"William R. Forstchen & Ben Ohlander - Wing Commander 05 - The Price of Freedom" - читать интересную книгу автора (Forstchen William R)Vale smiled indulgently at the kid's excited voice. "I got something on my scanner. One red pipper…
Wait, it's gone now." Vale frowned at his tactical display. A free comet or garbage sack shouldn't have vanished like that. Vale guessed the boy was jumping at shadows. "Roger, Sparrow," he replied, "maintain surveillance. Call me if you get a repeat." He tapped his control yoke in thought. Sparrow was, ahead of the transports and on the port side, with Tiger to starboard. It was barely possible that Sparrow might read a scanner signal that was just out of Tiger's range. He switched channels to Marlenas frequency, "Knave to Tiger." Tigers face appeared in his screen, her head moving back and forth as she scanned the area around her. "I know what you're going to ask, boss," she said. "No, I didn't see it." She paused a moment. "Do you want him to intercept? It'd be good practice." Vale considered it. "No, we'd best not. Fuel allocation's been cut once this quarter already. We need the gas more than he needs the practice." Tigers face clouded."Parsimonious bastards. The ink wasn't even dry on the treaty before they cut the budget." Vale said nothing. He agreed with her, but wasn't about to let himself get caught criticizing his bosses on an open channel. There were far too many unemployed majors flying bar stools for him to have any illusions about his indispensability. "Keep an eye on it," he said. "It was probably a sensor artifact or a "Roger," Tiger replied. He tried to ignore the sense that something was wrong. Sparrows contact troubled him. The kid's scanners were new, in good shape, and decently maintained. Anomalies weren't unusual, of course, and there was a lot of junk floating around to give a momentary reflection, but something just didn't seem right. Nephele was as predictable and as boring as mess-hall eggs. Odd events just didn't happen there. Vale shook his head. The kid had gotten worked up over nothing, and was now making the whole flight jittery. It was probably nothing. The pilot waited patiently while the convoy appeared on his long-range scanner. He counted seven craft, just as he had been told to expect. They were late, a fact that disturbed his sense of order, but which had no relevance on the outcome. He checked his Kilrathi-style cloaking device. It was working, rendering him invisible to both their scanners and the naked eye. He waited for the ships to wander into visual range. Four early-model Arrows hovered in a sloppy formation about their three charges. He frowned slightly. He had expected better escorting tactics from Confederation pilots. The Fleet had let things slide since the peace. He smoothed his facial features, mastering his expression and his feelings. Emotion impaired judgement and efficiency. He struggled to purge himself of all feeling— the better to do what was needed. When he cued his wingman's frequency, his voice was as cold and still as a winter morning. |
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