by Daniel Gibbs
“Oh, I got lost on my way to the mess deck. I found myself here and thought I’d look around. Don’t mind me,” Justin replied as the technician interrupted his thoughts.
“We’ll have your bird back in the fight inside of two days. We already did most of the work, but I need a couple of spare engine parts the Greengold is out of. Thankfully, we’re about to resupply.”
The man’s chipper attitude shocked Justin. They’d been fighting for their lives—no quarter asked or given—and the letdown from the rush of combat was intense. He stared at the fighter. “Not bad, Chief. Thanks for getting her back into fighting shape.”
“Have you given some thought to how we’re going to mark your kills?”
Justin hadn’t considered the custom. Typically, when a pilot notched the solo kill of an enemy craft or ship, he was entitled to a decoration under the cockpit canopy. He had seen pictures of dozens of markings from the fighters of the so-called “mega-aces” that had fifty-plus confirmed victories each in the Saurian Wars. Something about it bothered him suddenly, as if a voice in his soul said he shouldn’t celebrate the killing of others. He furrowed his brow. “I hadn’t thought of that yet.”
The technician shrugged. “I’ve got lots of designs to choose from. Let me know what you want. We’ll get it painted. How many did you notch? Sixteen?”
“So I was told. Roughly split between fighters and bombers.”
“That’s incredible—from a reservist, no less!” The man slapped Justin on the shoulder. “You’ll win this war for us single-handedly.”
Justin frowned and bit his lip. “I was just doing my job.” He glanced to his right to see several empty pads where Sabres usually sat. They’d been destroyed in the fight. “We lost eleven pilots.” Losing three pilots out of thirty-six was awful, but a third of all forces engaged was devastating. Justin turned back around and faced the technician. “On second thought, no, don’t paint my kills. I want you to put a marker down for every one we lost.”
After a few moments of silence, the technician nodded. “Outside of custom, but I like it, Lieutenant. We should remember.”
“Yes, we should.” The sentiment flowed into Justin like a wave. He wasn’t sure why, but it felt good, like his fellow warriors would live on, memorialized on the side of his Sabre. It seemed fitting to honor them this way, especially since the Red Tails had been the first fully religiously integrated squadron in the CDF. Justin recalled reading the squadron’s history when he’d been posted to it, including how the original Red Tails were the first group of African-American aviators in the American Army Air Force, with some of the highest kill to loss ratios in the conflict they fought in. They still stood as a beacon of how far humanity had come. Given the League’s assault on us, I suppose we still have a long way to go as a species.
“What symbol would you like me to use?” the technician asked.
Justin paused and tilted his head to the side in thought. “Hm.” A sudden inspiration came to him. “Use the symbol of each pilot’s faith. The Cross, the Star of David, the Crescent and Star, the Khanda…”
“And if they didn’t have a religion?”
“CDF service emblem.”
The technician nodded. “You got it, sir.”
“I suppose I’d better let you get back to fixing up my ride,” Justin said. “Thanks for keeping us in the fight the last few days.”
“My pleasure, sir. You keep blowing up those Leaguers, and we’ll keep you in the fight.”
With a grin, Justin turned on his heel and walked away. While he still felt heavy and struggled to process everything that had happened, the resolve to remember those lost somehow made him feel better. He decided that was the best he could hope for. At least until I finally get through to Michelle on the vidlink.
Later that evening, Tehrani was hard at work in her day cabin. She’d spent several hours writing letters to the families of those lost, stopping every so often as tears clouded her eyes. She didn’t sob, but an ache had settled in her heart as she struggled to remember each man and woman, some of whom she’d only met a handful of times. After twelve of the letters, she stopped and focused on the other priority: getting the Zvika Greengold ready to get back to the fight.
Major Hodges had already submitted a complete drydock workup, even attaching a notional schedule for repairs. I’ve never seen him quite so motivated before. Upon further rumination, Tehrani realized she’d never been so driven herself. The entire crew came across as focused, like someone had thrown a switch inside of them. A core of steel within her had been unearthed by the recent combat, but she resolved to retain the nurturing part of her command style.
The commlink on her desk came to life with the voice of Lieutenant Singh. “Colonel, I have a flash vidlink for you from General Saurez.”
Tehrani’s eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. Saurez was the overall commander of the space fleet and one of the highest-ranking members of the CDF. Why is COMSPACEFLT contacting me? She touched the commlink’s reply button. “Put him through, Lieutenant.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am. One moment.”
An older human male appeared on Tehrani’s tablet. His eyes were bloodshot, and he looked as if he hadn’t slept in days. “Good evening, Colonel.”
“And to you, General Saurez.”
He grinned. “I know. What’s a four-star doing contacting you directly, outside of your chain of command?”
“Well, the thought crossed my mind, sir,” Tehrani replied. She tilted her head ever so slightly. “I suppose nothing should surprise me after the last two days.”
“There’s an old Chinese curse… may you live in interesting times.” Saurez grimaced. “Unfortunately, we’re living through them. I’ve spent the last few hours sifting through after-action reports and kept seeing your ship come up. You’ve been all over the place, Colonel. Fighting like mad at the forefront of a pitched space battle, and your pilots—well, there’s a lot of heroes on the Zvika Greengold’s flight deck.”
“Thank you, sir.” Tehrani’s mind raced with speculation about why the general had contacted her. None of it was good.
“We’re putting the Greengold in for two battle stars to honor its contribution to both saving the Conqueror and the battle of Canaan. I could probably make a case for four, but let’s not get greedy. I reached out tonight because I want to know if you and your crew are ready to get back into the fight.”
“It’ll take a couple of weeks of space-dock time, sir, but the moment that’s done, we’re ready.”
“Your pilots and crew—they’re capable of sustained front-line action? Even though a few weeks ago, your vessel was primarily a training ship?”
Tehrani set her jaw. A bit of annoyance crept into her voice. “Yes, sir. They’re battle-tested and, after the last forty-eight hours, hardened veterans.”
“Ah, I can see that fire in your eyes at the slightest questioning of your crew,” Saurez replied. “Good. You’re going to need that fire, Colonel. I’m sure you remember that they designed the Thane-class escort carriers for convoy duty?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s what I’m putting them back into. We’re not sure where the League will strike next, but we’re confident they’re not going away. That means the CDF has to cover a lot of space.”
An impossibly enormous amount of space. Tehrani frowned. “Will our battle group receive reinforcements? We only have one destroyer and one frigate.” She bit her lip. “And we’re short eleven pilots.”
“Replacement fighters, bombers, and pilots are on the way. Warships, we’re short on. You’ll have to make do until we finish integrating the nation-state military assets.”
“Understood, sir.” While it made sense that manufacturing new small craft was far easier and quicker than building additional escort ships, it still bothered Tehrani deeply. The League seemed to have near-limitless quantities of warships—and the Zvika Greengold wasn’t made for a straight-out slugging match. “Sir, I have to poi
nt out that given what we’ve seen of the enemy so far, our strike groups will need significant upgrades in ship-based firepower.”
“I’m well aware of that, Colonel,” Saurez replied, his tone going from friendly to sharp in a moment. “But I can’t give you ships I don’t have. As General Irvine put it… I expect all officers and enlisted personnel of the Coalition Defense Force to do their duty.”
“Yes, sir,” Tehrani replied, forcing her voice to remain completely neutral.
His expression relaxed. “The next few months will not be a walk in the park. I suspect we’ll be tested as we’ve never been tested before, going up against an enemy we know little about. And my suspicion is they’ve been watching us for years—maybe even decades. We’ll be fighting their war. Reacting to their tactics.” Saurez crossed his arms. “It’ll be up to every ship commander to find a way to win, even when the odds are stacked against us.”
“Semper tempus, sir.”
Saurez grinned. “Always in time. I’m certain you and your crew will continue to rise to the occasion.” He paused. “Good luck out there, Colonel.”
“You, too, sir.”
“Godspeed.”
The tablet’s screen blinked off, leaving Tehrani alone once more. She still wondered why the four-star had contacted her. Perhaps he was truly taking my measure. The bottom line was that the Zvika Greengold, and more importantly the soldiers under her command, were going to be at the sharp tip of the spear and by extension always in harm’s way. I’m going to have to force myself to get used to this. She found it difficult not to see herself as the head of their large extended family. She’d led her service to the CDF that way, and it had always worked. But not in a time of war.
Tehrani put her head down and opened another letter draft. She still had twenty-eight names to go.
After finishing with the crew chief, Justin had ended up back in the Red Tails ready room, even though they were off duty with the Zvika Greengold in space dock and stood down. As he mindlessly worked through after-action reports on his tablets, the hatch slamming shut startled him. He looked up to see Whatley, in his full dress uniform, drop into the front row of chairs a few seats down from him.
Justin sprang to his feet and came to attention. “Sir.”
“At ease, Lieutenant.” When Justin didn’t move, Whatley pointed at the chair behind him. “Sit.”
“Yes, sir.” Justin sat down gingerly.
“I looked over your gun-camera footage from the last battle,” Whatley said. He spread his hands out in front of him. “Four confirmed kills and who knows how many assists. Damn impressive flying, son.”
Justin stared straight ahead. “We still lost eleven good men and women the last two days.”
“It bothers you?”
“Of course it does, sir,” Justin replied, scrunching his face. He gritted his teeth. “There were so many of them. I swear it felt like I blew one Leaguer up and two more took his place.”
Whatley nodded. “That’s combat for you.”
“I’m glad you came by, sir. I want to put my name in to stay in the fight.” Justin swallowed. “I need to see this through.”
“You don’t get a say in it. CDF Command called the entire squadron to active duty an hour ago.” Whatley’s lips curled into a grin. “But I respect that you would’ve volunteered.” He reached out and put his hand on Justin’s arm. “You’re going to have to learn how to handle losing people, including your friends, on a nearly constant basis.”
“How, sir?” Justin didn’t want to think about the feeling he’d had seeing someone he knew die in a split-second explosion of orange flame, with not a damn thing he could do about it.
“Depends on the person. Some of us get hard, some turn to a bottle, and some find God. Others build a network of friends.” Whatley shrugged. “How you do it is up to you, but make no mistake, son. You have to sort that out. Trust me.”
“How do you deal with it, sir?”
“God mostly. Sometimes long talks with friends who serve. Every once in a while, a few drinks out of that bottle I mentioned.”
“I’ll try to remember that,” Justin replied. “I suppose I’m not much on God, so I’ll pick something else. Just, ah, not the bottle.”
“At least not while on duty.”
To Justin’s surprise, Whatley didn’t seem interested in judging his beliefs or lack thereof. With all I’ve heard about how old-school this guy is, I figured he’d rip me a new one for that too. The attitude change threw him for a loop.
“Why are you in the ready room?” Whatley asked, as if changing the subject.
Justin forced a smile. “I couldn’t think of anything else to do, and I didn’t want to be around other people. Going back to my cabin wasn’t appealing, either.”
“Let me give you some advice.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Get up, swallow any pride, hurt, or whatever else is bothering you, get down to the officers’ mess, and enjoy a meal with your fellow pilots. Talk to them about good times and bad. Remember the men and women who died today. Then get ready to get up tomorrow and kill some damn Leaguers.” Whatley finished the sentence with a big grin. “Remember… those bastards killed our friends. It’s not our job to judge them. That’s God’s job. Our job is to arrange a face-to-face meeting as soon as possible.”
Justin hadn’t heard the phrase in a long time. His father had said it about the Saurians. “Yes, sir.”
Whatley stood and slapped Justin on the shoulder. “Now get out of here.”
“Yes, sir,” Justin replied as he put his tablet down and climbed out of the chair. “Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t think for a moment I’m letting up on you. I will push you harder than anyone ever has. I demand perfection in the cockpit and everywhere else. Because I believe you can be a leader.” Whatley’s voice was quiet, but it held the unmistakable sound of command. “Clear?”
Justin sucked in a breath. “Crystal.”
“Dismissed.”
Justin turned on his heel, strode out of the ready room, and made his way toward the mess hall favored by the pilots.
19
Seeing Feldstein, Adeoye, and Mateus gathered around a table in the busy officers’ mess, Justin waved. He was juggling a tray of food in one hand and his drink in the other. The steward had advertised the meal as fresh turkey with mashed potatoes and green beans, but Justin was sure it was freeze-dried. It didn’t matter—he was grateful for a hot meal and the chance to stretch his legs.
Feldstein waved back, motioning him over.
Carefully placing the tray on the table, Justin dropped into the remaining open seat. “Hey. How’s everyone doing?”
“Oh, peachy. Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die in glorious battle against the League of Sol,” Feldstein replied.
Mateus looked down her nose and shook her head in between bites of turkey. “I thought I was the morbid one around here.”
“I am thankful to God to be alive,” Adeoye said, his voice barely audible over the noise of the mess hall. “It seems like a miracle that we’re all sitting here together, breaking bread.”
Justin ate a forkful of mashed potatoes. Compared to ration bars, it was like eating five-star gourmet food. “Or proof of highly improbable events occurring in the universe.”
Feldstein gave him a withering glare. “Oh, come on.”
“Just calling it like I see it,” Justin replied. “I’m grateful we’re all here.” He made eye contact with Mateus. “Thought we lost you for a few minutes there.”
“It’ll take more than that for those Leaguers to kill me.”
As they continued eating, the volume suddenly increased on the wall-mounted holoprojector, causing nearly everyone in the mess hall to turn toward it. The Oval Office came into focus, with President Nolan seated behind the desk. His voice carried across the mess. “My fellow citizens of the Terran Coalition, I come to you tonight as we celebrate our victory over the League of Sol.”
>
Justin noted that every eye around him was on the holoprojector.
“I first wish to thank the brave men and women of the Coalition Defense Force. We can all recall from the long annals of human history when small groups of people accomplished nearly impossible tasks. General Irvine, may her soul rest in peace, was one of those people. Under her leadership, two hundred ships held the line to stop a thousand.” Nolan appeared to be overcome by emotion. “We’re still pulling our honored dead and wounded from the ships and wrecks above Canaan, and the melted alloy from the League’s weapons hasn’t fully cooled. Yet we as citizens of our great nation know what is asked of us in the days ahead.”
“Maybe I should’ve voted for him,” Feldstein commented sotto voce.
Nolan stared directly into the camera. “I came into office thinking my hardest task would be to wrangle a balanced budget while getting Liberals and Liberal-Democrats to work together.” A small smile creased his face. “I doubt I’m alone in saying I wish that were our hardest task for tomorrow. But it’s not. A great man who sat in an office not unlike this one once said that freedom is only a generation away from extinction. My father knew that when he joined the CDF to fight the Saurians, who at the time represented the most significant threat we’d ever faced. I, like many of us, believed that with defeat of the Saurian empire, the Terran Coalition was the sole galactic superpower in our region of the Milky Way.”
Justin stole a few glances at his friends. They were all nodding. I wonder where he’s going with this.
“That belief was a mistake. We beat too many of our swords into plowshares and allowed too much of our defense infrastructure to be mothballed, where it withered away. It was my mistake not to do something about the structural problems in our military when I was sworn in as your president. I can only ask the forgiveness of the citizens of the Terran Coalition and pledge that I will do everything in my power to win this war. Together, we will beat our plowshares back into swords. We will fight across space, on our planets, in asteroid belts, and wherever else this enemy hides. What is our aim? Unconditional surrender of the League of Sol. To sum it up, we won’t stop until we reach Earth—and victory!”