“Where we’re going, and what we’re doing, I doubt we’ll ever see such a ship,” O’Brian replied tartly. “Our main job is convoy patrol and I can’t see any sense in putting in an engine that cost almost as much as all the rest of the ship. Financial responsibility son, you fighter boys don’t think about that, but financial responsibility is important.”
“If we ever get in a jam, sir, you’ll see what I mean and thank God we have this Gilgamesh power plant on board.”
“You’re referring to the fourth mission concept for the CVE, is that it?” O’Brian said, his voice now betraying a clear anxiety.
Jason looked over at O’Brian.
“I did study up on the ship in the few hours I had between getting this assignment and leaving.”
Jason looked over at Mashumi and the others in the engine room. There was no sense in worrying them about it all and he didn’t want O’Brian to bring the subject up in front of the crew. The concept was obvious. The CVE was cheap and quick to build. It was, above all else, designed to be expendable, unlike the precious heavy and medium carriers of the main fleet. It was therefore ideally suited for high-risk deep penetration raids into the Empire, or to serve as a decoy, or even as a sacrifice delaying force to cover the retreat of far more valuable ships. It was made to be thrown away if the need should ever arise.
“They won’t send us out on any suicide runs, Bonevisky. Not on my watch,” O’Brian said, his eyes shifting back and forth uneasily, his words spilling out hurriedly as if trying to reassure himself. “I’ve got friends and contacts in the right offices back home. It’ll never happen while I’m around.”
Jason looked over at Mashumi, suddenly embarrassed by the captain’s shaky display.
“I’d better go and meet my pilots, sir,” Jason announced, his tone indicating that it was best to end the conversation.
“Oh yes, indeed, but of course. How thoughtless of me,” O’Brian said. “Perhaps dinner tonight? I managed to get one of my old cooks assigned here, he makes a wonderful cherry tart and his other pastries are magnificent. I think we can even dig up a little claret, some fine stock which I managed to pack along.”
Such suggestions were of course orders, though he would have preferred to have spent the time with Doomsday going over the fitness reports of his pilots, flight deck officers, and crew chiefs.
“I’d be glad to, sir.”
“Fine then,” and O’Brian turned and left the engine room.
Jason looked over at Mashumi, who gave a curious smile of resignation before turning back to checking her engines.
Jason strode into the pilot ready room and he could not help but allow himself a slight thrill of satisfaction as the pilots snapped to attention. He was now the commander of all flight operations aboard ship, answerable only to the Captain. He had served under some damned fine men and women, he had also served under more than one fool—but now he was the one in charge.
He walked briskly to the front of the room, stopping in front of the holo briefing map.
“At ease, be seated,” he snapped and the men and women who were now his command settled down. He looked around the room. Doomsday and Janice “Starlight” Parker were the only two familiar faces. He had first met Janice when they were going through flight school together and then had gone their separate ways to hook back up again on Concordia. She was the ideal choice for running his recon squadron, a damned fine pilot, quick, aggressive, and a master with fighting a Ferret. He looked over at her and she flashed him a wink and sly grin. It was hard not to smile. He knew that she had always had a bit of “a thing,” for him, but it had never gone beyond that, especially because of Svetlana, her roommate at school. He pushed that thought aside.
All the rest looked far too young and had that open innocent look. After a tour of combat that would change. You could look into a pilot’s eyes and know in an instant whether he had been there or not. Fighting for your life, where a split second decision would decide whether you were still here or splattered across several hundred cubic kilometers of space, tended to change you rather quickly. That, and watching friends die, then at night lying quietly in your sweat-soaked bed, waiting for the next mission—it slowly ate you up and these young pilots had yet to stare into the maw of the killing machine.
“I only have a couple of things to say to you,” he began, realizing that they were watching him nervously.
They were most likely scared half to death. The instructors back at the flight academies had drilled the same line into him so many years ago—within a month after reaching the front you’re either a veteran or dead, with the odds staked high for the less pleasant of alternatives.
At least, he realized, they’d have a chance if the Tarawa stayed on the back roads of the bigger show; it’d give him time to teach them every trick he knew.
“Some of you might think you are very hot stuff right now, after all you’re wearing a brand new set of shiny wings. If that’s the way you feel, believe me you’re bound for a very short life. Those of you who are scared, that’s half good. Stay scared. I’m scared every time I climb into the cockpit. That’s what keeps me on my toes and kept me, and Doomsday, and Starlight alive when facing down some of the best the Kilrathi Empire can offer. But if you ever let your fear take complete control, it’ll kill you, your wingman, and maybe your entire squadron.”
“Starting first watch tomorrow, we’re going on a full schedule of training. I’m taking you back to square one with basic formation flying, touch down, turn around, combat landings, standard tactical maneuvers, and when I think you’re ready we’ll move up to advanced unit tactics. We’re going to drill, drill, drill, and then drill some more. You’re going to get more flying in over the next few weeks than you’ve had in the last six months. I want you ready for whatever comes and we’re going to run this wing as if we’re on the cutting edge of the front.”
“I understand you had an easy ride out here from Earth; well, the party’s over.”
He looked around the room. Their expressions were fixed, betraying no feelings of either approval or disagreement. They were being cautious and he approved.
“Doomsday will be squadron commander for the Sabre fighter bombers, Starlight will be in charge of the recon and patrol Ferrets. I’m taking personal charge of the Rapier squadron. Are there any questions?”
The room was silent.
“Sir, we’ve heard that this here CVE will never even get to the front.”
Jason looked around the room.
“When someone has a comment, stand and deliver it.”
A tall lanky pilot stood up, his red hair pushing the edge of a regulation cut. He had a superior, almost disdainful air about him, as if this meeting was nothing more than a bore that was interrupting other pleasures.
“Your name, lieutenant?”
“Kevin Tolwyn,” and he paused for a moment, “sir.”
Shocked, Jason took a second to recover. The resemblance seemed to be there, the sharp eyes, the aquiline nose.
“Yes, sir, the admiral is my uncle,” Kevin finally added.
Jason could not help but shoot a quick glance at Doomsday. Little was known of the admiral’s personal life, other than the fact that his wife and three sons had all died in a Kilrathi raid very early in the war.
“The way you say that, you seem to expect something,” Jason finally snapped.
“Oh, I don’t expect anything from you, or this ship, sir. Though I should add we’re all very impressed by your record on the Gettysburg.”
There was a stunned silence in the room and all turned to look at Kevin and then back to Jason.