under control, wrestling with the stick to prevent an unrecoverable roll, I hate this fighter
—lousy, cheap piece of junk—goddamned flying pancake
—I should've stolen something decent, like one of those hot new Hkriss fighters—
Another close hit, this time by the Gratha's multiple cannons. Several warning systems in the fighter began to wail simultaneously, and the Dralthi's shield readouts flickered once and died completely. Hunter worked the controls furiously, trying to use what was left of the Dralthi's superior speed and maneuvering to avoid another direct hit. Ahead of him, he could see the Austin Rapier fighting with the second Gratha. The other Gratha banked close to the huge Gettysburg-class cruiser in an attempt to escape the Rapier. A little too close, as it turned out: the Gratha exploded spectacularly against the side of the Austin. The Rapier turned tightly and 'burned directly at Hunter's Dralthi.
"Not me, mate!" Hunter yelled as the Rapier dived toward him. A moment later, the Rapier fired a missile. Hunter's eyes widened as the deadly missile accelerated right toward him.
The missile passed overhead just above his cockpit, and he glanced back in time to see it slam into the Gratha on his tail. The Gratha spun out of control and exploded.
He turned back to look at the Rapier, and realized in horror that it was still on a direct collision course with him. A split-second later, the Rapier rolled neatly, flying inverted a couple meters over Hunter's head, so close that Hunter could see the pilot's helmet with the musical notes surrounding the name JAZZ.
"Good work, Colson!" Hunter shouted, even though he knew there was no way Jazz could hear him. Not bad for a kid, Hunter thought with a grin, as he pulled up on the stick to bring the Dralthi up in a tight turn to avoid the looming Austin ahead of him.
It didn't.
"What?" Hunter shoved hard at the stick. The Dralthi didn't change course, continuing on a straight line for the Austin. "Goddammit, this isn't fair!" he yelled. I'm going to make a lovely wet spot on the side of the ship, just like that Gratha… can't find an emergency brake on this damn ship, there's no ejection unit, nothing… Desperate, he punched all com channels open.
"Mates, if you're listening on the Kilrathi channels… grab me with a pickup beam or I'm history!" And if they're not listening…
He unstrapped himself from the pilot's chair, and sealed his helmet's faceplate, making sure that the suit was still airtight and hadn't been holed during the dogfight. He quickly slid down to the Dralthi's exit hatch. A very long two seconds later, he had the hatch unfastened and shoved it open. All the air in the cockpit rushed out past him, blasting him through the hatch and into open space. He spun uncontrollably in his suit, still carried by his momentum directly toward the silvery hull of the Austin. He shut his eyes, thinking: Oh God, this is going to hurt…
Something wrenched him to a complete stop, and his face jammed against the faceplate of his helmet. He swore, feeling the blood running from where his nose had impacted the helmet, and blinked. The Austin was a hundred feet in front of him; as he watched, the Dralthi crashed into the side of the ship, disintegrating on impact. As for himself, he was continuing to drift along the side of the cruiser, slowly spinning as the tractor beam pulled him through space.
Thank God I don't get spacesick, he thought, closing his eyes
for a moment. The sudden silence and calm quieted his rapid heartbeat, and he felt himself relaxing, breathing slower and easier.
Just drifting—this isn't too bad, just to be alone out here
—I think I owe that Austin tractor operator a drink…or two, or three…
A few seconds later, the tractor beam from the Austin, as gentle as a lover's touch, brought him to the immense Flight Deck entrance. The tractor beam cut off as he was only a few meters from the entrance… he continued to drift through the magnetic shield, which crackled momentarily around him, and into the waiting hands of the Flight Deck crew. They helped him regain his feet, and he unfastened his helmet and took it off. "Thanks, mates," he said, wiping the sweat and blood off his face.
He was suddenly aware of the crowd gathered around him, and the sound of loud cheering and clapping. A moment later the crowd parted to admit two uniformed officers. Hunter recognized Commander James Reilly, the Executive Officer of the ship, and Major Petrenkov, commander of the Austin's fighter squadron. The last time Hunter had seen these two officers was when the Military Police had carried him off the ship for being drunk and disorderly in the Austin's rec room.
"Captain St. John, we meet again," the Executive Officer of the Austin said, smiling. "You've had an exciting day, haven't you?"
They always smiled when you turned a screw-up into a victory. It was only when it stayed a screw-up that you got into trouble.
Hunter snapped off a sharp salute, then wiped more blood from his nose. "Yes, sir. It's been a very exciting day. And it's not even lunch-time yet."
"I know," the Exec said dryly.
There was a question that he had to ask, that had been plaguing him since all of this had started. "What happened to your patrols, Commander? This ship could've been blown away and you'd never have known what hit you!"
"We're quite aware of that, Captain," the Exec said, exchanging a glance with Major Petrenkov. "But there are circumstances you're not aware of…"
"Hunter's right, sir," the Major said in a tight voice. "My failures nearly got everyone on this ship killed. If it wasn't for Hunter, we'd be dead now. You should accept my resignation."
"As I've already said, I won't let you resign, Nikolai. At least not until we've returned to Confed High Command," Commander Reilly said quietly.
"Then I hope you'll accept it once we're back at Sol Station, sir," the Major said bleakly.
"Clear the deck! Incoming fighter!" the loudspeakers blared. Hunter followed the rest of the crowd in a quick jog to the safety zone, away from the main deck approach. He managed to catch up to Commander Reilly near the airlock.
After all, he had a reputation for audacity. So why not put his two cents in with the Commander? "Commander, since it looks like you're going to be needing a new squadron commander anyhow… we have a few good people on the Claw that you should consider. Such as—"
"I've already thought about it, Captain," the Exec said. "If you'd like to talk about it in the Rec Room, I'd like to hear your suggestions."
Hunter kept his grin to himself. Once again, audacity paid off. "It'd be my pleasure, sir. As I remember, your Rec Room serves a very good Aussie beer."
The Rapier fighter glided in for a smooth landing. The pilot popped the canopy even before the fighter had completely stopped. Hunter saw Jazz Colson's grin even at this distance, as the crowd of Deck crew surrounded him, cheering wildly.
"Damn, but that boy is good," Hunter said, cheerfully acknowledging excellence, even when it wasn't his own. He wiped at the trickle of blood from his nose again. "I think he'll go for."
"I'm sure he will," the Exec said. "Well, then, let's go get that beer, shall we?"
Four hours later, after lunch with Commander Reilly and the Captain of the Austin, and then hoisting several beers with Jazz Colson and some of his friends, Hunter caught a lift back to the Tiger's Claw aboard a shuttle with several technicians.
Now I have to find Angel. This news can't wait another five minutes.
Disembarking from the shuttle, Hunter scanned the Flight Deck for Jeannette Devereaux, but didn't see her near the parked fighters. And there weren't many parked fighters, either… looked like everything flyable was out on a mission right now, which was unusual.
Well—unusual for Standard Operating Procedure. Not unusual considering the past few days. Funny, he wasn't tired anymore. All that adrenaline must've knocked him into his second wind.
Meanwhile, he needed to find Angel. He waved to Cafrelli, who was working on a disassembled fighter engine on the far side of the Deck, and headed for the Barracks. Maybe she's asleep, if she just got in from the early morning patrol.
The Barracks were completely deserted except for Maniac, who was sprawled out on his bunk, snoring. Hunter thought about whether or not he should let Marshall continue sleeping for about two seconds, then shook the boy awake.
"Wh-wha?" Maniac muttered, rubbing his eyes.
"Where's Angel, Todd?"
Maniac gave him a look that he couldn't quite interpret. "I saw her walking with the Colonel to his office," he said, yawning, but with a funny side glance at Hunter. "What happened to your nose, Hunter? No, don't bother telling me…just go away, I want to get some sleep."
Then the kid just rolled over, away from him. No small talk, no "where've you been—"
"All right, mate," Hunter said, pulling his hand away and walking off, mulling over what Todd had just said. Strange. Very strange. It didn't make much sense. The only reason anyone went to the Colonel's office was if they were in some kind of trouble, about to get reamed out for one offense or another. Hunter knew that well enough; he'd been in the Colonel's office often enough that he'd memorized the interior decor. But Angel wasn't like him, she was a straightforward, skilled, "by the book" kind of pilot, with a perfect record for all her years in the Navy. That's why he had this terrific bit of news to tell her…
He left the Barracks and walked down the corridors. On impulse, he headed for the Rec Room. He knew the place would be empty, since the bartender, Shotglass, didn't go on shift for another couple hours, and all you could get at this hour was the awful sugar-water drinks from the automatic dispenser. But just on the off-chance… Angel actually likes that horrible soda they have there, hell if I know why.
And his luck was up. He smiled as he walked through the door and spotted her. Angel was seated alone at one of the tables, a glass of pink soda in front of her. He slid into the seat across from her, unable to keep the grin off his face. "Lady, have I got news for you…" he began, and stopped.
She was crying. Not loudly, or obviously. But there were tears coursing silently down her face. He froze, his heart suddenly in his throat, and reached across to take one of her hands in his. "What's wrong, sweetheart?" he asked, as gently as he could. Whatever it was—it had to be the worst of news.
"Bossman's dead, Hunter," she said.
"Oh, damn," he breathed. "Not Kien." Kien, who was always as steady as rock, one of the best pilots in the squadron. Hunter remembered all the nights spent drinking beer in the Rec Room, the missions where they'd fought together against the cats, the times that they'd saved each others' lives. "How did it happen?" he asked.
Her voice was very quiet, thick with tears, the accent that made her sound so charming now making her sound as if she were a tragic heroine in a play. But the tragedy was real, and this wasn't theater. "We were patrolling the jump point area, as per our orders." She sniffed, and her voice faltered. "There was no warning. Suddenly a Kilrathi strike force began appearing around us. A Fralthi cruiser, several corvettes, two Lumbari tankers. Bossman knew that the corvettes would overtake us if we ran, that there was no way to outrun them, so he…"
She almost broke, then, and Hunter tightened his hold on her hand. She steadied herself. "He ordered me to return to the Claw, and he started on an attack run on the Fralthi. He kept them busy long enough for me to get out of range; he kept transmitting as much information to me as he could, telling me the nu
mber of fighters, their exact course, how many more ships were jumping in… then he said, 'Angel, tell my wife I love her.' There was a burst of static on the comm, and then, nothing."
She looked up for a moment, but Hunter sensed that she didn't really see him. He wasn't sure he wanted to know what she was seeing. "I wanted to go back, but I knew that one of us had to survive, one of us had to warn the carrier…"
"You did what you had to, sweetheart," Hunter said, knowing that wasn't enough, that it wouldn't have been enough for him, but knowing that he had to say it. Maybe if enough people told her that enough times, she might start to believe it.
"But he was so alone, he died alone out there, I should have been there with him." She wiped the tears from her face, but more streamed from her eyes to replace them. "It was so awful, mon ami, knowing that Bossman was dying and there was nothing I could do to help him…" Her voice broke on a sob, and she buried her face in her free hand.
He didn't know what else to say, so he sat there, silently holding her hand, giving her something to hold onto, and wishing he could offer more comfort than that. After a few minutes, she looked up at him and tried to smile. "So, you came running in here wanting to tell me something. What was the news you were so eager to tell, Hunter? And… what happened to your nose?"
"Oh, it's nothing much," he said diffidently. Maybe—maybe this will help her, a little. Prove to her that the rest of us know she always does her top best. "Just a little promotion for you. The Captain of the Austin would like you to take over command of their fighter squadron."
"What?" Angel's eyes were wide, the tears still on her face, but a little more life coming into her expression. "You are joking, non?"
He patted her hand. "It's not confirmed yet, but the Top Hat says that he doesn't see any reason why Confed HQ wouldn't sign the papers. I was there when he called Colonel Halcyon about it. Hale says that he's sorry to see you leave, but he's glad that you're getting the promotion." That must've been just before she came back from her patrol with the news that Bossman was dead.
Wing Commander: Freedom Flight Page 12
