Coalition Defense Force Boxed Set: First to Fight

by Gibbs, Daniel

  Despite it all, he grinned. These Leaguers took their best shot… and we’re still here. Our homes are safe, and they lost. He stared at the picture of his wife and daughter. And we’ll keep fighting.

  The maw of the flight bay beckoned.

  * * *

  It took several hours of frantic repairs to the ion engines to get the Zvika Greengold ready to move under her own power once more. Tehrani thought about allowing another vessel to tow the ship, but she decided they’d earned flying home.

  Search-and-rescue operations continued throughout the battle zone. Many were confirmed dead. The battle had been the single most costly engagement the Coalition Defense Force had ever fought. The Greengold was lucky, Tehrani reflected. Only one hundred twenty-four were dead, eleven of those being Sabre and Mauler pilots. Still, for a woman who’d never lost a person under her command and never expected to, it was a rude awakening.

  Still on the bridge, Tehrani looked up from a damage report to see Wright staring at her with a somber expression. “What is it, Major?”

  “S and R just confirmed that General Irvine is dead.”

  “And the Victory?”

  “The hull’s intact, but she’s a complete wreck. Worse, the entire hulk is irradiated. The initial report here”—he waved his tablet—“says there’s virtually no way to decontaminate her.” He paused. “At least she lived to see the victory. The Victory’s bridge crew were insistent on that detail being shared.”

  With Irvine gone, Tehrani wondered who would lead them. Someone will step up. It’s the order of things. She turned and stared out the window at the front of the bridge. “TAO, how far away are we from the Victory?”

  “A thousand kilometers, give or take, ma’am,” Bryan replied. He sounded tired and weary.

  “Navigation, intercept course.” Tehrani glanced at the plot and zeroed in on the icon for the Victory. “Sierra One Hundred Eighteen. Bring us alongside.”

  Wright turned his head. “Manning the sides?”

  “Got it in one,” Tehrani replied. “It would serve us well to remember their sacrifice and our own.”

  He nodded. “Completely agree, skipper. Just don’t make the aviation deck force break out crackerjacks.” Wright winked.

  Tehrani laughed. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” She stared off into space. “Not today, at least. Someday, I could see ships rendering honors as they fly by. Perhaps when we’ve won the war.”

  “Yeah.”

  Minutes passed as the escort carrier turned around and headed back toward the destroyed hulk of the Victory. The atmosphere on the bridge was somber but hopeful. They’d been through hell and survived. Tehrani figured that counted for something. She realized they needed to fire something to render honors as the Zvika Greengold glided by. Does anything still work on this ship? “TAO, do we have any functional weapons?”

  “Um, two point-defense turrets, ma’am. That’s about it.”

  “That’ll have to do, then. Firing-point procedures on those turrets. Target a safe vector and stand by to fire a salute as we pass.”

  “Aye, aye, ma’am.”

  When they were about a hundred kilometers away and creeping along at the painfully slow speed of five hundred meters a second, Tehrani punched up the 1MC. “Attention, all hands. This is your commanding officer. We are passing the CSV Victory to port. Man the sides to render honors. I say again, man the sides.” She turned off the intercom and stood. “Attention on deck!”

  Everyone on the bridge except for Bryan and Mitzner—Tactical and Navigation—leaped to their feet.

  As the plot showed them coming alongside the Victory, Tehrani turned to Bryan. “TAO, shoot, twenty-one-gun salute.”

  “Aye, aye, ma’am,” Bryan replied.

  Streams of tracers erupted from the point-defense weapons in an age-old tradition.

  The moment passed, and the Greengold continued on her way, past the wreck.

  “As you were,” Tehrani said and sat back in her chair. “Navigation, lay in a course for Canaan’s primary shipyard and request docking instructions.”

  “Aye, aye, ma’am,” Mitzner replied.

  “Ma’am, I think you might want to see this,” Bryan said as he turned around. “Have a look at your monitor.”

  Tehrani’s eyes moved to the monitor above her head. After a few seconds, what he was talking about became apparent.

  Every ship in the fleet had taken a vector that put them on approach to the Victory, in a neat line abreast. As the vessels formed up, they fired off tracer rounds or neutron beams at low power, mimicking the salute the Zvika Greengold had already performed. It was a fitting send-off to the flagship of the fleet and the heroic general who’d delivered an unlikely victory. Though as Tehrani pondered it, she felt convinced that Allah had, at the least, smiled on their efforts.

  It took another hour for the carrier to slide into its berth. Tehrani had never seen so many vessels docked before or so much visible battle damage. Most ships had, at minimum, scorched hulls with pockmarks of armor damage and missing weapons emplacements, all the way up to holes cut clear through the internal structure. To say the fleet was heavily damaged was a significant understatement. Still, they’d survived, as had most of the CDF. It would take some time to get combat ready once more, but when they did, the League was in for a galaxy of hurt.

  As the umbilicals from the station locked into place, Wright leaned over. “We just got a request to organize the off-loading of our wounded and… deceased.” He bit his lip, and emotion crept onto his face. “I’ve never organized a coffin ceremony before. Have you?”

  Tehrani shook her head. “No. There was never a need.”

  “I’ll get it started by the book.”

  “Thank you, Major.”

  “I’d say I hope it’s the only time we’ll have to do this…”

  “But that is wishful thinking,” Tehrani finished. She felt numb. “I’ll be in my day cabin.” She stood. “The XO has the conn.”

  “This is Major Wright. I have the conn,” he intoned formally.

  The hatch to the bridge closed behind Tehrani, and she trudged down the passageway. She decided to take a moment to review the names of those lost before getting a shower and changing into her white dress uniform. In the back of her mind, she noted it was about time for the afternoon prayer. Tehrani quickened her steps to avoid being late.

  * * *

  Justin stared in the mirror of his small, cramped bathroom aboard the Zvika Greengold. One perk of serving on a carrier was that even a junior officer had a private room with a shower. He adjusted his flight wings and the ribbon bar on his uniform. A ceremony such as the one he was about to attend—removing casualties from the ship—called for a dress uniform. But the closest thing he had was a khaki duty uniform, pressed and ready to wear. It took thirty minutes, but he spit-shined his black shoes to the point that they looked like a mirror. Though it was a small gesture, his shoes were the only part of the uniform he could get entirely to regulation. I owe them that much. To show honor in any way I can.

  After a last glance in the mirror to ensure everything was set, Justin walked out of his cabin. The walk to the main hangar deck took some time. As he strode through the passageways of the vessel, the unmistakable pride of victory along with a somber feeling of loss emanated from every soldier he passed. It was so palpable that Justin could almost taste it.

  He rounded the corner and ambled through the double hatch into the hangar. Before him, a scene no soldier or Marine ever wanted to see was set out. Dozens of caskets, each tightly covered with the flag of the Terran Coalition, sat in neat rows, perfectly spaced. An honor guard of the ship’s Marine company was formed up along with a single bagpiper who was dressed in a traditional tartan uniform complete with a kilt. Justin spied the senior officers of the Greengold—Colonel Tehrani, Major Wright, and Major Whatley. They stood in a neat row, waiting.

  Whatley saw Justin almost immediately and motioned him over. “The pilots are last,” he s
aid matter-of-factly. “The other squadron commanders should be here shortly.”

  Some of the caskets toward the end of the line had small flight wings hammered into the sides of them. Justin bit his lip, realizing just how close he’d come to being in one of them. So did Mateus.

  A minor commotion at the entrance drew his attention. Francis Martin eased through the double hatch, but something was wrong. It took Justin a moment to process that the Australian’s left leg was missing, and he was hobbling on crutches. Two nurses and a doctor chased him, which was mildly comical because it wasn’t as if he were moving that fast. A grimace crossed the pilot’s face with every step he took. At about halfway between the door and the rest of the pilots, the doctor finally got in front of him.

  “Lieutenant Martin, please, you’re endangering your life. Return to the medical bay at once. That is a direct order.”

  Martin dodged to one side and kept coming. “Get out of my way, mate.”

  Before things could get out of hand, Whatley turned and strode over. “What’s going on here?”

  “Lieutenant Martin suffered severe trauma when he ejected,” the doctor replied. Even though he attempted to keep his voice low, the hangar deck plates had a way of making sound reverberate. “We amputated his leg not more than two hours ago, and he needs to be in ICU. Period.”

  “I’m fine,” Martin said through gritted teeth. “Nothing is stopping me from saying goodbye to my mates. Now, you can either move out of the bloody way or court-martial me, Doc. I don’t care.”

  “As soon as the ceremony is complete, you will return to the medical ward,” Whatley said as he stared at Martin. “Are we clear, Lieutenant?”

  “Crystal, sir.”

  “Major, I must—”

  Whatley cut the doctor off in midsentence. “You’re doing your job. I respect that, but you have to understand how raw the emotions are right now. We lost a third of our number. These men and women need to be here. This is our way to see them off and go right back to the front. It’s how we grieve. Do you understand?”

  “Major, his leg was amputated. I don’t even know how the man is standing in front of us. If an artery goes, he could bleed to death.”

  “Then leave a nurse to ensure he doesn’t.” Whatley’s tone left no room for disagreement.

  Justin noted that neither Tehrani nor the rest of the Greengold’s officers got involved. They seemed to have a general understanding that it was an aviation matter and would be handled by the major. Finally, the doctor nodded begrudgingly and walked off, leaving Martin to walk the last few steps. He came to a halt next to Justin and was soon flanked by Whatley.

  “Thank you, sir,” Martin ground out, every word filled with pain.

  Whatley put his arm around the pilot’s shoulder. “Don’t mention it, Lieutenant. You just focus on getting better.”

  “I’m going to kill them all, sir,” Martin replied. His voice was level and calm. “The moment I can fly, I will be back in my Mauler, and as the universe as my witness, when I’m done, there won’t be any of those commie bastards left in it.”

  For once, Justin had nothing to say. He couldn’t deny the spirit, but something felt off in his fellow soldier’s words. A realization that if he allowed such thoughts to take root in himself, he might end up in a dangerous place washed over him.

  But he had little time for further internal ruminations, as the voice of Lieutenant Singh issued from the intercom speakers in the hangar. “Now hear this. Now hear this. Casket ceremony to commence in three minutes.”

  At that, everyone took their places, including those that filed in steadily. Tehrani and the senior officers stood at the front, while Whatley and the pilots were a couple of rows back. The honor guard, consisting of two squads of seven soldiers each, came to attention.

  The chaplain for the vessel took a step forward and spoke in a loud voice. “Eternal Father, strong to save, we commend the souls of brothers and sisters departed from this universe. Watch over them as they take their last journey. In Jesus’s name we pray. Amen.”

  The haunting sounds of “Amazing Grace,” played by the lone bagpiper, filled the hangar. One by one, the caskets moved forward on their antigrav sleds. As each person passed, led by Tehrani, they saluted the fallen. It took what seemed like hours to remove the deceased members of the Zvika Greengold’s company. While the proceeding was somber, Justin realized that aside from a single tear he saw fall down the colonel’s cheek, people had shown little outward display of emotion—until they carried the pilots out, that was.

  As the fifth casket containing the body of a pilot moved out of the hangar bay, Martin wept openly, tears streaming down his face. “I’m so sorry, mates. It should be me in there, not you.”

  The man’s cry carried across the deck. Whatley and Justin both moved to put their arms around his shoulders from either side. Of all the people to expect a breakdown from, Justin didn’t think it would’ve been the larger-than-life Aussie, who was always ready with a quip or insult.

  “Siebert took a missile meant for me,” Martin continued. “I should’ve died. Not him.”

  Whatley’s voice took on a soothing and kind tone, one that Justin had never heard out of the man before. “Lieutenant, his bomber was on fire, and he knew he wouldn’t make it.” He paused then stepped in front of Martin. “Now, you listen to me. Siebert made a call. I saw it happen on my scanner. I would’ve done the same thing if I were him in that situation. Your job now is to carry on. The rest of us need you.”

  It took a few seconds for Martin to answer. “Yes, sir.” His voice broke. “I’ll do my best.”

  “That’s all we can ask of ourselves, and it’s all God asks of us.”

  Martin wasn’t big on religion or faith, but Justin figured that Whatley was trying to console him as best he knew how.

  “We’ve got your back, Lieutenant,” Justin added.

  Martin shifted his head and made eye contact. “You promise me you’ll make them pay. We all will.”

  “I promise,” Justin replied.

  Silence again broke out, save for the mournful sound of the bagpipes. The caskets resumed their procession out of the ship, and Justin again felt surprised that he was still alive.

  18

  Though it was close to 2200 hours, Jason Nolan still sat quietly in the Oval Office. Since word of their dramatic last-moment victory coupled with the tragic loss of General Irvine and the tens of thousands of other CDF personnel had reached Canaan, events had proceeded at a blinding pace. He’d given an address to the entire Coalition over the emergency subspace communication system, signed a myriad of executive orders, and started the process of getting the country on a war footing.

  So much for my domestic agenda. He’d been elected on a platform of revamping how the Terran Coalition conducted trade with the nearby alien races, and the entire nation had focused inward. We have for the last twenty years. Nolan had once said the CDF wasn’t the galaxy's policeman, and it was time for Terrans to see the benefits of their empire. Staring out into the night, he regretted those words. If instead, we had maintained the Canaan Alliance, how would this battle have been fought? Would it have even been fought at all? The only way ahead was to banish such thoughts from his mind and be a leader dedicated to winning the war.

  A knock came at the door. It opened, and a member of his protective-service detail stuck her head in. “Mr. President, he’s here.”

  Nolan motioned with his hand. “Send him in, please. And close the door behind him.”

  The woman nodded and stood aside.

  A moment later, Pradeep Singh Anand, the Speaker of the Coalition Assembly, entered. A tall man, he wore the bright-purple turban of a Sikh. He’d been the Speaker for going on ten years and was a member of a rival political party, the Liberals. They took the name from the old Australian center-right party on Earth and were an amalgamation of the center-right parties from all planets in the Terran Coalition. In other words, they were the direct ideological competi
tors to Nolan’s Liberal-Democrat party, which found its home in the center left.

  “Mr. President, thank you for seeing me,” Anand said.

  The door closed behind him.

  “Never a bother, Pradeep.” Nolan respected the Speaker. While they had many areas they didn’t agree with each other on politically, Nolan found the man to be forthright and honorable. “Please, sit. This is as informal as possible.”

  Anand took a seat in front of the Resolute Desk, an artifact from Earth once used by Winston Churchill, and crossed his legs. “I’m here not only in my capacity as Speaker but also as a representative of the entire Liberal party.” He paused, as if considering his words. “I know we don’t see eye to eye on most domestic policy issues… but I want you to understand I am personally behind you one hundred percent. As is the entire party. Whatever you need, you’ve got it. There will be no political grandstanding or attempts to hold up essential votes to score points.” Anand grinned. “If you propose eliminating the Constitution, well, that’ll get a response. But anything within reason, we’ll vote for it.”

  The enormity of Anand’s comments took a minute to sink into Nolan’s mind. He pursed his lips. “Thank you. That means a great deal to me.” He raised an eyebrow. “Declaration of war?”

  “Done,” Anand replied.

  “We must expand the CDF and TCMC significantly.”

  Anand nodded. “I agree entirely. If you’d like, we can start working on the legislative markup immediately.”

  “I’d appreciate it. I’ve been sitting here tonight thinking about how we got here. The truth is some of these missteps are my fault, and some are my predecessors’. We’ve had control of the presidency for the last ten years and the Assembly for most of it. God, if I could go back. Scaling back our defensive and offensive military capability… the worst mistake we ever made.”