The Fighter Queen Page 7

  But it didn't fire.

  "Squadron! Break left mark!"

  Mombasa rolled left at the same time — but he'd got a clear look at the bogey. It blasted overhead in a streak of silver, hammering him with a thunderclap as it exceeded Mach 1. Mombasa, now inverted, dived straight down and pulled back on his yoke, leveling out on a northerly course, leaving his flight behind as he poured on thrust and gave chase. The bogey was miles ahead, but with determination born of rage he went to afterburner and began to close the range.

  He climbed, keeping the bogey in sight, but closing only slowly.

  "Input: magnify and identify enemy spacecraft. Execute."

  "Ack.”

  "Come on, you bastard!" he grunted into his helmet faceplate. "Come back around and let me ID your ass!"

  As if in response to his words, the bogey turned again, heading back on a convergent course. Mombasa climbed, aiming his fighter at the intruder, passing through Mach 1 as he instigated a deadly game of chicken in the clear Colorado sky. The other fighter kept coming.

  "Unidentified spacecraft," Mombasa said over universal channel, "you are about to be fired upon! Turn your ass away from this area or I swear to god I'll blow you out of the sky!"

  The other pilot didn't reply, but the fighter abruptly jerked straight up into a vertical climb, losing not an ounce of speed. Mombasa followed, determined to get a tail number or other identification. Suddenly the rogue twisted on its tail, killed thrust, and tumbled nose-down, screaming earthward like a meteor, spiraling away to give Mombasa room. Before Mombasa could react, the other pilot swooped into a series of high-speed climbs and loops, dancing around the sky like a drunken ballerina, always in complete control.

  Mombasa leveled out and continued the chase, watching in awe as the unidentified pilot looped and rolled, never allowing him to close to within a mile.

  "Info:" the AI said. "Unidentified fighter is a LincEnt PulsarFighter, tail number X-Ray Papa Foxtrot eight six India."

  "Okay, fucker!" Mombasa said over the air. "You've made your point. You know how to fly. But you're still in deep shit. I know who you are and where you sleep. So just go on home and get away from my pilots. Do you read me?"

  Still no response. But the PulsarFighter leveled out and turned toward him once more — not a collision course, but on a heading that would bring him by on the port side. Seconds before it arrived, the PF began a barrel roll, and as it streaked past it was spinning like a bullet.

  Mombasa turned again to follow, but the renegade went to burner and began to climb, black coal pouring from its jets. This time it kept going, and in a matter of seconds Mombasa lost it.

  At no time did it ever appear on his radar.

  Letting out his breath in a weak gasp, Mombasa turned back to round up his rookie pilots. If they were still together it would be a miracle.

  Chapter 6

  UFF George Bush, in orbit, Vega 3

  1/Lt Tommy Royal was twenty-five, medium height, with dark brown hair and sparkling blue eyes. If Onja had rated his looks she would have called him "cute" — his boyishness was appealing.

  He stood at attention before the desk she'd just taken over from Major Bonnar. Onja remained seated, appraising him carefully for a moment.

  "At ease," she said finally. "Take a seat."

  Royal sat down, still uncomfortable, and remained rigid in the chair.

  "How long have you been with the Triple-One?" she asked.

  "Three days, Ma'am!" he said crisply.

  "And before that?"

  "I was with the 427."

  "Combat experience?"

  "Eight months and nine days, Ma'am. The Battle of Vega is my first campaign."

  "What kind of combat have you seen?"

  "Everything, I think," he said, gazing at her face. "Air-to-air, space-to-space, ground support."

  "How'd you do?"

  "Well — I had two very good gunners, Ma'am. Twenty-three kills total."

  "Why two gunners? Did you lose one?"

  "Not exactly, Ma'am. One was wounded and rotated home. She was hit by ground fire while we were doing infantry support."

  "Do you have a gunner in the Triple One?"

  "No, Ma'am. We're about four girls short. I'm the new guy, so I don't have a gunner yet."

  "Tell me about yourself. Where are you from?"

  "Northern California. Sonoma."

  "Family?"

  "Both parents, two younger sisters, twelve and fourteen."

  She nodded, still watching his eyes. She'd reviewed his record the day before, had requested his transfer herself before taking command of the squadron. He sat perfectly still, waiting for her to continue. His eyes never left hers.

  "I'm looking for a pilot, Lieutenant. Are you interested?"

  Royal's eyes widened in disbelief, and he barely suppressed a gulp.

  "Me?"

  She nodded. "Without going into detail, my last pilot proved unsatisfactory, so I didn't bring him when I transferred over. Your record is impressive and I like your attitude so far."

  "Thank you, Ma'am." He looked shaken.

  "Do I make you nervous?"

  "Well … Yes, Ma'am, I'm afraid so."

  She smiled, the first time since coming aboard Bush.

  "Try to relax," she said.

  He nodded self-consciously and made an effort, but still remained stiff.

  "I'm twelve years older than you, Lieutenant."

  "Yes, Ma'am."

  "Does that intimidate you?"

  "No, Ma'am. It's just that … well, you're the Fighter Queen. I've heard about you most of my life. I've never met anyone famous before."

  "Since the war started I've had seven pilots. All but one were killed, captured, or disabled. What do you think about that?"

  He frowned. "Well, Ma'am, I'm not sure. I guess it means you've been in the thick of it."

  "Does that make me unlucky?"

  "No, Ma'am. You survived."

  "But?"

  "But nothing. Like I said, you've been in the thick of things. People get killed."

  "Would you be willing to fly with me, Lieutenant?"

  "Yes, Ma'am. If you think I'm good enough."

  Lincoln Enterprises, Denver, CO, North America, Terra

  "LincEnt Control, Eighty-six India. Request clearance to land."

  "Roger, Eighty-six India, you are cleared to land. Visibility six miles, wind southwesterly at four knots."

  Johnny Lincoln II glanced at his airspeed indicator, tickled the throttle control with his left hand, and rolled gently left. Turning on final, he dropped flaps to fifteen degrees and leveled out. The LincEnt runway beckoned to him from a mile ahead, and with skill accumulated over five thousand hours of flying, he set up his approach and began gliding down an imaginary line that would put him on the ground fifty feet beyond the hash marks. Nose up six degrees, gear down and locked, twenty degrees flaps, power back.

  At a hundred fifty knots he covered the distance in twenty-two seconds, setting down heavily and shooting down the runway like a silver streak. Back on the power, full flaps, spoilers fully deployed, let the nose gear settle, reverse thrust …

  Routine.

  He used a half-mile of runway, turned onto a parallel taxiway, and headed toward his customary parking spot. He felt great! Another successful flight, this one to test the new radar-jamming module that LincEnt was hoping to sell to the Space Force. It had actually turned out better than planned — no one had expected live targets for the test.

  Johnny grinned. He wished he could've seen the faces of those fighter jocks over the mountains! What a hoot! It would take them an hour to clean their cockpits when they landed.

  The thought made him laugh out loud.

  "LincEnt Control, Eighty-six India, shutting down."

  With careful attention to detail, Johnny stepped through shutdown procedures. Less than a minute later he popped the canopy and stepped onto the wing root, then turned to climb down to the starcrete.

/>   He stopped, surprised. A moment earlier he'd been alone; now four men were staring up at him. One was LincEnt Security; the rest wore Space Force uniforms. Two were Star Police, the other was clearly an officer. The StarPos carried rifles.

  The officer waved him down.

  When he reached the ground, he pulled off his flight helmet. The four men stared ominously back at him, no trace of humor on their faces.

  "Johnny Lincoln II?" the officer demanded. He wore the charcoal dress of the Fighter Service.

  "That's right," Johnny said with a half smile, trying to keep the tension out of his voice. "What's up? You guys here to recruit me?"

  "I have a military warrant for your detention," the officer said.

  "What?"

  "You are to be detained for investigation of a national security violation. Would you like to make a statement?"

  "Make a statement! What the hell are you talking about?"

  The officer turned to one of the Star Police. "Take the prisoner into custody."

  Prisoner? Johnny was stunned. He looked at the LincEnt security guard.

  "What the hell's going on, Romero? Tell these guys who I am!"

  "They know who you are, Johnny. I suggest you don't resist."

  Johnny Lincoln II, still in flight gear, stood frozen in shock and humiliation as the StarPos pulled his arms behind him and attached E-cuffs. The humiliation was worse as he imagined that other LincEnt employees were watching from the windows of nearby buildings.

  "Where you taking me?" he demanded as the five of them set off on foot.

  "We'll start at the security office," the officer replied. "If necessary, we can take you to Colorado Springs."

  Johnny twisted around to look at the security guard.

  "Romero, can you find my granddad? I think he …"

  "He knows, Johnny."

  Johnny fell silent. Oliver would take care of these jokers. The old man was good at pushing people around. Johnny would leave it to him.

  But Oliver wasn't there when they took Johnny into an interrogation room and set him down in front of a mirror. Nor did Oliver put in an appearance as the grim-looking officer, who identified himself as Major Howard, glared at Johnny as if he'd sold secrets to the enemy. The Star Police waited outside, but Romero was allowed to stay.

  Johnny felt a mixture of anger and apprehension as Major Howard stood over him.

  "Do you want to tell me where you went on your test flight?" he asked in a cold, flat voice.

  "No," Johnny said. "That's classified."

  "What do you mean, classified?"

  "Don't you know what 'classified' means? You're military, surely you've heard the word."

  "Give me your definition," Howard replied.

  "I'm testing a military spacecraft," Johnny told him. "The spacecraft is highly classified. So are its various components. Are you a pilot? — I didn't think so. I'm not telling you any secrets that you aren't cleared for."

  Howard stared at him in frank disbelief. He didn't speak for thirty seconds.

  "How old are you?"

  "Seventeen."

  "Try that again?"

  "I'm seventeen." Johnny grinned, as he realized the significance of that. "Yeah, I'm a minor! You can't even question me without a parent or guardian present!"

  "Where did you go on your flight?"

  "It's classi …"

  "Where did you go?" Howard's hand hammered the table, making Johnny jump.

  Johnny blinked, swallowed, and met the major's eyes. For just an instant he wavered, then his arrogance settled back into place.

  "Up in the sky," he said.

  Howard's eyes narrowed. He pulled out a chair and sat down.

  "You're a bright kid, aren't you? A pretty good pilot."

  "Pretty good? I've got over five thousand hours! How many of your combat pilots can say that?"

  "The son of a famous fighter pilot." Howard ignored the statement. "Your dad was a war hero, wasn't he?"

  "That's right. My dad saved the Federation before he was killed. Everyone knows that."

  "Your dad had a great deal of respect for the Space Force, didn't he?"

  "Sure, I guess so."

  "So what gives you the right to treat it with such contempt?"

  Johnny stared at him a moment, wavering between his anger and an unfamiliar sense of uncertainty.

  "I respect the Space Force," he said. "It's you I'm pissed at. Who the hell do you think you are?"

  Howard leaned forward.

  "I should ask you the same question. Who the hell gave you the right to attack a military training flight and scare the hell out a bunch of green pilots?"

  "What? I didn't 'attack' anybody! I was testing … I mean, I made a couple of passes at them, that's all. I was completely in control of my spacecraft and my anti-collision software was activated. There was no danger to anyone."

  "Three of those pilots were rookies. Did it ever occur to you that not everyone has five thousand hours?"

  "Hey, if you guys put them in the cockpit, I have to assume they know how to fly."

  "Knowing how to fly is one thing. Knowing how to evade an intruder is another."

  Johnny sat silent.

  "Something else you may not have considered," Howard went on. "Those fighters were all armed. We're still at war. Did you think they wouldn't shoot at you?"

  "No, why should they? There hasn't been a Sirian in our atmosphere in fifteen years."

  "You have it all worked out, don't you? What if those cherry pilots panicked and forgot that it's been fifteen years? What if one of them — or all of them — fired on you? What then?"

  "I know how to evade."

  Major Howard's jaw worked slowly as he battled his anger.

  "Okay," Johnny admitted. "The flight leader warned me away. When he said he'd shoot, I broke off. So, you see, there was no real danger. I'm not stupid."

  Howard stood abruptly, glared at the boy a moment longer, then walked out of the room.

  Johnny looked at Romero.

  "Where's my granddad?"

  "He's in the next room."

  "What! Why isn't he in here? He should throw these guys off the property!"

  "I don't think he sees it that way."

  Johnny sank into his chair a little, the first glimmer of doubt beginning to stir.

  * * *

  Oliver Lincoln III watched his grandson through the false mirror that separated the interrogation room from where he stood. He'd heard everything that was said. Now Major Howard stood before him.

  "That's a pretty cocky kid you've got there," Howard said.

  "I encourage that," Oliver said. "Timid people don't survive very long in fighters."

  "Maybe so, but this boy is downright arrogant. And potentially he's in serious trouble."

  "Look, I know he did a dumb thing," Lincoln reasoned, "but there's no need for any drastic measures. I can handle him."

  "You think so?"

  Oliver frowned, but bit back a retort. "Yes, I do."

  Howard consulted an electronic notebook in his hand.

  "According to my records, this isn't his first offense. Last year he used one of your fighters to buzz a solarball game at his high school. And according to the Denver hovercops, just a month ago he took a combat fighter downtown and was threading the needle between skytowers at a hundred and fifty knots." Howard looked up. "Now he makes an attack pass on a flight of QFs."

  Lincoln shrugged.

  "The solarball game was nothing dangerous," he said. "The skytowers were a little more serious. And this, today …"

  "Was reckless and irresponsible!" Howard said harshly.

  Lincoln scowled, looking through the double mirror again.

  "He's not a bad kid!" he said lamely. "He's just …"

  "Reckless and irresponsible."

  "No! No, goddammit, he's not! He's a damn good kid and a damn good pilot. He's just a little immature. No one has been hurt!"

  "Not yet. Look, Mr. Lincoln
. Your contribution to the war effort is well known. I respect that. But the Space Force can't ignore this. This is potentially very serious, and if we don't take some kind of action, I have every reason to believe he'll do something equally dangerous again."

  Oliver Lincoln III, never used to taking orders, swallowed his pride and stood before the angry officer like a raw recruit. Humiliation flushed his features, but he forced himself to take a deep breath. In as humble a voice as he could muster, he asked,

  "What do you recommend?"

  * * *

  "Grounded?"

  Johnny Lincoln II stared at his grandfather in shock. Oliver pinned him with a cold gaze, daring not show the sympathy he felt. The kid was truly devastated.

  "Didn't I warn you? Didn't I tell you to quit dicking around with that test fighter?"

  "But, Gramps …"

  "Didn't believe me, did you? You figured nobody would dare touch you because of who you are. Well, let me clue you in, boy — who your daddy was and who you are is two different things! People might cut you a little slack, but they won't hand you a license. Especially not the government!"

  Johnny sat helpless in front of his grandfather's desk. If the words registered, he gave no sign. All the energy had drained from his body.

  "Grounded," he repeated. "For how long?"

  "Until further notice."

  "Gramps, they can't do that!"

  "Well, they did. And I, for one, am too busy to waste time fighting it. It wouldn't make any difference, anyway. You're guilty of everything they say."

  "Can't you stick up for me? President Wells is your friend! Can't you …"

  "I already stuck up for you. If I hadn't, you'd be sitting in a jail cell right now."

  The youth stared back in disbelief.

  "Look," Oliver said, leaning forward slightly, "you think you got it bad? You didn't just screw yourself over, you screwed me, too!"

  "Wh-what d'you mean?"

  "I have to get someone else to finish testing that radar jammer. I have to reassign someone from other duties. I have to pay someone to finish the job you were supposed to do. You didn't think about that, did you?"

  Johnny's tongue ventured across his lips.

  "All the pilots are on salary …"

  "And so are you. But now you can't even fly! Am I supposed to keep on paying you for sitting on the ground?”