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technicians bustled around guiding them toward the fighters resting side by side in their launch cradles.
    Blair climbed into the cockpit, his stomach churning the way it always did in anticipation of a launch, as techs supervised the final preparations, checked the seals on the cockpit canopy, removed external power and fuel feeds, studied readouts, and compared them with the incoming data from Flight Control. Blair ran through his own checklist.
    When all the lights on his panel glowed green, he nodded his head and lowered his faceplate into place. He switched his radio to the command channel. "Thunderbolt three-double-zero," he said. "Ready for launch."
    "Flight Control," Rachel's voice sounded in his ear. "Confirming, Thunderbolt three zero zero ready for launch."
    Blair's faceplate came alive with a Heads Up Display of the fighter's major systems. Seconds ticked away on a countdown clock in the lower left-hand corner of the HUD readout. The time seemed to drag into an eternity, but at last the readout flashed through the final few seconds. Blair took a firm grip on the steering yoke with one hand while the other rested on the engine throttles. Three . . . two . . . one . . .
    Blair rammed the throttles forward and felt the engines engage. "Thunderbolt three-double-zero, under power," he reported. Then he was free of the carrier, climbing outward into the star-studded depths of open space.
    A moment later Hobbes came on the line, his voice slightly distorted by the computer reconstruction of his encoded transmission. "Thunderbolt three-zero-one, under power."
    "Roger that, three hundred, three-o-one," the voice of Lieutenant Rollins rang loudly in his headphones. "Your mission designation is Snoop Flight, repeating Snoop Flight."
    "Confirming," Blair replied. "Snoop Leader, establishing flight coordinates now." As Hobbes added his own response, Blair tapped a key to check the autopilot's flight plan on the navcomp. A flight from Blue Squadron had detected signs of possible enemy activity on long-range sensors around three different coordinate points, but pursuant to standing orders had not investigated closely. Instead, they brought their information back to the Victory. Now Eisen wanted those potential trouble spots checked more thoroughly, with Gold Squadron's heavier Thunderbolts doing the scouting in case they ran into opposition.
    A routine patrol . . . except that Blair had long since learned that no mission was ever entirely routine.
    The two fighters flew in close formation, side by side, with a minimum of conversation passing back and forth between them or the carrier. The first of the three target areas were free of enemy ships, although some random space debris did show up on sensors to suggest what the first flight had detected. They remained in the area long enough to double-check all their sensor readings, then set course for the second navigation point on the flight plan.
    "Range to navpoint, eight thousand kilometers," Hobbes reported finally. "Switching to full-spectrum sensor sweep . . . now."
    "Confirmed," Blair replied tersely, activating his own sensor array. What seemed like extremely long seconds passed as the computer began to process the information pouring through the system. The tracking screen in the center of his control console lit up with a trio of red lights.
    "Fighters, fighters, fighters," Hobbes chanted over the tactical channel. "I read three fighters, bearing three-four-six by zero-one-one, range two thousand, closing."
    Blair checked his own target readouts. "Confirmed. Three bad guys, two of us. But I'll bet you they're only a little bit nervous at the odds!" He paused for a moment, studying the sensor data. "I read them as Dralthi-class, probably type fours."
    "Then they should offer only a mild challenge," Hobbes said. The Dralthi IV was a good craft, but classed as a medium fighter with less weaponry and lighter armor than the Terran Thunderbolt. "May I have the honor of the first