Fight the Good Fight

by Daniel Gibbs

  “That sounds like an excellent idea,” MacIntosh said as he nodded to the two engineers and then turned to David. “The tour is scheduled for tomorrow afternoon. I trust everyone can accommodate that?”

  “Actually, I have a lecture at...” Hayworth started to say, and then noticed a dirty look from Merriweather and immediately began to shift what he was saying. “...but I believe Dr. Hart can fill in for me in the later lectures.”

  “Very good, Doctor. Have a lovely day,” MacIntosh said with a smirk as he walked out, leading David out of the office with him. “You’re going to have your hands full with that one, Colonel.”

  The CSV Oxford was technically not a warship in the Coalition Defense Force, but instead a technical research ship, as she was outfitted with a pinpoint sensor suite, extensive listening equipment, and a large complement of intelligence analysts. Tasked to patrol far behind the front lines, the Oxford was a CDF intelligence vessel for spooks and run by spooks. Sitting in the center of the large operations center floor that took up several decks of the ship, Lieutenant Colonel Robert Sinclair glanced up at the large plaque mounted in the center of the holoprojector displays that proclaimed the motto of CDF Intelligence: “In God We Trust, All Others We Monitor.” For some reason, reading that always brought a smile to his face. Looking back down to a decryption program that ran on several intercepted League transmissions, he watched as the progress bar ticked one more percent.

  “A watched decryption never finishes, sir,” Second Lieutenant Alon Tamir said, unable to keep the hint of a grin off his face.

  “I don’t recall asking your opinion, butter bars,” Sinclair said back in his polished English accent. Tamir thought he enjoyed poking fun at him and hoped with time he might end up earning his respect with this abilities.

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Did you finish composing an analysis on those reports I gave you earlier?” Sinclair asked.

  “Yes, sir, it’s in your inbox.”

  “What’s the BLUF, butter bars?” BLUF stood for bottom line, up front.

  “That the League fleet in this sector has limited supplies to carry out ongoing offensive actions, so we should plan a counterattack immediately before they’re able to resupply,” Tamir responded with a smile.

  “Good. Same conclusion I reached, but maybe you’re learning something on this tub.”

  “Perhaps great minds think alike, sir?”

  Sinclair narrowed his eyes. “Keep dreaming.”

  Tamir took the pokes in stride, as the Oxford was legendary in the fleet for its practical jokes. Tamir had even heard at one point a group of chiefs had taken the entire contents of the XO’s quarters and arranged them on the outer hull exactly as his quarters was set up. The story went that the XO had left it all out there for a week before the ringleader fessed up and moved everything back. At some point, there’d be another newbie on the ship, and that person would get the attention rather than him. He really looked forward to that day. “Yes, sir!” he replied with a grin on his face.

  Tamir’s console beeped, showing a League communication being intercepted. Turning his attention to his console, he noticed that the transmission lacked normal League encryption protocols. “Colonel, I’ve got an unencrypted League transmission, sir.”

  Sinclair snorted. “Probably a propaganda video. I’m in the mood for a good laugh. Put it up on the big screen.”

  A few moments later, the flag of the League of Sol appeared on the main holoviewer in the operations center. It was quickly replaced by a white flag, and then transitioned to a man’s face. Tamir and Sinclair exchanged glances as the images changed on the screen. “This message is for the government of the Terran Coalition,” the man began. “I am Diplomatic Minister Carl Jenner of the League of Sol Social and Public Safety Committee.”

  As he spoke, Sinclair snorted again. “Oh great, they want us to surrender. Not bloody likely.”

  “For the last twenty-seven years, our respective militaries have fought and died in a galaxy-wide war. The League of Sol believes that now is the time for us to set aside this mindless slaughter and try to find common ground between humanity.”

  Tamir’s eyes nearly popped out of his skull. Is this some sort of sick joke the comm techs are playing on us?

  “The League of Sol realizes that an overture for cessation of hostilities after so many years may be difficult to comprehend. To prove our sincerity and good will, we propose to return five thousand prisoners of war to the Terran Coalition and send a ship with them and our delegation to Canaan for the purpose of a negotiated peace that is acceptable to both sides. As a further gesture of good will, the League will halt military operations in Terran Coalition space for the next five days while this proposal is considered. We await your response.”

  The transmission ended, leaving only a blank screen in its wake. The operations center was very, very quiet as officers and enlisted personnel looked at each other, not sure what to make of what they saw.

  Sinclair cleared his throat. “Okay, which one of you put that together? That’s got to be the best prank ever pulled on this ship.”

  No one answered him. It began to sink in with Tamir that what they just saw was perhaps genuine.

  “Lieutenant Tamir, can we confirm that the signal originated from League territory?”

  Tamir had been working on that problem before Sinclair had asked him. “Yes, sir, I can. Triangulation shows it originating from behind their front lines.”

  “Get me a gold level communications channel to the SecDef, Lieutenant.”

  As Tamir moved to comply, he realized he had been referred to as Lieutenant for the first time this week, and not butter bars. “Yes, sir!” Perhaps the League wanted to end the war. The implications were incredible and Tamir fought to keep his excitement in check so that he could focus on the task at hand. A few minutes passed as the link was made. “I’ve got the Secretary of Defense’s office for you, sir.”

  Sinclair turned and faced the camera for the communications video link. “Mr. Secretary, you’re going to want to sit down for this.”

  15

  MacIntosh glanced at David, who was sitting in front of his desk, then he turned his gaze toward the Lion. She was visible through the transparent metal windows that looked out upon the nearby dock. Cohen better be the right one.

  MacIntosh finished pulling up a file on his tablet and cleared his throat. “Colonel, the clearances of your preferred command crew have been approved. That leaves the other officers being assigned.”

  Before David could speak, an intercom on MacIntosh’s desk went off. “General Barton is here to see you, sir. He insists that it is urgent and cannot wait,” Roberts said.

  “Let him in,” MacIntosh said with more than a trace of annoyance in his voice.

  The office door opened and in walked General Barton. He braced to attention respectfully as MacIntosh and David stood. David braced to attention as well. “General, I wasn’t expecting you so soon,” MacIntosh said with an edge to his voice. “Colonel, I’ll get back to you later. You are dismissed.”

  David relaxed. “Yes, sir,” he said and quickly exited the room, glancing at Barton as he left, wondering what caused the interruption.

  With David gone, the two men sat down. Barton sat in the chair in front of MacIntosh’s desk that David had just vacated.

  “You’ve told him there’s no way he gets his command crew where he wants them, correct?” Barton asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Ah, good. Wouldn’t want to make him feel spoiled, would we?” Barton said with a touch of a sneer on his face.

  The two men looked at each other intently. “General Barton, if this is about...” MacIntosh began.

  “...his unfitness for this kind of command? Not really.” Barton cracked a smile. “You know as well as I do what this project really is. ‘Victory Project’ sounds all nice and optimistic, but it should be more like ‘Last Gamble Project,’ and you know it as much as I do. Th
e only reason they’re letting you pick that kid is because half the joint chiefs are convinced the technology won’t work. Better to let the young colonel take heat for a failed ship design than a man who’s about to get general stars and actually do some good in this war.”

  A look of dark amusement crossed onto MacIntosh’s face. “You know, General, I thought you were simply overselling your part in the court-martial, but you really don’t like Colonel Cohen, do you?”

  “Like? That has nothing to do with it, Andrew. As far as I’m concerned, he’s the perfect man for this project,” Barton said. “As I said, you know as well as I do that this is hardly going to win the war. As it stands, if we’re lucky, it won’t bankrupt the Coalition before the strain on the fleet would anyway. And don’t throw that old canard of ‘defeatism’ around.” Barton leaned forward. “It’s one thing to keep the morale of the public up, to keep them working overtime in factories and paying more for goods to help keep the war effort going. That’s why nobody says these things in public. But let’s face facts. The Coalition is in a war that it’ll be lucky to survive with a negotiated peace. We’re not going to drive the League out with or without these new ships.”

  “You’re being pessimistic.”

  “And you’re being foolish. There are other matters we should be turning our energy to, not putting everything we’ve got into magical technologies to end the war.”

  “It’s not magical; it works,” MacIntosh said flatly. “Hayworth’s team has proven consistently in the last six months the anti-matter reactor is everything he claimed it would be. All it took was the right amount of funds being applied so we could procure the right materials and the best people to work on it.”

  “Congratulations. One ship will not turn the tide of this war. Or need I remind you that with the start of the latest ‘Spring Offensive’ by the League, we’re being pushed back across nearly the entire front,” Barton said firmly, raising his voice.

  “One ship isn’t supposed to turn the tide of the war! It’s supposed to become a symbol that drives morale back up and serves as a test bed for new technologies that can be implemented fleet wide…and that will turn the tide of the war,” MacIntosh said, his calm façade breaking. I hate political appointees. This man doesn’t deserve the stars he wears. Without connections, he’d never made it beyond major.

  The intercom on his desk went off, and MacIntosh pressed the button to answer it with some irritation. “Yes?”

  “This is Secretary Dunleavey’s office, sir. He says it’s urgent and he needs to see you right away,” Robert’s sing-song voice said through the speaker.

  “We’ll continue this discussion later, then,” MacIntosh said.

  16

  Lieutenant Colonel Calvin Demood of the Terran Coalition Marine Corps, a tall, very well-built dark-skinned American of African descent, sat on the couch in his living room, flipping through a stack of medals. He looked closely at several; just seeing them recalled the events that led to each. Planetary defense operations, invasions of League-occupied worlds to liberate them back into the Terran Coalition, boarding operations, and everything in between for twenty-one long years of service. Until a few minutes prior, Calvin thought bitterly to himself. The time had finally come for him to retire in six months, and now that was being delayed. Jess isn’t going to react well to this development. Not even sure what I think about it.

  He leaned back on the couch, glancing around the living room in his relatively modest home on the grounds of Camp Fox, a large TCMC base situated in a remote area of Canaan. Its primary function was as a training ground for new Marines. Calvin had been in command of a training brigade for the last eighteen months.

  Jessica walked in and saw him looking through his medals. She walked over and gave him a kiss as she sat next to him. “Putting everything away for retirement?”

  Calvin stared at a medal he earned during one of his first deployments as second lieutenant for fighting off waves of League troops while protecting a group of wounded Marines whose corpsman had been killed by enemy fire. “They’re giving me new orders,” he said, letting the words fall out of his mouth before looking up at his wife.

  Jessica’s face clouded over. “What do you mean ‘new orders’? You’ve got less than six months to finish at Field Command School…”

  “They want me to take a new assignment overseeing an MEU connected with the Victory Project.”

  His wife’s voice began to rise. “What? Why? They know you’re retiring in six months.” She turned to face him on the couch. “They know that, right?”

  Calvin looked at her, steeling himself. “They also asked me to stay on for another three years.”

  At that, Jessica’s emotions got the best of her. “Oh no! No! You’re not going to let them do this to us!” she shouted. “You said you were done; you were ready to settle down!”

  Calvin struggled to respond to his wife’s outburst. He knew that, more than anything, she wanted him to get out of the military.

  “I was, Jess. It’s just… It wasn’t just any request. This came straight from General MacIntosh himself. He wants me to lead the MEU on that ship they keep saying they’re building. It’s real. I’ve got to do this.”

  Calvin reached out to take her hand, but she swatted it away.

  Jessica just stared at him. “So that’s it, isn’t it? They raise the flag again and you go running off without a thought?” she asked, seething.

  “I took an oath, baby.”

  “You’re damned right you took an oath…you took one to me! You promised me this was the end! I want a child, Calvin! I’m sick of wondering if you’re not coming back every time you walk out the door! What about me?” she shouted.

  “Jess…”

  “I’ve been waiting for you to settle down for twenty damn years, Calvin! I’m tired of waiting!”

  Flustered, and unable to say anything else, she stormed out of the room and into the nearby bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

  Calvin stood and went to the door, knocking on it. “Hon? Please, come back out. We can talk about this,” he pleaded with her through the door. After more than a few seconds of silence, he stepped away and sat back down in the living room, looking at the tablet that held his new orders, shaking his head. This posting had damn well better be worth it.

  David pulled his cover on as he walked onto the bridge of the Lion of Judah, taking in the sight of all the people working on the bridge, coupled with its combat information center (CIC). General MacIntosh had already given him the so-called nickel tour of the ship, but this was his first time alone on the bridge. Many technicians, both military and contractor, worked on various consoles and there were disassembled stations, wall panels, and cabling everywhere. Recalling his old days as damage control team leader, he walked over to one of the many stations that had cables and parts strewn around it. A CDF officer was under the console; David could just make out his rank as a first lieutenant.

  “And what are we doing here, Lieutenant?” David asked.

  The younger man poked his head up. “Trying to troubleshoot a short in the communications control system… not enough engineers to go around, and the contractors are all focused on weapons and shields,” he explained.

  David found himself mildly amused as the young man’s eyes glanced up, saw his rank insignia, and then dropped everything to stand and come to attention.

  “Colonel, sir!”

  A few other personnel now took notice of David and came to attention. He quickly said, “At ease, everyone. Carry on with repairs.”

  As the rest of the technicians and contractors on the bridge resumed what they had been doing, David returned his focus to the young man before him. Taking note of the name displayed on his badge, he spoke again. “So, Lieutenant Taylor, what station are you assigned to?”

  “I’m the senior communications officer, sir. I arrived last night.”

  David took a seat at a console to the left of the communications station. �
��I see. I was assigned yesterday as well.”

  “Yes, sir. We’re receiving a lot of transfer paperwork. Seems like the brass is staffing up the ship quickly.”

  “I haven’t been able to review the service jackets of the senior personnel yet due to the volume. Got to love that one of the few constants in the universe is paperwork in the government.”

  Taylor chuckled politely. “Of course, sir.”

  Determined to draw something more than small talk out of the young man, David persisted. “So tell me something about yourself that I won’t find in your service jacket, Lieutenant.”

  “Um, well, sir... I like to work on unbreakable cryptology problems in my spare time.”

  David smiled. Hanson will like this guy. Natural born nerd. “Okay, well, here’s one that is in your service jacket…what’s your first name?”

  Taylor turned a few shades of red. “Robert, sir. Robert Taylor.”

  “Pleased to meet you. I’m David Cohen.”

  “Sir, is it true you rammed an enemy ship in your last combat? We’ve been hearing a lot of scuttlebutt.”

  “Yes, it is. We rammed an enemy frigate, disabling it and saving a convoy of civilians from the League.”

  “That’s impressive, sir. I wish I could have been there.”

  “Lieutenant, it was a desperate action that cost seventy-eight people on my crew their lives, but it was a gamble that succeeded. One thing it was not was impressive. And should you find yourself in a command position someday, remember that we hold the lives of those we lead in our hands. That is an awesome responsibility that should never be taken for granted.”

  Taylor gulped. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t realize.”

  “Nothing to be sorry about, Lieutenant.” David felt his own face redden. He knew as soon as he finished saying it that he shouldn’t have laid into the young man quite that hard. “To be clear, I’m not planning on ever ramming this ship into anything,” he finished off, trying to lighten up the conversation.