"Every morning?" Bondarevsky asked. "That's a hell of a lot of sim time, isn't it?"
"True enough," Harper said. His expression turned wistful. "The truth of it is, sir, I want to keep in top form, in case an opportunity should arise for a transfer to a fighter wing."
"You've had flight wing training?" Bondarevsky studied the younger man closely. He gestured to a chair, and Harper sat down across the table from him. "How did you end up a shuttle jockey? If you don't mind my asking."
"A sad tale, that," Harper replied. "I fear my scores in flight school were only just borderline. Not the technical side of it. I could fly rings around my classmates. Word of honor on it. But . . . 'tis sad but true that the Devil puts temptation in the way of mortal man, and some of us just lack the rectitude to resist as we should. They say I set a record for the number of demerits earned by one officer in any class, and as a result my standing was knocked down. This was before we had many openings for pilots, before we started acquiring escort carriers from the Confed boys. So I missed out when the first round of flight wing berths was being filled, and drew shuttle duty instead. And bad luck has been keeping me away from the action ever since. I put in for transfers, but by the time this old tub gets to port all the new vacancies have gone to new pilots, and I stay where I am."
"That's a damned shame, Lieutenant," Bondarevsky said. His sympathy was genuine. There was nothing a born pilot hated more than to hold back on the sidelines and watch others do the job he knew he could do better. Bondarevsky had gone through the same thing a few times. "I'd offer to help, but I don't have the faintest idea of what kind of assignment I'll be drawing myself, so my promise might not be any good to you."
Harper gave him a grin. 'Well, sir, I can't hold you to anything . . . but it's eager I'd be if you could find a chance to get me a fighter of my own."
"Just so you don't go running up demerits in an outfit I'm in charge of," he told the lieutenant sternly. "I know that fun and games are supposed to be the natural perks of any fighter jock, but not when it might put a unit of mine in danger. You follow me?"
"Ah, sir, that was when I was still a lad," Harper said with an even broader grin. "I've learned to be more . . . selective in seeking out my entertainment, since I've reached my maturity and all."
"Yeah, right," Bondarevsky said. "You're a wise old man now, eh, Harper?" He paused. "Look, Lieutenant, if it doesn't throw you too far off your sim schedule, let me buy you a cup of coffee. I'm trying to get a handle on conditions in the Landreich, and I'd like some input from someone who knows it. Could you do that for me?"
"With pleasure, sir," Harper said. "But I should warn you that I haven't seen or heard all that much. A shuttle pilot doesn't exactly move in the rarefied atmosphere of admirals and commodores, you know. And all I really know is Tara, and maybe a little about some of the stations I've been on since I signed up."
"Even that much would be a hell of a lot more than I've got now," Bondarevsky told him. "I haven't been in the Landreich since the Free Corps campaign, and a lot can change in four years. And even when I was there, I didn't have much of a chance to get a feel for the Free Republic."
The younger officer helped himself to a cup of the hot, bitter coffee from the vending machine near the table, then returned to his chair. He regarded Bondarevsky with an uncharacteristic solemn expression. "What can I be telling you, then, sir?"
"Tell me a little bit about yourself, first, Mr. Harper," Bondarevsky said. "Give me a junior officer's view of the situation in the Landreich."
Harper shrugged. "Not much to say, sir, really. I told you already that I was born on Tara. We were one of the first colonies to join Landreich in the succession movement, back when the confees decided we weren't worth the effort to guard. I joined up after my father was killed, when a Cat raider blew his freighter out of space. Lied about my age, too, I'm afraid. At sixteen you can't see yourself waiting two years for anything, and I wanted the chance to give those Cats back a little of what they'd give us."
"How far back was that?"
"Ten years it's been, sir. I had just graduated from flight school when Himself took the fleet to Terra in '66."
"Himself?"
"The President, you know. Old Max. I wanted to be a part of that run so bad I could taste it, but I was flying shuttles between Landreich and Hellhole."
"You should be glad you missed it. A lot of good people died out there."
"Ah, but many a deserving young officer came home with a promotion, too, I'm thinking," Harper returned. "At any rate, it's mostly been quiet since, except for that raid the Cats mounted late last year. A carrier battle group actually got as far as Landreich itself, but the fleet chased them off again."
"That must have been right near the end of the war," Bondarevsky commented.
"I suppose it was, sir." Harper shrugged again. "Fact is, we don't really figure the war is over. If anything, things are worse now than when Kilrah was still around and old Thrakhath was calling the shots. He thought the same way the confees did about our stretch of space, I guess. The Imperial province facing us was a dumping ground for rejects and castoffs, ships and Cats alike. The leaders were usually nobles who were out of favor with the Imperial Government but too important to deny a posting. The ships were mostly third-line, and the crews were either still getting their spacelegs, or recovering from a hard stint in the main Theater of Operations, or sometimes they were oldsters past their prime but still serving in the Navy."
"That's probably the only thing that kept your people alive," Bondarevsky said. "No insult intended, Harper, but if this had ever become a primary target area, I doubt if the Free Republic's Navy could have stood against some of the stuff the Cats were throwing at us."
"True enough, sir, true enough," Harper said. "When they launched that raid last year, they built their squadron around one of their supercarriers. Damned big, she was, I tell you true."
"But you beat her off?" Bondarevsky couldn't keep a note of incredulity out of his voice.
"It took everything we had, but we did it," Harper said. "The Cats lost a couple of ships, and when they found us waiting over Landreich they contented themselves with a long-range orbital bombardment and then headed for the jump point. Our Intel boffins said they were supposed to teach us a lesson in return for our helping the confees at Earth, but I don't think their hearts were really in it. 'Twas a damn-fool idea anyway, supercarrier or not. Even if they'd done what they set out to do, what would it have accomplished anyway? They might have chopped up Landreich pretty bad, just like they did Terra before the relief fleet arrived, but the rest of the Republic would still have been there . . . and it wouldn't have made much difference to the course of the war elsewhere."
"Is the carrier still there?" Bondarevsky asked. "If the Cats still have a supercarrier in these parts and they decide to make a serious attempt against the Republic, that one supercarrier would be a more serious threat than most of the rest of their fleet, especially if they've been relying on junk Thrakhath didn't want for the primary theater."
"As to that, who knows?" Harper's shrug was eloquent. "We had a message that a couple of confees caught up with the big bastard somewhere out in the Disputed Zone, but they never came back. On the other hand, word is the raiding squadron never went home either, if the intelligence reports that've leaked from on high are anything to be trusted. I guess both sides ended up as debs, more's the pity for your confee boys."
"Well, at least the Cats aren't waving a supercarrier in our faces," Bondarevsky said. "That's something."
"Aye, it is, but I'm thinking it might not be enough this time, sir. Not by a long shot. We're used to standing on our own two feet out here, but I'll confess to you, sir, that I wish Admiral Richards was bringing back word that Terra was willing to back us." He mustered a grin, but Bondarevsky could see that Harper was forcing the cheerful expression. "Fact is, we've never been completely on our own, even when the confees put us at the bottom of the list of strategic
targets. We always figured we'd get help if we truly needed it—your Free Corps, or something like it—and that made facing the Cats a mite less frightening. Now, though . . . we really are on our own this time out, and I'm wondering if it's any of us at all who'll be seeing home again after it's done with."
Unbidden, an image of the wrecked bridge of the Coventry flashed through Bondarevsky's mind, with the dead sprawled across their consoles and vacuum tearing away the air with an audible shriek. But he thrust it away. "Some won't make it, Harper," he said quietly. "But if we can stop the Cats, even the ones who don't come back will have counted for something."
Presidential Palace, Newburg Landreich,
Landreich System
1624 hours (CST), 2670.292
The Presidential Palace was said to be the largest residence on Landreich, and Bondarevsky was prepared to believe it. On his last tour along the frontier he'd never actually been here. In those days Kruger had led his people from the front, setting up a presidential command post at the Landreich base on Hellhole when he wasn't playing squadron commander from the bridge of a warship. It was a lot easier picturing the hard-bitten Kruger going into action than it was to envision him in the palatial surroundings that greeted Richards, Tolwyn, and Bondarevsky on their arrival. Themistocles had barely made orbit when word came for the three to see Kruger in person. Lieutenant Harper's shuttle had carried them straight into the Palace Compound, and from there they'd been conducted inside, passed from one staffer to another until they had finally been led to the reception chamber outside Kruger's office.
"A moment, please, gentlemen. The President is in a meeting, but he'll be able to see you shortly."
Bondarevsky nodded courteously to the slender, elderly man who had been introduced as Kruger's Chief of Protocol, a soft-spoken and gentlemanly sort who seemed completely out of place anywhere within twenty light-years of Max Kruger. Admiral Tolwyn didn't respond to the man at all, seemingly wrapped up in his own thoughts. Richards gave the aide a cheerful smile. "Don't worry about it, Karl," he said. "Knowing how Max feels about meetings, I'd be willing to bet we won't have long to wait."
As if to confirm the admiral's statement, there came the clear sound of raised voices through the massive double doors that led from the reception area to Kruger's private office. After a moment, the doors were flung open. Max Kruger himself stood to the left side, gesticulating wildly as he spoke in a loud and thoroughly un-presidential tone of voice.
"Freebooters and pirates, my ass! How many more Cat attacks will we have to put up with before you bastards back in Confed get it through your thick heads that these raids don't have a damned thing to do with pirates! I've had it, Williams! If you confees don't know how to deal with Cats, I sure as hell do, and be damned to the Treaty and everything else! We won't stand still for any more raiding!"
A second man, portly and dressed in the formal suit that was virtually a uniform of the Confederation Foreign Service, walked ponderously out of the office, turning to face Kruger from the middle of the reception area.
"You can rant and rave all you want to, Mr. President," he said calmly, his voice surprisingly thin and high-pitched for such a big man. "But the facts are as I have presented them. The Confederation cannot allow human worlds, even your so-called Independent Republic, to act against the provisions of Ko-Bar Yagar. To the Kilrathi, a human violating the treaty is a human violating the treaty. They will blame Terra for your indiscretions out here on the frontier. If you continue to lash out at the Empire because of your inability to deal with homegrown troublemakers, you risk destroying everything we fought thirty-five years to achieve. Before we allow that to happen, we will take action ourselves. If you don't want to find yourselves facing a Confederation battle group with a marine expeditionary force prepared for combat, I would suggest you moderate both your tone and your actions. Your declaration of independence was accepted twenty years ago because we had too many other commitments to waste time and resources dragging your Colonial rabble back into the fold, but things are different now, and if that's what it takes to protect the peace with the Empire that is exactly what we will do. Good day, Mr. President . . . and please think over what I've said. For your own good. And the good of your people."
Kruger's assistant looked from the President to the diplomat with an expression of uncertainty, but when Kruger didn't respond he stepped forward. "If you'll follow me, Mr. Williams, I will show you to the door."
As they left, Kruger couldn't resist a parting shot. "Lard-assed file-shuffling confee bastards think they can push around Max Kruger, do they? I was fighting the Cats out here on the frontier back when the whole gang of console commandos was still going to some la-di-dah university learning how to claim a spending increase was actually a cut so the voters would give them the chance to play god." The President's words were muttered, but just loud enough for Williams to catch them. Bondarevsky saw him falter, his chubby face flushing red, but the man kept control of himself and followed his guide through the outer doors.
When Williams was gone, Kruger looked around as if seeing his new visitors for the first time.
"Still the master of tact and diplomacy, eh, Max?" Richards said with a lazy smile. He turned to Tolwyn and Bondarevsky. "Clark Williams is the local liaison to the Confederation Peace Commission. Ever since he came out here he's pretty much run roughshod over Ambassador Phelps, who's getting near enough to retirement age to prefer not to mess around with the airlock controls. Unfortunately, I'm afraid Max here just can't find common ground when he gets together with Mr. Williams."
"Make light of it if you want, Vance," Kruger growled. "But that fat bastard isn't going to keep me from defending the Landreich. We'll fight the Cats and the confees too, if we have to." He paused. "But this isn't the way to greet old friends, is it? Come on in to the office."
He led the way through the inner doors. Inside, Bondarevsky had to hide a grin as he got a look at the way the office was furnished. The computer and communications gear was functional and efficient, but the desk was piled high with a clutter of papers, and the chairs and couches had a comfortable but thoroughly battered look. Plainly Kruger favored surroundings that fit his rough-and-tumble image.
"So . . . the famous Admiral Tolwyn. It's been, what? Almost five years now, right?" Kruger shook hands with the admiral. "Since we last met."
"Right after the Battle of Earth, Mr. President," Tolwyn answered gravely.
"And Mr. Bondarevsky." Kruger took his hand, frowning for a moment as he realized it was artificial. "The voice of my conscience made flesh, or so it seemed back in those days. A lot's . . . changed since then, eh, boy?"
"You could say that, sir," Bondarevsky replied stiffly. "But some things are still the same. You've still got Cat problems, and it looks like we're still here to help you with them."
Kruger cracked a smile. "Same old Bear," he commented. "Grab seats, people. Anybody want a beer?"
That almost made Bondarevsky smile. The President of the Landreich was a true man of the people, with common tastes and a tough, practical outlook on life. Bondarevsky could still remember storming in to his office on Hellhole one day after a tough mission, furious at the sacrifices his people had been forced to make in the name of protecting the Free Republic. Richards had urged Kruger to decorate Bondarevsky, and the President had casually given him the highest award the Landreich could bestow, plus a promotion, then tossed him a beer. It had been plain enough that Kruger had regarded the beer as the more tangible reward.
Richards accepted a can from the President's small, battered office refrigerator, but Tolwyn and Bondarevsky declined. All four men settled into seats before Kruger resumed the conversation.
"I read over the report you sent by hypercast, Vance," he said. "Anything you couldn't say there?"
"Not a damn thing, Max," Richards said. "The crap you've been getting from Williams comes straight from the top. The Confederation's just plain ignoring our complaints, and it looks like we're bei
ng thrown to the Cats. If we fight back, they might decide to come and stomp on us themselves, just like the man said."
"No, there's not really much chance of that," Kruger said. "Here's the way I've got it figured. Melek's trying to hold the Empire together while they figure out who should be the next Emperor. If he protested our fighting with Ragark, it might goad the confees into keeping us from fighting. But Melek and Ragark hate each others' guts. I'd say Melek would rather we stopped Ragark for him here so he didn't have to face off with him later for control of the Imperial heartland. No, the confees will let Ragark have us . . . and as far as everybody's concerned, the odds are all in his favor right now. Check?"
"Check," Richards said. "That's the way it would probably play out . . . unless we come up with something big. What about it, Max? Have we come up with something big?"
"The biggest . . . I hope. We've got a damned good lead, Vance. All that we have to do is see if it's feasible."
Tolwyn stirred beside Bondarevsky. "Would someone mind putting the visiting team in the picture here?" he demanded. "Or are you two going to talk in riddles all day?"
Richards grinned. "Sorry, Geoff. We've hardly dared say anything straight out about this even in private. Have either of you heard of the Karga?"
"It was one of the ships that raided Landreich late last year, wasn't it?" Bondarevsky responded, remembering his talk with Harper. "A Kilrathi supercarrier. I understood it was driven off by the FRLN, and presumed destroyed in battle with a pair of pursuing Confederation cruisers." He couldn't help but put a slight emphasis on the word Confederation, just to remind Kruger that he owed Terra something despite all his present problems with the Confederation government.
Wing Commander #07 False Color Page 7