I always was a dreamer, he reflected, now feeling the ship rumble under his feet. Lieutenant Commander Obutu's voice broke over the intercom: "Jump in five seconds, four, three, two-"
The familiar moment of frozen silence embraced the flight wing ready room, and after a second-or an eternity-a collective groan rose from the pilots. Blair added his own gasp to the racket.
"What the hell was that?" someone asked.
"All hands, this is your captain. We just experienced a minor fluctuation in the jump field, but the jump was successful. Repeat, the jump was successful. Standby to initiate flight operations. Launch reconnaissance patrol." The general quarters alarm punctuated Gerald's report. A second Klaxon announced a flush scramble, and Blair threw off his straps and joined a white water rush of pilots.
Most of the techs who worked on the flight deck had grown accustomed to flush scrambles that had every operational fighter and bomber in the Claw's arsenal launching within the next few minutes. Despite the crew's experience, anxiety painted their faces, and tensions ran expectantly high. A minor fuel spill had Boss Peterson raising hell with two techs near the bomber berths, and two ordnance specialists had the hood raised on their fully loaded missile cart, which had broken down in the middle of the runway. As the techs took heat from their supervisor, the bulky deckdozer was already en route, its driver lowering the broad hydraulic blade affixed to the vehicle's nose. Blair observed a few more verbal entanglements between pilots and maintenance crews as he picked his way along the port bulkhead, aiming for his Rapier's berth.
To his mild astonishment, he saw Paladin striding toward him from the opposite end of the flight deck. The commodore caught his gaze, then waved him over. Blair leapt twice over fuel lines that obstacled his path, then reached the man, out of breath. "Sir?"
"You'll be flying in the Diligent with me, Lieutenant."
"Sir?"
"Angel's loaned you to me. Come on." He started up the deck, in the direction Blair had come.
The Diligent sat a short walk ahead, her thrusters already idling, her disc-shaped forward fuselage auguring missions of quiet efficiency rather than capital ship battles. In fact, the idea of him riding with Paladin aboard the merchantman seemed more than a little odd. Who would take a merchantman out against a supercruiser when nearly five score of fighters and bombers were ready to do the job?
"I suppose you'd like to know what's going on," Paladin said as they reached the ship's gangplank.
"Yes, sir. I assume we've detected the Olympus. But you're qualified to pilot Broadswords and Rapiers. Why are we launching in the Diligent'"
"Because, son, we're not going out to fight."
Maniac attached his O2 mask, then finished his abbreviated pre-flight checklist. External moorings released. Fuel topped off. Jump drive, tow system, Tempest targeting and navigational AI, and life support standing tall in the green. Thrusters growling like the Dobermans they were. Neutron gun pulse generators fully charged, with alternate or synchronous fire settings available. Heads Up Display crisp, clear, and alive with data bars that told him everything but the damned ball score. Comm channel open. Right Visual Display Unit full of static, left displaying ship damage in quadrants. The armor and shield indicator, just right of center, glowed at full strength all around. It would stay that way. No Pilgrim jock would deliver even a glancing blow if Maniac had anything to say about it. And he'd said it before: They'd meet the best-and die with the rest.
Yet all of the adrenaline-induced bravado failed to extinguish the guilt that had him sweating in his flight suit. Killing Kilrathi had become as routine as stomping on ants; however, killing other people who had once been Confederation pilots seemed like a terrible waste. And besides, he had come to know a Pilgrim, if only a half-breed. His relationship with Blair made him feel even worse now. Thank God Blair had been loaned out to the commodore.
As it had over Lethe, the battle would become more surreal since their opponents flew in identical ships. Were it not for electronic identification systems, friendly fire would become the rule of the day instead of the exception. He almost wished he had been assigned something less personal that would take him out of the killing loop. Most people who knew Maniac would never believe that he had doubts about going out and doing his job. He had once told somebody that if researchers analyzed his DNA, they would discover a new gene-one they would find in only the best pilots. Flying wasn't a learned skill; you were born to it or not. And when you got the target in your sights, you never thought about the children you might be orphaning. You focused on racking up one more for the killboard. So why don't I feel all gung ho and jingoistic now?
"Hunter? Bishop? Slot, clock, and burn," Angel said over the comm. "Sinatra? Cheddarboy? On deck. Zarya and Maniac? On their heels. And Gangsta? You're on my wing. Last out and last in. Ladies, while we're waiting for the bombers to launch, I suggest you pull data on the AO. The zone's an ally, not an obstacle."
"Yeah, yeah," Maniac grunted over the old reminder. He had never been one to spend hours analyzing the Area of Operations before heading into combat. Sure, you could learn a lot more about the star system, its planets, its moons, but you might also succumb to a false sense of security because you thought you knew what lay ahead. Maniac's experience had taught him to expect a surprise with every tug on the control stick. But for the hell of it-and to appease Angel, who could tap into his systems at any time to see if he were actually scanning the data-he pulled up the skinny on McDaniel's World.
Well, there's nothing Earth-shattering here to report to the Terran News Channel, he thought as he scanned the info spilling across his display. Star: McDaniel (Is everything in the system called McDaniel?). Spectral type: G2 (Anyone care?). Absolute magnitude: 4.27 (Absolutely unimportant.). Apparent visual magnitude: 0.2 (Apparently they don't realize how boring this shit is.). Temperature: 6600 degrees K (Yeah, like my temper right now.). Mass: 1.1 times Sol Standard (My life has new meaning.). Planets: four terrestrial, two gas giants. Twenty-one known satellites in the system, three in orbit around the third terrestrial planet dubbed McDaniel's World (My God, what an original name!).
The right VDU focused on the planet, bringing up a three-dimensional simulacrum rotating imperceptibly in real time. Oxygen worlds were as rare as good pilots in Vega Sector, but even rarer still were worlds with masses nearly equal to Earth's. This rock represented such a place, defying odds and suggesting a sort of cosmic symmetry that allowed for remarkably similar planets to exist billions of kilometers apart. Easy to see why the Pilgrims quickly claimed the world for their own. Talk about a real estate windfall … McDaniel emitted a bluish green aura, and her raggedly shaped continents yielded just under half as much habitable land as Earth's. The tides created by her three moons played a lot more havoc with her shorelines than Luna played with Earth's, however.
And there, behind McDaniel's largest moon, a gray, potato-shaped eyesore named Lyatta, hovered the Olympus. Maniac tapped in a command, bringing up a nav schematic. A trio of bundled yellow lines that represented the swiftest course to the moon extended from a blue blip marked Tiger Claw. He noted that on full afterburners they would be in strike range in one-point-three minutes. Good. Waiting too long to engage would make his itchy trigger finger even itchier.
Hallelujah; Boss Raznick finally sounded over their channel. "Angel, flight control. First pair is clear for launch. ICQ and AO recon reports uploaded. We have confirmation of multiple bandits headed our way. No response to hails."