William Forstchen - Wing Commander 4 - Heart of the Tiger

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2024-12-20 0 0 694.67KB 306 页 5.9玖币
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Heart of the Tiger by
William R. Forstchen &
Andrew Keith
PROLOGUE
Prince Thrakhath stood before the throne with head lowered.
"You failed me, grandson."
The Prince remained silent.
"When your new fleet left for Terra you promised that the war was at
an end, that the humans would be finished. Now you return, half your fleet
destroyed, a fleet that strained our resources to the utmost to build. Our
coffers are empty, grandson…" The Emperor paused.
"Empty!" His voice thundered in the audience hall.
Thrakhath looked back up.
"What now?" the Emperor roared. "Wait another half of eight years to
build more carriers? And how will they be crewed? Too many firstborn
sons of the nobles rode to their deaths aboard your fleet."
"They died gloriously for the Empire," Thrakhath replied calmly. "Their
names shall be enshrined in the temples of their ancestors."
"Do you really expect them to believe that any more?" the Emperor
gasped. "I am talking about our survival. After your defeat before Terra
two assassination plots against me were barely thwarted. The other clans
are poised on the edge of open rebellion."
Thrakhath looked at his grandfather in open amazement.
The Emperor nodded slowly.
"And if they had succeeded I daresay you would already be dead now as
well."
The old warrior sighed and fell back into his chair.
"I want the new weapon unleashed," the Emperor finally said.
Thrakhath growled angrily. "That has never been our way. It is without
the joy of the kill."
"I know, I know. But this war has changed beyond all our
understanding, thanks to these humans. Let me make this plain to you.
We can not sustain this war another year. It is not the humans. No, I
believe the reports that they are crippled as well. We are two fighters who
have battered each other into exhaustion. It will take but one more blow
to finish them. The real threat now is what we fear lurks beyond our
distant borders on the other side of the Empire."
"They are stirring?"
The Emperor nodded. "New reports came in while you were gone. They
are still years, perhaps eights of years away, but they are coming in our
direction again. When they arrive we must be ready, our other borders
secured. All our resources must now be marshaled for that threat. For that
reason alone I order that this war with the humans be finished, whether
you like the methods or not. Secondly, and more immediate, is the clans.
One more defeat like the last one and I fear the grasp of our family upon
the imperial throne will be finished."
Thrakhath stood in silent rage at the mere suggestion that those
beneath him could even dare to dream of overthrowing his clan's rightful
claim to rule. The last baron who dreamed of it was now dead, and he had
thought the infection of this alien thinking was gone with him.
"I demand that this new weapon be tested as soon as possible," the
Emperor announced. "The humans are to be exterminated like the vermin
that they are. Honor and the taste of blood are things of the past. Test this
weapon, and if it works you are to kill them all, kill them all without
warning."
The Emperor hesitated and then grinned, his teeth bared. "And once
that is done, if any of the clans dare to resist me, we shall turn this new
weapon on them as well."
CHAPTER I
Shuttle Horatio Nelson
Torgo System
"ETA for TCS Victory now ten minutes… mark." The soft
computer-generated voice in his ear made Colonel Christopher Blair shift
uneasily in his seat. He didn't like being a passenger aboard any small
craft, even a workhorse orbital shuttle like this one. For eighteen years
now Blair had been a fighter pilot in the Terran Confederation Navy, and
he had flown everything in the Navy's arsenal short of a frigate. It was still
difficult to sit back and leave the controls to someone else, especially when
his monitor screens functioned intermittently at best. Having a computer
read canned approach announcements just made matters worse. If he had
been in the cockpit with the control stick in his hand, he would have read
times and distances, thrusts and vectors, with the instincts of a combat
pilot, honed in years of almost continuous warfare—and the ride might
even have been infinitesimally smoother.
Warfare… the war between the Kilrathi Empire and the Terran
Confederation started before Christopher Blair was born. For nearly forty
years now, the two sides had hammered away at each other, and the
Kilrathi showed no signs of letting up. Sometimes Blair wondered if he
would live to see the war end. And sometimes he was afraid he would.
With his monitor still not working, he switched his attention to the tiny
newscreen clipped to one arm of his flight couch. Hesitantly, Blair tapped
the green key at the bottom of the device. The logo of the Terran News
Channel filled the screen for a moment before being replaced by a
head-and-shoulder shot of the TNC's best-known anchorwoman, Barbara
Miles. Her attractive features were almost too perfect, and Blair smiled
fleetingly at the memory of a shipboard bull session a few years back
where some of his shipmates claimed that the woman was actually a
computer-generated simulation.
The recording was paused, of course, waiting for Blair to tap in his
choice of news items from a menu in one corner of the screen. He selected
war news, then listened as the anchorwoman summarized recent events in
the struggle against the Kilrathi… the ones that had been declassified.
He had heard most of it already from previous TNC newsbriefs or
official channels at the Confed HQ complex on Torgo III. News traveled
slowly across interstellar distances, and the average lifetime of any
particular report was apt to be long, especially from worlds along the more
distant frontiers.
His attention snapped back to the screen as the report passed from
news stories to a more general commentary.
"Despite recent losses in several densely populated sectors,
Confederation spokes-people insist that humanity maintains the upper
hand in its galactic struggle with the Kilrathi. However, our sources
document a consistent under-reporting of Kilrathi incursions, especially
against civilian and industrial bases."
The woman paused, looking directly into the camera, while conveying
thoughtful, serious concern for her viewers. "There are even reports of
Confed plans for a 'doomsday evacuation' of Earth to replant the seeds of
humanity in a distant part of the galaxy. The question is… who would go?
Who would be left behind? And, most importantly, who is making these
decisions?"
Blair cut the newscreen off with a snort of disgust. Leave it to TNC to
come up with that ancient evacuation rumor! That thing had been making
the rounds of ships' wardrooms when Blair was a junior lieutenant. The
sheer logistical nightmare of a wholesale evacuation from human space
made the whole idea laughable. Anyway, it was a plain fact that any place
mankind could reach, the Kilrathi could follow. There was no place for
humanity to run.
Still, it was certainly true that the heavily-censored news released by
the Confederation was slanted to hide the truth about this war. After forty
years of warfare, that was not new. But Blair was afraid that some of the
top brass were actually starting to believe their own propaganda mills,
and that was a very bad sign indeed.
Admiral Tolwyn, for instance… there was a man who badly needed a
reality check.
It was Admiral Geoffrey Tolwyn who had given Blair his new
assignment. A vigorous man in his sixties who spoke in a clipped British
accent and radiated the very essence of spit-and-polish military precision
in everything he said and did, Tolwyn had earned quite a reputation over
the years as the mastermind behind a pair of great Confederation
victories, the raid on Kilrah and the Battle of Terra. But Blair had served
under the man before, and he knew that a lot of the legend was little more
than luck and PR hype.
Still, Tolwyn had been brimming with confidence and determination
when Blair reported to his office. "Things are looking up, Colonel," he had
said with a smile. "The Confederation has been making some very positive
strides. The Kilrathi are on the run at Gardel and Morpheus…"
True enough, except that the Terrans had lost three systems to new
Kilrathi offensives at the same time, and in much more strategically vital
sectors. And, of course, there was the loss of the Concordia.
Blair fought back a shudder. He'd been wing commander aboard the
Concordia for three years, until the Battle of Earth. If he hadn't taken that
Kilrathi missile which left him grounded for six long months, Blair would
have been on board when Concordia fought the rearguard action over
Vespus: fought and died. Blair had been part of the survey crew that had
discovered the carrier's broken hull lying half-submerged in the waters off
the Mistral Coast.
Concordia was gone, and so were the men and women who had served
with Blair for so long, through so many battles. More casualties of the war.
Statistics tallied up in news reports or concealed in the falsehoods of a
Confed press release. But those people were more than mere statistics to
Christopher Blair. They had been more than comrades, more than
friends… a family, united by the strongest possible bonds of shared
dangers and difficult service far from home and loved ones.
Blair closed his eyes, summoning up familiar faces. Iceman… Spirit…
Knight… Bossman… the list kept growing, year after year. Shipmates went
to the firing line and died, and a fresh crop of kids from the Academy
came in to replace them… to die in their turn. Sometimes it seemed as if
the war had lost all point or purpose. Now it was nothing more than good
people giving their lives fighting for some chunk of rock that wouldn't
have deserved a second look before the war.
Christopher Blair was tired: of fighting, of death, and of this endless
war.
Fate had spared him while so many others died. Now Blair, certified to
be ready to return to full active duty, had received his new assignment
from Admiral Tolwyn's own hands. Wing commander once again… but
wing commander aboard the Victory.
As if reacting to his bitter thoughts, the monitor finally lit up with an
external view from the shuttle's nose camera. Victory rode in free fall less
than half a click ahead. She was everything Blair expected (which wasn't
much).
She was a light carrier left over from a bygone era, designed nearly half
a century before the beginning of the Kilrathi War. With most of the
newest carriers in the Confederation fleet either lost in action or held in
the Terran Defense Fleet, ships like the old Victory were becoming more
common on the front lines. Perhaps, Blair reflected, that was why the
Kilrathi seemed to have the edge these days.
Even over this distance, it was plain she had seen better days. There
were burn marks down one side of her hull, and deeper scars in her
superstructure where battle damage had been crudely patched.
One thing was certain… she was no Concordia.
The monitor flickered off again. This shuttle was part of Victory's
complement of small craft, and it was clear that non-essential systems
were getting short shrift when maintenance schedules were being drawn
up. The interior of the vessel was distinctly shabby, with faded paint,
fraying flight couches, and missing access plates which revealed
jury-rigged repair work. It suggested the low standards in play aboard
Victory, but Blair planned to see things change once he took charge of the
flight wing. Perhaps the crew of the battered old carrier did not care
enough to do more than go through the motions, but if Blair had his way,
that attitude would soon change.
"Preparing for final docking approach," the computer voice announced
quietly.
An outdated ship and a crew that apparently didn't give a damn any
more. If Concordia hadn't been able to stand against the Kilrathi, how
could Victory be expected to even put up a fight?
Blair had to ask himself, as the shuttle slowly maneuvered in toward the
carrier's flight deck, what this assignment really meant. Did Tolwyn
expect him to knock the ship and crew into some kind of battle-ready
shape? Or did the High Command consider that Blair and Victory
deserved each other, two old warhorses who had outlived their usefulness
put out to pasture?
Flight Deck, TCS Victory
Torgo System
The boarding ramp made a grinding noise as it swung down to touch
the deck. Blair winced at the sound. His first view of the interior of his
new home made him wince again. It was even shabbier than he had
imagined. There was a distinct smell in the air; an odor of sweat,
lubricants, burned insulation, and other unidentified unpleasant scents.
Apparently, the air circulation systems were not capable of keeping the
atmosphere fresh and clean.
He slung his flight bag over his shoulder and started slowly down the
ramp. Crewmen were drawn up in ranks in the huge open hangar area,
most of them dressed in utility fatigues which had seen better days. Blair
glanced at the end of the hangar where open space was visible beyond the
faint glow of the force fields which kept the deck pressurized. He found
himself hoping that they, at least, were maintained better than the rest of
the ship. He pushed the thought away, trying to keep his feelings hidden
from the crew.
A knot of senior officers awaited him at the foot of the ramp,
dominated by a broad-shouldered black man with graying hair and the
four stripes of a line Captain prominently displayed on his sleeve. He
didn't give Blair time to study his surroundings further, but stepped
forward to meet him.
"Colonel Blair?" he said, smiling. "I'm William Eisen. Welcome aboard
the Victory."
Blair snapped off a quick salute which Eisen returned gravely.
Theoretically, they were of equal rank—a Colonel in the Confederation
Space Force and a Captain of the line—but aboard any ship in space, the
commanding officer, regardless of rank, was always the senior officer
(even if he was a mere lieutenant entertaining a visitor of higher rank).
The captain ended the salute by extending his hand. He had a firm grip
that matched his proud bearing and an aura of quiet authority. "Allow me
to present some of my senior officers, Colonel. This is Commander Ralgha
nor Hhallas—"
"Hobbes!" Blair exclaimed, as Eisen moved aside to give Blair a clear
view of the officers. Ralgha nor Hhallas would have stood out in any
human crowd, for he was a Kilrathi nobleman. Tall and bulky, he was
humanoid in form but distinctly alien in feature, with a head too large and
flat for a man. His body and face were covered with thick fur, and his eyes,
ears, and fangs gave him a distinctly cat-like appearance. The Kilrathi
were not cats, of course, but they had sprung from carnivore hunter stock
with many feline traits, and their ways of thinking were even more alien to
humankind than those of Earthly cats.
Blair could hardly believe that more than ten years had passed since
Lord Ralgha, a ship-captain of the Imperial Kilrathi fleet, defected to the
Terran Confederation. TCS Tiger's Claw was in the squadron which
helped him carry out his defection, and Blair (a junior lieutenant) had
worn polish still fresh on his flight wings. Ralgha moved from supplying
information to Terran Intelligence to serving in the Space Force, and he
had remained in Blair's squadron for a time before new assignments took
them down separate paths.
Many officers were reluctant to fly with a Kilrathi wingman, but Blair
always found Ralgha cheerful, competent, and capable: a fine pilot and an
excellent comrade. He was the one to bestow the nickname "Hobbes" on
the renegade Kilrathi after encountering the name in an ancient piece of
Terran folk art in a fellow pilot's collection.
"You know the Commander, then?" Eisen asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Not with that rank," Blair said. "Hobbes here is one of the best pilots
who ever flew with the Flight Corps. What are you doing wearing that line
outfit? Getting too old to squeeze into a cockpit?"
Ralgha bowed slightly. "It warms my heart to see you again, Colonel,"
he said, his voice low and throaty with the odd intonation and slight
accent Blair remembered well. "But I fear now is not the time to swap life
stories."
Blair grinned. "Still the stickler, eh, Hobbes? Well, we'll talk later."
The Kilrathi bowed again.
Eisen introduced the department heads and senior staff officers. They
were no more than a blur of unfamiliar names and faces to Blair… but still
he felt heartened to know that at least one old friend would be with him on
this cruise.
The captain concluded by introducing a fresh-faced young man
wearing a lieutenant's insignia. "And this is Lieutenant Ted Rollins,
Communications Officer."
"And general dogsbody," Rollins grinned. "Sir."
"I've assigned Mr. Rollins to extra duty, as your aide," Eisen continued,
ignoring the lieutenant's interjection. "At least until you get settled in and
make staff arrangements of your own. I hope that will be agreeable with
you, Colonel."
Blair nodded. "That will be fine, sir. Thank you."
"The lieutenant will show you to your quarters and help you get the lay
of the land. I would appreciate you joining me in my Ready Room at…
shall we say sixteen hundred hours, ships time? That will give you a few
hours to get acclimated."
"Sixteen hundred hours," Blair repeated. He glanced around the hangar
again. Would any length of time be enough to get acclimated to this old
rustbucket of a ship? "I'll be there, sir."
"Very good. Dismissed." As Blair turned away, Eisen spoke again.
"We're glad to have you aboard, Colonel."
Blair wished he could have returned the sentiment, but he knew it
would come out sounding bitter and ironic.
Command Ready Room, TCS Victory
Torgo System
"Come in, Colonel. Come in. Have a seat."
Blair glanced around the room, moving from the door to the chair
Eisen gestured toward in front of the captain's desk. He noted that the
tasteful if spartan decor and the well-kept atmosphere produced a
startling contrast to most of what he had observed aboard the Victory.
"So, Colonel, I trust Mr. Rollins has been seeing to your needs." The
Captain stood, crossing to a counter at one end of the room. "Will you
have something to drink? We picked up a load of New Samarkand vodka a
few months back that has a kick like a Gratha's blasters."
"Thank you, sir." Actually, Blair didn't particularly want a drink, but it
was never wise to turn down a commanding officer's hospitality, especially
not on the first day aboard.
Eisen returned with two glasses and handed one to Blair. "A toast, then,
Colonel. To Victory!"
They touched their glasses and Blair took a cautious sip. "Is that the
ship or the concept, sir?" he asked.
"Both," Eisen said, sitting down. Thoughtfully Eisen added, "We're
going to win this war, Colonel, and I think this old ship will play a large
part in it before the shooting's over."
Blair tried to keep his expression neutral. "I hope so, sir."
The captain regarded him with a penetrating look. "I'll admit, Blair,
she's no Concordia …"
"Neither is the Concordia… any more." This time Blair didn't bother to
hide his feelings.
"It was a terrible loss," Eisen said. "It's never easy to lose so much. You
have my sympathies." He paused, looking into his glass. "Nevertheless,
you're here now, and I expect nothing less than complete dedication and
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ScannedbyHighroller.ProofedbyHighroller.MadeprettierbyuseofEBookDesignGroupStylesheet.HeartoftheTigerbyWilliamR.Forstchen&AndrewKeithPROLOGUEPrinceThrakhathstoodbeforethethronewithheadlowered."Youfailedme,grandson."ThePrinceremainedsilent."WhenyournewfleetleftforTerrayoupromisedthatthewarwasatanend,...

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