Wing Commander #07 False Color William Forstchen (top 10 books to read .txt) 📖

She returned the smile. "Or bet against me and thrown the fight deliberately," she said, arching one eyebrow. "Seriously, though, how did it feel? Do you think it's an accurate simulation of a Strakha?"

Her interest was understandable. Alexandra Travis had been designated as squadron commander for VF-401, one of the new fighter squadrons being organized aboard the supercarrier. Once she and her pilots finished training, they'd be flying the squadron of Strakha fighters salvaged from the Kilrathi planes on board. Her previous experience had been confined to the Raptor heavy fighter, and they had little in common in terms of handling with the Cat Strakhas.

Bondarevsky was impressed by her record and by the skill she'd displayed getting her squadron in shape these last few days. Of all his new squadron commanders she was the one who seemed most in tune with him, her mind often following the same leaps of imagination that his own did as they discussed the ways and means of making the Flight Wing work.

"I don't know how accurate it is," he said, "but Sparks and Jorkad seem to think it isn't too far from the real thing. If it's anything like the simulator, the Strakha's going to be heavy going. Big and mean, but not exactly subtle . . . except for the stealth technology. I guess the Cats figured they had a cloak, so why bother making the thing nimble too? Takes some getting used to when you've come out of the high-maneuverability school."

"Sort of like trying to fly a shuttle after a stretch of duty with Hornets," she said, nodding.

"Well, not quite that bad, maybe," he said, remembering his landing on Independence and how clumsy the shuttle controls had seemed. "I figure with enough sim time it won't be too much of a problem getting these Cat planes down cold. I have to admit, though, that it's pretty strange thinking of how to use them in combat, and not just how to beat them."

She laughed. "You could say the same thing about this whole operation," she said. "A year ago a Cat was just something to shoot at. Now I'm starting to understand how they think . . . and it's starting to scare me. Sometimes I wonder how we managed to hold them off so long. They sure as hell know how to build a carrier."

Bondarevsky nodded. "I know what you mean. And working with the Cats from Murragh's bunch . . they're not exactly what we always thought they were, are they?"

Before she could reply they were interrupted by a chord from Aengus Harper's guitar. The young lieutenant had found himself a perch on one of the tables and taken the battered-looking instrument out of its case. For a moment he contented himself with strumming chords, apparently at random.

"Well, the Bard of the Spaceways is at it again," Bondarevsky commented with a smile. "What's it going to be tonight, Lieutenant? More of your old Irish rabble-rousing songs?"

"Ah, now, sir, should I be playin' such things and ignoring the spirit of the season?" Harper replied with his easy, charming grin. "No, tonight I'll not be speakin' of the Gaels and their long struggle for freedom, more's the pity. Instead I thought I'd give you a Christmas song me auld mither taught me when I was just a lad."

He started picking the strings with practiced skill, closing his eyes and starting to sing in a soft, pleasant voice. It was a song Bondarevsky hadn't heard for years. The crowd was rapt as the young Taran sang the story of the child Jesus and his scornful playmates in Egypt, and the miracles that alarmed their mothers.

Thinking of the work they'd done on Karga, Bondarevsky couldn't help but think the lieutenant's choice was deliberate . . . and apt. They'd all worked their share of miracles out here on the edge of the frontier, and after this holiday was past they'd be right back in the miracle-working business once more.

Lutz Mannheim Starport, Newburg Landreich, Landreich System 1039 hours (CST), 2670.364

"There's a visitor at the airlock to see you, Captain. Do you want to see anybody?"

Captain Wenona Springweather looked up from the computer terminal on her desk at her First Mate, who stood just inside the door of her day cabin with an apologetic look on his face. "Does this visitor have a name?" she asked irritably. Two solid hours had gone by since the Vision Quest had grounded and Landreich Port Authority officers had swarmed aboard each armed with questionnaires and computer forms that she had to fill out personally, it seemed, before the scout ship could secure permission to berth at the starport at all, much less apply for the free overhaul Admiral Richards had promised her before the start of the voyage.

She suspected that Captain Galbraith was behind the extra attention she was receiving. He hadn't been at all happy with the scout ship's performance on the way home. Springweather couldn't help it if her jump coils had worn through coming out of hyperspace at Oecumene, and the cycle time for an interstellar hop was running anywhere up to five times as long as it should. If Galbraith had sent over the parts and technical experts she'd asked for when the problem first developed she could have put the problem to rest then and there, but Galbraith wasn't the sort of Navy man who'd extend a helping hand to a frontier scout.

So Vision Quest had slowed Independence down, and now it seemed Galbraith was exacting his revenge by inflicting petty bureaucracy on her. At this point a visitor would be a welcome relief . . . unless he turned out to be another bureaucrat.

"I'm sorry, skipper, but he wouldn't give a name. Looks like a merchant skipper . . . a prosperous one, by the cut of his clothes. Said he had a business proposal for you."

She grinned. "When