Wing Commander #07 False Color

by William R. Forstchen

  "If I know Richards and Tolwyn, and believe me I do, they'd have proceeded to this phase of the op even if every Cat in this part of the sector was swarming out there with guns blazing," Bondarevsky told the Gurkha. "They didn't bring us all this way to turn around and go home without seeing what's over there."

  Inwardly he could only hope that their enthusiasm for winning a supercarrier for the Landreich wouldn't warp their judgment and blind them to what needed to be done.

  The shuttle quivered a little as it rose from the flight deck on thrusters, but that was the only sign they were under power. It wasn't anything like a fighter launch, the sudden high-g thrust that leaked through the onboard inertial compensators and slammed you back into your seat as you leapt outward into the void. Slow and stately, the shuttle left Independence, fourth in line and followed by the rest of the survey contingent, shaping a course for the enigmatic hulk that circled Vaku's gas giant and drew the humans in like the lure of a Siren's song.

  Starboard Flight Deck, ex-KIS Karga

  Orbiting Vaku VII, Vaku System

  0849 hours (CST)

  Bondarevsky was glad that he was a passenger on this shuttle run, and not up in the cockpit trying to bring her in. They watched the approach in the holo-projected display, and he found himself holding his breath as they made the final cautious course corrections to clear the wreckage that partially obscured the entry port on the starboard side flight deck of the Karga. In some ways it would have been easier than a standard carrier trap, since there was no force field across the port to complicate the final seconds of maneuvering and no internal gravity fields to deal with once they were within the confines of the ship. But without guidance from the carrier, without a working optical signals system, and most of all without an unobstructed flight deck it was a tricky bit of flying to bring the shuttle aboard.

  When they finally touched down and the shuttle pilot cut in the magnetic clamps and announced "Down and safe," Bondarevsky let out an audible sigh of relief.

  He wasn't the only one. He'd forgotten they were all wearing full pressure suits and helmets now, and their radios picked up every breath. Even the hard-bitten Bhaktadil seemed happy that the flight was over and they'd made it in one piece.

  "Marines!" the colonel said crisply. "By the numbers! Prepare to deploy!"

  "Sir!" That was Gunnery Sergeant Martin, Bhaktadil's senior NCO. "All right, people, look lively there! Positions for boarding! Standard dispersal pattern! Move it! Move it!"

  As the twenty-eight armored marines scrambled to take their positions by each of the shuttle's three exits, Bhaktadil spoke in calm, even tones. "Remember, the gravity's off-line out there. You're operating in zero-g and no atmosphere, so make sure you take it into account. Keep your eyes open -- and don't just look for trouble on the deck. Check all the angles, and then check them again. Understood?"

  "Yes, sir!" came the reply, all the men speaking as one. Bondarevsky was impressed. Kruger's marines, at least, knew how to function as an elite unit should. They waited for the air to bleed off from the passenger compartment. In situations like this, a potentially hostile action in vacuum, no one wanted to waste time going through conventional airlocks, so in effect the entire rear compartment became one for the duration of the op.

  "All right, you sons-of-Cats," Martin said at last, after the tone had sounded in their headsets to tell them they were in vacuum and the shuttle pilot was ready to open up the hatches. "Are you ready to earn your paychecks today?"

  "Hoo-YAH!" the marines responded, loud enough to make Bondarevsky's helmet radio crackle.

  "Ready to deploy, sir!" Martin told Bhaktadil.

  "Mr. Ortega." Bhaktadil's words were directed at the shuttle's pilot. "Drop the hatches . . . now!"

  All three hatches—rear, port, and starboard—swung open at the same time. Two of the six fire teams went out through each exit, the men diving through into zero-g and twisting right and left in turn, weapons ready. The lack of gravity extended those dives considerably, but they were expert at this kind of drill and used the handholds outside the shuttle to check their progress so smoothly that it looked easy, though Bondarevsky knew for a fact that it was one of the trickiest moves a man in zero-g had to make.

  They kept their weapons at the ready until the deployment was complete and the shuttle was ringed by armed men, scanning their surroundings in all directions. Martin ran them through a roll call, and each man sounded off with an "All clear!" as he responded. Finally Martin reported to the colonel.

  "Initial deployment complete, sir!" he said. "All clear."

  "Very good, Sergeant," Bhaktadil said. "Two-Six, this is Marine-Six. Do you copy?"

  Two-Six was the call sign of the lieutenant commanding the other squad of Second Platoon assigned to the starboard flight deck reconnaissance. The shuttle carrying his men had approached from the opposite end of the flight deck, over Karga's stern.

  "Copy you five-by-five," Lieutenant Kate Loomis responded. "Both squads deployed. All clear."

  "Very good, Two-Six. Proceed with phase two. Make sure your people don't mistake one of us for a Cat." "Phase two. Roger."

  "Sergeant Martin, move them out. Expand perimeter to meet with the other squad. Stay sharp, people."

  Bondarevsky and the rest of the noncombatant team remained inside the shuttle, following the progress of the marines by their radio calls and images relayed from their suit cameras, displayed now as flat pictures on their helmets' HUD screens. Switching from one marine's viewpoint to another as their careful, leapfrogging advance unfolded at an efficient but unhurried rate, Bondarevsky was able to get an initial idea of the situation on the flight deck long before the area was secured.

  There was no doubt the flight deck had suffered terrible damage. Much of the interior around the entry port was filled with twisted wreckage, jagged chunks of the bulkheads torn loose in a pattern that could only have been caused by a fair-sized explosion right at the mouth of the portal. He could also make out what looked like a part of the fuselage of a Kilrathi Darket-class light fighter that had smashed up against one bulkhead, probably not the cause of the disaster but a victim sitting on the flight deck as the explosion ripped down the vast chamber. Details, though, were hard to pick up on the video images. They'd have to go in for a closer look to see the full extent of the damage.

  Finally Bhaktadil called for phase three of the op. This was the signal that his men had secured the flight deck well enough for the survey team to risk deploying and getting to work. Of course, two squads weren't much to hold a compartment that stretched nearly the full 920-meter length of the carrier, much less probe all the possible places where the enemy might be hiding, but the first sweep had turned up no sign of the Kilrathi . . none that were alive, at least.

  The dead were another story.

  Bondarevsky only gradually became aware of the bodies that littered the flight deck. There were dozens of them, some floating free, others trapped under wreckage. In many cases it was hard to be sure he was even looking at something that had once been alive. Many of the flight deck crew had been caught unsuited when the airlock field collapsed. Explosive decompression was no prettier an end to a Kilrathi than it was to a human being.

  He fought back nausea as the impact of the dead grew. For most of his life Jason Bondarevsky had been trained to kill Kilrathi, and he'd been good at his job. But seeing this . . .

  More than ever, all he wanted was an end to it.

  "Survey Leader to Team Four," the voice of Admiral Richards gave him something other than bodies to concentrate on, and Bondarevsky was relieved at the distraction. "Progress report."

  "We've only just started our sweep, Admiral," Bondarevsky told him. "The techies are busy getting the portable shield generators in place so we don't have to worry about the rads. So far . . . general impressions only."

  "You're taking your time down there, Jason," Richards said with a hint of irritation plain in his voice.

  "It's a big flight de
ck, sir," he replied. "The jarheads only gave us the phase three go-ahead a few minutes ago."

  "Right. Sorry. We've been at it for about half an hour up here."

  "How does it look, sir?" he asked.

  "Flag bridge is mostly intact," Richards told him. "A little peripheral damage, but it was never hit in the fight."

  "Casualties?"

  "God, yes." The admiral's voice sounded suddenly old. "Looks like they had a full crew manning the stations here. Twenty or so, including Admiral Cakg himself. They're dead."

  "How?"

  "Well, it looks !ike one of them was killed in a brawl. An old adversary of mine in the Intel game, Baron Grathal nar Khirgh. One of Thrakhath's favorite toadies. We wondered what the hell had happened when he dropped out of sight last year. From the looks of things he lived up to a long and well-deserved reputation for letting his mouth get the better of his brain, and somebody stuck something sharp through his throat."

  "And the rest, sir?"

  "Suicide, son," Richards said heavily. "From the admiral right down to the most junior console jockey, they all suicided. The full-blown Zu'kara ritual." "God . . ."

  "Yeah, that was my reaction, too. The best I can figure they knew they weren't going to get clear of the radiation

  before they took lethal dosages, so they all decided to give it all for the glory of the Emperor." Richards gave a humorless, rasping chuckle. "What a waste. The Emperor probably didn't last more'n a week or two longer than they did."

  "Down here it's battle casualties so far," Bondarevsky said. "The flight deck took a real pounding. I'm not too sure we can get it put back together, sir. It'll be a hell of a lot of work."

  "Don't jump to conclusions yet. Do your survey. We'll compare notes later."

  "Aye aye, sir."

  Bondarevsky had just switched off the comm channel to the admiral when Harper attracted his attention. "Sir, I'm thinkin' we've got something strange goin' on here."

  He made a graceful zero-g leap and crossed to where the lieutenant was working, a relatively undamaged area where a line of lockers overlooked one of the main elevators that lifted planes up from the hangar deck below. The doors were labeled in the familiar wedge-shaped Kilrathi script. Bondarevsky centered his suit video camera on one of the signs and cut in the computer imaging and translation program that operated in conjunction with the mainframe back aboard the shuttle. A moment later the computer overlaid the image on his helmet HUD with an English translation: Survival Stores.

  "What've you got, Mr. Harper?"

  "The locker's empty, sir. So are three more I've checked so far." He paused, but when Bondarevsky "I don't like this at all," Bondarevsky said. "It's not so much a threat as a mystery . . . but I've never liked mysteries involving Cats. Too often they lead to one of their little schemes, like the fake armistice before the Battle of Earth or that elaborate espionage role they put together for Hobbes. Okay, good spotting, you two. Get back to work, and keep your eyes open. I'm going to have a chat with the colonel about the possibility of Kilrathi hanging around here."

  He didn't have a chance to follow through on his intention, though. Before he could even spot Bhaktadil and Martin, his helmet commlink sounded an emergency tone.

  "All teams, all teams!" Richards sounded tense. "This is Team Leader. Return to shuttles and secure! Abort survey! Repeat, abort survey and secure aboard shuttles!"

  "All right, people," Bondarevsky called. "You heard the man. Get aboard!"

  Harper, Sparks, and the ten-man team from Diaz's salvage group were already in motion, and Bondarevsky heard Bhaktadil issuing terse instructions to his marines on their tactical channel. He watched as his people started back for the shuttle in haste, and switched off all his comm frequencies except the command link to Richards.

  "What's going on, Admiral?" he asked.

  'The Hornets picked up an incoming bogie," Richards said. "Moving slow, but on a course to intercept us in another fifteen minutes. They're not answering calls, and there's no IFF signal."

  "Any idea what it is?"

  "Not a clue yet, but I'm not taking any chances. I've got Babcock and her wingman closing in for a visual ID, but I want everybody ready to clear out in case

  made no response he went on. "I've never heard of anyone not keepin' his survival kits stocked and ready on the flight deck, sir. One locker might've run out if they were passin' them out to pilots about to launch on a mission, but three in a row?"

  Bondarevsky nodded inside his helmet. "I see what you mean. Might be we have survivors after all, plundering the supplies to stay alive."

  "It's more than supplies, skipper," Sparks joined them, swarming along a line of handholds looking for all the world like a high-tech monkey climbing a tree. "Look over there." She pointed. "There should be fuel pumps and a rack of external environmental feeds over there to service a plane waiting for launch. You can see where it used to be, but it's gone. And not from battle damage, either. The blast effects didn't do much this far in. Somebody dismounted a couple of tons of servicing equipment and hauled it out of here."

  "Survival gear I can see," Bondarevsky mused. "But what would a survivor want with that stuff? Unless he was trying to get a bird up . . ."

  "Maybe somebody did," Harper said. "Packed up and left after the rest of the ship went belly-up."

  "Doesn't make sense," Sparks said. "If they had a working plane, they didn't need to pack up the gear and take it with them. And where else on the ship would they have a plane to service that would make them come here and strip out this stuff?"

  "The other flight deck?" Harper suggested.

  "No, I already checked with the team there," Sparks told him. "Not only is it in even worse shape than this one, so that a launch or a landing is pretty near impossible for anyone but a particularly depressed lemming, but they're missing all signs of their support gear too. It's been stripped out, same as this."

  "I don't like this at all," Bondarevsky said. "It's not so much a threat as a mystery . . . but I've never liked mysteries involving Cats. Too often they lead to one of their little schemes, like the fake armistice before the Battle of Earth or that elaborate espionage role they put together for Hobbes. Okay, good spotting, you two. Get back to work, and keep your eyes open. I'm going to have a chat with the colonel about the possibility of Kilrathi hanging around here."

  He didn't have a chance to follow through on his intention, though. Before he could even spot Bhaktadil and Martin, his helmet commlink sounded an emergency tone.

  "All teams, all teams!" Richards sounded tense. "This is Team Leader. Return to shuttles and secure! Abort survey! Repeat, abort survey and secure aboard shuttles!"

  "All right, people," Bondarevsky called. "You heard the man. Get aboard!"

  Harper, Sparks, and the ten-man team from Diaz's salvage group were already in motion, and Bondarevsky heard Bhaktadil issuing terse instructions to his marines on their tactical channel. He watched as his people started back for the shuttle in haste, and switched off all his comm frequencies except the command link to Richards.

  "What's going on, Admiral?" he asked.

  'The Hornets picked up an incoming bogie," Richards said. "Moving slow, but on a course to intercept us in another fifteen minutes. They're not answering calls, and there's no IFF signal."

  "Any idea what it is?"

  "Not a clue yet, but I'm not taking any chances. I've got Babcock and her wingman closing in for a visual ID, but I want everybody ready to clear out in case that blip turns out to be a missile or an attack bird coming in to give us an old-fashioned Cat-style welcome." "Good idea, sir," Bondarevsky said. "But I doubt it's a missile . .

  "Maybe not. But I keep remembering that the bomb that took out Kilrah was small enough to be carried in the munitions load of a heavy fighter. And big as this old rustbucket is, she ain't exactly planet-sized."

  CHAPTER 7

  "Honor is a thing to be cherished, but no true Warrior will place his honor above his duty."
<
br />   from the Third Codex

  7:12:05

  Hornet 101, VF-12 "Flying Eyes"

  Near Vaku VII, Vaku System

  1031 hours (CST), 2670.313

  Commander Darlene Babcock studied her tactical display and tried not to be irritated with the voice in her headset. She'd never been a big fan of backseat flyers, but she wasn't in a position to say so when it was one of the Landreich's senior admirals giving the unwanted and unnecessary advice. So she watched her screens, listened to the voice, and pictured Admiral Richards sitting at the controls of a Kilrathi Darket as her targeting reticule flashed red to announce a successful lock-on. . . .

  Whatever that bogie is, Commander, leave it alone," Richards was saying. "Commander Tolwyn is on his way with the Raptors. Your job is to identify the thing if you can, and avoid combat unless it fires on yo."

  "Copy," she said tersely. "My computer's still trying to process the sensor data, but so far it hasn't matched the configuration to any Kilrathi design in the warbook"

  "Commander, this is Bondarevsky," a new voice broke in.

  Great, she thought. Another expert trying to fly the mission for me. "Keep it short, Captain," she said. "I'm closing to weapons range in a hurry, and I won't have much time for talking."

  "Check your warbook again, but don't limit the search parameters to Kilrathi designs," Bondarevsky said. "That could be a civilian ship like Vision Quest. Or a Kilrathi using a captured ship to fool us. Lots of possibilities that wouldn't be listed as Kilrathi ship types."

  She cursed under her breath. She'd been flying against Kilrathi so long she'd automatically screened out other ship types when she called up the warbook database. What a damn-fool stunt to pull . . and with no end of important brass looking over her figurative shoulder, tool Maybe backseat flyers had a place after all, she thought. "Roger that. Running warbook." She couldn't keep her embarrassment out of her voice.