Coalition Defense Force Boxed Set: First to Fight

by Gibbs, Daniel

  Sheila smirked. “An army marches on its stomach, right?” She glanced over at what David was eating. “Are you sure this is kosher, sir?”

  “I had one prepared without cheese.”

  Ruth had smiled, and it appeared as if she would join in the ribbing, but David’s curt reply wiped it off her face. “Most of our weapons systems remain offline because of lack of power, sir. Captain Hanson assures me we will have limited power to our magnetic cannons in the next twenty-four hours.”

  David nodded before turning to Hanson. “What’s our overall status?”

  “We’re in bad shape, sir. I’ve got teams still trying to access parts of the ship that were exposed to vacuum. It’s a real mess. We’ll require drydock for an extended period, if the ship remains space-worthy. I have concerns at this point that our main armored keel may be too damaged for Lawrence drive jumps.”

  David looked around the conference room, noting the tired, worried expressions of his senior staff. “Thank you, Captain. I have an update on our casualty reports.” He paused, looking down at the table as shame got the better of him. “Search and rescue from the Cicero has confirmed seventy-eight fatalities aboard the Rabin.” Seventy-eight people were nearly a sixth of the ship’s crew complement. “We’ve had another fifty-nine evacuated to the Cicero for additional medical treatment. We took a beating.”

  “I’d like to get a counselor or two to help the crew, sir,” Sheila said.

  “I agree. I’ll let you coordinate that, XO. Our first objective must be to get the Rabin able to move under her own power. Then get underway to Canaan space dock.”

  Ruth spoke up. “Sirs, I received a briefing from the tactical action officer aboard the Cicero as to what they found on the transports when the Marines stormed aboard. There were over thirty thousand Terran Coalition civilians saved.”

  “So, intelligence was right for a change?” Hanson asked, apparently trying to inject some levity into the discussion. When no one else cracked a smile, he remained silent.

  “At least we got it right,” David said. “That counts for something when I have to tell their families.” He cleared his throat. “Okay. Let’s get back to work. We’ll meet again in eighteen hours, but I want all of you to get at least six hours’ sleep. If we’re too tired to work, we’ll make mistakes, which will cost us time we don’t have. I want this ship underway in thirty-six hours. Dismissed.”

  Hanson and Ruth quickly stood and left the room, but Sheila remained behind. “David, are you okay?”

  “No.”

  “Want to talk about it?”

  “Sheila, I just cost seventy-eight members of my crew their lives. I was supposed to get them home. I don’t even know how to process that. I…” David lowered his head, grimacing.

  “We all know the risks for what we do here. You know that. You said it yourself on the bridge when giving the order.”

  David shook his head. “Doesn’t change that it’s my job to get them home.”

  “It’s also your job to protect our civilians and get them home. We did that today. You did that, David. You were so sure of yourself on the bridge when this happened. I thought you were going to sacrifice the entire ship to stop that frigate.”

  “During the fight, it’s different.” David finally lifted his head. “I get tunnel vision, and it’s easy to see the best way to defeat the enemy. But afterward… I have to live with the decisions I make. I thought when I was in charge, I could get us all home. That’s obviously not the case.”

  “No, it’s not. But in times like this, we have to remember who our enemy is and why this war is happening. Focus on defeating them, not on blaming ourselves.”

  David offered a half-hearted smile. “Good advice, counselor.”

  “Ha. I’ll be on the bridge. Take your own advice and go get some sleep. You’ve been up for nearly twenty-four hours straight. You need rest too.”

  “I’ll try,” he murmured before grabbing his tablet and walking out of the conference room behind her.

  8

  Sitting at the desk in his office aboard the Rabin, David took in the latest repair reports. It appeared that while the ship would require six to twelve months in drydock, she wasn’t beyond repair yet.

  He flipped back to a rough draft of a letter to the family of one of the seventy-eight personnel that had perished. Throughout his career, he had written to the families of everyone who had ever died under his command, dreading every single letter. Pausing, he remembered when he and his mother had been told that his father would not be coming home. The pain, the fury, all of it came back to him at once. He hoped the letters would be of some comfort to the families—though they could never be enough. David believed that every life was precious, and every life lost must be remembered, celebrated, and mourned.

  During his reflection, the communication tab on his tablet began to blink with a video-conference request. He tapped on the icon to see who it was from, and Colonel Meier, CSV Cicero popped onto the screen as the requestor.

  Pressing the accept button with his index finger, he brought up the vidlink. “Colonel, what can I do for you, sir?”

  “I’ll cut straight to the chase, Major. I want you to know that I believe the actions of you and your crew during yesterday’s battle were among the bravest I have ever seen. You took on a heavy cruiser with a destroyer and somehow managed to win. Then you rammed a frigate and prevented it from destroying transport vessels with over thirty thousand civilians aboard. I don’t know if you got lucky, if you’re just that damned good, or maybe God’s looking out for you, but whatever it is, it ought to be celebrated. Everyone on your ship deserves a medal, in my eyes.”

  David’s head raced, wondering where Meier was going.

  “I regret to inform you that you will not be getting such recognition,” Colonel Meier continued, frowning. “I’ve been ordered to relieve you of your command and confine you to quarters for the trip back to Canaan. I’m going to spare you that indignity, but I must inform you that when we reach Canaan, you will be brought up before a review board to determine whether you should be court-martialed. You have my word—I will do whatever I can to present evidence at the hearing in your favor. We need more officers like you out here in the fight, Cohen. Whatever happens, I want you to know it was an honor to meet you and your crew and to serve with you. Godspeed.” The vidlink as it went dark.

  David leaned back, angry, despondent, and ashamed. But I won, he thought. A counter voice replied, And you got twenty percent of your crew killed doing it, just like you got Beckett killed sixteen years ago. He was already in a bad place, trying to deal with the loss of so many. To have the CDF say that he screwed up made it all the worse. The fear that he wasn’t cut out to do the job and that he was endangering the lives of those under his command roared to the surface.

  Sitting quietly in his quarters, David pondered that for a long time.

  * * *

  After the Rabin had docked at Canaan’s main space station two days later, it was time for the solemn ceremony to remove the dead from the Rabin and entrust them to the mortuary team for proper burial. David stood at the base of cargo bay three, looking up at the large doors as they slid open to reveal the fallen ready to be offloaded. It had taken several hours to transfer the remains into caskets, drape each one with the flag of the Terran Coalition, and line them up in neat rows in the cargo bay for unloading. Numerous service members from the station stood by to help with the transfer. An honor guard in full-dress uniform stood at attention to the right of the cargo bay doors while the colors were displayed. Another two rows of soldiers stood outside the doors at rigid attention. As the caskets were removed from the ship, they would be walked down the aisle created by the formation.

  Sheila, Ruth, and Hanson all stood behind David in full-dress uniforms as pallbearers brought the first casket down the steps. David snapped his right hand up to his brow, as did rest of the assembled company. One by one, the caskets were brought down from the ship and t
aken to waiting anti-grav units to be moved inside the station. A somber mood hung in the air as the soldiers looked at their feet. No one made eye contact with one another. David fought the urge to show emotion and didn’t allow tears to well in his eyes. At the halfway point, thirty-nine caskets, he could contain himself no longer. A single tear rolled down his face, followed by another, then another.

  Sheila noticed and whispered, “David, it’s not your fault.”

  “I gave the order. It was on my watch. It is my fault.”

  By the end of the seventy-eight caskets—some that didn’t even contain remains because the bodies had been lost in space—David was in a horrible place, going between blaming himself and wanting to kill every last Leaguer. He snapped his hand down as the final casket was loaded into an anti-grav unit. A bagpiper with the color guard began to play “Amazing Grace.” Then the anti-grav units faded from view into the space station.

  David turned to the three senior officers. “Was their sacrifice worth it?” he asked no one in particular. Of course it was, and even questioning that dishonors their memory.

  “Yes, it was, sir,” Sheila said somberly. “Thirty thousand innocent people went home. I believe if you asked each and every one of those who died on our ship, they’d gladly do it again.”

  David looked back at the ship, unable to control his emotions as tears streamed down his face.

  “It was worth it, sir. And it is an honor to serve with you.” Ruth’s voice broke.

  The three of them stared at one another, and Sheila stood at attention. Ruth and Hanson followed as Sheila brought her hand up to her brow.

  “Sir,” she said softly.

  David slowly brought his hand to his brow before snapping it down in a crisp, practiced motion. They did as well.

  “Thank you,” he said, his voice devoid of life and energy.

  “Come on, sir. Let’s go raise a glass to the fallen and get ready for the hearing.” Sheila gestured to the gangway.

  9

  Standing outside what amounted to a courtroom aboard the main CDF military station orbiting Canaan, David watched the waiting room silently with several of the Rabin’s officers, including Ruth and Sheila. In the few days that it took to get back to Canaan, he’d mostly stayed in his stateroom. He was frustrated and angry with his situation, replaying the events of the battle over and over and looking for where he’d gone wrong. He hadn’t asked any of his senior officers to come with him to the hearing. In fact, he was almost too ashamed to tell them what had happened, but the Rabin was a small ship, and word quickly got around. While he would never admit it, knowing that those he led had his back meant the world to him.

  Sheila broke the silence by stating what David felt but was unwilling to say. “This is crap, sir. They weren’t there.”

  “I’m not sure I’d say it quite that directly, Captain.” A portly man wearing a CDF dress uniform that looked like it hadn’t been ironed in weeks, complete with the eagle insignia of the Judge Advocate General Corps, walked up. “Major Richard Gray, JAG Corps, at your service, Major Cohen.”

  David regarded the man and his rumpled appearance. “Thank you, Major. I thought we would have had some time to discuss the case before going before the review board.”

  Gray raised an eyebrow. “Yes, this case is moving a bit faster than most. But I think you’ll come out on top.”

  David couldn’t help but let out a snort. “And why would you say that?”

  Gray gestured to the officers gathered around. “Because you seem to have quite the loyal following. I also understand that Colonel Meier, CO of the Cicero, gave evidence on your behalf.”

  David glanced toward the door. “What am I facing in there, Major?”

  “A three-star general, Daniel Barton, who also commands the Canaan Home Defense Fleet. Bastard Barton, as we call him, seems to love to make examples of young officers, and you’re square in his sights. The man is a defeatist, in my view, but who am I to judge?”

  David shrugged. “I’m sure someone has decided I was a defeatist at some point in my life, but I simply abhor the needless loss of life. So how is this going to work, Major?” I just want this over with, regardless of how it turns out.

  “We’ll be called into the chamber, General Barton will present evidence against you, and I will present evidence for you. The board will decide whether it will clear you or recommend you for a general court-martial.”

  A young corporal opened the door. “Major Cohen, Major Gray, they’re ready for you.”

  Gray looked back at the assembled officers. “You’ll have to wait here. Major Cohen, come with me, please.”

  With that, they walked into the room. The large wooden doors closed behind them. The review board room, despite containing five flag-ranked officers, wasn’t an ostentatious place. It was functional, resembling a small courtroom. It held a table for the prosecutor and another for the defendant. Gray gestured toward the defense table. As he and David took their places, a door to the side of the judge’s bench opened, and five generals filed out.

  The corporal who had escorted them in announced, “All rise! Coalition Defense Force general review board is now in session regarding the actions of Major David Cohen in the battle of Sector 17A.”

  David and Gray came to attention as the five officers took their seats. General Barton, a tall, well-built man in an immaculate CDF dress uniform, took a seat at the prosecutor’s table, while the other four generals sat behind the judge’s bench. David and Gray followed suit and took their seats behind the defendant’s table.

  “General Barton, please begin your presentation on the actions of 16 August, 2460, in Sector 17A, which we are convened here to evaluate,” a late-middle-aged woman directed. A nameplate before her read General Andrews.

  Barton pushed back from his table and stood, setting his tablet down. “Rather than step through all the written testimony, I’d like to start by showing the board a simulation.”

  A holoprojector snapped on, and a thirty-second simulation of the Rabin ramming the Lancer-class frigate played then froze at the point that the two ships began to drift away.

  “Now, Major Cohen, I don’t think we need to continue the simulation,” Barton said, looking toward David and his counsel. “What we just saw here cost seventy-eight lives, not to mention caused extensive structural damage to your ship, rendering it un-space-worthy for a period of not less than twelve months.”

  Barton paused before continuing his verbal assault. “During the action of 16 August, 2460, in Sector 17A, your ship received heavy damage in combat with a League escort unit conveying transports back to League territory. In that engagement, your division commander was unable to communicate directly because of battle damage, making him unable to relay orders to you or your ship. You immediately began a ramming maneuver that, in my personal judgment, did nothing of sufficient merit in the battle or the war as a whole. You wasted those lives, Major, like pouring water into sand.” Barton sneered down at them.

  Major Gray stood and waved a personal tablet in the air as a theatrical device. His response had already been sent electronically to the review board. “According to the after-action reports filed by Colonel Meier, the aforementioned action on the sixteenth of August was a victory that netted the capture of a League convoy that was later discovered to have carried roughly thirty thousand Coalition civilians from the occupied worlds in that sector, who would have been sent to League labor gulags. Colonel Meier further stated, and I quote, ‘Major Cohen and the crew of the Yitzhak Rabin performed one of the bravest and most selfless acts I’ve seen throughout my twenty-four-year career. Furthermore, the major’s conduct was consistent with the finest traditions of the Coalition Defense Force and the high standards to which we hold our officers and enlisted soldiers.’”

  Another general, who looked bored with the back and forth, interrupted Gray. “We don’t need you to explain this to us, Major. It’s all here in your brief. Major Cohen, your advocate has presented
what looks to be a very effective defense, should we proceed to court-martial, but do you have a statement for us now?”

  David lowered his head for a moment then stood up beside his counsel. He had rehearsed repeatedly what he was about to say, but nerves still ran away with him. “Thank you, sir. I do. The initial portion of the engagement in Sector 17A was a complete success for the Coalition Defense Force ships on site. When the League’s reinforcements—a Rand-class heavy cruiser—jumped in, the direction of the battle quickly tilted against us. There were no good options. We could have fled and left the damaged ships and the transports to their fate. I could have continued to engage the Rand with conventional tactics, which both at the time and standing here today with the benefit of hindsight, I believe would have resulted in the destruction of our entire force. I elected to do something unorthodox. When faced with a decision between allowing thousands of civilians to die and taking out the final enemy ship, I chose saving the innocent lives we’re all sworn to protect. I consider what I did to have been the right decision. I fulfilled my duty. If I were in a similar situation again one day, I’d do the same thing.”

  A third general spoke with a noticeable Scottish brogue—Andrew MacIntosh, whom David recognized from news reports as the leader of the Victory Project. He was surprised to see him. “Even if it means we proceed to court-martial, young man?”

  “Even then, sir.”

  Barton stepped forward, practically shouting at David. “What about the dead crew? What do you have to say about getting seventy-eight of your subordinates killed when you were replaying your father’s last run? Seventy-eight of them, Major. At least your father had the good sense to order his crew to safety! There are seventy-eight people who will never see their families again so you could hot-rod into the side of a League frigate and have a good drinking story!”