“Can’t wait,” she replied sarcastically then smiled sadly. “I miss you.”
“We both miss you too.”
They had no children, only a dog. She’d decided long ago not to bring a child into the universe while serving as a CDF officer, especially as promotions came through. That would all change in six months, when her twenty years were up and a well-earned retirement was due. If I get to retire. In an all-out war, it probably won’t be in the cards.
Tears almost came as she remembered happier days. “I’d better disconnect this before someone realizes what I’m doing.”
“I love you, Banu.”
“I love you too.” Tehrani leaned in and made an air kiss at the tablet. Ibrahim did the same.
Then the screen went black.
Left with her thoughts, Tehrani lay back on the bed, trying to force herself to sleep. The idea of an occupied Terran Coalition, where the way of life they had and the freedoms and privileges held dear by every citizen suddenly ceased to exist overnight, was terrifying. She fought to turn her mind off so that she could rest. It took a while, but eventually, she fell into a deep slumber in which she was haunted by nightmares of the Zvika Greengold exploding from battle damage. After several hours of the recurring dream, she got up and returned to duty.
13
Tehrani lifted her mug of hot CDF coffee to her lips and took a sip. The coffee was bitter and intense, just the way she liked it. Around her, the bridge was a beehive of activity. The damaged consoles were mostly repaired, though a small crew of enlisted personnel continued to replace wiring in a secondary fire-control system that handled the starboard point-defense weapons. She’d been in her chair a good hour after touring the vessel, visiting the Imam in the chapel, and finally ending up on the bridge. It was almost 0500 Coalition Mean Time, which meant that most of the first-watch personnel would wake up shortly.
“Conn, Communications,” Singh called. He’d been standing watch all night. “I’m getting fleet-link requests from the Victory.”
General Irvine’s flagship. “Plug us in, Lieutenant. If nothing else, we’ll get to watch the battle unfold. Put the feed into our holotank.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am.”
The central holotank came to life with a view of the battlefield roughly one hundred million kilometers away. Blue and red icons, representing friendly and hostile forces respectively, sprang into being. Tehrani had never seen so many live contacts on a sensor readout. It was mind-boggling how many ships were out there, slugging it out with one another. She watched as groups of vessels charged forward on both sides then retreated only when many of them disappeared from the screen. The realization that each one of the blue dots represented hundreds or even thousands of lives shook her to the core. My fellow soldiers are dying by the thousands. More than anything, she wanted to do something.
The battle continued for almost two hours with nothing but volley and retreat, and through it all, Tehrani took cold comfort that far more red icons were disappearing than blue. Additional watchstanders arrived, as did Wright. Little was said. Each time the Leaguers destroyed a friendly vessel, she whispered a prayer in Arabic for their souls. Then all the dots moved. Nearly half an hour later, what was happening finally dawned on her. General Irvine had caught a flotilla of enemy ships out of place and mousetrapped them. The bold maneuver opened a hole in the League’s lines, and a squadron of destroyers and cruisers charged through.
After that, all hell broke loose. The enemy commander closed the hole, cut off the forward units, and shredded them. Not a single vessel made it back to CDF lines. Tehrani felt like someone had stabbed her in the heart as each blue icon disappeared. Worst of all, she could do nothing.
“Conn, Communications,” Singh said, interrupting her mental anguish. “General distress transmission from CSV Victory, ma’am.”
“Put it on.” Tehrani returned to the CO’s chair as she spoke. She absentmindedly took a sip of coffee then realized it had long been cold and nearly spat it out.
“Audio only, ma’am.”
A few moments later, the transmission began, filled with static. “This is General Irvine, to any CDF or friendly military vessels in range. The League of Sol has broken our battle line, and we’re falling back to Canaan. If you can help us, even if your ship is small or damaged, we’ll take anything we can get. Civilian ships with weapons who are willing to fight are welcome. We must hold the line by any means necessary. I call on all citizens of the Terran Coalition to do their part to ensure our nation survives. Irvine out.”
Tehrani turned to Wright. “Repair status, Major?”
“Ma’am, we’re still not combat capable.” The words fell out of Wright’s mouth like a hammer. “Half of our point-defense emplacements don’t work, shields are at half strength, and so are the engines.”
She set her jaw. “Does the Lawrence drive function?”
“Yes, ma’am, but—”
“Can we launch fighters?” Tehrani asked.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And they’re all on ready five, aren’t they?”
“Well, yes—”
“Then we’re going.” Tehrani smoothed her black command sweater. “Worst-case scenario, we can drop our fighters and bombers off then get out.”
“Banu,” Wright whispered, “I’ll follow you to the gates of hell. You know I respect you and your abilities. But this is a jump too far. We’ve got what? Thirty-one small craft left? Our pilots are reservists. We’ve done our job. Let the big boys fight it out. We can’t affect the outcome of this battle. We should make for Canaan orbit and contribute our fighters to the fray there, if the fleet falls.”
His motivation was pure, and the argument resonated. But it clashed with duty, and duty won. “No. Our pilots could turn the tide or hold the line until the reinforcements arrive. We’re going.”
“You’re the skipper,” Wright said, his mouth in a tight line. “Promise me you won’t sacrifice the crew in a needless gesture.”
“Never.”
“Thank you.”
Tehrani shifted her gaze back toward the front of the bridge and the darkness of space. Allah help us all. She cleared her throat. “Communications, get me 1MC.”
“Tied in, ma’am,” Singh reported.
She stared at the mic built into her chair. “Attention all hands, this is Colonel Tehrani. General quarters. General quarters. This is not a drill. Man your battle stations. I say again, man your battle stations. Set condition one throughout the ship.” She paused. “The fleet has called for help, and the CSV Zvika Greengold will answer the call. I know the last twenty-four hours have been hell for all of us. I do not take this action lightly, but it’s what we all signed up for when we raised our hands and took the oath. Do your duty. Fight hard. Fight well. Make me proud. Tehrani out.”
The lights on the bridge turned blue and dimmed as the general-quarters klaxon tolled. A moment later, Bryan turned around. “Conn, TAO. Condition one set throughout the ship.”
Tehrani nodded. “Energize our shields. Charge the energy-weapons capacitor. Navigation, plot a Lawrence drive jump to the fleet’s projected location ten minutes from now.” She punched another button on the CO’s chair. “Major Whatley, can you hear me?”
“Loud and clear, ma’am. I’m on my way to the hangar deck now.”
“I want everything we’ve got ready to launch in ten minutes.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Tehrani out.”
All that remained was to wait. The next ten minutes were an eternity.
* * *
With the general-quarters klaxon still ringing in his ears, Justin rushed into the flight bay, helmet in hand. Pandemonium was all around him as crew chiefs, munitions techs, and maintenance team members rushed about, performing last checks on the thirty-one combat spacecraft left on the Zvika Greengold. Resolutely, he trudged toward his Sabre. Pockmarked and charred in several places but still operational, it sat like a chariot of old, waiting to c
arry him into battle. It looks about like I feel.
“Attention on deck!”
Justin turned to see Major Whatley standing at the front of the flight line, holding a portable public-address amplifier in his hand.
“Pilots, front and center!” Whatley’s voice reverberated off the alloy walls of the hangar and caused everyone to turn toward him.
The rest of the pilot cadre formed into neat rows. Justin joined them and came to attention.
“As you were,” Whatley began in his gruff tone. The major appeared worried, with dark rings under his eyes. “I’m not here to sugarcoat this, ladies and gentlemen. We’ve been called on because the fleet is close to being overwhelmed. We’re going up against extreme odds.” He paused. “I know most of you young’uns don’t remember, but I’ve been CDF for fifteen years. My father was CDF for thirty years. He fought the Saurians in both wars. He told me stories about going into battle, outnumbered three to one in fighters that didn’t even have shields. He and his pilots told each other they were going to fight the good fight, no matter the odds. They believed God was at their side and would guarantee victory.”
Justin glanced around to those on his right and left. Worried faces greeted him.
“That’s what we’re going to do today. In a few minutes, the Zvika Greengold will drop out of her Lawrence drive wormhole, and we’re all launching—including me. We’ll stand together, fight together, and prevail together. I know you’re reservists, and we weren’t prepared for this. But all of you”—Whatley made eye contact with Justin—“have performed superbly. In every engagement so far, our air wing has acquitted itself better than it had any right to. It’s an honor to fly alongside and lead you. So, men and women of the Greengold’s flight wing… man your craft! Fight like there’s no tomorrow, because there isn’t if we fail.” His voice rose. “Fight the good fight, no matter the odds!”
Out of nowhere, the entire company shouted, “No matter the odds!” The tumult shook the deck plating.
“Now, get out there and kick those Leaguer bastards back to Earth, where they belong! Dismissed!” Whatley yelled, and they all took off running.
Justin dodged several crew chiefs then slid to a stop next to his Sabre.
A hand touched his shoulder, and he whirled around to see Whatley.
“Lieutenant, I want to shake the hand of a brave man.”
For a moment, Justin froze, then he took Whatley’s hand, gripping it firmly. “Thank you, sir.”
“I’ve been rough on you, perhaps undeservedly. You’ve done well and fought bravely. Good luck out there, and Godspeed.”
As Whatley turned to go, Justin said, “Sir, wait. You were right. I joined for the wrong reasons.” He bit his lip. “But I’m fighting for the right ones now.”
“I know.” He held up a finger. “Don’t think for a minute this means I’m easing up on you.”
“Of course not, sir,” Justin replied with a grin.
“Mount up, son. Give ’em hell.”
Justin slotted his helmet into the O-ring at the neck of his flight suit and climbed the small ladder leading to the cockpit. Once he’d slid down into the seat, he looked over the side and gave a thumbs-up.
The crew chief returned the gesture and triggered the sequence to seal the cockpit’s windows while Whatley watched.
Out of the corner of Justin’s eye, he caught Whatley saluting him. He quickly turned and snapped off a salute of his own. A wave of emotion washed over him as he realized how much the respect of the older officer meant. As the major stalked off, Justin started his preflight checklist. Halfway through, he stopped and pulled out the small paper photo of Michelle and his daughter he’d printed earlier in the day and affixed it to an uncovered portion of his flight controls, in a position that didn’t obstruct any instruments. This is what I’m fighting for.
* * *
While the pilots readied for battle, Tehrani sat in the CO’s chair, bathed in blue light from the overhead and counting down the minutes and seconds till they jumped. Additional damage-control teams along with additional watchstanders had reported to the bridge several minutes ago, answering the call for battle stations. They had little left to do but wait.
“Conn, Navigation. Lawrence drive charge completed,” Mitzner called.
Tehrani sucked in a breath and turned to Wright. “Ready?”
“I think the proper answer is ‘Yeah, it’s what we trained for.’ But I’d be lying if I said I ever thought we’d be in another war within my lifetime.” Wright forced a smile. “Just our luck.”
“Luck has nothing to do with it, Major,” Tehrani replied. Her eyes went back to the small monitor above her head. “Navigation, reconfirm jump coordinates.”
“Triple-checked, ma’am. We’re ready to go.”
“Navigation, engage Lawrence drive.”
The lights dimmed as the FTL system drew massive amounts of power from the Greengold’s energy-distribution system. Directly ahead of them, an artificial wormhole whirled into being. Its coloration changed by the second from green to blue to red and every color in between.
“Conn, Navigation. Wormhole stable, ma’am.”
“Take us in,” Tehrani replied as she exhaled. “Best speed.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am.”
The wormhole appeared to grow as they approached, an optical illusion of the swirling vortex. The Zvika Greengold crossed the event horizon and, not more than a second later, appeared on the other side. Disruption from the transit disabled sensors and shields, something that vexed all known users of the Lawrence drive, but it couldn’t be helped.
“Conn, TAO. Sensors online. Transit complete. Within five thousand kilometers of target,” Bryan said. “We’re slightly behind the CDF battle line and roughly a thousand kilometers from the flagship.”
“Navigation,” Tehrani said as she leaned forward, “intercept course, Sierra Seventy-Eight.” The icon indicated a battleship-class vessel, and it had a lot of League small craft around it. After a few seconds, the IFF transponder identified the ship as the CSV Conqueror. She grinned. It’s only right that we ride to their rescue once more after they saved us.
“Course set, ma’am.”
“Max thrust.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Mitzner replied. “Ion engines still answer at fifty percent of nominal output.” There was a great deal of fear in her voice.
“Keep trying for more, Lieutenant,” Tehrani said. “As the engineers make repairs, the thrust potential should go up. If not, we’ll make do.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Tehrani sat back in her seat, glancing between the tactical plot and the watchstanders around her. Some quick mental arithmetic told her it was time to get their fighters in space. She punched the intercom button on the CO’s chair, linking into Whatley’s Sabre. “Major, this is Colonel Tehrani.”
“Go ahead, ma’am.”
“Readiness status?”
“All my pilots are strapped in and awaiting launch orders.”
“You’re cleared to launch, Major. Godspeed and good hunting.” The use of the old terminology, for some reason, felt comforting to Tehrani.
“Acknowledged. Same to you, Colonel.”
14
With his preflight checks completed, Justin adjusted inside the Sabre’s cockpit. They were minutes or perhaps only seconds away from combat. He’d checked, rechecked, and triple-checked every aspect of his craft. All weapons hardpoints were full, and all systems were go. He had nothing left to do except wait.
“Anyone know who Zvika Greengold was, anyway?” Mateus asked.
Justin welcomed the distraction. “Didn’t you read the introduction email from the ship’s automated greeter when we reported aboard?” he replied.
“Nah, I was too busy getting ready to smoke all of you in our final flight tryouts.”
Snickers filled the commlink.
“Zvika Greengold was an Israeli tank commander during a war on Earth,” Feldstein interjected.
“That fits somehow,” Adeoye said, “as we have repeatedly gone up against superior forces and won.”
Justin pondered Adeoye’s words. What’s in a name? Perhaps the knowledge they served on a ship named after a man who’d performed heroic deeds made them all want to live up to his example.
A quick burst of acceleration from the carrier cut the conversation short. This is it. The knowledge that they were riding into an emergency in which everything hung in the balance wasn’t lost on him. What’s that my dad used to say? “We’re playing for all the marbles.”
“All fighters, launch, launch, launch!” Whatley thundered.
The forcefields protecting the hangar bay snapped off, and Justin jammed the throttle on his Sabre to maximum thrust. Pitching forward, the craft zoomed out of the flight deck and into space. Behind him, the rest of Alpha element followed along with the rest of their squadron. The stream of fighters and bombers exiting the carrier was a sight he’d never seen before. Typical flight operations limited launches to four to eight small craft at a time and never over twelve.
Justin gripped his flight stick tightly as he took in the scene before him. Hundreds of capital ships arrayed in line formations were battling it out. Crisscrossing beams of blue streaked across the blackness of the void, while thousands of red plasma balls answered them. Plumes of exhaust from large missiles could barely be seen, and tiny orange explosions dotted the sky. It took him a moment to process the explosions as fighters and bombers in their death throes. Hopefully more of them than ours.
Whatley’s voice broke through Justin’s thoughts. “All Greengold squadrons, this is Major Whatley. The CSV Conqueror—our old friend—is getting lit up by League bombers, bearing zero-two-eight. Engage max thrust and afterburners. Red Tails, you have the lead.”
Coalition Defense Force Boxed Set: First to Fight Page 14