"You must have been damned tough, Lieutenant, after something like that . . . to go on to join the fight . . ."

"It was all I ever wanted, Colonel. A chance to kill cats. And that's what I'm still doing today."

He gestured toward the Behemoth. "And if that thing puts an end to the war? What then?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. Hating cats is the only way I know to keep myself human." She gave a short, grotesque laugh, an unnerving sound that reminded Blair of jeering Kilrathi. The fact is, Colonel, there's a little bit of the Kilrathi prowling around inside my skull and I can't get it out. Every day, I can feel it getting a little bit stronger . . . and one day, there won't be any human left inside me any more."

He didn't answer right away. "I think you aren't giving yourself enough credit, Lieutenant. You survived a horror most people could never handle. You'll outlive this, too. I'm sure of it."

Her look was bleak. "I hope you're right, Colonel. I really do. But . . . well, maybe you don't understand it, but I can't let go of the hate."

He thought of Angel, of the raw emotion that had surged through him when Thrakhath's taunts were ringing in his ears. "Maybe I do understand, Cobra. Maybe, in your place, I would have cracked up long ago."

She raised an eyebrow. "Cracked? You? I can't imagine you giving anybody the satisfaction of seeing you crack."

Blair didn't tell her that she was wrong.

"COUNTDOWN TO JUMP, ONE HOUR, FIFTEEN MINUTES."

Blair glanced up at the digital readout below the Flight Control Room window to confirm the time remaining. Activity was reaching a fever pitch aboard the carrier as they approached the jump point taking them to the Loki System. No one really expected the Kilrathi to have much in the way of defenses at their Loki outpost, but the preparations in hand assumed they would be jumping into a combat zone. With so much riding on the Behemoth, nobody wanted to make any mistakes.

Technicians prepped the fighters for launch working quickly but with a care born of long experience and a respect for the dangers of the flight deck. Red-shirted ordinance handlers busily fit missiles and checked fire-control circuits while engineering techs dressed in blue supervised the topping of fuel tanks. Thrusters were put through their final checks. The huge hangar area was one large scene of frantic action, and Blair felt like an outsider as he watched the crews go about their jobs.

Rachel Coriolis appeared from behind the tail section of a Hellcat. Her coverall was considerably cleaner than usual . . . and so were her hands and arms. She looked, in fact, almost regulation, a far cry from her usual go-to-blazes sloppiness. Blair smiled at the sight, earning himself an angry glare.

"Don't say a thing," she growled. "Unless you want a number-three sonic probe up your nose."

"Heard you got chewed out by the admiral himself," Blair said. "But I never thought it would actually take."

"Sloppy dress means sloppy work," she said, mimicking Tolwyn's crisp British accent flawlessly. "Well, excuse me, but I don't have time to change my uniform every time I swap out a part, you know?"

Blair shrugged. "He's got a real thing for the regs. But you should wear the reprimand as a badge of honor. I figure it's a wasted week if I don't get at least one chewing-out and a couple of black scowls from him, myself."

"After the war, I'm going to make it my personal mission in life to loosen the screws on all the moving parts on guys like him." She was smiling, but Blair heard the edge in her tone.

"Save a screwdriver for me, okay?" Blair said. "Meanwhile, what's the word on the launch?"

"Pretty good, this time out," she said. "Only three down-checks." Rachel hesitated. "I'm afraid one of them's Hobbes, skipper."

"What's the problem?"

"Power surge fried half his electronics when we went to check his computer. It's about a fifteen hour repair job."

Blair frowned. "Damn, bad timing. But I guess his bird was about due. What about the others?"

"Reese and Calder. One interceptor, one Hellcat. There's an outside chance we can get the Arrow up and running by H-hour, but I wouldn't count on it."

"Do what you can," Blair told her.

"Don't I always?" she said with a grin. As he started to turn away, she caught his sleeve. "Look . . . after the mission . . . what say we get together?"

He looked into her eyes, read the emotion behind them. Everyone who served on the flight deck knew that each mission might be the last one. "I'd. . . like that, Rachel," he said slowly, feeling awkward. "Ever since . . . ever since I found out about Angel, I've felt like you were there for me. It's . . . made a big difference.

Someone called for her, and Rachel turned back to her work without another word. Blair watched her hurrying away. She wasn't anything like Angel Devereaux, but there was a feeling between them that was just as strong, in its own way, as the one he'd shared with Angel. Less passionate, less intense, yet it was a more comfortable and familiar feeling, exactly what he needed to balance the turmoil around and within him.

"Coventry has jumped, sir. Sheffield is next up."

Eisen acknowledged the Sensor Officer's report with a curt nod and studied the tactical display with a critical eye. This was the period of greatest danger in any squadron operation, when ships performed their transits in succession and everyone involved hoped and prayed they wouldn't be emerging in the middle of an enemy fleet.

They weren't taking any chances this time. Coventry would go through first, ready to engage anything waiting near the other end of the jump point. The destroyer that followed her would jump at the first sign of trouble, to warn off the rest of the Terran force.

That would be tough on Coventry. Eisen wondered how Jason Bondarevsky felt about flying point on this mission. He was supposed to be one of Admiral Tolwyn's shining young proteges, but apparently the admiral's patronage didn't extend to protecting a favorite from a dangerous mission.

Eisen glanced uneasily at the admiral. He was dressed to perfection, uniform starched and crisp, every hair in place. But Tolwyn did look nervous, pacing restlessly back and forth behind the Sensor Officer's station. For all the man's air of confidence, it was clear that he had his share of worries.

"Sheffield has powered up her jump coils," the Sensor Officer reported. "Jump field forming . . . there she goes!"

Tolwyn glanced at the watch implanted in his wrist. "Start the final countdown, Captain," he ordered.

For an instant, Eisen wanted to bristle. Ever since the admiral came on board he'd interfered in routine ship's operations: barking orders, taking over briefings, dressing down crew members who didn't live up to his image of the ideal Terran warrior. Tolwyn seemed to need to control everything and everyone around him, as if his personal intervention was the only thing that could guarantee the success of the mission.

But perhaps Tolwyn had good reason to be concerned. Eisen leaned forward in his chair and repeated the Admiral's order. Commander Gessler slapped the switch that started the automated jump sequence.

"NOW, JUMP STATIONS, JUMP STATIONS," the computer announced. "FIVE MINUTES TO JUMP SEQUENCE START."

The seconds ticked away, with no sign of Sheffield turning back to warn them away from the jump. Eisen began to relax a little. Maybe this operation would go by the numbers after all. . . .