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.
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
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."