Wing Commander #07 False Color by William Forstchen (novels for students TXT) 📗

"It seemed a good time to get some study time in," Bondarevsky said. "What's your excuse, Mr. Harper?"

The lieutenant spread his hands and grinned. "I always try to rise a mite before my watch, to get an hour or two in on the flight simulator before the wardroom gets busy." He indicated the simulator compartment at the far end of the wardroom. Half game, half training tool, flight simulators were popular diversions aboard ships in deep space, where boredom hung heavy on long voyages between the stars.

"Every morning?" Bondarevsky asked. "That's a hell of a lot of sim time, isn't it?"

"True enough," Harper said. His expression turned wistful. "The truth of it is, sir, I want to keep in top form, in case an opportunity should arise for a transfer to a fighter wing."

"You've had flight wing training?" Bondarevsky studied the younger man closely. He gestured to a chair, and Harper sat down across the table from him. "How did you end up a shuttle jockey? If you don't mind my asking."

"A sad tale, that," Harper replied. "I fear my scores in flight school were only just borderline. Not the technical side of it. I could fly rings around my classmates. Word of honor on it. But . . . 'tis sad but true that the Devil puts temptation in the way of mortal man, and some of us just lack the rectitude to resist as we should. They say I set a record for the number of demerits earned by one officer in any class, and as a result my standing was knocked down. This was before we had many openings for pilots, before we started acquiring escort carriers from the Confed boys. So I missed out when the first round of flight wing berths was being filled, and drew shuttle duty instead. And bad luck has been keeping me away from the action ever since. I put in for transfers, but by the time this old tub gets to port all the new vacancies have gone to new pilots, and I stay where I am."

"That's a damned shame, Lieutenant," Bondarevsky said. His sympathy was genuine. There was nothing a born pilot hated more than to hold back on the sidelines and watch others do the job he knew he could do better. Bondarevsky had gone through the same thing a few times. "I'd offer to help, but I don't have the faintest idea of what kind of assignment I'll be drawing myself, so my promise might not be any good to you."

Harper gave him a grin. 'Well, sir, I can't hold you to anything . . . but it's eager I'd be if you could find a chance to get me a fighter of my own."

"Just so you don't go running up demerits in an outfit I'm in charge of," he told the lieutenant sternly. "I know that fun and games are supposed to be the natural perks of any fighter jock, but not when it might put a unit of mine in danger. You follow me?"

"Ah, sir, that was when I was still a lad," Harper said with an even broader grin. "I've learned to be more . . . selective in seeking out my entertainment, since I've reached my maturity and all."

"Yeah, right," Bondarevsky said. "You're a wise old man now, eh, Harper?" He paused. "Look, Lieutenant, if it doesn't throw you too far off your sim schedule, let me buy you a cup of coffee. I'm trying to get a handle on conditions in the Landreich, and I'd like some input from someone who knows it. Could you do that for me?"

"With pleasure, sir," Harper said. "But I should warn you that I haven't seen or heard all that much. A shuttle pilot doesn't exactly move in the rarefied atmosphere of admirals and commodores, you know. And all I really know is Tara, and maybe a little about some of the stations I've been on since I signed up."

"Even that much would be a hell of a lot more than I've got now," Bondarevsky told him. "I haven't been in the Landreich since the Free Corps campaign, and a lot can change in four years. And even when I was there, I didn't have much of a chance to get a feel for the Free Republic."

The younger officer helped himself to a cup of the hot, bitter coffee from the vending machine near the table, then returned to his chair. He regarded Bondarevsky with an uncharacteristic solemn expression. "What can I be telling you, then, sir?"

"Tell me a little bit about yourself, first, Mr. Harper," Bondarevsky said. "Give me a junior officer's view of the situation in the Landreich."

Harper shrugged. "Not much to say, sir, really. I told you already that I was born on Tara. We were one of the first colonies to join Landreich in the succession movement, back when the confees decided we weren't worth the effort to guard. I joined up after my father was killed, when a Cat raider blew his freighter out of space. Lied about my age, too, I'm afraid. At sixteen you can't see yourself waiting two years for anything, and I wanted the chance to give those Cats back a little of what they'd give us."

"How far back was that?"

"Ten years it's been, sir. I had just graduated from flight school when Himself took the fleet to Terra in '66."

"Himself?"

"The President, you know. Old Max. I wanted to be a part of that run so bad I could taste it, but I was flying shuttles between Landreich and Hellhole."

"You should be glad you missed it. A lot of good people died out there."

"Ah, but many a deserving young officer came home with a promotion, too, I'm thinking," Harper returned. "At any rate, it's mostly been quiet since, except for that raid the Cats mounted late last year. A carrier battle group actually got as far as Landreich itself,