CHAPTER XII
"Battle Alert! Battle Alert!" the computer announced. "Now, scramble! Scramble! Scramble! All Flight Wing personnel to magnum launch stations. Scramble!"
A monitor showed the view as the ready rooms erupted in a sudden outburst of activity. For a few seconds it was a scene of utter chaos, with pilots running for the Hangar Deck. Some were still zipping up flight suits or dogging down helmets as they moved, but there was an underlying sense of order beneath all the confusion. These people were professionals who knew their jobs.
Blair glanced around Flight Control Center, nodding in satisfaction. The room was fully crewed, with captain Ted "Marker" Markham, Victory's Flight Boss, presiding over the technicians with his usual autocratic flair. Ignoring the others, Blair focused his attention on Maniac Marshall, who was with Rachel Coriolis near the door. The major seemed to be debating his fighter's combat loadout with the technician, waving his hands in the air and talking with an excited intensity.
He waited until the discussion was over before crossing to Maniac. "We don't have any room for grandstanding today, Major," he said quietly. "This mission has to be flown perfectly. Otherwise . . . scratch a whole colony world and everyone on it. You read me, mister?"
Marshall met his eyes defiantly. "I know my duty, damn it. And I've never let my end down."
"Just remember what's at stake. You don't have to like me, major, any more than I have to like you. But today you'll follow my orders, or I'll have your head."
"I'll do my job," Maniac told him. "You just do yours."
Blair and Flint launched last, joining the other fighters already on station around the carrier. All four squadrons were up, thirty-three fighters in all. Leyland and Svensson had two of Blue Squadron's interceptors in position closer to the enemy flight, and the techs had down-checked five fighters — two Arrows, two Hellcats, and a Longbow — as unable to fly the mission.
He was glad Gold Squadron hadn't suffered any down-checks. At least all ten Thunderbolts would be going in today.
"All squadrons, this is Wing Commander,'' he announced as he settled his fighter into formation between Flint and Hobbes. "We've gone over the drill often enough, so I expect you all know your jobs by now. Warlock, I wish you were with us on this one, but in-flight refueling would complicate things too much. Keep your guard up, and make sure the old rust-bucket's still here for us when we get home."
"Godspeed, Colonel," Whittaker replied.
"The rest of us have a fleet to catch," Blair continued. "Amazon, take the lead. Green Squadron to follow, Gold in the rear. Let's punch it, boys and girls!" He rammed his throttles forward as if to punctuate the order, felt the engines surging to full power and the G-force pressing him down. "Engage autopilots," he said. "Anybody who thinks he can sleep, this is your last chance for a catnap before things start getting hot!"
He doubted if anyone actually slept, though with the autopilots set it would have been possible — assuming adrenaline and anticipation left any room for any of them to relax. It was a forty-five minute flight at maximum thrust, and Blair spent the time reviewing his plans and trying to spot ways to improve their chances of success. He saw precious little hope of shortening the daunting odds against them. Everything depended on luck, now.
Blair was surprised when the computer alarm sounded the warning. They were close to their navigation checkpoint now, and the autopilots were disengaging automatically. He checked his scanners, saw the blips representing the two watchdog interceptors trailing the Kilrathi fleet ahead. The enemy showed up on long-range sensors, which showed the presence of large vessels, but so far his monitor showed nothing in range of the more accurate but less powerful short-range scan.
That was exactly as it should be. So far, so good . . .
"Shepherd to flock," he said, breaking radio silence. "Commence your run . . . NOW!"
"Lord Prince!"
Thrakhath looked up from his computer display. The Tactical Officer sounded frightened, but whether it was due to something on his scanners or the danger of bothering Thrakhath was difficult to tell. "Lord Prince, I have multiple targets on close-range sensors. Small . . . a cluster of fighter-class targets. At least four eights of them!"
"Position?" Thrakhath rasped.
"Bearing to port and low, range five thousand octomak and closing." The officer paused. "They are Terran by their signatures, Lord Prince . . ."
"Of course they are Terran, fool!" Thrakhath raged. "Who else would send fighters against us? But how . . . ?"
"The Terran carrier," Melek said. "Victory."
"Victory," Thrakhath repeated, his claws twitching in and out of their sheaths with the violence of his emotion. "The Terrans must not be allowed to stop Unseen Death. Order all Vrag'chath missiles fired immediately, and launch fighters. Do it now!
"We could deploy the Red Fang squadron to engage them, Lord Prince —"
"No! Red Fang has its own role to play. They will adhere to the battle plan!"
"As you wish, Lord Prince. But I am afraid that the Terrans might have more surprises planned for us." Melek's words were grim as he turned to carry out Thrakhath's orders.
The Prince summoned up a holographic tactical chart in the air in front of his command seat. He glared into it as if the very anger in his eyes was a weapon to destroy the Terran with. "It is they who will be surprised, I think," he said quietly.
Melek glanced up from his console. The renegade will be among these pilots, Lord Prince," he pointed out. "Do the orders regarding him stand?"
Thrakhath didn't answer right away. If only Sar'hrai had carried out the job of crippling the Terran carrier at Tamayo, none of these complications would he around to plague him now. Carrier and renegade would be safely ensconced in some Confederation shipyard, waiting for the moment when they would join in the intricate dance of Thrakhath's grand design. He hoped Sar'hrai's late captain was suffering on the unending barren plains of the Kilrathi netherworld for his failure. "If detected, the renegade must be avoided," the Prince said at last. "It is not yet time for Ralgha to realize his destiny . . ."
"The big boys are launching missiles, skipper." The voice in Blair's headphones had been scrambled, decoded, and computer-reconstructed, but he recognized Vagabond's smooth, laid-back tones. "Big suckers . . . must be those Skippers you warned us about."
"Time to give them something else to think about, Blair said. "Green Squadron, execute Plan Hammer. Amazon, give them cover . . ."
"Acknowledged," Major Berterelli said, his tone bland and professional.
"On it, Colonel," Mbuto chimed in a moment later. "Come on, Blue Squadron, let's give the cats something they can really chew on!"
The Longbows and Arrows peeled away, headed toward Thrakhath's command carrier. Blair had been forced to improvise an attack plan quickly once the Kilrathi fleet had been spotted, and Plan Hammer was a modification of a standing tactical operation he hoped would do the job.