by Daniel Gibbs
Nolan gestured to a chair in front of his desk. “How bad?”
“I spoke privately with General Irvine a few minutes ago,” Karimi said as he gracefully lowered himself into the seat offered. “In short, it’s not looking positive, sir. The fleet has begun a general engagement with the League forces, but while she’s publicly predicting victory to keep morale up…”
“Our chances aren’t that great?” Nolan sat back in his chair and closed his eyes for a moment. Part of him wondered why he’d ever run for the presidency.
“Sir, we’re convinced it’s only a matter of time now. You should reconsider evacuation along with the entire government. The Terran Coalition has a protocol for this type of event.”
“The Exodus fleet?” Nolan had received a briefing on it during his first week in office. Conceived of as a way to ensure the continuity of government and the Terran Coalition’s way of life, it consisted of enormous people-mover starships along with long-range military escorts. “Abdul, didn’t you tell me forcefully and repeatedly how underfunded and unprepared it is?”
“Desperate times, desperate measures.” Karimi put his hands on the desk. “Thirty-five years of peace has dulled our edge.” He shrugged. “It’s on all of us, sir. From the civilians to the service chiefs to the politicians over the last twenty years that constantly raided the defense budget to pay for domestic spending. I can’t help it now, but if we somehow survive, then I’ll pour my life into rebuilding the CDF into a war footing. None of that changes reality, sir. It’s time for you and the rest of the government to go. Let me stay and handle this for us all.”
Nolan sprang from his chair and walked to the windows behind it that overlooked the rest of Lawrence City. “Come here.” He pulled back the curtains and gestured. While it was dark enough that one couldn’t see the people, hundreds of thousands of tiny pinpricks of light from a candlelight vigil were visible. “We’re not leaving because they can’t.”
“Yes, sir.” Karimi pursed his lips. “And if the League defeats our fleet?”
“Then we’ll deploy the orbital defenses and launch every stratofighter Canaan has at its disposal. We will not surrender… and at some point, the nation-state ships will arrive.”
“Understood, sir,” Karimi replied. “I’d be remiss in my duties if I didn’t point out our planetary-based defenses—”
“Are out of date, weak, and poorly maintained. Yes. I know. And I’ll carry the guilt with me to my grave if I have to order those brave men and women into combat.” Nolan turned his gaze back out to the vigil. “We have to carry the day. Period. You tell Irvine to do whatever it takes.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“Do you need anything from me?”
“No, sir. We should have a rolling battle report ready in fifteen minutes in the bunker. If you’d like to join us.”
Nolan nodded. “Of course. But on your way out, would you ask them to send the White House chaplain up?”
“Sir?”
“I know… I’m not much of a religious man. But I feel the need to pray with someone.”
Karimi put his hand on Nolan’s shoulder. “I got down on my knees, too, and begged for Allah’s intercession.” He squeezed it. “We’ll get through this, sir.”
“I pray to God you’re right.”
12
One of the newer features of the Zvika Greengold, owing to its status as the de facto training carrier for the CDF, was a complete battle-simulation area with integrated holoprojectors. Capable of displaying any portion of a battle built from the information recorded from all friendly assets, it allowed an observer to see precisely what had happened—which was what Major Gabriel Whatley was doing at 2200 hours.
He’d been sure that Lieutenant Spencer was nothing more than a blowhard faker, skating by with only a passing interest in doing his duty. His assessments of people were rarely wrong, and Spencer’s service jacket screamed, “Here for the free school.” Still, a man such as that didn’t risk his life for others. So there Whatley was, going over and over Spencer’s actions. They painted a picture in stark relief to Whatley’s opinion. Not only was the man brave, he was also good.
A new voice jolted Whatley out of his thoughts. He looked up to see Tehrani standing in the open hatch. Jumping to his feet, he came to attention. “Apologies, ma’am. I didn’t hear you come in.”
Tehrani stepped into the room. “As you were, Major. I heard you were down here and wanted to make sure everything was okay.”
“Just peachy, ma’am.”
She took a seat on one of the observer chairs and stared at him. “Oh? Then why aren’t you in bed, where you ordered our pilots to be? Because we all need our rest.”
“Ah. You know me too well after eighteen months.” Whatley leaned his head back. “I was second-guessing myself. I’ve been coming down hard on Lieutenant Spencer. Frankly, I don’t think he’s CDF front-line material.”
“Oh, I’m well aware. I saw the transfer request you put in my queue. It’s brutal.” Tehrani raised an eyebrow. “Yet he’s got what? Twenty-three combat victories and assists? That doesn’t sound like a poor pilot to me.”
“Ma’am, I bleed CDF. Cut me open, and you’ll find a Terran Coalition flag holding me together.” He snickered. “I have little room for people who aren’t here for the right reasons.”
“And until two days ago, who exactly did we have for enemies? We’re the de facto regional superpower. No alien empire or human megacorp would dare fight the Terran Coalition.” Tehrani held his gaze. It wasn’t quite a stare-down, but her expression was fierce. “I’d submit for your consideration that you’re too hard on the kid.”
“Yeah. That’s what I was in here pondering.” He gestured to the simulator system. “Typically, people who only care about themselves won’t go the extra mile in combat. It takes a special person to lay down their life for another.”
“I thought Christ’s gospel was mostly about that concept.”
“Right, and most of us Christians are good at it?” Whatley snorted. “The Terran Coalition’s become lax, ma’am. We’re drifting away from our ideals and ethics. The new generation is soft. I’d even say weak.” He thought of the endless holovid-reality programs that were consumed in ever greater quantities and the difficulties the CDF had in even hitting its recruiting targets—so much so that they’d started lowering the requirements to get in. Or the often-quoted statistics that religious belief was on the decline, and every year, fewer people attended church, their mosque, or synagogue.
“We’re going to have to get better at it, Major.” Tehrani shook her head. “I’ve seen the news trying to spin this as a flash in the pan, and that once… if we defeat this enemy fleet, this League of Sol will want to talk peace.” She crossed her arms. “I don’t buy a word of it. We’re going to find ourselves in a war for survival.”
“I couldn’t agree more.” Whatley had already considered what was coming next. He figured they had a Saurian War–type situation in store, if not worse. The Saurians at least had honor. They told you they were coming, declared war, then fought it out. An enemy that skulked about in the night, hidden, to stab you in the back had no honor and could never be trusted. The only way they could safely end the war was with Earth’s unconditional surrender. Hopefully, our piece-of-crap politicians know that.
“Now, back to the young lieutenant. I heard you tore a bloody strip out of him after he landed.” While Tehrani’s facial expression was perfectly neutral, even friendly, Whatley knew her well. Her tone was one of mild reproach, but her leadership style was for you to see the error of your ways before she had to spell it out.
And Gabriel Whatley, above all things, hated admitting he was wrong. That made his next words especially difficult. “You’re right, Colonel. Whatever he may have had in his head when he joined, it’s clear the man is a superb pilot.” He sighed. “And we’re lucky to have him right now.”
“So you’re going to apologize, yes?”
Wh
atley’s face heated. “Ma’am…”
“Contriteness is good for the soul, Gabriel.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He figured she’d used his first name for emphasis.
“Don’t make a big deal out of it. But Spencer needs to know you’ve got his back. Especially when we go into this next battle.”
“You say that like it’s a foregone conclusion.” Whatley searched for the hidden meaning behind her facial expression. “I thought Irvine’s orders were that we stay in the emergency reserve.”
“Call it a woman’s intuition,” Tehrani replied with a shrug. “I don’t see any way we’re not needed. And I want this ship and our pilots ready when it happens.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Now, pack this in, go back to your stateroom, and get some shut-eye. At least four hours.”
“Well—”
“That is a direct order, Major.” Tehrani tilted her head as she spoke. “The last time I checked, the CAG reports to me, and I outrank you. So… carry out my orders.”
Whatley offered a sheepish grin. “Yes, ma’am.” He powered off the simulator and stood. “Ladies first.”
“Oh, no. I’m watching you leave. I know you flyboys far too well.”
“Touché.”
As they walked through the hatch, Tehrani pivoted and stared directly into his eyes. “Major, promise me one thing. When this next battle finally occurs, you bring as many of our pilots home as possible. We’ve already lost too many.”
“On that, you have my solemn word, ma’am.” Whatley meant it with every fiber of his being.
For the first time in nearly forty-eight hours, Tehrani crossed the threshold of her spacious stateroom below decks. Situated deep within the Greengold, the officers’ quarters were placed in a location unlikely to be hit by a surprise volley of weapons fire—a nod to the CDF’s concerns over losing too many leaders on a vessel in one strike.
Her quarters were more like an apartment than a cabin, with separate living and dining spaces and a bedroom. Once the hatch closed, she stretched, letting out a yawn, and took off her khaki service uniform, which had the green, white, and red bars of the Persian Republic above the Islamic Crescent and Star.
Ten minutes later, Tehrani had showered and changed into a pair of pajamas. She curled up in her bed and pulled a personal tablet out of the nightstand. Her finger hovered over the button to call up the vidlink app. The ship is on comms blackout. She went back and forth several times before pushing the icon and placing a call to her husband. If I die in the next few hours, I want him to know I love him. The rest be damned.
An icon appeared on the screen, showing the vidlink in progress. It changed color to a black background and finally to the face of Ibrahim, her husband. His brown beard and hair looked almost faded, as if he’d aged since Tehrani had last seen him. “Dearest,” he began as he fumbled with his tablet. “I’ve been so worried. Thank Allah, you are alive and presumably well.”
Seeing and hearing him made so many things better for Tehrani. She felt as if her spirit had taken off for the stars. She laughed. “I’m alive. We’re stood down between operations,” she said, carefully avoiding the use of words like combat, not wanting to alarm him further. “What about you? I’m so sorry I couldn’t call earlier. I shouldn’t be now, but… I miss you so much.”
He harrumphed. “What did you do, Banu?”
“I’m the commander of the ship. I overrode the comms lockout.” Tehrani cocked her head to one side. “Rank has its privileges.”
“The university is in an uproar,” Ibrahim stated. He was a professor of economics at the Arabian Institute on Canaan. “There’s little in the way of accurate reporting.”
He’s asking me what’s really going on. Tehrani touched her fingers to the screen, trying to feel him through the distance between them. “Husband, I can’t tell you anything, except we’re holding our own. Pray for us.”
“I didn’t think we were much the praying type.”
Neither of them was especially devout, and while Tehrani prayed a few times a day—never the five required—it was more of a cultural ritual than devotion to God. “Flying into…” She didn’t want to mention the word battle. “Danger demands additional faith.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I’ll debate that with you when you return, and your reasoning.”
“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.”