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

the Project Goliath staff, but until they actually go aboard the derelict—if it is a derelict—to conduct their initial survey, the operation is a matter for Battle Group Independence. Coordination of our efforts will be extremely important throughout, as I hope you'll all understand and agree." His dry, reedy voice might have belonged to an aging professor lecturing on military tactics at the Confederation Space Academy, for all the emotion the old man betrayed. But despite his frail appearance he seemed to have all the facts at his fingertips, and Bondarevsky thought he could still make out the firm and decisive mind that had led a Landreich fleet to victory over the Kilrathi nearly thirty years ago, back in the first days of the Secession crisis.

Glancing around the table, Bondarevsky found himself wondering about the others assembled there. In previous campaigns he'd known the men serving with him. They'd been squadron-mates or members of the same flight wing who lived and worked and played cheek-by-jowl every day; later they'd been fellow ship-captains from the same battle group, men and women of proven competence whose actions and thoughts became thoroughly known over weeks or months of duty on a distant combat station. But this group was largely composed of unknowns, at least as far as Bondarevsky and the other Goliath officers were concerned. It made him edgy to know he'd be depending on total strangers not just for the success or failure of the operation, but possibly for his very survival.

They tended to split into two groups, the Goliath team and the senior officers of the battle group. Though Admiral Camparelli presided, it was clear that it was Captain Galbraith most of them looked to for direction, and that young CO was wrapped in an air of almost palpable superiority. From hints the man had let fall in conversation already it was plain that he considered this mission a milk run, a minor chore far beneath the dignity of the flagship of the Landreich fleet. Perhaps he was also conscious of the fact that Tarawa—no, damn it, Independence, Bondarevsky reminded himself bitterly—stood to lose that flagship status if the salvage mission was successful, and with Tolwyn destined for her command seat he might be feeling a little disappointed that his father's political machinations had secured him the escort carrier when this new vessel was waiting in the wings.

The other three skippers of the battle group's fighting ships sat between Galbraith and Camparelli. So far they were little more than names and faces to Bondarevsky. Forbes of the light cruiser Xenophon was a blonde giant with a faint accent that reminded Bondarevsky of one of his old comrades, Paladin. Miruts Bikina of the destroyer Durendal was his complete opposite, a wiry black soldier of fortune from the colonial world of Azania who had joined Kruger's navy only a few years back, but quickly established an impressive combat record that had earned him rapid advancement. His reputation for competency boded well, but Bondarevsky wondered if a mercenary could ever be trusted as much as someone actually defending his home and hearth.

On the other hand, that was essentially what he and Tolwyn were, mercenaries for hire. Perhaps he'd have to adjust his way of thinking now that he wore the uniform of a captain of the FRLN.

The third captain commanded the destroyer Caliburn, a stunning red-headed woman named Pamela Collins. Bondarevsky had noticed that most of the male officers of the battle group were so busy noticing her good looks that they didn't realize she had a string of single-ship kills on her service record that would have put most Confederation skippers to shame. He didn't have any worries as to how Caliburn would perform, at least.

Two more around the table weren't ship captains, but they were an integral part of the power projection abilities of the battle group. Colonel Bhaktadil Rai was commander of the Independence's contingent of Republic Marines, a slight but sturdy man with light skin, fierce black eyebrows, and a prominent nose between dark Asiatic eyes. He was a descendent of the proud Gurkha warriors of old Terra, and took his heritage seriously. Even on duty he wore a turban instead of more usual military headgear—what he did when he had to wear full space armor was something Bondarevsky hoped to discover some day—and he carried a wicked-looking curved combat knife, a kukri, at his side. Beside him, Kevin Tolwyn looked uncomfortable wearing khakis instead of his flight suit, but like the marine he stayed quiet and let the others do most of the talking. The young commander had come a long way since Bondarevsky had first taken him under his wing right here aboard the old Tarawa.

There were also four non-combatant ships in the squadron, assigned specifically to assist in the Goliath Project. The transport City of Cashel was commanded by a dour reservist named Steiger. She had been designed to carry a full division of troops between worlds, but today was carrying nearly six thousand men and women who would serve aboard the supercarrier, together with the two hundred specialists from Kruger's prized salvage team who were represented by Armando Diaz, who had a brevet rank of major in the Landreich's army for the duration of the crisis. Diaz was dark, thin, and radiated enough nervous energy to run a medium-sized combat ship for a year or two, but he plainly knew his business. Whether or not he could surmount the extra obstacles of putting a Kilrathi ship into service again remained to be seen.

Diaz would be working closely with the captains of the tender Sindri and the huge factory ship Andrew Carnegie, a Mutt-and-Jeff pair whose names were Dickerson and Lake -- Bondarevsky still wasn't entirely sure which one was which. Their commands, though non-combatants, would have the pivota1 part in the Goliath Project, the tender serving as a deep-space repair platform for the supercarrier while the mammoth Andrew Carnegie, designed for semi-automated minerals extraction and fabrication