“You know,” Billy said, “I never realized Jolie had a figure…”
“Under combat fatigues, who would know?” Harcourt agreed. “But all the figures we need right now are the ones in your notepad.” For himself, though, he was finding it difficult to keep his eyes off Lieutenant Grounder. Her swimsuit was very demure, but he would never have called it “innocent…”
He wrenched his mind back to the topic. “That’s how they found out the name?”
“Right—not that they could understand it, of course. Nobody aboard spoke much Cat. But the captain had the good sense to slap on the recorder, and when he got back to base, our experts deciphered it.”
Billy glanced at Harcourt.
Harcourt nodded almost imperceptibly.
Billy turned to Ripley. “If you don’t mind, sir—professional interest. What did they find?”
“ ‘Professional interest’ is right,” Ripley answered. “It was just the usual greeting and landing instructions—but they did pick out of it that the planet’s name is ‘Vukar Tag.’ “ He shrugged. “What it means, nobody seems to know. What’s even more of a puzzle, is why there’s a cruiser in orbit around the dustball.”
“A cruiser.” Harcourt had a nasty suspicion. “Any moons?”
“One, and small—but big enough to hold at least a wing of fighters, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Ripley nodded. “I thought the same thing.”
“’Well guarded’ is right!” Harcourt scowled. “What are they hiding there?”
“Well, I hope you’re curious enough to want to find out, Mac,” Ripley said. “I really hope you are.”
“Minerals?”
Ripley shook his head. “It’s mostly desert, and no sign of a mining operation, though they did see shuttles coming up to a transport ship. They may be exporting something, but according to spectroanalysis, the only thing it could be is high-grade silicon.”
“Silicon isn’t exactly rare,” Harcourt pointed out. “There has to be a good supply on every Kilrathi planet.”
“Has to,” Billy agreed. “The sand from Vukar Tag must be very pure, or something.”
“Or something.” Harcourt didn’t want to say it, but it was hard to keep from thinking of religious associations. “So it’s a desert, and it’s a backwater, and all we have to do is fly around it once or twice and get pictures.” He looked up at Ripley. “That right, Tor?”
Ripley nodded. “That’s the mission in a nutshell, Mac. Of course, since it’s a reconnaissance flyby, you’ll be carrying a specialist.”
There was the worm in the apple that Harcourt had been braced for all along—if he didn’t count a cruiser and a wing of fighters. “He’s in charge of the cameras?”
“Yes, and you’ll pretty much have to go by her direction, once you get near the planet.”
Harcourt frowned, picking up on the correction in gender. “She knows navigation?”
Ripley shrugged uncomfortably. “She’s had the same training as you and I, and she’s had fifty hours combat flying time in a Sabre.”
“That’s just great,” Billy groaned.
“Billy, you’re out of line,” Harcourt said severely. Inwardly, though, he was grateful to his sentry for saying what he had wanted to, but shouldn’t. Just enough training and experience to make her think she knew what she was doing, but not enough to really know… “Just so she understands she’s under my orders, Tor.”
“Oh, of course, Mac!” Ripley dismissed the issue. “Now, about your route in…”
The route in, of course, should have been no problem at all. Intelligence had the jump points mapped, and there was no particular reason to think there should be any Kilrathi shipping near any of them—no raiders, since it was inside the borders of the Kilrathi Empire; no pickets, since the fleets were a dozen light-years farther out from Kilrah, waiting to skirmish with the Confederation. There might be the odd transport freighter, but that shouldn’t pose much in the way of a problem.
“I don’t understand, Tor,” Harcourt said. “If all it is, is a ball of sand—why is it worth a close look?”
“Because,” said Ripley, “for a worthless dust ball, it’s amazingly well guarded.”
“Oh, really?” Outwardly, Harcourt still looked relaxed and casual; inside, he was turning into a coiled spring. “What is it? A refitting base? An auxiliary shipyard?”
“Could be, but there really isn’t enough traffic—just the occasional escort or transport.” Ripley shook his head. “From what little we can see from a long way off, there’s nothing there.”
“So why all the ships?” Harcourt asked.
“That,” said Ripley, “is what we want to know.”
Of course, Harcourt should have turned down the assignment right then—or at least talked it over with the crew, and let them turn it down. But two weeks of watching bikinis while soaking up sunlight and alcohol had left him with a warm, ruddy glow that made the worst a Kilrathi could do, seem inconsequential.
Which was just what Ripley had intended, of course—sun, water, and no news, no other crews in from the war zone to trade notes with.
No wonder they had been diverted—in more ways than one!
Ramona Chekhova was only thirty-two. It was an inconvenient age—young enough to have rash, hot-blooded impulses, old enough that she should have known better.
She carried her duffel bag up to the Johnny Greene, dropped it, and stood to attention, glaring at the crew who were drawn up in a semicircle to wait for her. They saluted. She returned the salute, then turned her glare on Captain Harcourt.
“Lieutenant Commander Ramona Chekhova?” he asked.
“The same,” she confirmed. “I’m waiting, Captain.”
Harcourt stiffened, his face wooden. “I’m afraid you’re forgetting a point or two of military etiquette, Commander. I am the commanding officer of the Johnny Greene—and I am waiting for your salute.”
Yes, a lieutenant commander outranked a captain—but not on board his own ship. There, the captain is the boss.
And Ramona knew it, too. She finally flipped her hand in something vaguely resembling a salute, seething inwardly.
Harcourt saluted crisply in response.
The crew looked a little relieved, thinking Harcourt had won the first round.
Harcourt knew better. “Lieutenant Commander Chekhova, my first officer, Lieutenant Janice Grounder… my astrogator, Ensign Morlock Barnes… my Damage Control Officer, Chief Petty Officer Darlene Coriander…”
Chekhova nodded at each in turn as he completed the introductions. Then she turned back to Harcourt.
“Permission to come aboard, Captain.” She wasn’t at attention, she wasn’t at ease, she was just sort of slumping in place. Harcourt decided to ignore the insult and said, “Permission granted.” He stepped over to the boarding ramp. Ramona hesitated for a moment, caught between military courtesy and old-fashioned courtesy—but she knew that a lady must insist on being treated as a lady, or she will sacrifice one of her strongest advantages, so she stepped up on the ramp.
Harcourt was relieved to see her snap to attention to salute the colors—and the salute was crisp, in perfect form. At least there was something that she did respect.
Harcourt was about to order the countdown for liftoff when movement at the corner of his eye caught his attention. He turned and looked.
Ramona stood in the hatchway, watching the activity on the bridge with an expression of guarded interest.
Harcourt had a brief struggle within himself. He knew it was possibly foolish, but the gentleman in him won out. “Would you like to come in to observe, Lieutenant Commander?”