The Fighter Queen Page 12

  "What's on your mind, Colonel?"

  "This is confidential, Lana. That's very important."

  "I have no problem with that."

  "I understand that Captain Easton visits you from time to time?"

  Lana smiled in irony. "He says he likes blondes, but I think it's because I look like his mother." Lana was still very firm and attractive at her age, and one of the few white women in the camp.

  Landon couldn't suppress a grin.

  "I'll leave the psychoanalysis to you," he said.

  "It's just a suspicion," she said. "The captain definitely has issues."

  "Does he ever confide in you?"

  "Sure. He loves to talk. I know all about what a great company commander he was, and I can tell you the details of every Sirian he ever killed in combat."

  "What about current events? Does he ever talk about life here in the camp?"

  Julia looked up in surprise, then exchanged glances with Lana.

  "Would you be more specific?" Lana asked.

  "No."

  She stared at him for a moment, then glanced at Julia again.

  "I don't think I know what you're asking, Colonel." Her voice had gone flat, tense.

  Landon leaned forward. "I think you do. Both of you reacted just now. What's being planned, Lana?"

  "I can't talk about it. These buildings may be bugged."

  "If they were, and anything important was discussed here, I wouldn't need to be asking. Krieger would already know."

  Both women were silent for a moment. It was Julia who spoke next.

  "Just suppose," she said, "that we did know something you might be interested in. Would you tell Krieger?"

  "No. I would never betray a Federation fighting man to the enemy. If anything is going on that needs action, I'll take care of it myself."

  "What kind of action?"

  "That's yet to be determined, and you don't need to worry about it. My priority is keeping these prisoners safe until liberation."

  Neither woman spoke for half a minute. Then Lana shrugged.

  "You can't ever tell Captain Easton you talked to me."

  "Agreed."

  "He's planning an escape."

  "I've heard that. Do you know when?"

  "He hasn't set a date. But soon."

  "How's he going to do it?"

  "He didn't say. But he's sure he can pull it off."

  "Where does he plan to go? The Sirians will mobilize and surround this whole region."

  "There's a place south of here, about fifteen hundred miles, called the Outback."

  "It's a desert region," Julia put in. "Almost nobody lives there, except a few prospectors and geologists. There's very little water down there, which is why it was never settled."

  "It's wild country," Lana added. "Some small, really rugged mountains, and lots of caves and dry washes. Criminals go there sometimes, when the law is after them, but very few actually survive."

  Landon frowned. "Fifteen hundred miles? How does Easton plan to get there?"

  "The camp has a few hovervans and some staff cars."

  "He won't get a hundred miles. The Sirian Space Fleet will be all over him."

  The women only shrugged.

  "Anything else?"

  "Only that … I don't think he plans to take everyone. Just his own men."

  Landon nodded. It sounded like Easton. He had perhaps a hundred Infantry who'd been under his command. He could order them to follow him, and from what Landon had seen they would obey. Even if it was suicidal.

  Landon stood suddenly. "Thank you," he said. "Both of you."

  Lana smiled weakly. "Come back and see us again, Colonel. It would be nice, once in a while, to go to bed with a man closer to my own age."

  UFF George Bush, Parking Orbit, Vega 3

  3/Lt. Wendy Smith knocked once on the Wing Commander's door and stepped into his office. She stood rigidly at attention, more than a little intimidated by the summons that had brought her here. What in the galaxy could the Wing Commander want with her?

  "Lieutenant Smith reporting as ordered, sir!"

  Col. Hinds glanced up from his desk, glared at her for a moment, then nodded to a chair.

  "Take a seat. Be with you in a minute."

  He returned to his datawork while the nervous young gunner slipped onto the edge of a chair, her back straight as a ramrod. Hinds fiddled with his terminal for five minutes, giving her ample time to feel her heart beating. Finally he looked up, tossed his stylus down, and leaned back in his chair. He looked mightily pissed off, she thought — what could she have possibly done?

  "How long have you been in the service, Lieutenant?" he growled.

  "Eleven months, sir."

  "This your first combat posting?"

  "Yes, sir." Like most new gunners arriving in a combat area, Wendy Smith hadn't yet been assigned to a squadron. She was living with forty other girls in a common dormitory known as the Gunnery Pool, irreverently referred to as the "Beaver Pond".

  "So you haven't seen any action?"

  "Not yet, sir."

  "Looking forward to it?"

  "Yes, sir. I signed up to fight."

  "Good." Hinds nodded approvingly. "That's good."

  He seemed lost in thought for a moment, and the young woman watched him with wide, vulnerable eyes.

  "The way things are going right now," Hinds told her, "it might be several months before you get assigned to a pilot. Some of the girls in the pool have been there since January. Did anyone tell you that?"

  She gulped. "No, sir."

  "It's going to be pretty boring for you. Mundane duty. Polishing this, swabbing that, cleaning heads, doing PT. Not very glamorous, is it?"

  "No, sir."

  Hinds studied her a minute, taking in her fresh good looks, her long brown hair, her narrow waist and the swell of her breasts. He stirred, as if coming to a decision.

  "I'm looking for a personal assistant, Lieutenant," he said. "Someone to run errands for me, help with datawork, things like that. If you're interested, you'd be relieved of the tedious routine you're experiencing right now. You'd have the run of the ship. You'd also get bumped up a grade to second lieutenant, with an automatic raise in pay. And you'd keep your place in the rotation; as soon as a slot opened up, you'd still get assigned to a pilot."

  He gave her five seconds to digest that information.

  "Interested?"

  Her blood pressure eased a little, and her lips parted, her sexy dark eyes never leaving his face.

  "You'd also get your own private quarters," he added. "No longer living in a zoo with fifty other girls."

  She blinked, and for the first time she smiled.

  "When do I start, sir?"

  Hinds curled his lip in the approximation of a smile.

  "Effective immediately. Go pack your gear."

  Sunday, 9 August, 0240 (PCC) — UFF George Bush, Parking Orbit, Vega 3

  Onja Kvoorik stood at the observation window of her shipboard office and stared down at the planet below. Her mind wandered briefly as she thought back to her childhood, of the big house at the end of the street where she'd spent her first twelve years, of the munitions factory her father owned, of the good times she'd spent as a child, of the Temple of Sophia where she'd been baptized, where she'd made her vow.

  She wondered how much of it was still standing. The Federation had been conducting space strikes for over a year, and the damage had to be horrific.

  She wondered about her father, Adam Pedersen. Was he still alive? Had the Sirians discovered his deception when he sent her away, and executed him? Would she find a frail old man down there, or just a grave? She'd waited twenty-seven years to find out, and within a few months, she would have her answer.

  Someone rapped sharply on her door and stepped through. She turned to see Lt. Smith, Hinds's new assistant. The girl was flushed and breathless, urgency in her eyes.

  "Major Kvoorik! Come quick!"

  Onja's eyes widened in a
larm. "What is it?"

  "The ready room, Ma'am! The pilots are fighting! It's a real brawl!"

  Onja lunged for the door, following Smith into the companionway.

  "Where the hell is Colonel Hinds?" she demanded.

  "I don't know, Ma'am! That's why I came to find you!"

  The two women raced the length of the companionway, made a left turn, and dashed another ten yards to the ready room hatch. Onja gripped the hatch and jerked it open, then stopped in confusion. The room was dark and silent. She glanced at Lt. Smith, who looked just as surprised. The younger woman spread her hands in confusion.

  Onja stepped into the room and took half a dozen steps.

  "Lights on!" she commanded, and brilliant light bathed the room.

  "SURPRISE!!!"

  Fifty people leaped out of hiding, filling the room with the single exclamation. Someone blew a party whistle, and several people threw a cascade of confetti into the air. Onja stood stunned. As one, the crews began singing Happy Birthday.

  Well before they finished, Onja's iron exterior melted; she blushed crimson, and covered her face with her hands. By the time they crowded around her, cheering and clapping, tears of joy streamed down her face. Tommy Royal stepped up and took her into his arms, kissing her firmly.

  "Happy birthday, Major," he said.

  "Tommy!" Onja wiped her eyes, laughing and crying at the same time, and began hugging each and every member of her squadron. By the time she got to the end, Jack Hinds was there, a little smile on his hard-bitten face. Onja hugged him, too.

  "Speech!" someone called.

  Onja shook her head helplessly, held up her hand for quiet, and wiped her eyes again.

  "It's a good thing we don't have a mission today," she said. "I don't think I could hit a Sirian in the ass with my fist."

  Laughter.

  "Thank you, each and every one. I didn't even realize today was my birthday."

  "Nine August," Hinds said. "You can thank Lieutenant Smith. She's the one who noticed your DOB and set it up."

  Onja turned to the young woman who'd called her to the ready room. Wendy was laughing hysterically as Onja approached her.

  "I'm sorry, Major," she giggled. "It was just too good to pass up!"

  Onja gave her a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

  "Thank you, Lieutenant. I haven't had a surprise party since I was nine years old."

  The galley had prepared a birthday cake and a bowl of punch. The party lasted about an hour, everyone milling about and enjoying their break from the war. Gradually, the various fighter crews began to drift away, until only a handful remained. Lt. Smith set about cleaning up the area, aided by galley stewards, and Hinds cornered Onja off to one side.

  "If you'd like to stop by my quarters later," he said, "we can have a more private celebration. I have a bottle of champagne that was liberated somewhere or other."

  Onja was still glowing from the pleasant surprise, and Hinds had been much more human in recent weeks. But old instincts die hard, and her warning flags rose to at least half-mast.

  "I think I'll pass, Jack," she said quietly. "I know where you're headed with this, and I'm not saying you won't ever get there. But don't push it. Okay?"

  He dipped his head in acquiescence.

  "Be a shame to waste that champagne," he said.

  "Save it for the end of the war."

  She walked away, stopped and looked back.

  "Thanks for the party, Jack."

  Camp Hope, Missibama, Sirius 1

  Camp Hope had been designed to hold two thousand prisoners, but was less than half full. Aside from an occasional fighter pilot, no sizeable number of prisoners had arrived in over four years. The population had varied little since then; seven men had died from various causes, and a handful had been transferred in and out from other camps. To Landon, rumors notwithstanding, this was ample enough evidence that Sirius was losing the war.

  The problem now, as he saw it, was to keep the inmates intact until liberation arrived.

  Jeremiah Krieger pushed a bottle of clear liquid across the desk at him and smiled.

  "Happy birthday, Colonel. Don't drink it down all at once."

  Landon looked at the bottle as if it were poison. "What is it?"

  "Sirian Lightning. I hope you have an iron stomach."

  Landon turned the bottle slightly; it looked like vodka, but the label clearly said "White Lightning", and gave the name of the distillery. He placed it on the floor beside his chair.

  "Thank you, Major."

  "So, Colonel. What shall we talk about today?"

  "You can surrender your command to me. Your men will be well treated."

  Krieger nodded and smiled. "Perhaps another time."

  "How long is this goddamned weather going to last? It's setting my men's nerves on edge." It was a rhetorical question — Landon had lived through a number of Sirian Summers.

  "My men as well. None of us enjoy it. Don't you have anything like this on Terra?"

  "Not where I live. We only have a single sun."

  "Lucky you. So tell me, when is this great escape going to take place?"

  Landon was electrified, but tried to keep any trace of surprise off his face.

  "Great escape?"

  "Surely you know about it. You're the highest-ranking prisoner in the camp. Was it your idea?"

  "I assure you, if there's an escape planned, I didn't plan it."

  "Come, Colonel, weren't you taught that a soldier's first duty if captured is to escape? That's basic military doctrine."

  "Yes, I was. But I don't see the wisdom of escaping unless there's a reasonable chance of returning to your own lines. Where the hell would we go if we broke out of here? The whole planet is an enemy home world."

  "Quite true. So you are tellin' me that this has been planned without your knowledge?"

  Landon sat mute for a moment, calculating his answer. He preferred not to lie to Krieger — the man had his duty to perform, and was the most even-handed commandant Landon had met since his capture — yet he was reluctant to admit too much.

  "I've heard some rumors. But whatever is going on doesn't have my blessing."

  "I can trust you to take care of it, then?"

  "That would require a lot of trust on your part," Landon said frankly.

  "I do trust you, Colonel, while keeping in mind that you wear the enemy's uniform. And be assured, I am quite prepared to deal with the situation myself if necessary. But it would be much cleaner all around if you could, shall we say, keep it in the family."

  Landon nodded slowly. "I'm working on it," he said.

  "Good! Then I will leave it to you. But don't fail me. I have the authority to use whatever force necessary to prevent such an event, and while I may be reluctant to do so, I will not hesitate to fulfill my duty."

  * * *

  2/Lt. Wendy Smith's new job was going well. Col. Hinds was a hard-ass, but it was just his personality; sometimes he growled and sometimes he teased her. It was nothing personal. He certainly kept her busy, sending her on errands to all parts of the ship, which was exciting all by itself, certainly more exciting than remaining in the gunnery pool. Today's surprise party had been especially fun.

  Her private quarters were tiny, just a small box wedged between a storage bay and the flight deck; barely enough room for a sleeping rack and a head, but it was private. One thing she'd disliked about military life was the lack of personal privacy, and she had plenty of that here. The colonel's quarters were only twenty yards away.

  She was sleeping soundly in her quarters, exhausted after a long day. She woke suddenly when a hand closed over her mouth, and her heart seized with fear. She tried to sit upright, but a strong hand held her flat on her back.

  "Don't be afraid," he said quietly, "it's just me."

  He removed his hand and she lay gasping with relief. Her arms tingled with excess adrenaline.

  "Colonel? What … what are you doing here?"

  "I needed to
see you," he said.

  Her chest heaved. "Did I do something wrong?"

  He settled heavily on the edge of her rack, his left hand on her shoulder, the other bracing himself against the bulkhead.

  "No. This has nothing to do with duty."

  Wendy felt a sudden wave of uncertainty; what was this about?

  "I-I don't understand, sir."

  "Do you remember, in training, when they talked about the sex policy?"

  "Yes, sir." Numbly.

  "Didn't they tell you that pilots and gunners are expected to take care of each other?"

  "Yes, sir."

  He said nothing for a moment. She couldn't even see him in the darkness, but felt his heat. His breathing seemed labored.

  "I need you, Wendy," he said. "I know I'm your boss, but I'm still a man. I have physical needs just like anyone else."

  Wendy felt physically ill. This couldn't be happening!

  "Colonel …"

  "I know it isn't fair to spring it on you like this. But I swear I'll make it up to you. I can probably get you moved up in the gunner rotation."

  A weight settled onto her chest. He wasn't a bad looking man, really, but he was more than twice her age. Hell, he was older than her father!

  "I-I'm sorry, Colonel," she whispered shakily. "But I don't feel that way about you."

  "Of course you don't. Why should you? I'm not asking for your love, just a few minutes of physical contact. You have nothing to worry about. You can't get pregnant, and I've been known to make some women very happy."

  She felt tears rising to the surface.

  "Please, Colonel! I don't want to."

  He leaned over and kissed her, sucking lightly at her full lips, his left hand gripping her shoulder. His other hand found her left breast and began to knead it gently.

  "Don't be too quick to refuse," he told her a moment later. "My last assistant was reluctant at first, too. But she gave it a chance, and we were very good together."

  "Colonel …"

  "Don't you expect to have sex with your pilot when you get assigned to one?"