Across from the two men, Sparks was already playing her fingers across the keys of the small holo-projector set up between their seats. Bondarevsky had never seen her suffering from the effects of jumpshock. There were some people who claimed to be immune, and at times like this Bondarevsky would cheerfully have killed any one of them.
“Looks like everything’s going according to plan,” she commented cheerfully.
Bondarevsky blinked again and peered at the computer-generated holographic image floating in the air. He could discern the blips that represented Independence, Xenophon, and Durendal, grouped around the jump point but already beginning to shape their course inwards, toward the oversized gas giant the derelict orbited. There was nothing registering in the projection that might have been their target, only the brown dwarf and its attendant moons.
“Where’s our Kilrathi hulk?” That question came from Colonel Bhaktadil, seated beside Sparks. He didn’t have his turban on today, like the rest of them, he had his helmet ready at hand in the storage rack behind and above his seat, and his dark, curly hair looked all wrong somehow without its customary covering. “Don’t tell me we’ve come all this way for nothing!”
The marine CO had elected to go in with the squads assigned to the flight deck of the supercarrier, since that was the largest single space they’d have to secure and investigate and hence required the most marines to take it. The marines and Bondarevsky’s survey team were already strapped into the shuttle, ready to launch as soon as the all-clear was given by Kevin Tolwyn’s pilots. Other shuttles ready on the flight deck were similarly manned and set for launch. Although they had plenty of time left before they were close enough to launch, Richards and Tolwyn had ordered them to be ready to go at short notice. Even if something dangerous was waiting for them in the Vaku system, the fighting ships of the battle group might be able to lead it away while the shuttles went in to size up the situation, so preparedness was the order of the day.
“Probably obscured by the brown dwarf,” Sparks said. “You know the database better than I do, skipper. What do you think?”
Bondarevsky tapped a command into the projector controls and nodded as a trace appeared on the far side of the supergiant. “Yeah. That’s the computer estimate of where it should be, given Vision Quest’s data on orbital characteristics.” He switched it off again, leaving the original real-time plot. The four of diem studied the projection in silence as long minutes passed. At least there was no sign of a hostile reception committee, he told himself. So far, so good…
Aft of the carrier the tender Sindri popped into existence out of hyperspace, followed closely by the City of Cashel. Up ahead the leading escorts were spreading out to form a broader front, leading the way. It would take some time before the rest of the battle group came through. The huge factory ship’s jump engines were slow to charge up, and once she made it into the Vaku system her sheer bulk would limit her acceleration to a crawl. But they wouldn’t be needing the Andrew Carnegie soon. If the derelict couldn’t be salvaged, they wouldn’t need her at all.
“Fighters launch! Fighters launch!” That came from the comm channel, set to monitor squadron operations. Bondarevsky had a momentary vision of what Kevin Tolwyn must be seeing right now as his Raptor led the way off the carriers flight deck into deep space. He wished he was out there, with a bird to fly and a solid mission to carry out, instead of being cooped up in a shuttle waiting for the chance to go aboard an enemy derelict and survey it for damage. Bondarevsky wasn’t entirely sure he’d be much use at that anyway. For most of his life he’d been learning how to inflict damage on Kilrathi warships, not analyze it.
But his job wasn’t out there any more. Best he came to terms with that fact, no matter how distasteful it might be.
Raptor 300, VF-88 “Crazy Eights”
Deep Space, Vaku System
0735 hours (CST)
Commander Kevin Tolwyn felt a surge of pure adrenaline in his veins as his fighter cleared the flight deck and steadied on course toward their destination. “Raptor 300. good shot, good shot,” he reported over the comm system, letting the flight controllers know that he’d launched without difficulty.
“Roger that, three-double-zero,” came the reply. “Captain says ‘good hunting,’ Commander. And be careful.”
“Be sure to tell him I’ll be careful not to scratch the paint,” Tolwyn said. It was the kind of remark he could never have gotten away with in the Confederation Navy, admiral’s nephew or not. The casual side of life on the frontier did have a few advantages.
He waited as other heavy fighters joined him in formation off the carrier’s bow, taking the time to get the feel of the Raptor. The bird had been state-of-the-art fifteen years back, during the famous Vega campaign. Now it was fit for second-rate fleets like the Landreich’s, though Tolwyn had found it to be a sturdy, reliable craft in practice flights. He hoped it would do as well in actual combat, if and when it came to that.
“Lone Wolf, Lone Wolf, this is Doomsday. You copy?” The radio call jerked him out of his introspective mood. The last of the Raptors had left the flight deck and joined him. It was time to get the mission under way.
“Five by five, Doomsday,” he said. “You boys think you can keep up with me okay? Or should I hold back?”
“Don’t go asking for trouble, there, kid. You may be the Wing Commander now, but I remember when you were a wet-behind-the-ears newbie who didn’t know a high-g turn from a hole in the ground.”
Tolwyn chuckled. Etienne “Doomsday” Montclair was one of his oldest and best friends from back on the end run to Kilrah all those years ago. He’d been senior to Tolwyn then, a cocky veteran who tended to slam the new kid whenever the opportunity arose, but he’d been a damned good friend and a fine wingman. Unfortunately,
Doomsday had been part of the Free Corps mission to the Landreich during the period leading up to the Battle of Earth, serving under Jason Bondarevsky on the Tarawa while Tolwyn was in the thick of the action with the Confederation fleet that faced the Kilrathi at Sirius and in the Solar System. As a result, and because of his high-placed connections, Tolwyn had shot onto the fast track and advanced more quickly in rank than Doomsday. So now he was senior to Montclair in this new navy, probably once again because of his uncle’s influence, but Doomsday being Doomsday there was little chance of the Wing Commander getting a swelled head.
“Everybody stick to the game plan,” Tolwyn ordered. “Babe, are you ready to make your run?”
“That’s affirmative, skipper.” The soft contralto voice of Darlene “Babe” Babcock answered him. “Waiting for your orders.”
For a moment Tolwyn wished he’d strapped on a Hornet for today’s mission, instead of picking the Raptor. Babcock’s squadron, VF-12-more usually known as the “Flying Eyes”-was equipped with the Hornet light fighter, a fast, high-performance craft that was ideal for reconnaissance missions but limited in the fighting it could handle. Today they carried even lighter combat loads than usual to make room for a Mark VI APSP, a sensor pod containing a battery of cameras, imaging systems, and other survey gear that was normally used to conduct long-range scans ahead of a fleet or target identification runs in a planetary atmosphere. So Babcock would be taking her planes in low over the Kilrathi hulk to get a good look at the supercarrier ahead of the rest of them, while the heavier Raptors of Doomsday’s VF-88, the Crazy Eights, waited to provide cover if they ran into trouble.