thought we'd been landed with a bunch of red-heads but - you all did

well. Some better than others." His eyes rested briefly on

Brickman.

'In fact, all of you turned in such terrific grades, the average

pass-mark is the highest ever in the Academy's history."

The class of 2989 gave themselves a congratulatory cheer.

The six AFI's allowed themselves an impassive smile.

Carrol gestured soberly for silence. 'Yes, I suppose I should

congratulate you but, the truth is, you people have just made life more

difficult for the rest of us. Because now, Grand Central are going to

expect us to do even better next year." Carrol looked over both

shoulders at the AFI's.

'Which means, gentlemen, that, as from tomorrow, you and I are going to

have to kick ass."

The six AFI's responded with mock resignation. 'We could always put in

for promotion,' said Triggs.

Carrol cocked a finger at the senior All. 'Good thinking."

He turned back to the class, placed his hands purposefully on the upper

corners of the lectern and cleared his throat.

The class of 2989 straightened their backs and faces.

'Okay. Hear this. In a few days you'll have a badge pinned to your

chest. You'll be wingmen. The frontline force of the Amtrak

Federation. It's a great moment. Savour it. But don't think that

life's going to get easier, that the hard work is over. You have

another twelve months operational training ahead of you when you join

your wagon trains. And if you're smart, it won't stop when you swap

your silver badge for a gold. You'll go on learning. Because it's the

only way to become a better flier. Always remember that when the chips

are down and you're fresh out of luck, it's the hot pilots that make it

back to base." Carrol paused and ran his eyes along the rows of

bright, eager young faces, his mouth tightening with a hint of

regret.

'Who knows? If you don't power down, or pull a trick, some of you

could even end up making speeches to classes like this."

His audience greeted this with a dry, ragged laugh. To 'power down'

was Trail-Blazer jargon for a crash in hostile territory - usually with

fatal results; like 'buying a farm' or 'going into the meat business',

for it was well known that Mutes ate any prisoners they caught alive.

To 'pull a trick' was another euphemism for death - from what the

Federation medical establishment had labelled a TRIC: a Terminal

Radiation-Induced Cancer.

Most of the wingmen on the Academy's Roll of Honour had powered down,

or pulled a trick. Usually before they reached the ripe old age of

thirty. Carrol knew that at least haft of the young faces now fixed on

his would never see the sun rise on their twenty-first birthday. His

audience knew it too. And didn't give a damn. Every year, the Academy

was swamped with thousands of applications for the three hundred places

available for Squabs - the derisive name applied to first-year

cadets.

That - according to the Manual - was the great strength of the Amtrak

Federation. The raw courage and dedication of the Trackers. Two of

the Seven Great Qualities possessed by the founders of Amtrak. The

Foragers and the Minutemen. Qualities now enshrined in the First

Family and the members of the two lite companies that bore their

name.

'They died so that others might live." The message was emblazoned on

wall surfaces throughout the Federation and every Tracker was

encouraged, from birth, to emulate their example.

Without question.

When the examination results were screened, Brickman found to his

amazement that, after three years of dedicated, relentless effort, he

had been placed fourth with 188 points, behind Pete Vandenberg, from

Condor Squadron, the cadet Brickman had judged most likely to come a

poor second to his brilliant first. That was bad enough but there was

worse to come. Gus White, a wingman in the same flight as Steve, who

had not even figured in his calculations had landed in the No. 2 slot,

ahead of Vandenberg by one point a