Wing Commander #07 False Color by William Forstchen (best books to read in life .txt) 📕

He switched it off again, leaving the original real-time plot. The four of them studied the projection in silence as long minutes passed. At least there was no sign of a hostile reception committee, he told himself. So far, so good . . .

Aft of the carrier the tender Sindri popped into existence out of hyperspace, followed closely by the City of Cashel. Up ahead the leading escorts were spreading out to form a broader front, leading the way. It would take some time before the rest of the battle group came through. The huge factory ship's jump engines were slow to charge up, and once she made it into the Vaku system her sheer bulk would limit her acceleration to a crawl. But they wouldn't be needing the Andrew Carnegie soon. If the derelict couldn't be salvaged, they wouldn't need her at all.

"Fighters launch! Fighters launch!" That came from the comm channel, set to monitor squadron operations. Bondarevsky had a momentary vision of what Kevin Tolwyn must be seeing right now as his Raptor led the way off the carrier's flight deck into deep space. He wished he was out there, with a bird to fly and a solid mission to carry out, instead of being cooped up in a shuttle waiting for the chance to go aboard an enemy derelict and survey it for damage. Bondarevsky wasn't entirely sure he'd be much use at that anyway. For most of his life he'd been learning how to inflict damage on Kilrathi warships, not analyze it.

But his job wasn't out there anymore. Best he came to terms with that fact, no matter how distasteful it might be.

Raptor 300, VF-88 "Crazy Eights" Deep Space, Vaku System 0735 hours (CST)

Commander Kevin Tolwyn felt a surge of pure adrenaline in his veins as his fighter cleared the flight deck and steadied on course toward their destination. "Raptor 300, good shot, good shot," he reported over the comm system, letting the flight controllers know that he'd launched without difficulty.

"Roger that, three-double-zero," came the reply. "Captain says 'good hunting,' Commander. And be careful."

"Be sure to tell him I'll be careful not to scratch the paint," Tolwyn said. It was the kind of remark he could never have gotten away with in the Confederation Navy, admiral's nephew or not. The casual side of life on the frontier did have a few advantages.

He waited as other heavy fighters joined him in formation off the carrier's bow, taking the time to get the feel of the Raptor. The bird had been state-of-the-art fifteen years back, during the famous Vega campaign. Now it was fit for second-rate fleets like the Landreich's, though Tolwyn had found it to be a sturdy, reliable craft in practice flights. He hoped it would do as well in actual combat, if and when it came to that.

"Lone Wolf Lone Wolf, this is Doomsday. You copy?" The radio call jerked him out of his introspective mood. The last of the Raptors had left the flight deck and joined him. It was time to get the mission under way.

"Five by five, Doomsday," he said. "You boys think you can keep up with me okay? Or should I hold back?"

"Don't go asking for trouble, there, kid. You may be the Wing Commander now, but I remember when you were a wet-behind-the-ears newbie who didn't know a high-g turn from a hole in the ground."

Tolwyn chuckled. Etienne "Doomsday" Montclair was one of his oldest and best friends from back on the end run to Kilrah all those years ago. He'd been senior to Tolwyn then, a cocky veteran who tended to slam the new kid whenever the opportunity arose, but he'd been a damned good friend and a fine wingman. Unfortunately, Doomsday had been part of the Free Corps mission to the Landreich during the period leading up to the Battle of Earth, serving under Jason Bondarevsky on the Tarawa while Tolwyn was in the thick of the action with the Confederation fleet that faced the Kilrathi at Sirius and in the Solar System. As a result, and because of his high-placed connections, Tolwyn had shot onto the fast track and advanced more quickly in rank than Doomsday. So now he was senior to Montclair in this new navy, probably once again because of his uncle's influence, but Doomsday being Doomsday there was little chance of the Wing Commander getting a swelled head.

"Everybody stick to the game plan," Tolwyn ordered. "Babe, are you ready to make your run?"

"That's affirmative, skipper" The soft contralto voice of Darlene "Babe" Babcock answered him. 'Waiting for your orders."

For a moment Tolwyn wished he'd strapped on a Hornet for today's mission, instead of picking the Raptor. Babcock's squadron, VF-12 -- more usually known as the "Flying Eyes"—was equipped with the Hornet light fighter, a fast, high-performance craft that was ideal for reconnaissance missions but limited in the fighting it could handle. Today they carried even lighter combat loads than usual to make room for a Mark VI APSP, a sensor pod containing a battery of cameras, imaging systems, and other survey gear that was normally used to conduct long-range scans ahead of a fleet or target identification runs in a planetary atmosphere. So Babcock would be taking her planes in low over the Kilrathi hulk to get a good look at the supercarrier ahead of the rest of them, while the heavier Raptors of Doomsday's VF-88, the Crazy Eights, waited to provide cover if they ran into trouble.

Tolwyn's instincts were still those of a combat pilot, and the recon mission had tempted him mightily. But though he still used his old handle, "Lone Wolf," he knew that his responsibilities as a wing commander ran deeper than satisfying his personal desires. Some wing commanders would have directed operations from the carrier's flight control center, but that would have been too much of a leap for Kevin Tolwyn. Instead he'd fly the support part of the mission, where he could sit