Star Wars_ The Black Fleet Crisis 03_ Tyrant's Test - Michael P. Kube-McDowell [35]
It didn’t take many days for the air in his office to thin to half an atmosphere and the bulkheads of his office to close in to the dimensions of a cell in the brig. But by the time Gavin rebelled and began to plot a temporary escape, the Fifth Fleet had re-formed into double-strength task forces and scattered into the fringes of Koornacht Cluster, taking most of the new arrivals out of ready reach.
But Task Force Gemstone, now attached to the flag task force, offered twenty-two possible destinations for Gavin’s getaway. Since a visit to Commodore Poqua’s command ship, the carrier Starpoint, would only entangle him in more command-level formalities, Gavin skimmed down the list and chose another vessel.
“Roust my pilot and prep my gig,” he said, calling down to Intrepid’s No. 1 flight deck. “I’m going to pay a visit to Floren.”
“Acknowledged, Colonel. We’ll notify flight control.”
With the fleet on level one alert, even Colonel Gavin was obliged to don combat flight garb when leaving Intrepid in a smaller craft. Apart from the time lost climbing into and out of the five-piece high-flexibility pressure suit, Gavin didn’t object to the requirement—and the typically spirited and ribald ready-room chatter usually made that time pass quickly enough.
But at midrotation, the ready room was deserted, and Gavin had to struggle with the waist ring without benefit of a helping hand. It was not until Gavin was in the middle of the helmet-on pressure test that another pilot joined him there—a young alien wearing a purifier pack on his chest and the red emblem of a provisional flight officer on his collar.
Instead of going to one of the lockers, the pilot walked to within two meters of Gavin and stopped, as though waiting for him. When the test rig chimed its approval, Gavin broke the neck seal and removed his helmet.
“Are you looking for someone, son?” Gavin asked, noting the absence of a Fifth Fleet insignia on the pilot’s uniform.
The officer saluted belatedly, as though it were an unpracticed reflex. “Are you Colonel Gavin, sir?”
“Guilty as charged. And you are—”
“Plat Mallar, sir. Sir—they told me that you make all the decisions about pilot assignments.”
“They?”
“The crew of the gig. And the crew chief told me where I might find you. I’m one of the ferry pilots from Coruscant.”
“The escort flight for Tampion,” Gavin said, nodding. “I know that you were all cleared by Intelligence, but I’m a little surprised to hear anyone’s talking to you. Did you ever think they might not be doing you a favor, telling you to come see me?”
“Colonel, you make all the decisions about flight assignments, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Then who else could I see?”
Gavin nodded thoughtfully. “What is this about, then?”
“It’s about my orders, sir. There are five of us being sent back to Coruscant on the fleet shuttle, as space is available. We were brought over from Venture this morning to wait.”
“That’s right. What’s the problem?”
“Sir, I don’t want to be sent back. I can’t be. I want to stay and be part of this fight. You have to let me do something.”
“No, I don’t,” said Gavin, tucking his helmet under his right arm. “But I’ll give you a chance to convince me that I ought to. Mind you, though, I signed off on your orders. To be blunt, we do need pilots, but no one wanted you or the others. None of you is experienced enough for the squadron leaders who’re shorthanded to take a chance on you.”
“If it makes any difference to you, I have another hundred and ninety hours in a TIE interceptor that don’t show up on my service record.”
“In a TIE?” Gavin raised an eyebrow questioningly. “Give me your ID disc.”
The young pilot complied, and Gavin studied the data in a portable reader. When he was finished, he looked up and fixed Mallar with a quizzical look.
“Who are you?” he demanded. “I can’t figure out what you’re doing out here in the first place. You have more hours in sims and fewer hours