Wing Commander #07 False Color

by William R. Forstchen

  "He flew up to the new escort carrier this afternoon to see the crew off in person," Williams told him. "Richards, Tolwyn, and Bondarevsky are all on board as VIP passengers. Rumor has it that the battle group normally assigned to the carrier has been augmented by a number of additional ships and several thousand personnel . . . a sizable commitment, you'll agree, for a struggling little republic like the Landreich. I say it's some mission Kruger has taken a personal interest in, and if that's the case, it could be something big."

  "But you don't know what." That was a statement, flat and brusque, not a question.

  "Our best guess is that Kruger wants to stir up trouble inside of Hralgkrak Province," Williams said. "On Nahaddar, for instance. The Nahad have been growing restive the last few years, and Kruger could see possibilities in stirring up a rebellion there. Richards with his intelligence background, Bondarevsky to organize an aerospace defense, Tolwyn as the resident strategic brain . . . if it's true what I've heard, that they're taking a troop transport and a factory ship with them, it would all add up. Start a rebellion on Ragark's flank, train, equip, and support local fighting forces, and throw Landreich forces in at a crucial moment in a typical Max Kruger banzai charge, and you've got the ingredients for a disaster out here. The last thing Terra needs is to see Kruger become an interstellar hero all over again. That's not what the plan envisioned."

  "Then we need to take corrective steps," Mancini said calmly. "But first we need to find out if your guess is anywhere close to the truth. Don't we have any sources who could give us an inside look at what Kruger's up to?"

  "Nothing inside his administration," Williams responded. "You know how loyal the rank and file are to their beloved hero. He's losing ground with the politicians on the Council, but as far as I can tell that only makes him less likely to share his plans with them. Hmmm . ." He paused, trying to remember something he'd heard about the mission Kruger had dispatched. "One thing. There's a civilian ship involved somehow with the battle group. A tramp frontier scout out of New Plains or some such place. The crew would have had a few days worth of shore leave, and you can bet they wouldn't obey any orders to keep their plans a secret. Somebody will have talked . . ."

  "Hard to trace," Mancini said. "You'll be sorting through idle gossip and useless rumors for months looking for anything significant."

  "Not necessarily," Williams replied. "These frontier scouts operate on the fringe of the law at the best of times. Most of them have connections with our good friend Mr. Banfeld and his Guild. I think if there's anything worth knowing, Banfeld's already found it out. All we have to do is make sure we offer the proper . . . inducements to win his cooperation."

  "Then I suggest you get started, Commissioner," Mancini said. "If we're going to stop Tolwyn and his friends from complicating things out here, we have to discover what he's up to, and where, so that we can take steps to correct the matter quickly."

  Williams smiled coldly. "I'll get on it. But I still think you should consider my other suggestion."

  "Assassinating Kruger?" Mancini shook his head. "Too risky. The Cats don't operate that way, so you can't throw suspicion on them. And you risk setting him up as a martyr, both here and back home. Do that and you'll set us back even more than a Landreich victory against Ragark would. No, we keep our hands off Kruger for the time being. We harass him diplomatically, and stir up as much political trouble as we can, and take action to keep his underlings from putting one over on Ragark. But we leave Max Kruger alone. Let the Cats deal with him, when they bomb that pretty little palace of his into debris."

  CHAPTER 5

  "There is no dishonor in caution, so long as the careful Warrior avoids the pitfalls of cowardice."

  from the Fourth Codex

  16:12:21

  Operations Planning Center, FRLS Independence

  Deep Space, Oecumene System

  1005 hours (TST), 2670.312

  When Jason Bondarevsky had commanded the Tarawa many of the most important decisions controlling the ship and its missions had been made in the Operations Planning Center, a large chamber abaft the CIC complex, buried deep in the heart of the ship's superstructure. Where the Combat Information Center was all computer consoles and monitor screens, crewed by technical experts who monitored the flow of information from inside and outside the carrier constantly, the OPC was an island of calm. A large triangular conference table ringed with chairs filled most of the room, but aside from small computer keypads in front of each seat there were no banks of instruments, no readouts or tactical monitors or viewscreens. The bulkheads were decorated with artwork: a holographic portrait of the Independence in orbit over a blue-green planet; an old-fashioned painting of the San Jacinto fighting a Kilrathi ship at the Battle of Landreich; a holo-still of Max Kruger looking stern and wise, as if surveying the chamber with pride and benevolent interest in the proceedings. The flag of the Landreich dominated one entire wall, a white cross of Saint Andrew on a black starfield impaled by an upright sword, with the motto "Freedom Through Strength" below.

  The three-D holo-projector in the center of the conference table showed the image of the Landreich squadron clustered near the jump point to Vaku, eight ships about to leap through hyperspace into the unknown. The assembled leadership of the expedition gathered around the table seemed strangely unaware of the importance of the moment, but Bondarevsky found it hard to think of anything else. In another day, Project Goliath would be fully under way, and there would be no pulling back once they were committed.

  Bondarevsky had been in more than his fair share of pivotal battles, usually against overwhelming odds, but today he couldn't help but feel that this salvage mission was going to be no less important than all those combat actions. It was as much a gambler's throw as any engagement in space . . . and Bondarevsky felt oppressed knowing that there wasn't a great deal he personally could do to contribute to the outcome of the mission until others had made the preliminary judgments as to whether the operation was even feasible.

  Admiral Vincent Camparelli, ramrod straight in his chair despite his age and the hacking cough that frequently interrupted his speech, raised a blue-veined hand and called for attention.

  "I want to make sure everyone knows what's expected of them when we go through," he said, glancing over at Admiral Richards. "The overall conduct of the salvage mission may come under the authority of the Project Goliath staff, but until they actually go aboard the derelict—if it is a derelict—to conduct their initial survey, the operation is a matter for Battle Group Independence. Coordination of our efforts will be extremely important throughout, as I hope you'll all understand and agree." His dry, reedy voice might have belonged to an aging professor lecturing on military tactics at the Confederation Space Academy, for all the emotion the old man betrayed. But despite his frail appearance he seemed to have all the facts at his fingertips, and Bondarevsky thought he could still make out the firm and decisive mind that had led a Landreich fleet to victory over the Kilrathi nearly thirty years ago, back in the first days of the Secession crisis.

  Glancing around the table, Bondarevsky found himself wondering about the others assembled there. In previous campaigns he'd known the men serving with him. They'd been squadron-mates or members of the same flight wing who lived and worked and played cheek-by-jowl every day; later they'd been fellow ship-captains from the same battle group, men and women of proven competence whose actions and thoughts became thoroughly known over weeks or months of duty on a distant combat station. But this group was largely composed of unknowns, at least as far as Bondarevsky and the other Goliath officers were concerned. It made him edgy to know he'd be depending on total strangers not just for the success or failure of the operation, but possibly for his very survival.

  They tended to split into two groups, the Goliath team and the senior officers of the battle group. Though Admiral Camparelli presided, it was clear that it was Captain Galbraith most of them looked to for direction, and that young CO was wrapped in an
air of almost palpable superiority. From hints the man had let fall in conversation already it was plain that he considered this mission a milk run, a minor chore far beneath the dignity of the flagship of the Landreich fleet. Perhaps he was also conscious of the fact that Tarawa—no, damn it, Independence, Bondarevsky reminded himself bitterly—stood to lose that flagship status if the salvage mission was successful, and with Tolwyn destined for her command seat he might be feeling a little disappointed that his father's political machinations had secured him the escort carrier when this new vessel was waiting in the wings.

  The other three skippers of the battle group's fighting ships sat between Galbraith and Camparelli. So far they were little more than names and faces to Bondarevsky. Forbes of the light cruiser Xenophon was a blonde giant with a faint accent that reminded Bondarevsky of one of his old comrades, Paladin. Miruts Bikina of the destroyer Durendal was his complete opposite, a wiry black soldier of fortune from the colonial world of Azania who had joined Kruger's navy only a few years back, but quickly established an impressive combat record that had earned him rapid advancement. His reputation for competency boded well, but Bondarevsky wondered if a mercenary could ever be trusted as much as someone actually defending his home and hearth.

  On the other hand, that was essentially what he and Tolwyn were, mercenaries for hire. Perhaps he'd have to adjust his way of thinking now that he wore the uniform of a captain of the FRLN.

  The third captain commanded the destroyer Caliburn, a stunning red-headed woman named Pamela Collins. Bondarevsky had noticed that most of the male officers of the battle group were so busy noticing her good looks that they didn't realize she had a string of single-ship kills on her service record that would have put most Confederation skippers to shame. He didn't have any worries as to how Caliburn would perform, at least.

  Two more around the table weren't ship captains, but they were an integral part of the power projection abilities of the battle group. Colonel Bhaktadil Rai was commander of the Independence's contingent of Republic Marines, a slight but sturdy man with light skin, fierce black eyebrows, and a prominent nose between dark Asiatic eyes. He was a descendent of the proud Gurkha warriors of old Terra, and took his heritage seriously. Even on duty he wore a turban instead of more usual military headgear—what he did when he had to wear full space armor was something Bondarevsky hoped to discover some day—and he carried a wicked-looking curved combat knife, a kukri, at his side. Beside him, Kevin Tolwyn looked uncomfortable wearing khakis instead of his flight suit, but like the marine he stayed quiet and let the others do most of the talking. The young commander had come a long way since Bondarevsky had first taken him under his wing right here aboard the old Tarawa.

  There were also four non-combatant ships in the squadron, assigned specifically to assist in the Goliath Project. The transport City of Cashel was commanded by a dour reservist named Steiger. She had been designed to carry a full division of troops between worlds, but today was carrying nearly six thousand men and women who would serve aboard the supercarrier, together with the two hundred specialists from Kruger's prized salvage team who were represented by Armando Diaz, who had a brevet rank of major in the Landreich's army for the duration of the crisis. Diaz was dark, thin, and radiated enough nervous energy to run a medium-sized combat ship for a year or two, but he plainly knew his business. Whether or not he could surmount the extra obstacles of putting a Kilrathi ship into service again remained to be seen.

  Diaz would be working closely with the captains of the tender Sindri and the huge factory ship Andrew Carnegie, a Mutt-and-Jeff pair whose names were Dickerson and Lake -- Bondarevsky still wasn't entirely sure which one was which. Their commands, though non-combatants, would have the pivota1 part in the Goliath Project, the tender serving as a deep-space repair platform for the supercarrier while the mammoth Andrew Carnegie, designed for semi-automated minerals extraction and fabrication work on unsettled frontier worlds, had been pressed into service to manufacture whatever the Kilrathi derelict might be lacking right on the spot.

  The last member of the assembly was an olive-skinned, attractive woman, Wenona Springweather, from the planet of New Plains poised on the boundary between the Landreich and the Confederation. Settled mostly by a mixture of Native American tribes, the planet had tried to stay out of the political rivalry between Kruger's government and Terra, and Captain Springweather was typical of the frontier scouts who operated out of the free port at New Plains. Her scout ship, Vision Quest, was the only civilian vessel in the fleet. She was along to help the Goliath team locate and investigate the hulk she'd stumbled across . . . and, to hear her talk, to make sure that she wasn't swindled out of her finder's fee by the sharpies working for Max Kruger.

  Springweather and the salvage specialists gravitated into orbit with Admiral Richards and Geoff Tolwyn, seemingly at odds with the voices of authority represented by the purely military members of the operation. As for Bondarevsky himself, he was torn in his loyalties. He sympathized thoroughly with the battle group officers who had to plan for God alone knew what contingencies out there in the Vaku system, but at the same time he considered the supercilious Galbraith and his immediate juniors a poor substitute for the combat veterans he'd served with in the war. The worst of it, he thought, was the fact that they reflected their maverick Commander-in-Chief, Max Kruger. Bondarevsky was used to the common bond between the officers in the Confederation, products of a uniform academy training system and a rigid code of conduct. Out here in the Landreich individual eccentricities seemed to be the norm rather than the exception, whether it was Galbraith's ultrafashionable uniforms, Bilina's unsavory mercenary past, or Bhaktadil's old-fashioned adherence to the ways of his Gurkha ancestors. It emphasized the almost amateur nature of war out here on the frontier, and Bondarevsky had never regarded warfare as a fit subject for amateurs.

  But these were the men and women he'd have to learn to work with, not just on the Goliath Project but afterwards as well, whether the mission succeeded or failed. The combat ships of the battle group, minus Independence, were slated to become the supercarrier's fighting force if the derelict could be re-commissioned.

  Bondarevsky hoped they'd all grow to understand one another well before the time came when they had to rely on each other in a combat situation.

  He forced himself to focus back on the conversation around the table. Camparelli had finished his opening comments and slumped back into his chair, letting Galbraith take over the operational briefing with the assistance of the carrier's XO, Mary Roth, and Camparelli's Flag Lieutenant, Commander O'Leary, who manipulated the controls of the holo-projector while Galbraith spoke.

  "The deployment for the first stage of the operation is relatively simple," the carrier's skipper said languidly. According to Miss Springweather's reports—"

  "That's Captain Springweather," the woman corrected loudly. "Just because I don't have one of Max Kruger's instant commissions doesn't mean I'm not captain of my own damned ship."

  That earned her a look from Bikina as well as Galbraith, but the only response came from the senior officer, who cleared his throat. "Yes, of course," he said with an ingratiating smile. "Captain Springweather's survey of the system spotted the jump point closest to the derelict, roughly thirty thousand klicks away. It hooks up with the jump point here in the Oecumene system. My intention is to deploy Xenophon and Durandel first, to get an initial tactical scan of the area in case there should be any hostile activity around Vaku." His tone made it clear that he didn't expect any such thing. He was going through the motions, Bondarevsky thought, hoping to impress the brass with his thoroughness even though he really didn't see the point of going in expecting trouble. That probably wouldn't matter at Vaku, unless the Cats were preparing some sort of elaborate trap for the Landreich. But it could spell trouble later on if Galbraith carried that same attitude into a real combat situation.

  Hopefully Bondarevsky would be far away if and when that came to pass. But poor old Tar
awa—and any of his friends unfortunate enough to be aboard under Galbraith's command—might be in for trouble.

  "Once the initial scan is completed, Durandel will relay an all-clear signal by drone through the jump point, and we will send in the rest of the battle group. Independence will go through first and immediately launch her fighters to cover our approach and conduct a close-in examination of the target. Commander Tolwyn, I will expect the fighter squadrons to do a thorough job of sweeping the region in as short a time as possible. I do not want to keep the battle group waiting around on full alert for any prolonged period. If there is a danger to be dealt with, I want to be able to move as quickly as possible to deal with it. And if there's nothing to block our closer investigation of the Kilrathi carrier, I want to be able to close in and start the detailed survey job ASAP. Is that clear?"

  "You won't have any problem with my people, Captain," the younger Tolwyn said, the slight emphasis his own sign of irritation at the captain's usurpation of authority over the flight wing.

  "I trust not," Galbraith said, unruffled. "The order for the rest of the battle group will be Sindri, then City of Cashel, then the factory ship. Vision Quest and Caliburn will bring up the rear."

  "Do we really need a rear-guard in an operation like this?" Pamela Collins asked. "It isn't as if we have any enemy activity to worry about in these parts."

  "We'll do this by the book, Captain," Galbraith said. "If something should happen to one of the non-combat ships I want a destroyer on hand to deal with it. And I particularly require a civilian ship to be escorted at all times while under our protection." He darted another look at Springweather. "In any event, those are the deployment orders. I expect them to be carried out exactly as posted."