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On the bridge, Jack scrutinized the image of the unknown vessel, which had turned to intercept the Roth. “Helm, keep us away. Sensors, magnify.”
“Beg pardon, sir, that’s maximum magnification.”
Jack stepped up to the view screen. The French vessel, if French it was, was bow-on, making her identity difficult to determine. “Rotate the image 30 degrees clockwise.” Yes, now she looked upright, more or less. “Is she showing an IFF?”
“No, sir,”
Not that it mattered. The law required that a vessel show her proper IFF before opening fire, but was silent on the matter before that time. And pirates and terrorists would ignore the law as a matter of course. Privateers had been known to do the same… .
“Helm, keep us away,” said Jack again, for the image had started to grow. “Mister Greenstreet, I am stepping down to the chart room, you have the bridge.”
“Yes, sir,”
In the chart room, Jack pulled up the local region of hyperspace, dropping in the positions of the Roth and the stranger. There really was nothing in area, no reason for anyone to be just waiting here, except to intercept British or allied shipping. The route between Pleiades and Hawthorne Circus ran close to French-occupied space, and if he, or she, was willing to risk the occasional armed transport, a French commander could make a pretty penny before being discovered and driven off. But Roth, with her Algonquin-Electric 375s, could probably outrun any French corvette or brig, and most frigates, if the engines could be run at flank. He would only need a few hours to disappear.
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