Then Hobbes bowed out, and Blair arrived aboard to dash Marshall's hopes again. No wonder the man was feeling bitter . . . .
Another detail caught his eye. Marshall was also the CO of Gold Squadron. Blair had decided to have Hobbes take over that command, too. It was one more blow to Maniac's fragile ego.
He could reconsider the decision, of course, and let Marshall keep his squadron. But if Hobbes was going to be Blair's wingman, the two of them would have to fly with the same squadron, and Blair still felt more comfortable sticking with the heavy fighters in Gold Squadron. Should he reshuffle the roster to put Marshall in command of another squadron? Maniac certainly had the seniority, even if Blair doubted he had the temperament for squadron command.
But which squadron could Maniac handle best? He was not suited to command bombers, and point defense work required a leader who could subordinate himself totally to the needs of the fleet. Marshall would probably be happiest in command of the interceptors of Blue Squadron, but Blair shuddered at the thought of putting Victory's crucial long-range strike fighters in Maniac's hands. Patrol duties would take Blue Squadron out of reach of higher authority, and it needed a man with a good head on his shoulders who knew when to fight when to break away, and when to get word of a distant contact with the enemy back to the carrier. No, Major Marshall wasn't really suitable for any other squadrons. Colonel Dulbrunin probably made the same decision when making his original assignments. The kind of utility combat work which heavy fighters drew was the sort of operation Maniac was least likely to knock off course if he lost his head in a fight.
Well, that meant he would have to stay where he was, at least until Blair could see if age and experience had mellowed Maniac, at least in the cockpit if not in his dealings with others. The man would just have to accept flying under Blair and Hobbes.
But Blair knew it would make a tough job much more difficult for all of them.
Blair was studying his predecessor's logs on the monitor above his bunk when he heard a knock. "Enter," he said sitting up as the door opened to reveal Lieutenant Rollins.
"Sorry to bother you so late, Colonel," Rollins said, "but we're boosting to the jump point, and the Comm Shack's been buzzing with last-minute incoming traffic all evening. I just got off shift."
"We've got orders, then?"
Rollins nodded. "Orsini System. It's been pretty quiet up until now, but the scuttlebutt has it the cats have been moving in lately. Guess we're supposed to make them feel safe or something."
"Mmph." Blair stood up. "Okay, so we're jumping and you've been busy. Is there something you needed from me, Lieutenant?"
"I . . . wanted to make sure you got this. It came in with some of the other message traffic. Rerouted from Confed HQ, for you." He handed Blair a holo cassette. "Er . . . here it is, sir."
"You don't have to act so apologetic, man," Blair said realizing the cause of his embarrassed manner. "Comm officers see a lot of personal messages. I'm not going to bite off your head for reading my mail, Lieutenant."
"Er . . . yes, sir. Thanks." Rollins left, still looking flustered.
Blair set the cassette on the small table beside the bunk and touched the message stud. Letters formed in the air above the device, spelling out a message. The block of code numbers dated it to more than six months earlier, before the Battle of Earth. That was typical enough for messages that had to chase their intended recipients through space from one planet or one ship to another.
PRIVATE CODED COMM RELAY TO:
Colonel Christopher Blair
Terran Confed Armed Forces
TCS Concordia
—REROUTED BY CONFED HQ TO
— TCS Victory
The words dissolved after a moment, and an image formed. It was Angel, still heart-stoppingly beautiful, looking out at him with the expression he remembered so well.
"Hello, mon ami," she began, flashing her brightest smile. "I hope the fight goes well for you and all the others aboard Concordia. I have been given new orders to head up a mission, so I'm afraid we must be apart a little longer. Always remember je t'aime, je t'aime . . . I love you . . ."
Blair stabbed at the switch, cutting the hologram off while tears stung his eyes. "Je t'aime, Angel," he said softly. "I love you, wherever you are . . . ."
CHAPTER III
"Now hear this, now hear this," the shipboard tannoy blared. "Prepare for Flight Operations. Flight Deck personnel to launch stations."
Blair's stride was brisk and purposeful as he entered the Flight Control Center, his helmet under one arm. It was good to be back in his G suit again, even if the mission at hand was no more than a routine patrol. In his two weeks aboard the Victory, he had been unable to strap on a fighter once, but today he would finally get a chance to be free of a wing commander's console work and move among the stars where he truly belonged.
Chief Technician Rachel Coriolis looked up from a computer display with a grin. He had met her only once, in a general meeting of the flight wing's support personnel, without time to exchange more than a few words. That was Blair's problem ever since he took command of the wing: plenty of work, reports, plans, forms, and requisitions to be filled out, but precious little chance to know the rest of the crew.
Chief Coriolis was Gold Squadron's senior crew chief, and as such led the team of technical experts who maintained Thunderbolt 300, the fighter set aside for Blair's use. She was young — not yet thirty — and attractive, though her customary baggy coveralls and the inevitable layer of dirt and grime streaking her clothes and face tended to obscure her beauty. According to her personnel file, she was a competent technician with an excellent service record. Blair hoped she would live up to those reports.
"Colonel," she said, straightening as he approached. "They say you're taking this patrol yourself. Your bird's just about ready."
"Good," Blair responded.
"Kinda strange seeing the big brass flying a routine patrol, though," she continued, apparently not affected by rank or seniority. "I don't think I ever saw Colonel Dulbrunin fly anything short of a full all-fighters magnum launch."
"I'm not Dulbrunin," Blair told her. "I like to get a few hours of flight time as often as possible, so don't be surprised if you discover that my bird needs more servicing than you planned."
She gave a nod in satisfaction. "Glad to hear it, skipper. Your predecessor knew how to fly a console well enough, a top-notch administrator. But I like pilots who fly the real thing. Know what I mean?" She cocked her head to one side. "Are you really taking on Hobbes as your wingman?"
"You got a problem with that, Chief?" Blair growled.
"No, sir," the technician said, shaking her head. "I say it's about jolly well time. That cat's one hell of a good pilot, and I'm glad to see him back on the roster."
Blair studied her for a long moment, then gave an approving nod. "Glad to hear it, Chief," he said, warming to her. At least there was someone on the flight deck who appreciated Ralgha nar Hhallas. Her praise sounded sincere. Rachel Coriolis struck him as the kind of tech who judged a pilot on how he handled his fighter, not on superficial things like species or background. "So . . . give me a status report on my bird."