"The last word we received put the Kilrathi concentrating around the jump point to Ariel. Looks like they re pulling out. Not even bothering to gather in all their fighters, either. Could be we can round up a few more of the bastards before the whole thing's over."

Blair wasn't particularly interested in the Kilrathi, not any more. He had other concerns. "Any word on the situation on Four, Lieutenant?"

"It doesn't look good, sir," Rollins said heavily. "The reports from the colony indicate at least five missiles got through. They were set for high airbursts, so the ground defenses never had a chance to fire at them. We won't know for a while if the pandemic is as bad as everybody claims, but . . . well, like I said, it doesn't look good."

"Acknowledged, Victory. Leader clear." Blair nodded slowly. The report was about what he expected, but that didn't make it any easier to swallow. Five Kilrathi biowarheads exploding high above the surface of the colony world . . . that would ensure a fast spread of the tailored disease they carried. It would not be long before the effects of the attack became visible.

Locanda IV was as good as dead already, and Maverick Blair, the great pilot and war hero, was the man to blame for it all. The man who failed. . . .

He forced the thought aside and concentrated on his fighter's controls. Blair's Thunderbolt came through the long fight with only light damage, but he had trouble with the port-side maneuvering thrusters, and the computer was unable to reroute the circuits through a more dependable network.

They were near the original coordinates of the Kilrathi fleet, which thankfully was moving away at full speed toward a nearby jump point. Blue and Green Squadrons, after maintaining a prolonged diversionary action against Thrakhath's flagship, had returned to Victory. Gold Squadron remained out, however, searching for a lost sheep.

Incredibly, only Beast Jaeger's fighter was confirmed as destroyed in battle, though several of the others were in terrible shape. How Hobbes still flew at all was a mystery, and Vaquero's weapons systems finally overloaded in the last fight against the Strakha. But one of the Thunderbolts remained missing, and Blair ordered Gold Squadron to spread out and search for the missing man . . . or some sign of his fate.

Lieutenant Alexander Sanders. callsign Sandman . . . Blair never really knew him. He had served as Maniac's wingman throughout the current deployment and spent most of his off-duty hours hanging with Marshall. Although he always struck Blair as a complete opposite to Maniac — steady, dependable, loyal, reliable — Sanders and Marshall were good friends as well as wingmates. Neither Blair nor the lieutenant were very comfortable with each other as a result of the on going feud dividing the colonel from the major.

Now it looked as if Blair would never get a chance to know the man. Maniac had allowed himself to be separated from his wingman in the battle with the Kilrathi escort squadron while Cobra covered herself after Jaeger's death, so no one saw Sandman fighting. He might have been destroyed, or simply damaged and left adrift . . . or he might have ejected from his fighter. Until they were sure, they had to look.

A refueling shuttle arrived from Victory to rendezvous with the squadron and top off their tanks, and now the eight remaining fighters were to form a broad search pattern, hunting for some signs of the lost pilot. They were barely within sensor range of each other, and the comm channels were mostly quiet. Everyone knew the mission had failed. Everyone was exhausted by hours of continuous stress and tension punctuated by more fighting than any of them had seen in a long, long time.

"Bad news, Colonel," Cobra broke into his reverie. "I've got a debris field here. Material analysis reads consistent with a Thunderbolt's hull armor . . . It's gotta be Sandy's."

"You're sure it isn't part of Jaeger's ship?"

"No way, sir. Too far from where Beast caught it."

"Start a close scan, Cobra. If there's an escape pod around there, find it.

"I'll try, sir, but you know the cats. If they spot a pilot after he ejects, they'll either blast him where they find him or tractor him in for interrogation and a sporting death entertaining a ship's nobles."

"Check it out, anyway, Lieutenant. If there's any chance Sandman's still alive, I want to find him." Blair paused. "All fighters, from Leader. Converge on Cobra's beacon and concentrate your search there."

Bringing the fighter around, he increased his thrust. Cobra was right, of course. The odds against finding Sanders alive were too high a bet for anyone but a blind optimist, but he had to try.

It was a pitiful gesture set against his failure defending the colony, but it was all he could do right now.

"Approaching Gold Squadron's search grid now, sir."

"Very good, Mr. DuBois," Eisen acknowledged the helmsman's report. "Go to station-keeping. Sensors to full sweep. Let's help the Colonel look for his man. Any word, Lieutenant Rollins?"

"Nothing from Gold Squadron, sir." Rollins turned in his chair to face the captain. "Coventry's broadcasting updates on the Kilrathi fleet. Several of their ships have jumped, but it looks like Sar'hrai is delaying. Probably to pick up stragglers from the cat fighter strike. If we teamed up with the cruiser, sir, we might get a few licks in . . ."

"This is a carrier, not a dreadnought, Lieutenant," Eisen told him. "A carrier with a fighter wing that isn't likely to be able to pull a strike mission for quite a while. And that close to a jump point you always run the risk of something popping in when you least expect it."

"Yes, sir," Rollins said. He sounded disappointed.

"Look, I know how everybody feels. The cats broke through, and the colony's probably . . . in trouble. You want to hit back. So do I, believe me. But there's no sense in compounding one tragedy with another. ConFleet can't afford to throw away ships on meaningless gestures, and that's what it would be if we tried to take Sar'hrai."

They were the right words, Eisen told himself. But he didn't like them at all.

"Captain?" That was Tanaka, the Sensor Officer. "Sir, I'm only reading seven fighters in the search grid. There ought to be eight . . ."

"What the devil?" Eisen demanded. "Find that other fighter. And Rollins . . . get on the line and tell Blair it's time he took roll call!"

"Sensors confirm it, Colonel. Lieutenant Peters didn't respond to your orders to tighten the search grid. Instead she's vectored off toward the Ariel jump point."

"Goddamn. . ." Blair didn't finish the curse. "She must've been listening on the comm channel when you filled me in on enemy movements. Decided to even some scores with the Kilrathi fighters you said were likely to get left behind."

He should have watched Flint more closely, he told himself, angry and bitter. She had been a model wingman throughout the battle, but it must have been dreadful for her to see those last few fighters escape to launch their deadly missiles at the colony.

At her homeworld . . .

All she needed was one more kill to fill the score to avenge her brother, with nearly sixty more for her father. But how many more Kilrathi would Flint have to kill to avenge the population of an entire world?

"Colonel," Eisen broke onto the channel. "There s still a Kilrathi carrier near the jump point. Possibly some undamaged fighters as well. Your Lieutenant Peters is heading right into a slaughterhouse, and she's not acknowledging our return-to-ship orders. Can you do anything to stop her?" The captain paused for several seconds. "It's your call, Blair."