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CHAPTER FOUR

Raeder entered his office with a sprightly step and sat at his desk, radiating energy. He rubbed his hands together briskly, flexed his fingers and called up personnel records on his computer. There was a bright side to this whole mess. Two, in fact. If it worked and he survived, he'd have done the war effort a real service; good in itself, and it looked good, which he frankly conceded to himself he needed badly at this point in a more-than-eventful career. Second . . .

Anybody I want . . . and anything. His smile was so wide it almost hurt. You didn't get a better offer than this, ever. And I intend to take full advantage of the good general's generosity, he thought with an evil grin. Carte blanche will come this way but once, hee hee. It's Christmas day and the sun's coming up. Toy time! 

Names scrolled up the screen; he ticked off the ones he wanted and the computer brought them up in a queue. He sipped at a cup of cocoa his orderly deposited in an outstretched hand.

Better just work up a short list first. Let's see, we'll have six Speeds, and I'll want a minimum of four alternate pilots, that's ten. Skeleton tech crew is three per, then we'll need six more just to be safe, surveillance, medical . . . 

There were two people he had to eliminate out of hand for practical reasons. Paddy because of his loathing for Marines. And if Scaragoglu wants Marines, there will be Marines, Raeder told himself ruefully. Nor could he tap Second Lieutenant Cynthia Robbins. She was much improved, incredibly enough, by her association with the impulsive Paddy, but she still lacked those ever-important people skills.

In a high-stress, low-amenity situation like a miners' hutch in enemy territory, you don't need to come home to someone who'll tear a strip off you for getting a nick on your Speed.

And she would too. Cindy loved the Speeds in her care like they were her prize stallions, or pet lambs, or kids—God help any children she eventually had. But she tended to treat the pilots like they were plug-in parts of suspect origin that didn't function as efficiently as they should. She probably really, really regretted that nobody had ever been able to build a genuine artificial intelligence. There were times he thought she wished she were one herself.

And so, for her own good, both to preserve her newly won and very fragile self-confidence and his own sanity, Raeder flicked past her name without stopping.

Paddy now . . . there was a name he hated to pass by. He'd be perfect in so many ways, Peter mourned. He's a fantastic engineer, resourceful, quick and knowledgeable. And I like him, dammit. Raeder shook his head. Not possible. And it would be unfair. Paddy really wanted to make it into officers' training, and putting him in close quarters with a Marine was just waving a red flag in front of a bull.

Raeder settled down to choose his team. In less than an hour he had double the number he'd need and had scheduled them for interviews. The Chief's been bugging me to do performance reviews for a week now. That'll make an excellent cover. And no one need know that they'd been considered for the mission and rejected.

Peter felt a fleeting regret that he couldn't take arap Moi, his chief petty officer, along too. He sighed. Gotta leave somebody around to watch the store. And Cindy. They didn't want any backsliding into her old ways.

There was a tap on his office door and Raeder called out, "Come in."

The door slid aside and Paddy poked his head into the room like a turtle uncertainly testing the air outside its shell.

"What can I do for you, Chief?" Peter asked. His curiosity was immediately aroused. Diffidence was not Paddy's style. "Sit down," he said, indicating a chair.

The big, red-headed New Hibernian shuffled over to the seat and, sitting, swamped it. He looked at Raeder from under bushy ginger eyebrows with a sorrowful expression on a face like a boiled ham, if you could imagine a ham with blue eyes and freckles.

All at once Peter had a vision of Paddy as a seven-year-old in a striped jersey, bitterly sorry for some prank he'd pulled. Part of being an officer was controlling your expressions; he kept his neutral-friendly.

"C'mon, Chief, spill. What's the problem?"

Casey took a breath deep enough to inflate his toes and then let it out in a sigh so expressive it was almost a song. He tossed a datachip onto Peter's desk.

With a wry look at the Chief, Raeder picked it up and inserted it, calling up the information it contained. After a moment, what he read made his own shoulders slump.

"I'm really sorry, Paddy," he said with great sincerity.

"Ahhh, tis me own fault," the big man answered. "If I wasn't so in love wit' provin' myself with me fists instead o' me brains I wouldn't have a record that would make a nun curse."

Raeder glanced at the letter on his screen.

. . . unfortunately, repeated assaults upon fellow enlisted personnel and even officers force us to conclude that you lack the temperament necessary to an officer candidate. 

Peter shook his head. He honestly couldn't blame them. Glancing at Paddy he thought, Even the big guy agrees with 'em. Pity the Chief had allowed his temper such free rein, he had a lot to offer in most respects.

"I need your help, sir," Paddy said humbly.

Peter's eyebrow went up. Paddy? Humble?

"I can write to them on your behalf," he offered.

"Nah," Paddy flung out a dismissive hand, then raised his head and looked Raeder straight in the eye. "Y'know they'll just file it."

Raeder's other eyebrow went up. "So . . . what do you want me to do?" Was he just looking for a drinking buddy?

"Ah, now here's the beauty of my scheme," Paddy began, hitching himself forward on his chair.

What scheme? Raeder thought suspiciously.

"By helpin' me ye'll be helpin' yerself, sir."

That's two sirs in one conversation, Peter thought. Whatever he wants, it's big. 

Paddy drew himself up, blue eyes sparkling, gave Peter a confident smile and said, "I'm volunteerin', sir."

Raeder blinked. "For . . . ?"

The Chief chuckled and leaned forward conspiratorially. "You know." Paddy jerked his head to the left. "That other."

"Hanh?"

That other? What the hell was "that other"?

Paddy rolled his eyes, then gave the commander an old-fashioned look.

"That other thing that the Marine general has been on to ye about," he said impatiently, in a hoarse whisper.

Raeder's jaw dropped. What's next? he thought. An announcement in the Globe And Mail, "Captain Raeder to Head Top Secret Mission, Details Available for Download"? 

Paddy was leaning forward again and explaining himself eagerly.

"I'm your man, sir. Y'know the quality of my work, y'know ye can rely on me to get the job done, whatever it takes."

Raeder waved a hand to stop the flow. "You're an excellent engineer, Paddy, and no one could doubt your loyalty or courage. Or resourcefulness." Raeder's voice had slowed and his eyes took on a speculative gleam, then he shook his head decisively.

"Tis me thrice-cursed temper, isn't it?" the big New Hibernian asked in despair. "The bane of me existence, it is. But you know how much it means to me to get into officers' training, sir." Paddy's hand stroked the edge of the desk, but his eyes never left Peter's. "This is me only hope, sir. I need to do somethin' amazing or they'll never spit on me, they won't. I've never had a reason to hold me temper before now. But there are some things that a man will change his very nature for and this is one of 'em," he insisted.

"Lieutenant Robbins?" Raeder said.

"Aye. She is the pulse of my heart, Commander. But unless I am an officer I cannot . . . we cannot . . . it cannot be!"

Peter stifled a sigh. In peacetime it would be another matter. Cynthia could surrender her commission, or Paddy could leave the service. Heaven knew the merchant marine would happily employ a couple with their skills. Happily? They'd clear out the captain's cabin for them. But there was a war on, and resigning was out of the question for both of them. No discharge in the War, as the poet said. Not that the government needed regulations to keep those two in; that was just part of who they were.

Peter rubbed his face with both hands and said, "Paddy, there are going to be Marines."

"Ahhh, tcha!" Paddy exclaimed and waved it away. "And what of it? What sort of a fool would I be to hold that against any man or woman? Sure they can't help it but be what they are. T-sssh," he scoffed. "I'm not a bull that can't help but run at a red flag. I can be friends with anyone if I set me mind to it."

Peter felt like he'd been whapped with that salmon a second time.

"You hate Marines!" he exclaimed, trying to get back to a familiar reality.

"Oh, no, sir!" As Raeder started to object he hurried on, "It's not so much I hate Marines, d'ye see, as I love to fight. And who in this world or any other will give ye a better one?" he asked happily.

I've got a headache, Reader thought, wishing he could clap his hands to his throbbing temples. Wait a minute, I haven't denied anything yet. I've got to get this conversation back under my control. 

"Paddy," he said patiently. "This is all beside the point because there is no mission."

"Of course not, sir," Paddy said with a wink and a nod, a conspiratorial smirk on his face. "Ye never heard it here."

Raeder laughed; he couldn't help it.

"Paddy," he tried again, "what makes you think I've got some kind of a mission going on?"

The Chief looked at Raeder for a moment as though nonplussed and then exclaimed, "And didn't that divil Scaragoglu crook his finger at ye and say to come to his office? And why would he be doing that if he didn't have something major on his mind? For, sure, if it was you alone he wanted he'd never have made a public display like that." Paddy's blue eyes studied Raeder to see how this had been taken. Shaking his head, he went on. "Tis something big, I'm thinkin' and he wanted to alert those with eyes to see that an opportunity was comin' up. That's my thought on it."

Peter felt a blush warm his cheek as he realized that was exactly what Scaragoglu had done. Maybe I ought to bring him along just to interpret the Marine general for me, he thought ruefully. There seemed to be a definite link between the spiderlike deviousness of Scaragoglu and the sort of low cunning Paddy had picked up in a decade sliding up and down the greasy pole of rank from rating to noncom and back.

"If I hear anything . . . " he began.

"Sir," Paddy murmured with a telling inclination of his big head.

Raeder took a breath and started again. "I'll keep you in mind."

"Thank you, sir. That's all I ask is a chance." Paddy stood, grinning. Then his face grew serious again and he leaned forward confidentially. "But please remember, sir, how very much this means to me."

Twist that knife, Paddy, Raeder thought with a sick smile. Oh, yes, I saved your life, but I'd never dream of calling in a favor, no, sir, perish the thought . . . 

He saluted. Paddy returned it and marched to the door, where he turned and whispered, "Thank ye, sir," as the door swished closed before his beaming face.

It was with mixed feelings that Raeder confirmed Paddy as his first team member. I'm happy, he told himself. I mean Paddy was my first choice. An instinctive choice. The right choice. I hope. There was still that legendary temper to beware of.

But Peter was very unhappy about his missing something so obvious as the Marine general's publicly calling on him to come to his office. Scaragoglu does nothing without a reason. So the rumors said, and so, he thought, he knew. I guess I was too focused on my own problems to see what was right in front of my face, he thought. And that kind of obtuseness in dealing with someone like Scaragoglu was dangerous.

Hmmm. It would be just like Scaragoglu to deliberately leak that Raeder was being tapped for some clandestine mission, then a little more subtly leak a false mission profile, and then clumsily leak the real mission, using that to disinform—

He ran his hands across his face again. That sort of thinking made his head hurt. Well, forewarned is forearmed. I'll be more aware in the future, he promised himself as he went back to work. I hope. 

Raeder had gone over the personnel files of all his choices to familiarize himself with any changes that had been made recently and had been pleased by what he had seen. Efficiency in his own Flight Engineering department was way up and most of the people he'd chosen had been commended for their behavior during the Invincible's recent crises. Those who hadn't were new to the ship.

They'll get their commendations yet, though. I think Invincible's going to be one of those career-making ships. Which would probably please her unknown mentor, a presence Peter was convinced existed. Otherwise how could an experimental ship ever have gotten the attention and the crew she deserved? And Invincible was beautifully constructed, no expense spared, and splendidly staffed. Of course, ships that make careers and ships that end them—permanently, so the relatives get a folded flag and a visit from the parson—are very, very similar. 

There had been a few exceptions to the "splendidly staffed," Peter remembered with a wry grimace. Such as William Booth, the chief of security, a last-minute replacement foisted on the ship by an unkind bureaucracy.

He won't be a problem this time, Peter comforted himself. A security officer would be a luxury on this trip. Then added, I hope, as he remembered John Larkin, the saboteur he'd genuinely liked on first meeting.

Peter determinedly thrust the whole matter from his mind and began to concentrate on what supplies he especially wanted to obtain. He wondered if this wouldn't be a great opportunity to scrounge a few things for Main Deck that the quartermaster's office had been denying them for months now.

Well, sure, he thought, as long as I don't abuse the Marine general's license. Unconsciously, his face slipped into an expression of blatant innocence. I'd be derelict in my duty not to. Raeder called up the quartermaster's catalogue and dove happily in to a Tom Tiddler's Ground of spare drive coils, brand-new electronics modules still sealed in preservant film, and delicacies intended for the Port Admiral's mess steward.

Peter had been working steadily and responsibly for an hour and a half. He was quite proud of himself for resisting the urge to hog all the hard to obtain, and therefore most often needed, parts for the Invincible. Not that he'd want anyone to be dangerously undersupplied. Still, it was an ancient tradition of the service; if somebody had to do without, you didn't want it to be your ship. . . .

By the time the task was done he was whistling tunelessly with sheer enjoyment—a far cry from the stomach-churning frustration that usually attended an afternoon doing "Requisition and Resupply." After every request he'd typed, the word "Approved" had appeared. Only once had he been balked and then it was a matter of, "Parts on order. Six (6) will be reserved and shipped to Invincible upon receipt at Ontario Base Quartermaster's," so he really couldn't complain.

Hey, for all I know, my ordering 'em will speed up the base's request at Central Supply.

Peter was making small happy sounds as he worked when his eyes lit on something unexpected. Wow! I didn't even know they made these anymore. Acquisitive lust sparked in his belly. There's no rational reason why I should get these, Raeder warned himself. Hell with that, he answered instantly, I want 'em and I can have 'em. That's excuse enough for me.

With glee in his heart he typed in an order for six, and exulted when the word "Approved" lit up beside his request. YES! Come to papa my little beauties. Peter chuckled as he imagined envy on more than a few faces when his fellows discovered this coup. For all I know these are the last ever made and they're mine, all mine. 

Raeder leaned back with a wide smile. Ah, this is the life! He felt like a Parliamentary Committee's idea of a Naval officer, someone whose main amusement was figuring out new ways to spend the taxpayers' credits.

There came a sharp tap on his office door and he called out an affable, "C'min."

Lieutenant Oswald Givens, resplendent in Speed pilot's coveralls presented himself before Raeder's desk with a snappy salute, eyes focused above Peter's head, body straight, feet together. A totally different Givens from their previous encounters.

Raeder returned the lieutenant's salute with one markedly less crisp. Suddenly I feel like Captain Knott, he thought, amused. He kept his face painfully straight, however. He knew Givens, and a sense of humor—particuarly about himself—wasn't among his many virtues.

"At ease lieutenant," Raeder said. "How can I help you?"

"Sir! I would like to volunteer, sir!" Givens still looked straight ahead, about a foot over Peter's head, and he'd shifted his stance to a very stiff parade rest.

Raeder studied him. Oswald Givens was quite a handsome young man of about twenty-four years. He was a hair under Peter's own six feet, with an equally athletic build. Oswald had honey-blond hair, regular features and a firm, one might almost say heroic, chin.

If asked, Peter would rate him an excellent pilot, almost as good as himself. Givens got on well with his fellow pilots, who also rated him as a competent fighter and a hell of a flyer.

On the other hand, I've yet to meet anyone in Technical Support and Flight Engineering who doesn't hope he breaks his neck the next time he takes a shower. It wasn't quite bad enough for them to want to him totalled in combat, and besides, that would hurt his Speed.

To be fair, Oswald's was an attitude common to Speed pilots. In his honest, midnight moments, Raeder could admit to himself that once in a while he'd been no better in his flying days.

After all, who could avoid knowing that the purpose of a carrier was to carry? And what they carried was Speeds, and what was a Speed without her pilot? Therefore, the whole purpose of a carrier and her several thousand crewmen and women was to support the Speed pilot. Making all Speed pilots, regardless of rank, the princes of the city.

The question now was, is Oswald Givens more arrogant than other pilots? 

Yeah, Raeder decided, remembering Givens' treatment not only of Cynthia Robbins, but of himself on a certain occasion. He's above the line on arrogance. He's probably exactly the kind of conceited, macho jerk that permanently turned Sarah against Speed pilots. Peter felt a spurt of resentment towards the lieutenant which, for once in their acquaintance, Givens hadn't earned. There was a saying about Speeds, that to fly them you had to have grapefruit-and-peas syndrome.

On the other hand, he flies better than almost anyone I've ever seen. Raeder frowned and shifted in his chair.

Givens glanced down for the first time since entering the office. It occurred to Peter that the lieutenant had taken it for granted that his offer would be accepted at once, with extreme gratitude, and he smiled inside.

"Sit down, Lieutenant," he said, indicating a chair.

Givens did so, a no-expression cast to his features that spoke his puzzlement as loudly as words. He looked at Raeder with bright, green-hazel eyes that Peter was sure had broken hearts from here to Luna-base with ease and without conscience.

"Explain yourself, Lieutenant," Raeder said, leaning forward, his hands clasped together on his desk.

Givens blinked, opened his mouth, closed it, then visibly gathered himself and began to speak.

"Word is that you're heading a mission, sir. Word is it's an important mission. I'd like to go with you, sir."

How many "sirs" is that since he walked in here? Raeder wondered, remembering Paddy.

"And what, exactly, have you heard about this . . . mission? And who did you hear it from?" Something snapped behind Raeder's eyes. "Did you read it in the Globe and Mail, perhaps?"

"Well, sir," Givens hesitated. "I didn't hear it exactly, I surmised it."

Peter frowned as the lieutenant paused. Don't make me say, "explain" again, Givens, or you can forget it.

"I saw Marine General Scaragoglu beckon to you and invite you to his office," Givens hurried on, apparently picking up on Peter's impatience. "I figured something was up, and I want to be in on it."

"Why?" Peter held the other man's gaze, watching Givens' eyes shift minutely as he considered his answer.

"I . . . sir, the Marine general's missions are the fastest route I know to medal territory."

Raeder was genuinely surprised. His brows went up. "They're generally the fastest route I know to a `The Admiralty regrets to inform you' message. Medals mean that much to you, Lieutenant?"

"They do to my family, sir," Givens said firmly.

I've got to look up the lieutenant's family, Peter thought. His own family had a very different attitude. His mother had told him after his injury that she'd rather know he was safe than see him win a barrel of medals and a bale of commendations. She'd meant it too. But what if his parents had wanted to see him decorated?

"Have you mentioned this alleged mission to anyone else, Lieutenant?"

"No, sir," Givens said with a slight smile. "I wanted to get my name in before anyone else."

"Well, don't go talking it up," Raeder cautioned. "If such a mission should come up, your name will be taken into consideration," he informed him.

"Thank you, sir!" Givens said, rising. He saluted.

Raeder returned it, seated and gave him a nod.

"Dismissed," he said.

"Thank you, sir," the lieutenant answered, smiling now.

He turned and marched to the door so quickly that he had to wait an embarrassing moment for it to open, obviously convinced that he'd made it, and equally anxious to get out before second thoughts took hold.

Well, he was on the list, Raeder thought. Not at the top, but he was on it. After all, his personality could be a factor. Still, his ability was undeniable. So that makes two who could be problems. At least Paddy knows he's not perfect. I doubt it's ever crossed the good lieutenant's mind. And yet, the man could fly.

Peter sighed, called up his list and put a star beside Givens' name. After all, he was smart enough to figure it out. Maybe this is Scaragoglu's way of having a hand in choosing my staff. He grimaced at the thought. Maybe it was just paranoid, and maybe he was right. But if this kept up he was going to dig in his heels. For now he'd prefer to think of this as a test that his choices were passing. I did choose these people, he thought stubbornly. But thinking it couldn't help him shake the notion that he was being pushed.

The executive staff of the Invincible sat quietly in their places as Captain Roger Knott studied the information on the screen built into the conference table before him. The device was tilted slightly forward for easier reading and it underlit the captain's stern features eerily. A similar screen lay before each officer, the blue glow stronger than the dimmed overheads in the staff room that lay just behind the bridge.

Knott touched a control that scrolled information upward, then paused. He glanced across at Truon Le, his tactical officer.

"Have we had any other problems in the larboard laser cannon?" he asked.

"No, sir," Truon Le answered. "The problem with laser placement eighteen was due to a reversed part. The part itself is functioning normally."

"Good," Knott said quietly. "Are we well supplied with replacement crystals?"

Truon Le blinked.

"We have what would be an adequate supply for a moderately active three-week cruise, sir," he said after a moments reflection. "Moderately active to be defined as one encounter per week with at least two destroyer-class vessels."

Knott shook his head, his eyes on the screen again.

"Not sufficient. If we encounter something larger than destroyers two weeks in a row . . . what then? I'd rather we were overprepared than left wanting. Is this the way all tactical supplies are stocked? On the assumption of one encounter per week of cruise?"

"Yes, sir," the young tactical officer responded. "So far, of course, we haven't been out on a three-week cruise. So we might be said to be overprepared right now." His lips quirked in a tentative smile.

The captain looked up at him and nailed him with a considering eye.

"Supply constraints?" Knott said. It was really more of a statement than a question.

"I'm afraid so, sir." Truon Le spread his hands in a helpless gesture. "That and the fact that supplies are scarce. Only priority one is getting through at the moment in this sector. Once the pirates are brought under control, things should improve."

Knott leaned back in his chair, eyes focused on some inner consideration.

Mai Ling Ju, his executive officer, watched her captain carefully. This entire unscheduled meeting had been like this: a series of rapid-fire questions regarding preparedness, repairs, supplies and personnel. Mai Ling had rarely seen Knott so utterly focused. It meant that they were going somewhere and doing something serious. The men and women around the table glanced at one another. Whatever was going on didn't have the feeling of a drill, and this talk of needing more munitions was intriguing. The captain knew the general supply situation as well as or better than they did.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Knott said at last, "I want this ship prepared for a two-months cruise under battle conditions. I want supplies laid in and I want personnel brought up to strength. We will begin immediately. I want daily reports on your progress starting this afternoon. I do not want this to be a matter of discussion with other ships or with station personnel. Preparations will be conducted on a strict need-to-know basis." He looked around at them. "Any questions?"

No one responded, but the air was thick with them. Knott was pleased. Their silence indicated that they trusted him to tell them what they needed to know when the time was right.

I like this crew, he thought with pride. It was a pleasure to serve with them.

"Very well then, let's get to work." He rose from his place and his staff rose with him. "Dismissed," he said. Knott and his staff exchanged salutes.

He turned to enter his private office, while they filed out into the hallway.

Squadron Leader Ronnie Sutton hesitated, then stepped after the captain.

"Sir?" he said quietly.

The captain turned, not especially surprised that this was the officer who had come to him first.

"Might I have a moment of your time, sir?" the squadron leader asked.

Knott checked his watch.

"I can spare you a moment, Squadron Leader," he allowed. He led the way into his office and went behind his desk, seated himself and gestured to Sutton to take a chair. "What's on your mind, Ron?"

"Sir," the squadron leader said, leaning forward and holding the captain's eyes with an earnest gaze, "does this scramble to muscle up on supplies and people have anything to do with General Scaragoglu?"

Knott said nothing, stroking his upper lip, keeping his own counsel.

"Because if it does," Sutton hurried on, "I'd like to recommend some of my people for the mission."

There was a beat before Knott spoke, as though he were waiting to be sure that the squadron leader wasn't going to add anything to what he'd said.

"One," the captain said, holding up a finger, "you have no reason to believe that there is a mission. Two, if there were a mission there's no reason to believe that Speeds would be involved. Three, there is no reason whatsoever to connect General Scaragoglu with the Invincible."

Sutton leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs, folding his hands in his lap and studying the captain.

"Sir," Sutton said quietly, "with all due respect, I beg to differ. The general visibly tapped Raeder, asking him to attend the general in his office. Moreover, strings had obviously been pulled or the poor commander would even now be packing his bags for home."

Knott smiled. He'd foreseen this sort of interview when Scaragoglu had made his interest in the commander so public. Still, he'd no intention of discussing the mission until Invincible was on her way.

Sutton's people were logical candidates, because Knott knew that Raeder had taken advantage of every opportunity to watch the squadron in action. The commander knew their abilities and would no doubt prefer to choose people whose qualities and quirks were familiar.

Nevertheless, that didn't entitle the squadron leader to a special briefing. For one thing, I don't want to step on Raeder's toes. It might well look that way, too.

Sutton would undoubtedly approach the commander on his own, but he wasn't going to be armed with information he wasn't yet entitled to when he did so.

And Raeder's entitled to pick his own team; the only way I'd interfere is if he's doing something spectacularly wrongheaded. Though he conceded to himself that Peter Raeder was fully capable of being dead wrong and utterly sly at one and the same time. Still, I've no intention of second-guessing him or breathing down his neck. Nor will I have Ron, here, doing it with my apparent approval. 

In any case, the Spider was undoubtedly going to try to influence the commander's decisions. Knott rather looked forward to watching Raeder deal with Star Command's own Machiavelli. Though I've no idea where to put my money, he thought with an inner smile.

"I have nothing to add to what I said at the meeting, Squadron Leader." Knott's voice was quiet but full of authority. "Just bring your squadron up to full strength. Anyone still in sick bay must be replaced immediately. Make me a wish list and I'll see that it gets pushed through."

He stood and perforce the squadron leader did too.

"Yes, sir," Sutton said.

Though his disappointment at being excluded from the loop was almost palpable, British sangfroid forbade any visible sign of it. He saluted, the captain returned it and the squadron leader departed.

Knott sat down with a sigh and looked over at the holo of his old scout ship.

Ah, those were the days, he thought. The simplicity of it all. Nothing in the universe to worry about but being hopelessly lost in endless space, or breaking down with no prospect of rescue, or being devoured by some alien gourmet. The captain sighed again. Duty calls, he reminded himself.

He pulled his chair up to his desk and began making more detailed notes on the reports his senior officers had turned in. Life on the Invincible was about to get hectic.

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