by John Bowers
"Onja —"
"Ten hut, goddammit! I'm your superior officer! You stand at fucking attention when I'm talking to you!"
McLeod's slightly insolent face clouded with anger as he obeyed, snapping his shoulders back and staring over her head at a point on the far bulkhead. Other fighter crews had stopped to watch his humiliation.
"We've had this conversation before!" Onja said in a quieter, but no less menacing voice. "You still can't get it through your fucking chauvinist head, can you? I'm the gunner! You are the pilot! When the shit hits the jet you take orders from your gunner, because she is the only one who can save your worthless ass!"
Onja circled him like a predator, her eyes blazing, shaking harder than ever.
"I told you to break left, but you broke right! Maybe you didn't hear me? Don't you know your fucking left from your fucking right?"
"Onja, there was —"
"Captain! Right now I am your fucking captain!"
"Yes, Ma'am. Captain, there was —"
"I don't care! You disobeyed a direct order! And the only reason I still have my head is because the fucking cannon shell didn't explode inside the turret! You almost got me killed, Rodney! And this isn't the first time!"
He swallowed, scowling, but remained mute. Onja panted harshly for thirty seconds, glaring at him, until her rage abated somewhat.
"All right," she said. "What's your excuse?"
He let his breath out slightly, dared to meet her gaze.
"There was another flight of them, Captain, bearing in from the left. If I'd gone left they would've lit us up."
Onja nodded slowly.
"I knew that, Rodney! I was watching them. But the pair behind us had us painted. They were wedged to take us if we broke right, and that's just what they did. If we'd gone left, they would have lost their lock, and I was ready for the two on the left."
She turned and walked away, stopped, then walked back to face him.
"I swear to Sophia, this is your last warning. If I survive the next time you fuck up, I'm going to star-court you! So help me Sophia!"
"Jesus, Onj— Captain!"
"Thirty days, Rodney. You're grounded."
"What!"
She stuck a finger in his face.
"Not another fucking word!" she warned him. "Or I'll star-court you right now!"
* * *
Onja reached her quarters after debrief and locked the door to keep McLeod out. Peeling off her flight suit, she stepped into the shower and turned on the hot water. She stood there naked for thirty seconds before the first sob hit. The second took her to her knees, then she sank to the floor and wept brokenly, overwhelmed by fear and rage and her own mortality.
Thirty minutes later she was in control again and put on a clean uniform. Only then did she remember she had an appointment with General Osato at 1700. A quick glance at her watch showed that it was now 1649.
She quickly passed a few cosmetics over her face, sprayed her hair to stiffen it, and took another deep breath to make sure her emotions were under control. Then she headed out the door, leaving it unlocked so McLeod could get in.
She reached Osato's office and knocked once, then stepped inside.
Osato was pushing seventy, but remained trim and hard in spite of the lines that webbed his face. His scalp gleamed through short, iron-grey hair; his hands were leathery, but his narrow eyes had lost none of their zest for life. Onja had known him most of the war. It was Osato who'd pulled the strings that made it possible for her to fly with Johnny Lincoln. He was now in command of spacecraft operations against Vega 3.
Osato was seated at his desk and looked up as she entered.
"Captain Kvoorik reporting as ordered, General," she said.
"Hello, Onja. How are you feeling? You had a close call today."
"Yes, sir. I'm fine, thank you."
"Take a seat."
She took a chair and sat facing him, at ease in spite of his rank, curious as to why he'd summoned her. He sat gazing at her for a moment.
"I heard there was an altercation on the hangar deck this afternoon."
"Just a small disciplinary measure, sir.”
"Are you having a problem with your pilot?"
"Yes, sir. I may have to replace him."
The old man nodded, a sad little frown creasing his brow. "I was afraid of that."
"I grounded him for thirty days. If that doesn't do it, I may request his transfer out of the squadron."
"Do what you think best, Onja. I'll see that your six is covered."
"Thank you, sir."
Osato slipped on a pair of antique reading glasses and picked up a document from his desk. He didn't look at her as he spoke.
"You've been in the service nineteen years, Onja."
She blinked in surprise. "Yes, sir."
"You started as a third lieutenant and now you're a captain. That's pretty slow advancement, especially in wartime."
"Yes, sir."
"You've turned down promotion twice."
"Yes, sir. General, if you're offering me another promotion…"
"I know. You'll resign before you'll accept an administrative post. I think we've been down that road before."
"Yes, sir. We have."
He pulled off the glasses and peered at her, chewing his lip.
"Nineteen years, Onja. Half your life in uniform. The war will probably go another four or five years. Are you sure you want to stay in the thick of it? How many times have you been wounded already?"
"Only twice, sir."
"And today you damn near got your third Crimson Cross."
Her expression didn't waver as she gazed silently at him. Osato knew her history better than anyone except the Lincoln family, and understood her reasons; she didn't need to repeat them.
He laid the document down and leaned back in his chair with a sigh.
"It's time you accepted a promotion, Onja. You have too much talent to keep doing what you're doing now."
"With respect …"
"Hear me out. You've been executive officer of the 117 for over a year, and since Major Madison was killed, you've done an efficient job running the squadron. But his replacement is due in tomorrow."
"Yes, sir."
Osato pulled a small box from his pocket and pushed it across the desk toward her.
"Congratulations, Major Kvoorik."
Onja stared at the box a moment, then opened it. Inside, on a velvet pad, rested a pair of polished oak leaves. She frowned at them, then looked up to meet Osato's eyes.
"You're getting your own squadron, Onja. ZF-111." He beamed. "And don't worry about Lieutenant McLeod — I'll make sure his grounding is enforced."
Saturday, 3 August, 0239 (PCC) — UFF George Bush, in orbit, Vega 3
UFF George Bush cruised in a leisurely orbit around Vega 3, one of six carriers currently conducting spacecraft operations against the planet below. Six thousand miles away, a solitary shuttle launched from UFF Anwar Sadat and traversed the crowded orbital lanes toward Bush. The shuttle disappeared into Bush's flight tunnel and was lowered to the hangar deck. After securing and shutting down, the pilot opened the exit hatch, and a lone figure wearing the dress charcoals of the Fighter Service stepped out, space bag in hand.
A young female ensign was waiting, and after exchanging salutes, reached for the space bag.
"Welcome to UFF Bush, Major Kvoorik," she said.
Onja nodded soberly.
"Colonel Hinds is expecting you, Ma'am," the ensign continued.
"Lead on, Ensign."
Bush was a dozen years newer than Sadat, larger and more modern in every way, yet it was amazingly similar. The ensign led Onja through a maze of companionways, ducking through hatches and sidestepping crewmen going the other way.
"Here we are," she said at last. She pushed the button outside the doorway, and when the light above the hatch turned green, stepped inside.
"Major Kvoorik has arrived, sir," she said crisply.
"Very well. Show
her in."
The ensign stepped aside and Onja entered the office. The man behind the desk rose and came around to greet her. Onja saluted stiffly, her face devoid of expression, and waited until he returned her salute, which he did only when he was standing in front of her.
If General Osato was Onja's best friend in the Fighter Service, Jack Hinds was her worst enemy. Onja had met Hinds at AB-131, where he was XO for Major Landon, and later he'd been her commanding officer during her time with Johnny Lincoln. The two had clashed at their first meeting and things had gone downhill from there. Though she never reported him, Hinds had once tried to rape her, and would have succeeded except she had the presence of mind to disable him. Obsessed with her Vegan looks and her uncanny gunnery skills, Hinds had never stopped wanting her. Fortunately, after Onja was wounded the first time, she was posted to a new squadron and hadn't seen him for several years.
Now she would be working for him.
"Congratulations, Onja," Hinds said in a calm, deep voice. "It's about time you took that promotion, don't you think?"
"If you say so, sir."
Hinds's mouth twisted in a faint smile, and he waved her toward a chair.
"Take a seat."
Onja settled rigidly onto the edge of a chair, her cold blue eyes never leaving his face. He was over forty now, his temples starting to grey, but he still looked as hard and pissed-off as ever. She wasn't fooled by his attempt at gentleness — his mottled face and baleful green eyes held the same malice she remembered from the past.
Hinds took another chair facing her and sat back, crossing his legs.
"How many kills now?" he asked conversationally. "Eight hundred?"
"Something like that."
"Still love killing Sirians?"
"More than ever."
Hinds nodded slowly, his eyes roaming her compact body.
"Well, we still have a lot more to kill. I imagine you're anxious to meet your new squadron."
"Yes, sir."
He attempted another smile, but only grimaced.
"You still hate me, don't you?"
Her brow knitted for an instant before she answered.
"Maybe 'hate' is too strong a word, Colonel," she said. "Let's just say you bring back a lot of bad memories."
He nodded. "Fair enough. But you can relax on one point — I won't ask you to fly turret for me this time. I don't fly combat missions any more."
"It's just as well," she told him. "The answer is still the same."
"I suspected. Well, Onja, I won't try to make you believe I'm a changed man, because you wouldn't buy it anyway. But I still admire you, just like I always did. I'm really sorry we never flew combat together."
She made no reply; he was sorry he'd never got her into bed.
"I don't interfere with my squadron leaders as long as they do their jobs, and I expect you'll be an exceptional CO, so we shouldn't have any problems. If you need anything, I'm right here most of the time. I'll go to bat for you any time it's necessary."
"I appreciate that, sir."
"Very well." He got to his feet. "Let's go meet your squadron. I think they're already assembled and waiting."
Onja rose and turned to follow him. He stopped and met her eyes again, giving her a genuine grin.
"By the way, I'll bet nobody told you, did they?"
"Sir?"
"Your squadron? It's the Triple One."
She nodded solemnly. "I know."
* * *
Hinds led the way through more passageways. Presently they arrived in a large room that doubled as a gymnasium and rec room. Twenty-three pilots and nineteen gunners stood in formation. The outgoing CO, Major Bonnar, had already left.
"Ten-hut!" someone shouted, and they snapped to attention. Hinds and Onja proceeded to a point directly in front of the group. She stood at parade rest while Hinds glowered at them with his customary good cheer.
"You've all heard by now," he said, "that the Fighter Service has decided, for the first time in history, to turn command of a squadron over to a woman. What you haven't heard is that this is the squadron. Your new commanding officer is Major Onja Kvoorik, also known as the Fighter Queen."
Hinds paused, letting the magic words sink in. Onja saw a few eyes widen in surprise.
"Yes, that's right. That Fighter Queen. She has over eight hundred confirmed kills, including two fully loaded transports, and has personally accounted for more enemy dead than anyone else in any service. So I don't want to hear any complaints about placing you under the command of an inexperienced CO."
Hinds paced slowly down their ranks, his eyes disapproving. When he reached the end he walked back to front-center and stopped.
"The Triple One has a proud tradition," he told them in a quieter voice. "I was once XO of this outfit, and it was a great squadron. I expect it to become great again." He turned a meaningful gaze on Onja. "Major, you are hereby in command. Good hunting!"
They exchanged salutes, then Hinds turned and left.
Onja stood before the squadron and felt her heart began to pound. She had never anticipated this moment and hadn’t had much time to prepare her remarks. She would just have to improvise.
"I might as well tell you right up front," she said, "I'm new at this. I never expected to be offered a command of my own, but if I'd been given my choice, I would have requested the Triple One. Nineteen years ago, when I first came out of G-class gunnery school, this was my very first squadron. The day I reported I heard a speech by the CO, Major Robert Landon, which scared the daylights out of me.
"I'm not going to do that to you. Most of the war is behind us now, and we're winning. But it isn't over yet. What lies ahead is going to demand every ounce of your energy. I'm going to expect the best you have, from every one of you.
"We're going to win. But not everyone will go home. Keep that in mind.
"I'll be conducting personal interviews starting tomorrow,” she told them. “The squadron is on stand down until the day after. If anyone has any reservations about serving under me, this will be your only chance to speak up. I’ll transfer anyone who requests it.”
She took a step back.
"I'd like to see Lieutenant Royal in my office in one hour. That is all."
Denver, CO, North America, Terra
Forty-five miles northwest of Denver, Colorado, a flight of four QuasarFighters cruised southwest on a heading of 205 degrees, altitude nineteen thousand feet, speed .3 Mach. Only minutes earlier they'd lifted off from Loveland SFB on a training flight that would take them south to the Mexican border, east to New Orleans, then back to Loveland. Leading the flight of four was Major David Mombasa, CO of Training Squadron 4117; with him were three green pilots.
Sixteen minutes after leaving Loveland the flight climbed to twenty thousand to clear the snow-covered ridges that jutted sharply into the bright August sky. Brittle sunlight glinted off the Solarglas canopies as the snow-white fighters flew a straight line, holding a diamond formation.
Mombasa spoke gently to his charges, his voice carefully neutral as he issued a reminder to keep the formation tight. All systems were green, the sky was cold and blue, not a cloud in sight. Commercial air traffic was safely routed on another vector.
Everything looked routine.
"Hound Dog Leader, Beagle," one of the rookies said suddenly.
"Beagle, Hound Dog Leader."
"Major, I've got something on my radar at 157 relative, closing fast. Can't make it out."
Mombasa frowned as he glanced at his own radar image. Nothing there, except …
"What the hell?"
The radar sweep looked clean at first glance, but something — an electronic disturbance like a small snowstorm the size of a pinhead — was moving rapidly toward the formation. Bearing 157 degrees, altitude… unreadable.
"Hound Dog Flight, Hound Dog Leader — break right on my mark! Three, two, one —"
BOO-HOOM!
"Jesus Christ!"
The air seemed to
explode around them as something — a tornado of sound and wind — blasted through the flight at high speed, climbing straight up like a rocket, literally passing through the formation like a solarball kicked through a goal. Mombasa struggled to control his ship as turbulence ripped at his control surfaces. Two of the rookies flipped onto their backs and almost collided, dancing around the sky in an effort to regain stability. The fourth fighter, call sign Beagle, was thrown into a dive that carried him six thousand feet before he could pull out, barely avoiding a mountain peak in the process.
"Hound Dog Flight!" Mombasa shouted, his body shaking with residual terror and just the beginnings of rage, "sound off!"
One by one they reported in, shaken but not hurt. The fighters were now badly scattered, but none appeared to be damaged.
"What the fuck was that, Major?" Beagle asked in a strangled voice. "Just came out of nowhere!"
"That was your radar disturbance," Mombasa replied, scanning the sky for the intruder. "Form up, but keep a hundred yard separation. I've got a visual on him. The bastard is coming back!"
Mombasa squinted as he followed the distant speck that had damn near killed his cherries. Ten thousand feet above him now, it was turning for another pass, black smoke curling out behind it like a snake’s tail. As he watched, it steadied and began to grow, seeming to come right at him, glinting briefly as the canopy caught the sunlight.
"Input:" Mombasa said in the privacy of his own cockpit. "Arm guns."
"Christ, Major! I see him! He's headed right at us! Is it a Sirian?"
"I'm arming!" another rookie chattered.
"Negat!" Mombasa shouted. "Weapons hold! I repeat, weapons hold!" As scared as those guys were, they were as likely to blow each other out of the sky as the intruder. "Hold your position! Do not deviate! Acknowledge!"
He heard a murmur of assent, then forgot his cherries as the intruder closed the distance at close to Mach 1. Mombasa felt his gut twist as he realized he — all of them — were sitting ducks. If it was a Sirian…
But why hadn't it nailed them on the first pass? No Sirian fighter had entered Terra's atmosphere in more than a decade. It had to be something else.
Nevertheless, Mombasa thumbed the cover off his gun switch, just in case. His teeth clamped tight as the bogey bore down on them. Closing at over sixteen miles a minute… If it was going to fire, it had to be soon. Hell, it had to be now.
