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

Beside him, Harper chuckled. Squadron pilots aboard a carrier were graded on each approach they made by the LSO, and the results posted in the ready rooms. It was a form of competition designed to keep everybody sharp. "Passed" was the highest rating given out. Plainly the LSO didn't know that he had just graded a visiting Wing Commander.

"Thanks, Control," Bondarevsky responded. He saw the same humor in the situation that Harper did, but he couldn't help but feel a little smug at making the grade. After all, it really had been a lot of time since he'd handled a shuttle docking . . . and a long time since he'd negotiated the tricky approach down to Tarawa's deck. "Independence Alpha securing from flight stations. VIP party preparing to disembark."

He shut down the cockpit controls and glanced over at Harper. "Well, Lieutenant? I hope my performance was satisfactory . . . for an old man."

"Aye, sir, more than satisfactory," Harper said with a grin. "I'll fly alongside you any day, and that's a fact."

They unstrapped and left through the rear hatch that led into the passenger compartment, where the two admirals were just standing up while they continued a technical conversation about the design philosophy of Kilrathi warships. Other officers, staff members and a few techies—Sparks among them—held back, waiting for Richards and Tolwyn to exit the shuttle. The age-old rule of the high seas still held: senior officers were last to board a small craft, and first out.

Harper cracked the hatch. "They're ready for you, sirs," he said.

Richards led the way through the shuttle's hatch, followed closely by Tolwyn and Bondarevsky. The flight deck looked just the same as it had the last time Bondarevsky had been aboard, with bustling technicians hard at work on a number of planes close by, and a fresh team swarming toward the new arrival with an assortment of hardware to get the shuttle moved out of the way and into the maintenance cycle as quickly as possible.

They paused at the top of the door ramp. Right in front of them the organized chaos of flight operations swirled around a side party of Landreich marines in full dress uniforms. A bosun's whistle shrilled in greeting, and Richards started down the ramp.

The officer who advanced to meet him was dressed in a uniform several grades fancier than any Bondarevsky had seen in Landreich's navy, better than the one Richards had worn for his meetings with Confed VIPs at Tycho. There were gleaming captain's bars on his collar and plenty of gold braid just about everywhere else, and a patch on each shoulder carried the name Independence.

"Welcome aboard, gentlemen," he said. His accent tended toward the faint drawl of the Landreich aristocracy, and he seemed rather young for the responsibility of commanding a carrier. On the other hand, Bondarevsky himself had still been in his twenties when he took over command of Tarawa. It was just strange seeing another young officer taking the job. "My name's Galbraith. Captain John Calhoun Galbraith, at your service. Welcome aboard the Independence."

The name rang a bell. He'd heard of Galbraith when he'd served in the Landreich before. The man's father was one of the wealthiest industrialists on Landreich, a robber baron who owned just about everything that was worth owning. His influence had ensured a smooth rise through the navy for his son, who'd commanded a destroyer when Bondarevsky had last heard of him. Galbraith was said to be competent enough as an administrator, and he'd never marred his combat record with a lost fight, but he was generally regarded as too soft and lazy to make a good combat skipper.

And now he was in command of the old Tarawa. What a comedown for a grand old lady . . . handed over to the man because Kruger needed the Galbraith family's continued goodwill to keep the Landreich on its feet.

"My senior officers," Galbraith went on with a casual wave at the cluster of faces behind him. "My XO, Commander Roth. My Chief Engineer, Commander Watanabe." He paused, looking at Admiral Tolwyn. "And you, at least, Admiral, should know my Wing Commander."

Bondarevsky suppressed a surprised exclamation as the last-indicated figure stepped forward.

"Kevin, my boy, it's good to see you," Admiral Tolwyn greeted his nephew in a tone that was pleased, but by no means surprised. So he had expected to meet Kevin Tolwyn out here in the Landreich. He might, Bondarevsky reflected ruefully, have mentioned something about it.

"Likewise, sir," the younger man replied. He looked much as Bondarevsky remembered him, short and stocky like his uncle, but with a baby face that belied his years of service as an officer in the Confederation Navy. He'd been one of the heroes of the Battle of Earth, but after he'd been declared Missing in Action in the final clash with Thrakhath's fleet and only recovered by the sheerest of chances the admiral had persuaded him to give up his flight status and become part of his Behemoth project staff.

Now he was here in the Landreich, wearing the insignia of a full commander and serving as the head of the flight wing assigned to the Independence, FW-105, the Liberators. Yet another old friend, Bondarevsky reflected, mustered for this new clash with the Kilrathi out here on mankind's most distant frontier.

Kevin Tolwyn caught Bondarevsky's eye and gave his familiar grin. "Glad to see you, too, Bear," he said. "And on the old Tarawa, too. Old home week, no less."

"Yeah, I'll say. I brought Sparks along, too."

"Hey, really? Doomsday's one of my squadron commanders. And there's a couple of others from the old days on board."

Bondarevsky didn't let his reaction show on his face. It seemed Richards and Tolwyn had been doing quite a bit of recruiting over the past few months. The situation was starting to remind him of that first Landreich campaign. Just what were they letting themselves in for this time around?

He