Laser fire blasted from twin guns on the front of those fighters, raking across Zimmerman’s squadron, trying to drive the formation away from the barge. Some shots missed, and some were deflected by shields, but one of her pilots was hit. A thruster faltered, smoke spewing from the back of the craft as it lost velocity.
“Let’s take out those support fighters, so our people can focus on the bomber,” Gregor said.
“With you, sir.”
Val wouldn’t have minded focusing on a big, slow-moving target, but she stayed with Gregor, zipping up toward the stars until they were well above the escort, then banking to come back down behind them. With gravity and the thrusters hurling her craft toward the stark, white earth below, shudders wracked the fighter again. Val hung onto the stick as if she would be hurled from the cockpit if she let go. If Gregor hadn’t been leading the way, she would have cut speed, but she didn’t want to fall behind.
A dark blur against the white backdrop below, his craft barreled toward the rearmost fighter. Its pilot must have seen him coming, but the evasive maneuvers were weak—too slow against Gregor’s deft touch. How he made that old clunker of an airplane move so agilely Val couldn’t guess, but she trusted he would take that craft down, so she aimed for the one in front of it. Not certain of her aim with the craft trembling around her, she fired both guns at once, hoping she would luck into a debilitating blow. Once the enemy decided she and Gregor were a serious threat, they would send fighters after them, and she wouldn’t get any more free shots.
Her target dipped and rolled its wings, evading one of her lasers, but the orange beam that shot from her second gun scorched across the dark sky and struck the belly before the pilot finished his maneuver. The fighter blew up in a startling orange blast that lit the night for a long moment before the charred wreckage tumbled toward the mountainside.
Val gaped, shocked by the effectiveness of her shot. The fighter’s shields must have been depleted from previous encounters; she was surprised the pilot hadn’t disengaged and gone back to its base. She glanced back in Gregor’s direction—she could see the dot that was his craft on the HUD and knew where he was, but she was curious to see him, even if his helmet hid his face. Had he seen her shot? Might he give her an approving thumbs up through the clear canopy of his cockpit?
But he was busy blowing up his target while dodging two of the escorts that had flown over from the other side of the bomber. Actually, that was his second target. His first had already disappeared from her display, and she glimpsed smoke wafting up, gray against the pale snow below. The one he was firing upon also blew up in a surprisingly explosive ball of orange.
“Squad Leader Zimmerman,” Gregor said over the comm, “have the enemy fighters been treated with an incendiary product?” Ah, he thought those explosions were strange too.
“You could call it that.” Zimmerman must be exhausted, but a smirk came through in her tone. Well, well, the downtrodden and nearly defeated continent had a few secret weapons.
“An incendiary product,” someone snorted. “We call that Boom Tar.”
“Have all of the enemy craft been treated?” Gregor was dodging those two fighters that had come after him, but his voice remained utterly calm as he weaved through the air, keeping the Orenkans from targeting him.
“Some of them. We have a gunner near the base that’s hurling up the bombs—think water balloons that splatter on their hulls. The bomber’s too well shielded for it to matter, but we’re trying to wear those shields down.”
“Understood. I will assist with the bomber as soon as I’m able.” He clipped the wing of one of his attackers while dodging a coordinated blast of orange laser fire. It would be a moment before he was ready to attack anyone else.
None of the enemy had veered toward Val—they must have known Gregor was more of a threat—so she flew up toward the dogfight, searching for a way to damage more fighters without risking hitting Gregor.
The enemy was aware of her—she spotted a helmet turning in her direction when she zipped in close. That pilot turned away from Gregor, focusing on her. She fired before the pilot’s guns came to bear on her, but she was too eager to pull up, knowing his own lasers would be streaking toward her soon, and she only clipped his wing. Alas, it wasn’t coated with Boom Tar or anything else that would magnify her hit.
He fired toward her, but her twitchy finger took her to the side before the beams streaked out, and they burned harmlessly past below. A heartbeat later, the night erupted in a now-familiar orange. Without the help of the computerized display, she might not have realized what had happened, but Gregor had taken care of the craft when the pilot was focused on her. He flew past the fading explosive brightness and banked, already turning back to square off with the other fighter.
“That’s me, mosquito for my commander,” Val muttered, wishing she could do more but glad she had at least distracted the enemy so Gregor could take advantage.
“You’re doing well, Val,” came Gregor’s voice over the comm, just for her.
She blushed. She hadn’t meant to transmit her self-deprecating mutterings. Before she could thank him for his praise, a new voice sounded in her cockpit, a quiet and muffled one. She frowned in confusion. That wasn’t coming from the speaker.
“Do you read, Commander Thatcher?” the muted voice asked. “ETA three minutes. There’s a skirmish outside the door of your base. Should we avoid it or help? We have your spare parts.”
“Lieutenant Frog,” Gregor said, his voice muted now too. “Your demolitions experience would be useful on that bomber. Cadet Calendula and I are in the air with the base’s forces.”
“Happy to oblige, sir,” the first speaker purred. “Happy to oblige.”
Frog, that was one of the shuttle pilots from the Albatross. The puzzle pieces clicked together, and Val almost laughed. They were talking on her Mandrake Company comm system—she still had one of the patches stuffed into the pocket of her trousers. She was pleased to know they had backup for this fight and that Gregor had been right: either he—or the shuttle—was too valuable to lose, so the company wasn’t going to abandon them. She just hoped nobody tried to ask her a question, because her pocket wasn’t accessible under her flight suit.
“The cloaked thing, too, sir?” Frog asked. “That’s the Orenkans, right?”
“Yes. Feel free to blast that from the sky,” Gregor said, a hint of relish in his usually matter-of-fact voice. He must not have forgiven that craft for catching him off guard.
Bolstered by the appearance of the Mandrake Company shuttle, Val found her spot again at Gregor’s wing and helped him bring down eight more fighters. She could only claim one kill for herself, and that one had been assisted along by the incendiary concoction, but she fulfilled her mosquito destiny by distracting a few of the pilots targeting Gregor. She was fine with the role—even as a young cadet, she had never been a hot shot—though she hoped it would be enough to impress Gregor. She had applied for the job of combat pilot, after all. When she compared her flying to Frog’s, she couldn’t help but feel she was lacking. Shuttles weren’t known for maneuverability, but he had a reckless style that kept the enemy confused as he looped and dove, strafing the big ships and finishing with flair that tended to blow things up. After one such attack, the black ship that had vexed Gregor spewed an impressive explosion from its stern; then its nose dipped, leading it on a slow but inexorable dive into a cliff. The crash was so big that Val heard the screeching of metal on rock even through the cockpit canopy and the sides of her helmet.
The bomber fell shortly after, and the two remaining Orenkan fighters punched their accelerators and fled for the horizon.
A ragged cheer went up over the comm. Even if it wasn’t her war, Val was relieved, both for the outnumbered defenders and because, after the endless day she’d been on, she was ready for a meal and twelve hours in her rack.
“Well done, all,” Zimmerman said. “Return to base.”
Another whoop went up.<
br />
“They may outman us and outgun us, but we’re guerrillas through and through,” someone said.
More explosions arose, fiery orange blazes against the snow, as the wreck slid down a slope and crashed into its final resting place at the bottom of a canyon.
“That’ll avenge Parker,” someone growled. The group sobered after that.
Val hadn’t known any of the other pilots, but the knowledge that one had died always made her pause, reminding her how easily one could be killed in space or in the air, when a thin hull was all that stood between a person and death.
With those somber thoughts in mind, she followed Gregor and the Mandrake shuttle back into the tunnels of the base. Fortunately, the sky was quiet and still, empty of enemies for the moment. Val wouldn’t confess it to any of the others—mercenaries and combat pilots weren’t supposed to be cowardly; she was fairly certain that was in the contract somewhere—but she hoped they could get their craft repaired before the Malbakians had to go up in the air again. This wasn’t her war, and she didn’t want to die in it. She tried not to think too hard about the fact that she was applying to be a mercenary and that the job was all about fighting in wars that were not one’s own. She didn’t want to admit that she might have made a mistake. No, that wasn’t it exactly. She didn’t want to admit she didn’t have it in her to do what was needed to come up with the money to bail out Yarrow. What if she couldn’t handle this lifestyle for long enough to come up with his money? Yarrow probably wouldn’t blame her. But what about Mom and Dad? Just because they were gone didn’t mean she could stop worrying about what they would think.
She pushed the faceplate of her helmet back so she could rub at her eyes. “Shower and bed,” she whispered, this time making sure the comm was off and that nobody would overhear her mutters. Everything would feel better after a good night’s sleep. She hoped.
* * *
Thanks to the successful flight and the appearance of the Mandrake Company shuttle, Gregor was elated by the time he climbed out of his fighter in the hangar. A member of the ground crew jogged over to his borrowed craft, already getting ready to fuel it up for the next run. Yes, they couldn’t assume that their small victory would be a lasting one; the enemy might attack again at any time.
This knowledge failed to dull his good humor. He strode over to Val’s fighter as soon as it stopped, eager to see her. He would have to sublimate his urge to greet her with a hug. Even if Admiral Summers, who had departed early in the fight to escort one of the slow mining ships away from the base, hadn’t returned, the Mandrake Company personnel would trot out of the shuttle before long, and he didn’t need them witnessing his affection for someone who was supposed to be his trainee. He would assess that situation more thoroughly later—in particular, he was worried he might be foolish if he didn’t consider the admiral’s words, the notion that Val might be feigning an interest in him because she wanted the piloting job—but for now, he could give her a hearty shoulder clap and let her know he was pleased with her flying during the skirmish. She was rusty in a fighter, but that was understandable. She might not have flown one since her academy days, and these models had been antiquated even then. But she definitely had potential that could be developed with more training. He much preferred her calm precision to Frog’s wild and reckless style. Half the time, the gun-happy pilot blew up things he wasn’t supposed to; it was amazing that he hadn’t gotten himself blown up yet.
“Greetings,” Gregor said when Val’s canopy lifted. None of the crew had brought one of the float lifts over yet, so he grabbed one of the old-fashioned rolling ladders from a spot near the wall and pushed it over so she could climb down.
“Sir,” she responded to his greeting, her voice tired. Or was that a sign of detachment? She didn’t look at him as she climbed down. She wasn’t avoiding his eyes, was she? And if so, why? Did she feel her performance hadn’t been adequate up there? Or… was it possible that the admiral’s words had affected her? That she felt she had been discovered, as it were, when the admiral had spoken of something Gregor hadn’t considered? Or at least hadn’t considered with seriousness?
He chewed on his lip thoughtfully. He should refrain from making a judgment. His history of reading people’s emotions and guessing their thoughts and motivations was poor at best. Still, he had a hard time releasing the idea that she might have simply have warmed to him because she wanted something. If that was true, it would crush him. With any other woman, he didn’t think it would have mattered much. He was used to their dismissals by now and probably would have been prepared for the idea of being used. But with the woman he had dreamed of all those years ago? His heart was too vulnerable with her. What should he do? Nothing? Wait and see? He didn’t understand why she would feel the need to play games in an attempt to gain the job anyway. Oh, he understood that she had some sort of financial difficulty, but she was proving to be every bit the hard worker she had been as a student, and he would have thought favorably of her even if she hadn’t softened toward him. Even if she hadn’t kissed him. Twice.
The first one had been quite nice, but the memory of the last one blasted him with the power of a laser cannon. As much as he respected Admiral Summers, Gregor would have suffered the wrath of him and a thousand other senior officers for a chance at another kiss like that. A kiss and more. Val had been so enthusiastic, practically clawing at him, as if she wanted to tear off his flight suit and engage in intercourse right there, with nothing but the wall to support their heaving bodies. The memory heated him like burning jet fuel, and he found himself noticing for the third time that day how small the crotch area was in his borrowed flight suit. He needed to escape from it, to find something more freeing.
“Sir?” Val asked. She wore a perplexed expression as she scrutinized him. Had she prompted him more than once? And he, standing there, aroused and practically panting, hadn’t heard?
“Yes?” Gregor asked, struggling for his customary tone.
“Did you see Zimmerman wave? I think she wants you to join her debriefing.”
Yes, Zimmerman and the rest of her pilots were standing around that desk at the end of the hangar. She gave him a nod when he made eye contact. If he hadn’t been distracted by Val—by thinking of her entwined with him, both of them sans flight suits and everything else—he would have felt pleased that he was now being invited to join the squadron meetings.
“Yes,” Gregor said. “Come, you should be there too.”
Val nodded and headed toward the group.
Gregor thought about all the things he had meant to say to her, the hearty shoulder clap he had wanted to offer. Was it too late now? If he hadn’t been so busy thinking about the admiral’s words and then thinking about her…
“I wish to inform you that you performed satisfactorily up there,” Gregor said. He definitely needed to let her know that. If she understood how competent he gauged her performance thus far, on the ground as well as in the air, she shouldn’t feel the need to express feelings for him if none were truly present. Of course, a selfish part of him wanted her to go right on expressing feelings for him, whether they were genuine or not, but that wouldn’t be right. It would only lead to disappointment in the end. A far greater disappointment than if they had simply worked together as colleagues from the beginning.
“Satisfactorily, huh? Good, I strive to be satisfactory.”
For once, Gregor recognized the sarcasm for what it was immediately. But he failed to understand what had prompted it. He had said the wrong thing, but what had it been?
“Thank you for your assistance out there, Commander Thatcher,” Zimmerman said. They had reached the group, and Gregor struggled to put his concerns out of his mind for the moment. “And to you, as well,” she added to Val. “Calendula, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” Val said. “You’re welcome.”
“If you two would keep your flight suits close at hand, I would appreciate it. If I have anything to say about it, you’ll be welcome to fly w
ith us anytime. Both of you. Even if the admiral naysays me…” Zimmerman glowered at the cracked cement floor. “I’d like to think we scared off the enemy with our, ah, cunning guerrilla tactics, but that hasn’t been enough to scare them yet. They know how badly they outnumber us. And in volunteering to house Admiral Summers, we’ve made ourselves a target. We need all of the help we can get.”
Her bluntness in front of her squadron was surprising, but perhaps they all knew their situation already, and Zimmerman felt no need to soften reality.
“That’s all I wanted to say to you, Commander,” she said. “I see one of your men needs you, but please know that we were glad to have you up there with us.”
The pilots all nodded. Someone even gave Val the hearty clap on the shoulder that Gregor had meant to try. He sighed inwardly, wishing he didn’t have this new confusion in his mind.
He turned his back on the group and spotted Lieutenant Sparks, one of the ship’s engineers, waving a tablet, ready to report in. A few clanks came from the direction of the damaged shuttle; his people must already be working on the craft. Good.
“Sir?” Val asked as he started toward the lieutenant.
“Yes?”
“I’m sure the engineers can do a lot more in the shuttle than I could and that I’d mostly be in the way.” She hesitated, meeting his eyes warily. “I’m really tired—it’s been a long day. Mind if I get something to eat and hit my rack?”
Had she been worried that he would judge her poorly for asking? Gregor wasn’t tired yet—though he probably would be once the adrenaline from the battle faded from his veins—but he should have remembered earlier that they hadn’t taken meal or rest breaks in a long time. As a commander, his job was to watch out for those under him. “Yes, you’re dismissed. Report back at 0900 hours.”
Mandrake Company- The Complete Series Page 42