Shell Game: 8/?
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
XXIII
The new Commander of the Lavirran Warfleet listened in silent approval to the reports relayed to him by his partner. Griffen and Bronson had handled the affair neatly. He was relieved when he saw the shuttles depart on their pre-programmed coordinates for the unsettled northern continent in Lavirra's largest ocean. The first phase of the plan was complete. He had a Patrol squadron at his disposal that, for all the Patrol knew, was commanded by Viceregal patrolmen, brave and true.
Mark glanced at his chronometer. What the hell was holding up that transport, anyway? He wanted it out of there before anybody showed up to shoot at it!
Griffen called him on the local channel. "Well, Commander, we've got prize crews aboard the battlecruisers, with Jeff Stewart in charge. We're all set."
"Everybody all dressed up?"
"Yep." Griffen grinned at them out of the viewscreen. "Jeff says Osborne's uniform is too tight."
"Life is hard," Linley said, grinning back. "Next phase, then."
"Acknowledged." The image of Griffen and the control room of the "Guardian" vanished.
Alan was looking distant. "Lyn says Julia's doing fine. Little Mark reports they're having some difficulty getting everybody aboard." He gave a slightly nervous smile. "Matt's got three more ladies in labor. Shelly Stewart is one of them."
Mark gave a reluctant grin. "Does Jeff know?"
"Not yet."
"Better not tell him right now. He's got to concentrate on what he's doin'."
"I'll pass the word."
The main weakness of his fleet, in Linley's opinion, was the fact that most of his command officers were inexperienced in actual battle situations, other than minor skirmishes with single Patrol ships. Theory notwithstanding, none of the Terran officers had ever engaged in real space warfare before. He had tried to offset this by placing former Patrol officers in command, or at the very least in the position of Executive Officer, of as many ships as he could. As a result, Ronald Griffen commanded the "Guardian", Kevin Bronson the "T'Freet". Former Subcommander and current psychic power pack, Paul Carson, commanded the "Lincoln", a Terran battleship, with his wife, Rachel, the control room psychic. The "Dragon", Paul Carson's old battlecruiser, was under the command of Former Strike Commander Andrei Wolenski. Colonel Warren Pike, a psychic, commanded the "Kinnar", a supposedly decommissioned Arcturian warship, but his Executive Officer was Captain Enrique de Vega, a former demolitions sergeant in the Patrol and the power pack of an Armageddon Team. His partner and brother, Miguel, was the control room psychic. Kurt McDougal, who except for Mark himself, was Alan Westover's best friend, was the commanding officer of the "MacArthur", a Terran light cruiser; his exec, Samuel Baker was a former Patrol Lieutenant whose sister had turned out to be a psychic. Lyn's father, Colonel Jefferson Parnell, commanded the "Eisenhower", a Terran heavy cruiser. Mark had done his best. He hoped the inexperience of his people would not be too much of a handicap. He did have the advantage that they all knew his battle strategy backwards and forwards and it, in itself, was the type of thing they did best: deception and confusion. It was likely to be an interesting contest.
He glanced at Alan. "Signal the Fleet to move into position. We don't know who'll be arrivin' next. Could be another squadron, could be the Fleet."
"Hyperspace jamming cut," Lieutenant Bearpaw reported from the ship's little-used communications board. She was a young psychic just recently out of the Lavirran Academy, and now she smiled nervously at him. He gave her a wink.
"Tell Jeff to do his stuff, kid," he ordered.
Alan nodded. "Holly -- I mean, Captain Stevens -- acknowledges, sir."
Mark grinned at his partner's formal tone. "Put the Patrol frequency on audio, Lieutenant," he said.
A moment later, Jeffery Stewart's voice filled the room.
"'Nova' to Drevelle! Come in, Drevelle!"
For several seconds, there was the hum of an open circuit. Then: "Drevelle to 'Nova'. We are receiving you. What the hell's going on there? That jamming is playing Hades with communications all over the Sector!"
"There's a planet here, all right," Stewart responded, sounding harried. "Has a pirate base on it."
"Not Underground?" The voice sounded disappointed.
"Nah." Stewart said, sounding disgusted. "Looks like that batch that's been raiding Jil shipping in the Corala-Riskell subsector. They've got some freighters and that Procyon warship reported destroyed a few years ago -- the 'T'Freet' -- and a bunch of small stuff -- scouts and so forth. We knocked out their transmitter with a missile."
"Who is this? Where's Squadron Commander Mombasa?"
"This is his second-in-command: Subcommander Osborne. Mombasa's in Sick Bay with a concussion and a busted arm."
"What's your situation?"
"We've got it in hand," Stewart reported. "Some of 'em put up a fight, but most of them just ran for it. We're still getting an occasional ship trying to sneak out. No trouble."
"How about the Jils?"
"They evidently got dumped somewhere on the planet, along with the crew. As far as we can find out, nobody was killed. We've got search parties out now, looking for them," Stewart said. "We took the pilot of a skippership prisoner awhile ago. He's being taken down for interrogation. We may get the location from him."
"Good work, Osborne," Drevelle Base said. "Lord Hanthzar dispatched reinforcements for you. They should be arriving within an hour, and the Sixth Fleet isn't far behind. Relay the instructions to return to base when they arrive."
"Acknowledged," Stewart said, crisply. "Too bad we didn't find an Underground base. Might have cut down on a lot of trouble from those lunatics."
"Yeah," the Drevelle man said, disgustedly. "Well, good hunting, 'Nova'."
"Thanks, Drevelle. 'Nova' out."
The com went silent. Linley glanced at his partner.
"Looks like they bought it," Lieutenant Sante, at the scanners ventured.
"So far." Mark looked at the 'Wolverine's' pilot. "Fleet status?"
"We're inert in the asteroid field," Welling reported.
"Reports from all the squadron leaders are in," Alan said. "Everybody's inert in the field. The only squadron out there is Jeff's. Eric sends his compliments on a successful strategy."
"Let's not congratulate ourselves too soon," Mark said, cautiously. "My mom always said it was bad luck."
"Mark," Alan said, suddenly. "Little Mark says that they're ready to leave." Linley's son was the control room psychic on the first transport.
"Sir!" Sante interrupted. "A Patrol squadron just popped out of hyperspace!"
"Tell li'l Mark to hold it, kid," Mark said. "Is Jeff ready?"
"Standing by," Alan told him. "The transport acknowledges, too. They won't move until you give the order."
"Good. Tell Jeff to do his act."
"Relayed." Alan glanced at the screen, which showed the readout on Sante's board.
"'Nova' to Patrol squadron," Stewart's voice said, crisply.
"Mitsui here," a voice said, in the Jil-like accent of Corala. "What's your situation, 'Nova'?"
"This is Subcommander Osborne," Stewart's voice said. "My commander is temporarily out of action. We have the situation under control. The pirates have either fled or are in hiding."
"Not an Underground base?" Squadron Commander Mitsui was clearly disappointed.
"No, worse luck. We just picked up our missing Jils a few moments ago."
"What's their status?"
"Indignant, but not hurt. Lord Pilathzor ordered us to hang around and capture anybody we can. He's frothing at the mouth. Drevelle told us to relay orders for you to return to base, though."
"Sounds like you're having a good time. All right, Subcommander; better luck next time."
"Thanks. 'Nova' out."
"Good hunting, 'Nova'. Out."
After several minutes, Sante announced, "The squadron just converted to hyperspace."
"One down, one to go," Linley said. "Hopefully. But the next one's the big one."
"The transport wants to know if it's safe yet," Mitch reported suddenly. "Mark says the captain's gettin' fidgety."
Alan shifted restlessly. "Tell them to wait, Mitch. I have a feeling ..." He broke off abruptly.
Sante sat up straight. "Ships, sir! It's got to be the Fleet. They're still appearing."
"Holly reports ships," Alan said, sounding remarkably calm. "It's the Fleet all right, Mark."
Linley stared up at the tactical board, feeling his stomach knot. His plan was a good one, but the best laid plans had gone awry before. There was the old saying that a battle plan never survived the first engagement with the enemy. So far that wasn't true, but he couldn't help wondering who was going to let him down, and how severely. He glanced at his chronometer. Could it really be only two hours since they had taken the "Nova" and her support ships? In some ways it seemed days, in others just bare minutes ...
Alan's eyes met his a little nervously. "There's probably a Jil or two on board that flagship. He'll be scanning for psychics. Hope everyone has their shields up tight."
"Can they communicate with the Jils in the brig?" Linley asked.
"No. Too far away. If we can just keep 'em out there, there won't be any trouble. Even I'm having to relay through several psychics to talk to Mark on the transport."
The communicator spoke -- a deep commanding voice carrying the faintly musical tones of a Riskell native. "Flagship 'Peacemaker' to 'Nova'. What is your situation, 'Nova'?"
Stewart explained patiently. "Only pirates," he concluded. "We have the situation under control."
"Very well, 'Nova'. Better luck next time."
"Thanks," Stewart said. "Drevelle orders you to return, immediately."
"Acknowledged."
"Subcommander Osborne..." The second voice was a deep, resonant baritone, heavily tinged with the accent of Shallock. "This is Fleet Commander Edwards ..."
Mark saw Alan look sharply at him. "He sounds just like you, Mark!"
"Sh!"
"Patch me through to Sick Bay. I want to speak to your Squadron Commander."
"Right away, sir." Stewart's voice sounded unruffled.
Another voice came on. "Sick Bay."
"Fleet Commander Edwards on the line, Doc. He wants to speak to the Squadron Commander."
"I'm afraid he can't," the voice said, regretfully. "The Commander is suffering from a concussion. He's a little disoriented at the moment."
"Is he going to be all right, Doc?" Stewart's voice asked.
"Certainly. In a few hours you won't know anything was ever wrong, but at the moment he's a bit indisposed."
"Tell him I hope he gets better fast, Doc," Edwards' voice said. "Osborne, do you need any extra ships to assist you? I'll drop 'em off if you like."
"Thank you sir," Jeff replied. "I wouldn't mind a couple of extra ships."
"Fine. We'll leave you the 'Leviathan' and the 'Sabreclaw', then. Good hunting, Subcommander."
"Thank you sir."
There was a pause. Alan opened his mouth to say something. Then:
"Peacemaker to 'Nova'!"
"Osborne here."
"Lord Milthvar wishes to talk with Lady Jorexzill right away. Patch her through."
"Uh ... yessir." Stewart sounded, for the first time, a little flustered. There was a silence. Linley looked at Alan. His partner shrugged eloquently.
Stewart's voice returned. "I can't raise her, sir. Her servant says she's indisposed."
The next voice made the hair prickle on the back of Linley's neck. It was the voice of a Jilectan.
"In what way is she indisposed, Subcommander?"
"Uh ... " Stewart cleared his throat again. "Uh ... she appears to be entertaining, sir. She seemed ... uh ... quite grateful to the sergeant whose ... uh ... party rescued her."
The response of Lord Milthvar surprised him. The alien's voice became utterly livid.
"I am coming aboard! Tell Jorexzill to dispose of her Terran lover immediately, or I shall kill them both!"
"Yessir!" Stewart replied, crisply.
"My shuttle will be arriving directly," Milthvar informed him, frostily.
"Yessir!" Jeffery repeated.
There was a silence. After a moment, a hushed voice said, "What was *that* all about?"
"Is he gone?" Stewart's voice inquired, apprehensively.
"He's on his way, Subcommander." Edwards' voice sounded both amused and resigned. "I'd advise you to inform Her Ladyship that her suitor is coming aboard and to get rid of the sergeant. *What* a time to pick ...!"
"Yessir," Stewart's voice said. "Inform M'lord's pilot that our shuttle bays were damaged slightly during our initial skirmish. He should land in our cargo bay for safety's sake ..."
"That tears it," Mark said, grimly. "We *would* hafta get a Jil Lord who's courtin' the lady scientist."
"What do we do now, Mark?" Alan looked very worried.
"Let's hope Jeff'll be able to bluff it through, but if he does get into trouble, we're gonna hafta be ready to bail him out. Signal the Fleet to get ready." Linley sighed. "Man, whatta mess. Jeff was a real find to run this scam. How'dya know to pick him?"
"Easy." Alan's grin was a bit strained. "He was the only one in the whole production last month -- you remember, Mark: 'Two Gentlemen of Verona' -- who was halfway convincing."
Linley made a face, feeling it instinctively as the tension on the bridge lessened in response to their light banter. "If I'd known that, I'd never o' gone for it. Don't you guys ever do anybody but that old Shakespeare guy? I can't hardly follow the dialogue, sometimes."
"Well, we *are* the New Globe Theater," Alan defended. "I still think you'd make a great Romeo."
"Yeah, sure. A Romeo with a Shallockian accent. They'd laugh 'emselves silly before we got through my first scene. I'll stick to singin' in the shower. It's safer -- *an'* more private."
The com spoke. "Shuttle to 'Nova'. We will be arriving in sixty-seven seconds. Lord Milthvar expects to be escorted immediately to Lady Jorexzill's quarters."
Stewart sounded flustered. "Yessir. Immediately."
"Now, we wait," Mark said, softly. "Everybody, cross your fingers."
XXVI
Jeffery Stewart, ex-sublieutenant in the Viceregal Patrol and now a captain in Terran Military Intelligence, aka the Terran Underground, assembled every good-sized man he could find in the corridors that Milthvar must pass through to reach the Lady's supposed quarters, all dressed in hastily-found Viceregal Patrol uniforms. The men on the bridge, of course, were already wearing them, since they had to be seen on the viewscreen, but the others had not. Some of the fits were not exactly perfect but these men were supposed to be fresh from an armed conflict; they couldn't be expected to be ready for inspection, and anyway, it was doubtful that His Lordship would notice. His mind would be too thoroughly on the Lady to matter. Personally, Stewart thought that if Jorexzill married this character, she would be making a mistake; still, it was her chance to step into the nobility. She might not be able to resist the temptation.
He grinned a little to himself. It didn't really matter, but he hoped she wouldn't. He'd met Lady Jorexzill once, some years ago, and thought her a most remarkable Lady. Lord Milthvar, somehow, didn't seem the right sort of Lord for her.
Suddenly he laughed. What the hell was he worried about, anyhow? Lady Jorexzill was quite capable of taking care of herself. He knew that for sure ...
He arrived at the airlock a little breathless. His uniform was a bit long in the leg and tight across the shoulders. Osborne was slightly taller and thinner that he was, but hopefully, Milthvar wouldn't notice.
"Shuttle's locking on, sir," Sergeant Bean said.
Bean was a man in his early twenties, a bit short for the uniform, but only by a little. Stewart gave a mental shrug. A hell of a lot of this was depending on chance, and anyway, to a Jil, all Terrans were short. He fastened the strap of his helmet in place. "Okay, Sarge," he said. "We're all set to roll. I hope that lucky rabbit's foot of yours is in working order today."
"You and me both, sir," Bean agreed, fervently.
The green light on the airlock changed to red and the door hissed open. Lord Milthvar strode through.
"Attention!" Stewart barked.
Everyone instantly snapped to attention.
"Salute!"
Two dozen figures saluted. Milthvar barely glanced at them. His frigid gaze fastened instantly on Stewart's nameplate. "Subcommander Osborne!" he snapped. "You will escort me instantly to Lady Jorexzill's quarters! I hope for her sake that the Terran has departed."
Stewart made his voice very apologetic. The more enraged he could make M'lord at this point, the better. "Uh, M'lord," he stammered, "I regret to report that ... that the sergeant is still with M'lady. When I informed her of your imminent arrival, she was most -- uh -- uncooperative." He cleared his throat. "She said the sergeant would accompany her in her quarters for the return trip. I ... I'm sorry, M'lord. There was nothing I could do."
Milthvar's face had frozen at his speech and Stewart watched with interest as it went pale with fury, then reddened and slowly metamorphosed to the color of a ripe plum.
"How dare she!" he half-hissed. "Escort me to her quarters at once!"
"Right away, M'lord," Jeffery said, hastily. "If you'll follow me ..."
He turned and strode down the corridor, moving with undignified haste as the alien was almost treading on his heels. The Jilectan's bodyguard had to half-run to keep up. They passed through a corridor to a lift with a guard standing stiffly on either side of it. Both men saluted as M'lord paused momentarily before it, then the doors slid smartly aside. They entered the lift.
Stewart stepped courteously to the rear of the lift, allowing M'lord and his bodyguard the majority of the room in the conveyance. They rose smoothly toward the second level, the officer's deck, where the luxurious staterooms for Jilectan passengers were also located. Jeffery glanced furtively at Milthvar.
He was relatively short for a Jilectan, about Mark Linley's height or perhaps a little taller, which put him several centimeters above Stewart. His hair was an almost metallic platinum silver and his eyes were the same hue. He was clad in flowing, silver robes, giving the impression of a silver being. He might have been impressive if he were not wearing braided pigtails that hung ridiculously to his shoulders, and the silver earrings, shaped like tiny silver bells that tinkled merrily when he moved.
His bodyguard stood a little to his left and rear, a Patrolman First Class, Stewart noted. The man looked uncomfortable and bored with his task. Stewart didn't blame him. He'd had the unenviable privilege of being a Jilectan's bodyguard for four endless weeks and recalled mainly the fact that he'd itched unbearably under his hot and heavy helmet, not daring to remove it long enough to scratch.
He glanced idly at the man's nameplate. The patrolman's name was Kasperick: unusual, although not unique in the Viceregal Patrol, he was sure. Still, it worried him a little. Just before his defection to the Terran Underground, when he'd been a sublieutenant at the Loquin Patrol Base on Riskell, he'd had a Kasperick under his command.
The guard stood still, one pace to Milthvar's left and rear, saying nothing. Stewart wished he'd dared to put a psychic into the uniform of the Strike Commander's valet and have him strategically placed nearby, but the risk was too high that Milthvar might spot him.
The lift slid to a stop and the doors opened. Milthvar stepped imperiously out and gestured sharply for Stewart to lead the way. Two men, one of them an Arcturian, clad in Patrol uniform, saluted sharply. Stewart wondered privately what Milthvar would say if he knew himself to be facing a former sergeant in the Patrol. Tannir had defected six months ago and, like every Arcturian that Stewart had ever met, the former sergeant was one of the most efficient men that he knew. That was one reason he was on this particular ship.
Stewart led the way to a closed and locked door. Everything now depended on his actors. He looked nervously at M'lord.
"These are her quarters, sir." He let the sentence trail off and stepped to one side.
Milthvar pounded on the panel with a clenched fist, making the metal vibrate. There was a long silence, then the speaker came on. A voice which could only be that of a Procyon spoke.
"Yesh?"
Behind the door, of course, was a female Procyon: his Chief Engineering Officer, Le'Veech, and a male Terran, both chosen for their exceptional ability at selective shielding, and both radiating apprehension at full power -- not a difficult task at all, Stewart thought. He was finding it exceptionally easy, himself.
"This is Lord Milthvar!" the Jilectan snapped. "You will open this door at once."
A long pause. Then: "M'lady regretsh she ish indishposhed, M'lord, and ashksh that you call another time."
"You will open this door at once!" Milthvar repeated, in outrage, "or I shall have my servants burn out the lock!"
Another pause. Then:
"M'lady will permit you to enter, M'lord ... but not your bodyguard."
"Of course not!" Milthvar snapped. "I have no wish for witnesses to this disgusting situation!"
The door opened carefully, and the downy face of the Procyon officer peered out, then disappeared. Milthvar swept haughtily through the entrance, which closed with a snap behind him.
Silence. The bodyguard shifted uneasily, glancing at Stewart. "Jils!" he remarked. "Damn, whatta mess!"
Stewart shrugged indifferently. "I need to get back to the control room," he said. "Can you escort His Lordship back when he's ready?"
"Yeah." The man removed his helmet and scratched his scalp thoroughly. Stewart's heart lurched.
He knew that face. Wallace "Joe" Kasperick had run errands for him and been his general gofer for three months. Kasperick, a new recruit, was much in awe of the newly commissioned Jeff Stewart, just out of Patrol O.C.S. ...
He hoped the man wouldn't spot anything amiss.
The speaker by the door squawked, making him jump.
"Subcommander ..." A long pause. "I will be ... staying here with Lady Jorexzill ... for some time. My bodyguard will convey orders for the shuttle pilot to return to the 'Peacemaker' at once. I shall return ... with the Nova."
Stewart appeared, he hoped, suitably surprised. "Of course, sir."
"Mr. Kasperick," Milthvar continued, his voice sounding a little more normal, "inform my shuttle pilot to see that Lord Snathvor receives the promised bottle of moonwine, as I will not be there to present it."
"Yessir," Kasperick replied, smartly. He replaced his helmet rather reluctantly and glanced at Stewart. "Wonder what the hell happened?"
Stewart shrugged. "Don't ask me, Patrolman. I never get mixed up in fights between Jils."
"Yeah," Kasperick agreed, fervently. "His Lordship sure sounded funny. Everybody knows he's got the hots for this Jorexzill gal. If I was her, I wouldn't have him on a silver platter."
Stewart grinned, fighting the urge to hurry the man along. His order to the shuttle pilot must sound genuine. "What was that business about the bottle of moonwine?"
"I dunno. Some bet or other he had on with Snathvor. I guess he lost." Kasperick sounded indifferent. "He was supposed to pay it off tonight."
"Oh." Stewart turned to Tannir. "Patrolman, escort Patrolman Kasperick to the shuttle and then show him His Lordship's quarters. Guess I'll have to oust Lieutenant DuValle. I'm fresh out of Jil staterooms."
"Yess, ssir." The Arcturian gestured to Kasperick. "Ziss way if you pleasse, Patrolman."
Stewart went smartly toward the lift at the other end of the corridor, breathing a sigh of relief. At the lift he paused, feeling the tension in his shoulders relax. Maybe they had made it.
As the doors slid open, he jumped. A young man, clad as a Strike Commander's valet, was in the lift. Stewart stepped in, the doors sliding shut behind him. "What the hell are you dressed in that monkey suit for, Eddie?"
Lieutenant Edward Burke, the nineteenth child of Leroy and Wanda Burke, newly graduated from Lavirra Military Academy, glanced up at him. Edward was a double-gene psychic, partnered to a young woman in his class, Mary Channing. "I got a funny feeling about you, sir. Thought I'd better come up and check on you." He grimaced down at himself. "This looked like the safest way."
"What kind of feeling?"
"I don't know, exactly," the young man admitted. "Just a funny feeling."
"I used to know that guy," Stewart said, apprehensively. "We worked together on Riskell. Do you think he might have recognized me?"
"We better find out before he gets to the shuttle."
"You said it. Call the bridge. Have somebody stop them -- discreetly, of course. No radio communication. We don't want to warn him, just in case."
"I just did." Edward glanced worriedly at him. "What excuse are you going to give?"
"*You're* going to give it, Eddie. Lord Milthvar has another message for him."
"Right, sir. And I'll read him as soon as I'm close enough." Ed grinned a little nervously. "By the way, congratulations."
"Huh?"
"Your wife just had a message relayed to you. You're a father."
"*Huh*?"
"Yeah," the psychic agreed. "You've got a son. She didn't want you to worry, so she didn't tell you."
"Holy ..."
"All the psychics knew, though. Colonel Westover sends his congratulations."
"Is she all right?"
"Fine. She said to tell you she loves you and to get that fleet out of here!"
"Amen to that," Stewart said. "Oops, here we are. Watch yourself."
The lift had come to a stop and the doors slid open. Edward Burke stepped from the lift, half-running down the corridor toward the hangar. Sergeant Tannir and Patrolman Kasperick had paused and were apparently speaking to the two guards who stood before it.
"Patrolman!" the psychic panted in the tones of a man who has been running. "A message from Lord Milthvar!"
The sentence produced an unexpected result. The patrolman shoved Tannir violently aside, snatching out his blaster. Tannir jumped for him at once, followed by Burke and the two guards. A blaster cracked and Stewart, rushing to join the fray, became aware of a voice screaming something in his earphones. The ship jolted suddenly.
Then it was over. The three men straddled Kasperick and Burke held the smoking blaster in one hand; the left sleeve of his uniform was slightly singed from a near miss by the blaster. Kasperick was cursing violently, half-sobbing as he struggled uselessly with the guards.
"Damn you, Joe!" Stewart yanked off his helmet, glaring at the man. "Eddie, contact Control. The shuttle left."
"I know." Edward looked tired. "Maybe somebody can blast him before he contacts the Fleet."
"Cut in the local jamming," Stewart said. "Get that shuttle!"
"Fighters launching now," Edward replied. "It was the moonwine, Captain."
"The moonwine?"
"Milthvar had a bet on with Snathvor that they wouldn't find an Underground base here. Snathvor bet him a bottle of moonwine that they would. He was sending a warning to Snathvor."
Stewart glared at Kasperick. "You better hope we get that shuttle, Joe, or you're going to be smack in the middle of the worst battle you've ever been in." He gestured to the guards. "Stick him in the brig. We've got more important things to do, right now."
**********
Alan Westover jumped slightly. "Drat!"
"What?" Linley demanded.
"Lieutenant Burke on the 'Nova' reports that the bodyguard caught on. He got a message through to the shuttle pilot."
"Damn!"
"Local jamming resumed," the communications officer reported.
"Blast that shuttle!" Linley ordered.
"Scouts already on it," Alan said. "Captain Wong acknowledges. He's got him in his sights."
Mitch whooped. "*Got* the sucker!" he reported, exultantly.
Sante, at the scanners, glanced quickly at Mark. "Sir, there's six pursuit ships peeling off from the Fleet after Wong."
"Expected. Tell Stewart to launch a couple o' pursuit ships of his own. Make like they're chasin' Wong, but block those guys from the Fleet. An' cut the jammin'. Jeff's gonna hafta do some fast talkin'."
"Jamming cut," Lieutenant Bearpaw reported. She glanced nervously at Mark.
Linley gave her his best smile. "Put the audio on, Lieutenant. I wanna hear this."
"Pursuit ships have launched," Alan said.
**********
(tbc)
