He realized that the situation would have been different if he'd been able to build his own wing, trained it his way. Then he'd have felt less alien, less a spectator, and more a participant.
Angel Devereaux's face floated in his memory. "You can never go back," she whispered in his mind. He winced.
She'd said that to him as he'd grown maudlin over the vagaries of the Fleet that had first brought them together, then separated them. Angel had been his lover, his friend, and his salvation on the old Concordia, back when Tolwyn had wanted his head on a stake. The memories of her— her smile, the warmth in her eyes, the way she looked in certain lights—hit him hard.
He recalled his last sight of her—writhing in agony in a growing pool of her own blood on the floor after being disemboweled in a public Kilrathi execution. His eyes clouded. Her death reminded him of the deaths of dozens of others—all his comrades and peers who had been killed.
Eventually, the reception ended. The senior officers waited until their juniors were done before they made their presence known. The juniors in turn knew when to make themselves scarce. The wings leaders, the lieutenant colonels and majors who'd make or break his command, filtered in, tanked up at the bar, and joined the informal circle.
Blair learned from the command group that Colonel Dunlevy had arranged the pilots' work schedules so that they'd arrive in a trickle to the reception, rather than en masse. She'd also made it plain that she didn't want the troops' seniors around, thereby stealing Blair's thunder. It didn't surprise him the least little bit that Marshall had disregarded that instruction.
The wing's officers struck Blair as cool and competent. Most seemed young for their ranks, until he recalled his own time in grade. He made small talk with them, letting them feel him out. He made it quite plain that while he had definite ideas about how the wing should be run, he had no plans to make arbitrary changes just to show he was in charge.
That assertion stood him in good stead, with only a few of the squadron officers looking skeptical. Most took him at his word and began to thaw a bit, once they were confident that he wasn't going to make extra work for them.
The talks, chats, and cross-chatter began to unnerve him after a while. The command group had been together since the Lexington had begun her current cruise. They'd suffered through the post-war reduction in forces, then the wings reorganization. They were a tightly-knit group, and very fond of Colonel Dunlevy. They accepted the rules of the game, the same rules that forced her out and brought him off the bench to command them, but they didn't have to like it.
Blair realized he would have to work hard to earn their trust, harder than he would with the younger pilots. The senior officers had been in the war themselves, and so weren't overawed by his awards. They'd also been in the peace and had been carrying a lot of water for the Confederation while he'd been farming and drinking.
He found himself recharging his glass quite often as he listened to their war stories, their loose laughter. Most of the tales dealt with events that had happened after the war. Blair noted with alarm that the jargon had changed, even in the short time since he'd retired. Pilots, like all military people, evolved their own cryptic lingo—a mishmash of flight terms, service acronyms, and communications chatter. Blair was able to follow most of the new terms, but it was another reminder that he was out of touch.
He eventually made good his escape, claiming the need to prepare the next morning's brief. He snagged a bottle of Gonwyn's Glory on his way out, then navigated the half-familiar halls to his cabin.
The wing commander's quarters were enough like Jeannette Devereaux's on the Concordia to make him halt in the doorway in confusion. Of course, he chided himself, the Concordia and the Lexington were the same class, built from the same plans.
Nonetheless, the similarities haunted him. He collapsed in a chair very much like one Angel had in her quarters, broke the seal on the bottle, and took a deep pull. Alone, in the semi-dark, in her room, the ghosts came swarming back. Old faces drifted across his sight as he recalled things they'd said. Most of the faces belonged to the dead, many of the rest had been RIF'ed. He drank directly from the bottle, letting the whiskey wash over him like a tide.
Later, quite drunk, he raised his calloused hand and stared at it. It appeared to be steady. He wondered if he still had what it took to survive in combat. Or had the years away from the flight line conspired with his age and the hooch to rob him of the edge he'd always had? Was he a ghost with a service record, surviving on past glories?
He'd always counted on his reflexes being a touch faster, his instincts a little better than his opponents. He'd never met anyone faster… until the icy-eyed man had jacked him up against the wall. He had been too slow, for the first time in his life.
The man would have killed him if Maniac hadn't intervened. He'd never doubted his abilities before, and the realization he could be beaten hit him hard. He sat, worrying that he would fail and wind up dead. Or, worse yet, that he'd get other pilots killed because he couldn't handle the situation.
He sat long into the night, brooding. He knew his worries were a cancer that sapped his confidence and made him vulnerable. Was he becoming afraid?
His sleep, when he finally collapsed into his bed, gave him no rest.
Chapter Three
Blair walked onto the flight deck, trying to juggle his helmet, callsign list, tactical book, and flight recorder. His head still ached from his binge, in spite of the antihangover pills a sympathetic hospital corpsman had given him. Now you know why you shouldn't drink whiskey, he said to himself.
He had been fortunate that his squadron commanders were all prepared to brief him on their squadrons' readiness, saving him the need to do more than nod sagely from time to time. He just hoped his hangover cleared up before launch. Trying to fly with one was a stone bitch.
He didn't see the pilot waiting by the access door to the maintenance bay until he stepped into Blair's path.
"Sir?" the man said, startling him. Blair jumped, almost dropping his helmet. He looked the young man over, desperately trying to remember his name. The kid was one of the dozens of pilots he'd met with shiny new wings. He had trouble keeping them sorted out.
"Yes, umm, Lieutenant…" Blair faltered.
"Carter, sir," the lieutenant supplied helpfully, "Troy Carter. Callsign Catscratch."
"Yes, Lieutenant," Blair said as he tried to recover his composure, "what can I do for you?"
"Well, sir," Carter said enthusiastically, "I just wanted you to know how much of an honor it is for me that you picked me as your wingman." Blair didn't have the heart to tell the kid that he'd simply been at the top of the flight rotation, and that Blair hadn't given it a moment's consideration. The rookie cut him off before he could answer. "I just wanted to let you know, sir, that I won't let you down."
Blair looked at him a moment before he realized the kid expected some kind of response. "I'm sure you won't." He started to walk towards the maintenance area where crews were completing the final preflights on the ready group. Carter fell in step beside him. Blair ignored him as he tried to get the pile in his arms under control. He finally managed to dump the entire mess into his helmet. He stepped into the main bay and angled for his own bird.
Blair nodded in satisfaction. His orders to have one flight each of Arrows, Hellcats, Thunderbolts, and Longbows prepared for immediate launch had been carried out, in spite of numerous raised eyebrows from the senior squadron officers. The flight crews had worked quickly and professionally to get the fighters ready on short notice. Blair couldn't recall seeing a wartime carrier operate any more efficiently. He reminded himself that the peacetime fleet literally had the cream of the war's veterans to choose from. The Lexington had no excuse for inefficiency.
"Sir," Catscratch asked, interrupting his thoughts, "if you have a couple of minutes, I'd like to discuss the mission."
"It's a simple jump recon, Lieutenant," Blair replied. "What else do you want to know?"
"Well," Carter answered, "I know having a strike force in the chute is doctrine when a carrier comes out of jump. They taught us that at the Academy. Most wings just put one squadron on alert. Why'd you decide on a mixed force?"
Blair looked at him a moment, trying to decide through his thumping head whether or not to be sarcastic. He chose a straight answer. Sarcasm took too much work. 'Task forces are terribly vulnerable during jump," he replied. "They can only go through the gate one at a time, and peacetime rules stipulate a five-minute interval. Most wings use a defensive philosophy, preparing their point-defense squadron to cover the task force while it gets organized." He stepped towards his own Arrow. Carter, his face intent, followed. "That'll surrender the area of space around the carrier to an enemy. You invite a strike."
He twisted his head around, trying to decide if he felt better. "The other option is to prep for a magnum launch, getting everything ready. That puts one hell of a strain on the ground crews and will eat into your sortie rate."
He shrugged. "I prefer the middle ground, enough ships for defense and a modest strike." He stopped and looked at Catscratch. "We'll launch a reconnaissance as soon as we're out of jump. In the event we find a target, then we'll launch the Hellcats and Longbows. That way we're not passive. We're lashing out, even if there's a strike inbound. In the event we do get hit, the Thunderbolts and Arrows will pull point-defense duty. Understand?"
Carter dipped his head twice, nodding quickly. "Thank you, sir," he said. Blair saw the kid's expression was one of almost reverence, as though he'd been given the secrets of the universe. Blair wanted no part of that hero worship. "These're based on wartime procedures that Captain Eisen worked out a long time ago. It's his plan, not mine."
He turned away to inspect his Arrow. Catscratch, his sense of importance touched, went towards his own fighter. Blair watched the kid through sidelong glances as Catscratch checked intakes, tugged and pulled at the slung ordnance, and inspected the safety tags that locked the weapons out while they were in the maintenance bays. The kid, Blair decided, was conscientious and diligent. Yeah, he grumped to himself, and probably also cheerful, thrifty, brave, and clean.
He climbed up the short ladder and into his cockpit, taking extra care not to bang his head on the raised canopy. That would have been an embarrassment he wasn't prepared to endure, and he wasn't entirely certain his head wouldn't fall off.
The crew chief helped him strap in, then handed him his helmet. He put it on, then plugged the interior cables into the intercom box. The helmet came alive, crackling and scratching as the headset purged the static electricity from the system. He raised one thumb, indicating he had communications. The crew chief pulled the ladder away, then moved to finish the preflight.
Blair watched her plug into the fighter's starboard diagnostics panel as he pulled out his own checklist.
"I show engines, weapons, and shields green," Blair said, checking each system in turn.
"I confirm," the crew chief replied. "I'm still getting an intermittent flutter in your portside control array, but nothing outside normal specifications."
Blair thought he detected a touch of hesitancy in the chiefs voice. "Trouble?"
"No," the chief said, "it isn't enough to rate a down-check. I'll make a note in the maintenance log to run a full diagnostic as soon as the mission is over."
They ran the rest of the checklist without incident, verifying the fighter was combat ready.
"All systems green, Colonel," she intoned.
"Okay," he said, "setting guns to preheat and arming missiles." She quickly ducked under the right wing and pulled the arming clips from the missiles. Blair watched his diagnostics as the seekerheads on the infrared and IFF missiles uncaged and ran their warmup cycles. The chief stepped out from under the left wing and into his line of sight. She held her hands up, her fingers splayed for him to count the ribbons dangling from the arming pins looped around her fingers.
"I count six," she said, "two IFF, two infrared, decoy dispenser, and ejection system." He switched to his internal graphic and checked his stores load. "Correct," he replied, "all systems green."
"Okay, sir," she said, "the bird is yours." She smiled. 'Try not to make too much work for me."
He allowed the ghost of a smile to cross his face. "I'll try," he answered.
She stepped back as he sealed his canopy and radioed the flight control officer. "Arrow Seven-Three-Seven, callsign Alpha Six, reports ready." Lieutenant Naismith gave him a terse acknowledgement. Blair shook his head, remembering that the Arrows telemetry information would give the communications officer a precise readout on his status at any time he was within range. He sighed. He hoped Naismith chalked the faux pas to his being rusty, rather than nagging. Then again, he'd heard the comm officer had a reputation for going by the book. He might like the redundant checks.
He glanced around the maintenance bay. Cockpit canopies closed and engines began cycling as the strike group members warmed up their drives.
He looked at his chronometer, checking the time to jump. The task group would proceed through the jump point singly, with each ship running up to flank speed and entering the nexus at a slightly different angle. Fleet doctrine called for evasive maneuvers upon completing transition. The carriers inertial dampers would mask almost all of the stresses. Blair knew he'd still feel sick and nauseated before the jump was halfway over.
He tried to distract himself by monitoring the flight wing's command and control circuits. Naismith chose that moment to run systems checks with each of Blair's strike elements.
"Lexington to Group Six," the comm officer said in his dry, businesslike voice. "Status?"
"Scout Six, standing by," Blair said.
He listened as Strike Six, Escort Six, and Raid Six all reported readiness. He looked around one final time, pleased by what he saw. His own four Arrow fighters were spotted first on the launch deck, ready to begin their recon of the Hellespont system as soon as the Lexington completed the jump. Behind them were the four Longbows of Strike Six, together with their escorting Hellcats. The four Thunderbolts of Raid Six, two armed with ship-killing torpedoes, stood off to one side. They were the ready group's reserve, capable either of launching their own smaller raid or of reinforcing the strike group.
Four other Thunderbolts, designated "Thor," stood by as the fleets point-defense element. That element would remain under the control of the Lex's flight officer.
Blair glanced at his watch again and saw they were less than two minutes from the jump. He took a deep breath. "Alpha Six to Six elements," he said, "stand by for transition." He watched the maintenance crews flee the bay for their quarters. Jump transition was something no one wanted to do standing up.
The jump klaxon sounded, warning the ship's crew that the carrier had begun its final run. Blair closed his eyes and gritted his teeth as the Lexington entered the jump point.
He felt as though he were being stretched, his molecules spread over a dozen cubic parsecs. The feeling lasted only a second, but seemed to go on forever. It was a frightening, disorienting feeling. His world snapped back in place an instant later as the Lexington exited the nexus, presumably in the Hellespont system. Blair's already delicate stomach fluttered as the Lex began her preprogrammed evasive maneuvers.
"Flight control to Group Six leader," Naismith said, his voice cool and detached, even after jump. "We're getting a distress call. Stand by to launch and intercept."
"Roger," Blair replied, trying not to sound as frayed as he felt. He heard the quick click as the flight boss assumed control of the frequency.
"Arrow Seven-Three-Seven. You are first in queue. Stand by for scramble."
Blair felt the launch cradle begin to inch forward as it moved to the on-deck position beneath the launch rails. He heard the rumble and roar as the launch bay's atmosphere was evacuated. He felt the familiar anxiety begin to grip his guts as the cradle bumped again and began to rise. The launch elevator quickly lifted the cradle to the sta
ging area behind the launch bays and deposited it on the rails. The cradle passed through the primary force curtain and into the zero-gee, zero-atmosphere launch bay. The deck crews, wearing pressure suits and magnetic boots, loaded him into the tube with wartime alacrity.
"Launch Deck to Flight Control," Blair heard the duty officer report, "Seven-Three-Seven spotted on 'Cat Two. Ready for launch."
Blair braced his shoulders against the seat back and gripped the control yoke firmly. He looked up at the launch control officer in her lighted socket. She waited for his raised thumb, indicating that he was ready. She gave him a salute, then glanced down at her board. He turned his head back to the front, trying to ignore his pounding heart and dry throat. Carrier launchings were the second most dangerous non-combat operations a pilot could perform, after carrier landings. He'd almost rather face a pack of Darket light fighters than the launch bay.
"Flight control to Scout Six. Scramble."
The moment of launch took him by surprise, as always. The roar of his engines on full afterburner merged with the roar of the catapult as the Arrow leapt forward. His weight doubled and doubled again as the G forces built. He tried to inhale against the crushing weight on his chest, desperately sucking in air through tightly clenched teeth. He felt the bladders in his flight suit's legs inflate to force pooled blood back into his body. He saw stars appear ahead, at first dimly through the bay's forward force curtain, then sharply and brilliantly as Arrow 737 burst out of the bay.
The fighter's inertial dampers, freed of the Lexingtons floor field, snapped on. The sensation of acceleration and the extra mass vanished as the dampers compensated for the acceleration. He breathed a quick sigh of relief. He'd survived another launch.
The Price of Freedom Page 8