Date: 2000-01-01 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Science Fiction; Fiction; Space; War; Action; Space Opera
Description: Thirty-five years of peace. One vicious attack destroys it all. Reservist Lieutenant Justin Spencer loves every minute of flying fighters through space during his annual two-week tour with the Coalition Defense Force. The job back home isn’t nearly as thrilling as blowing up asteroids with the squadron under his command, but it keeps him close to his wife and daughter. After all, joining the CDF was only for the free education. Justin never expected a battle, much less a war. With one shot across his cockpit, peacetime fades into memory. An unexpected enemy emerges with overwhelming force desi

Weapons Free

Battlegroup Z Book One

Daniel Gibbs

Contents

CSV Zvika Greengold Blueprints

SF-86 Sabre Blueprints

Starchart - Sagittarius/Orion Arms

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Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Epilogue

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Acknowledgments and Afterword

Weapons Free by Daniel Gibbs

Copyright © 2020-2021 by Daniel Gibbs

Visit Daniel Gibb’s website at
www.danielgibbsauthor.net

Cover by Jeff Brown Graphics—www.jeffbrowngraphics.com

Additional Illustrations by Joel Steudler—www.joelsteudler.com

This book is a work of fiction, the characters, incidents and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. For permissions please contact info@eotp.net.

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Battlegroup Z

Book 1 - Weapons Free

Book 2 - Hostile Spike

Book 3 - Sol Strike

Echoes of War

Book 1 - Fight the Good Fight

Book 2 - Strong and Courageous

Book 3 - So Fight I

Book 4 - Gates of Hell

Book 5 - Keep the Faith

Book 6 - Run the Gauntlet

Book 7 - Finish the Fight

Breach of Faith

(With Gary T. Stevens)

Book 1 - Breach of Peace

Book 2 - Breach of Faith

Book 3 - Breach of Duty

Book 4 - Breach of Trust

1

System 36XNZ—Asteroid Belt

Terran Coalition Border Zone

27 September 2433

Four swept-wing space superiority fighters flew through the void, maneuvering around asteroids and ring material.

First Lieutenant Justin Spencer piloted the lead craft, a Terran Coalition SF-76 Sabre, around the latest hazard to crop up in his path and readjusted back to the flight plan.

The belt was unusually dense, composed of not only standard hunks of space rocks but also material from the rings of a gas giant. The science report Justin hadn’t bothered to read had probably laid out the how and whys, but all he cared about was the challenge of flying through the muck.

“It’s so beautiful out here,” he said into his commlink.

“It would be more beautiful if we had something to shoot,” Second Lieutenant Elisabeth Mateus replied. She hailed from Brasilia, one of the member worlds of the Terran Coalition. The planet was populated primarily by descendants from a Brazilian colony ship that had fled Earth during the Exodus of 2072. “Watching rocks go by for hours on end is boring.”

“But required to keep up our flight certifications.” Justin glanced at the LIDAR readout on his Sabre. It still showed no contacts, aside from the four of them. He stretched his neck. At almost two meters tall, he was at the maximum height to fly fast movers. “Another hour of dodging rocks, and we can head back to the barn.”

They were only out there to ensure their reserve fighter squadron had enough flight hours to keep its wings during the upcoming flight evaluations.

“Alpha Three to Alpha One. I’m showing something anomalous on my forward LIDAR threat tracker,” Second Lieutenant Dvora Feldstein said. “Do any of you see it?”

Justin quickly pulled up a sensor overlay for his HUD. It showed nothing out of the ordinary. “Negative, Alpha Three. Pass your sensor data.”

“Acknowledged, Alpha One.”

A moment later, Justin’s HUD came alive with the new data. A moving contact flickered on the screen. Looks like something’s there. Very faint. Probably space debris but worth putting ourselves through the paces to track. This is training, after all. “Possible bogeys at our ten o’clock, twenty degrees declination. Break to heading three-two-zero.”

The four Sabres streaked toward the new direction, engines coming alive with bright-blue cones of energy. The fast turn’s twelve Gs would have pummeled the pilots if not for strong inertial dampening.

“Tracks increasing in sensor resolution,” Mateus said. “I count four separate bogeys.”

“Confirmed, Alpha Four,” Justin replied. He toggled the comms channel to the primary fleet frequency. “Zvika Greengold Command, this is Alpha One. Do we have any friendly birds on our patrol route?”

After a pause, First Lieutenant Gopinath Singh’s voice carried over the commlink. “Negative, Alpha One. No other contacts on our scopes. You should be clear.”

“Understood. We’re going to run it down.”

“Acknowledged, Alpha flight. Zvika Greengold out.”

As the group of Sabres accelerated toward the contacts, Justin let out a breath. “Looks like our bogeys are small-craft sized. Definitely not cargo vessels.”

“Concur, sir,” Feldstein said. “Who the heck is out here? It’s an abandoned system used as a training ground for the fleet.”

“Well,” came the rich baritone of Second Lieutenant Jackson Adeoye, “don’t forget about the automated helium-3 mining facility here.”

“This is too weird,” Justin muttered. He toggled to the guard frequency, the standard emergency band. “Attention, unidentified spacecraft in vicinity of 36XNZ asteroid belt—this is Lieutenant Spencer, Coalition Defense Force. Squawk IFF and identify yourselves immediately.”

Static was the only reply. A few seconds later, the bogeys suddenly split into two groups and headed directly toward Alpha flight. Justin gripped his flight stick as adrenaline coursed through his veins. What are the odds of combat on my last space patrol, at the end of my two-week reserve tour? Especially when we’ve been at peace for thirty-five years?

“Alpha One, this is Alpha Two. I’m being spiked by a bogey. Request permission to arm weapons and lock the target.” Feldstein’s pitch rose with excitement.

“Negative, Alpha Two. We remain weapons hold. Wait one.” Justin clicked his comms channel back to the fleet. “Zvika Greengold, this is Alpha One. Bogeys have spiked my wingmen. Request weapons-free status.” What the hell is going on here?

“This is Zvika Greengold actual. Say again, Alpha One?”

Justin was surprised to hear Colonel Banu Tehrani. She was the commanding officer of their carrier.

“We’re being spiked by LIDAR, Colonel.”

“Negative on weapons-free status, Lieutenant. Maintain weapons hold. Attempt identification of the bogies and do not fire unless they take offensive action.”

“Understood, Colonel.” Justin clicked the comms channel back. Dammit. Do we really have to wait for them to open up first? He detested the idea of being held back by rules of engagement that didn’t allow them to fire until the enemy took the first shot. “Command thinks it’s nothing. Maintain speed and activate electronic countermeasures.”

“ECM online. They’re maintaining lock,” Feldstein said.

A missile-lock-on alert from Justin’s onboard-threat-assessment computer diverted his attention back to the battlespace. The bogeys heading their way had spiked the entire flight.

Ten seconds to engagement range—at least for our weapons. He bit his lip. This is wrong. His entire body seemed to rebel, and even though he’d never once fired a shot in anger, he knew the incoming was hostile, which made his next order simple. Weapons hold allows us to return fire. Nothing wrong with ensuring we can. “Alpha flight, arm missiles and get a hard lock. Designate all contacts as bandits.”

Sounding alarmed, Feldstein asked, “Sir, are you sure? We’ve got direct—”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Justin snapped. He selected the closest bandit and triggered the LIDAR autolock. Seconds later, the missile tone sounded in his cockpit. He flipped the comms channel back to guard. “Inbound craft, this is your final warning. Squawk IFF and break lock immediately, or we’ll fire.”

What felt like an eternity passed. For a moment, he thought the bandits might be an elaborate test by their CAG—the Commander, Air Group—Major Gabriel Whatley.

That hope shattered in an instant, when a missile blasted from the nearest incoming craft.

Time seemed to stop as his brain leaped into overdrive. “Alpha flight, you are cleared to engage bandits bearing zero-zero-five. Weapons free. I say again, weapons free.” Justin squeezed the button on the flight stick that triggered the launch of an LT-47F Vulture active LIDAR-tracked warhead. Military craft stuck to the tried and true: buttons and levers requiring affirmative touch to move, especially when firing weapons. “Alpha One, fox three,” he called, using the code to notify his wingmen of the type of weapon fired.

Each of the four friendly fighters loosed a missile, and so did the enemy contacts. The weapons crossed paths as electronic countermeasure systems on both sides went to work. Many of the warheads were spoofed by decoys or ran into ring material, exploding prematurely. A few of the Vultures that missed their targets looped around, attempting to reacquire.

The bandits split into two elements of two fighters each and sent another wave of warheads into the fray.

“Alpha Two, break left. You’ve got two missiles inbound,” Justin called as he pressed the missile launch button to fire another Vulture. “Alpha One, fox three.”

“Alpha Three, fox three,” Adeoye added. A moment passed. “Alpha Three, splash one. Splash one bandit!”

Justin checked his HUD and confirmed that they faced one fewer enemy. Who are these guys?

He considered the flight characteristics of their opponents. The delta-V—shorthand for changing velocity—displayed by the opposing force wasn’t as robust as the Sabres’, but it was higher than any civilian craft he’d ever seen. Whoever they are, that’s military-level tech. Pirates simply didn’t have access to the latest and greatest equipment.

The thought passed as his Vulture struck home, and the targeted fighter disappeared from his HUD. The two remaining contacts turned directly toward Alpha Two and accelerated.

“Alpha Two, watch out. They’re on your twelve.”

“Roger,” Feldstein replied. “I think they want to dogfight, sir.”

Standard CDF fighter engagement doctrine was never to engage the enemy in a close-in, tail-chasing dogfight but to stay solely in beyond-visual-range combat. At the rate of closure, Justin decided to allow the combat to develop, since they appeared to have a turning and acceleration edge over the bandits. Trying to lose an enemy in the muck they were flying through just to allow reengagement with missiles seemed foolhardy to him. I guess we’ll see how good these Sabres really are.

Justin kicked up the afterburners on his craft, adjusting his heading slightly. On his HUD, the computer displayed a targeting reticle that glowed green as his fighter’s forward neutron cannons ranged. They were smaller cousins of the CDF’s primary anti-ship energy weapon and packed a serious punch against small craft. He squeezed the trigger on his flight stick, and bright beams of blue stabbed out, forming blue bolts as they raced into the darkness of the void. “Alpha One, guns, guns, guns.”

While some races—like the Kellions, a nation of bipeds farther down the galactic arm than the Terrans—built small craft as armored balls with a pilot in the center, with imaging systems to provide full vision, the CDF didn’t. Human pilots had long insisted on being able to see the outside world, even with the risks it entailed. The cockpit of the Sabre had a bubble of transparent alloy that allowed a three-hundred-sixty-degree field of view.

Justin blinked as a blur of a black triangle with a red emblem raced by his canopy. His HUD froze the image, showing a stylized logo with a raised fist. I’ve never seen anything like that before. Scans of the enemy craft showed a weakening in its deflector shields, but it didn’t appear as if his shots had caused damage.

As Justin whipped his Sabre around, the missile-lock alarm sounded, cutting through his mental clutter. His HUD revealed that it was a heat seeker designed to home in on his engine. He deployed flares, and they streaked away. The enemy missile exploded, mistaking the decoy for his fighter.

He adjusted his heading toward the bandit and toggled his comms to the command frequency. “Zvika Greengold, this is Alpha One. We’ve engaged four bandits after they fired on us. Request immediate backup along with search and rescue. Two bandits splashed. I say again, two bandits splashed.”

“Alpha One, this is Zvika Greengold actual. What is your current status?” Tehrani asked.

“Colonel, we’re in an active dogfight with unknown hostiles. Request immediate assistance.” I don’t have time to brief the damn brass right now. Justin rocked his Sabre from side to side, dodging a wave of what appeared to be red balls of energy, something new in his experience. “Alpha One out.”

Justin shifted in his flight harness as his fighter traded spaces with the bandit during a series of high-speed scissor turns. Finally, he ended up behind his quarry and opened fire with the neutron cannons. Several hits later, he was rewarded with the explosion of the craft in front of him. “Alpha One, splash one.”

“Alpha Two, splash one. That’s all of ’em, sir.”

Before Justin could catch his breath, Colonel Tehrani interrupted. “Say again last, Alpha One.”

“Colonel, we’ve now splashed four hostiles.” Justin focused on calming his breathing, though his hands shook almost uncontrollably. “Again, request search and rescue.”

“Can you identify your attackers, Lieutenant Spencer?” Tehrani’s voice was calm but held an undercurrent of concern.

Rightfully so. Enemy fighters weren’t a regular feature of solar systems designated for CDF training operations, especially not ones well within the Terran Coalition’s territorial boundaries. “No, ma’am. I’ve never seen anything like them before. I’ll transmit my full sensor logs immediately.”

“Understood, Lieutenant. Pack it—”

Feldstein cut in, “I’ve got more hostiles on my LIDAR.”

“Additional bandits inbound, Colonel. Alpha One out.” That’s the second time I’ve cut off a senior officer today. Make that in my career.

Red dots appeared in his HUD, roughly one hundred kilometers away. “Form up on my wing, Alpha flight. Stand by for maximum missile range.” This time, we’re not waiting for these bastards to shoot first.

2

System 36XNZ—Open Space

Terran Coalition Border Zone

27 September 2433

Colonel Banu Tehrani stared straight ahead at the Tactical and Navigation consoles in front of the commanding officer’s chair on the CSV Zvika Greengold. While the escort carrier was over thirty-five years old, it had an illustrious name that went all the way back to Earth’s military history. As she sucked in a breath, numerous thoughts ran through her head, mostly centered on who was shooting at her pilots. After twenty-two years in the CDF, she’d only seen combat a handful of times and never as a CO.

Tehrani turned to her right and looked at her XO, Lieutenant Colonel Benjamin Wright. “Pirates?” She adjusted her ball cap, which was adorned with the Greengold’s logo and motto—Semper tempus, which translated to “Always in time.”

Wright shook his head. “Out here? No way. Pirates hit trade depots, not CDF fighters in an asteroid belt.” He shifted and pulled down the black space sweater he and most other officers and crewmen in the CDF wore over his khaki duty uniform. “Maybe the Coalition Intelligence Service got their hands on some advanced drones and is testing us. Though that seems outlandish, even for them.”

“Could be the Saurians,” First Lieutenant Zachary Bryan, the Zvika Greengold’s tactical action officer, interjected. “I don’t care what anyone says. They never forgave us for the plastering in the last war.”

“Hard to believe after over thirty years of peace.” Tehrani turned back at her XO. “What do we have on the flight line for ready five?”

“Four more Sabres with standard loadouts. And the usual SAR bird.”

“Get them into space and vector them toward Alpha flight.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Oh, and tell the air boss to warm up the rest of the Red Tails squadron, just in case.”

Wright nodded. “Better safe than sorry.”

“Trust in Allah and tie your camel to a tree.”

Bryan broke in, “Conn, TAO. Aspect change, multiple inbound wormholes. Unknown signature.”

Artificially created wormholes were the only known means of faster-than-light travel. The human version of the technology was known as a Lawrence drive, named after its creator.

Tehrani and Wright glanced at each other. She inhaled sharply and punched a button on her chair for the ship-wide intercom. “This is the commanding officer. General quarters, general quarters. Man your battle stations. This is not a drill. I say again, man your battle stations.” She clicked the intercom off. “TAO, set material condition one throughout the ship, raise shields, and charge the energy-weapons capacitor.”

While the Zvika Greengold had a full complement of thirty-six space-superiority fighters and bombers, it lacked offensive anti-ship weaponry. It had close-in point defense and a limited number of neutron-beam emitters to engage other vessels. “Communications, order our escorts back. Emergency jumps, as fast as they can safely make it.”

First Lieutenant Gopinath Singh’s bright-purple turban bobbed up and down. “Aye, aye, ma’am.” He’d been assigned to the ship for several months and was short, at not a centimeter over 1.7 meters. The handgrip of his distinctive blade, known as a kirpan, was just visible above his waist.

Singh’s left shoulder bore the flag for the nation of India and the Sikh religion. One of the unique features of CDF uniforms was dual flags on the left shoulder. Regulations permitted any soldier to wear their country’s flag and religious emblems or, if they preferred, solely the flag of the Terran Coalition.

“Conn, TAO. Unknown vessels confirmed. Three ships, all of the same type and size. Roughly equivalent to a CDF frigate. Contacts designated Sierra One through Three.”

“Sierra” indicated that the target was unknown or not hostile. In the absence of identification, a new contact was never labeled as hostile, to prevent a potential tragedy.

“They’re raising deflector screens, and I show weapons-power buildup. Type unknown.”

Tehrani’s heart raced as she stared at her tactical plot. The possibly hostile vessels were directly ahead of them. What is going on here? A sixth sense warned her they were moments away from combat, but it didn’t add up. The Terran Coalition was at peace. “Range, TAO?”

“Fifteen thousand kilometers. They’re accelerating toward us rapidly, ma’am.”

“Communications, put out a wide-band hail. Instruct Sierra One through Three to turn away, or we’ll treat them as hostile.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

The purple dots representing the incoming vessels moved ever closer on the holotank’s projected tactical plot. Tehrani stared at it, trying to decide the best course of action. What if they’re aliens and I screw up first contact, starting a war? As she pondered the situation, she realized that even if it was a first-contact situation, they’d already fired first—assuming the bandits Alpha Flight had splashed were from the same force. These ships are probably connected with the attack on Alpha, but I have to be careful not to assume. She turned toward Wright. “Thoughts, XO?”

“We have no choice but to treat the incoming as hostile and deal with them as such.”

The simply stated opinion made sense. “Agreed, but we don’t shoot unless they shoot first. TAO, redesignate Sierra One through Three as Master One through Three.” “Master” noted the target as a hostile entity. Tehrani leaned forward. “Get me a firing solution for our forward neutron beams. Communications, status of our escorts?”

“I’m having trouble getting through, ma’am. We’re being jammed.”

She sat back and punched a button. “Air boss, this is Colonel Tehrani. Scramble our bomber squadron, anti-capital-ship loadout. I say again, scramble all bombers.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

“Conn, TAO. Aspect change. Master One, Two, and Three have opened fire. Assess they’re using plasma-based weaponry.” As Bryan spoke, the ship rocked from repeated impacts. “Shields holding. Strain on fore generators rising.”

“TAO, firing-point procedures, Master One.” Tehrani’s voice took on rigid formality. “Forward neutron beams.”

“Firing solution set, ma’am.”

“Match bearings, shoot, forward neutron beams.”

With that order, the CSV Zvika Greengold became the first CDF warship in almost thirty years to open fire on an enemy vessel in Terran Coalition space.

* * *

A LIDAR-tracked missile pursued Justin’s fighter through the void as he desperately jinked around a massive asteroid. He triggered the release of two chaff balls then pulled up sharply. The incoming warhead exploded in the cloud of decoys, creating a shockwave that nearly sent his Sabre into another rock. “I could use some help over here,” Justin called.

His HUD showed his three wingmen engaged in dogfights of their own. Deciding to try a new tactic, Justin engaged the afterburner on his craft. He whipped around multiple asteroids and through a dense cloud of ring material while avoiding red balls of energy flung at him by the enemy fighter. After picking out an unusually large rock, he used it to hide behind as he looped around and headed directly toward the craft firing on him.

Streaks of red flashed by his Sabre’s canopy. Some struck the shields, while most missed. Justin adjusted his aim until the neutron cannon lead indicator turned green, then he squeezed the trigger. Blue beams lanced out from his craft, cutting through the vacuum toward the enemy. Again and again, enemy fire struck his forward shields, while shot after shot of his own connected.

As his deflectors were about to fail, he armed a Vulture missile and pressed the button to fire. “Alpha One, fox three.”

Though Justin wrenched his fighter to the left, balls of red energy continued to find him for a few more seconds—until the impact of his missile on the enemy craft blew it to bits. Stunned, he let out a breath and checked the board. Two out of four bandits were down, while his wingmen continued to engage the rest. “Alpha One, splash one. I’m moving to assist.”

Mateus flew the nearest friendly fighter, engaging in a tight-turning series of scissor maneuvers with an enemy that was aggressively attempting to destroy her craft. Justin came in at full afterburners, and the moment the missile-lock-on tone sounded, he squeezed the launch button. “Alpha One, fox three. Mateus, break right and burn.” If she does it right—hopefully the enemy will fly right into my missile.

“Roger, Alpha One.” Mateus’s fighter jinked to the right, and its afterburners kicked in. A few moments later, the enemy craft exploded from a direct missile hit.

“Alpha One, splash another one!” Testing himself in battle felt incredibly exhilarating after the hundreds of hours of training Justin had endured. And whoever they are, they’re getting what’s coming to them.

But the question remained: Who the heck are we fighting? Justin played it over and over in his mind.

“Alpha Three, splash one. We’re clear,” Adeoye said. “I show no further hostiles.”

“Alpha Three, I’m showing hull damage on your left wing.” Justin’s HUD provided details on each fighter’s status.

“No reduction in thrust or combat effectiveness, sir.”

Justin wondered how true the statement was. Even if entirely accurate, another hit on the affected area could be catastrophic. “Understood, Alpha Three. Stay in the back of our formation, and we’ll cover you.”

“Wilco, sir.”

“Resuming formation,” Feldstein said. “At this rate, you’ll be an ace before we get back to the Greengold, LT.”

“I doubt that,” Justin replied. “There hasn’t been an ace pilot in the CDF since… hell, the Saurian War.”

“Since when do reservists get to fight?” Mateus asked. “I signed up for one weekend a month, two weeks a year, and never thought I’d see combat. No complaints, though. That was a rush!”

Justin thought back to why he’d joined the CDF. Simple… free college. The degree program offered through Reserve Officers’ Training Corps had allowed him to get a degree without debt and set his young family up for success. I suppose helping to safeguard the Terran Coalition was in there too. But we don’t have any enemies. Or...we didn’t until now.

As the adrenaline of combat faded, he found something else in its wake: shock and stress reaction. His hands shook. My God, I just killed someone. Three someones, to be exact.

His commlink crackled, jerking him out of his fugue. “This is the Zvika Greengold to any friendly ships and fighters. We are under attack by hostile forces. I repeat, we’re under attack and request immediate assistance.” Lieutenant Singh’s voice cut through Justin’s mind like a knife.

These aren’t mere pirates. Someone is attacking the Terran Coalition. He cued his commlink. “You heard the man. Form up and stand by for max burn. It’s fifteen minutes back to the Zvika Greengold, and they need our help.”

He hoped they would make it in time.

3

“Conn, TAO. Port shields at forty-seven percent,” Bryan called. “Master Two and Three continue to focus their attacks on that quarter.”

From the CO’s chair, Tehrani split her gaze between her tactical display and the officers in front of her. They had four friendly space-superiority fighters, but those were of limited use against the enemy capital ships. Without bombers or the Zvika Greengold’s own escorts, the battle remained a losing proposition. If we didn’t have friendly fighters in the asteroid belt, I’d have already ordered a retreat. “Navigation, come to course two-one-zero. Roll the ship to present our dorsal deflectors to Master Two and Three.” Right now, I’m just buying time.

“Aye, aye, ma’am. Steady on course two-one-zero. Rolling the ship,” Second Lieutenant Leah Mitzner replied.

Weapons impacts continued to reverberate through the deck plating, though the Greengold tried to maneuver to avoid them. But a few seconds after engaging the turn, the shield capacity indicator on Tehrani’s display stopped its steady march to zero.

“Conn, Communications. Colonel, I’ve got Lieutenant Spencer on audio for you. His element is exiting the asteroid belt and is five minutes out.”

Tehrani perked up. Some welcome good news. She glanced at Wright. “About time. We can scoop up our pilots and get out of here, if nothing else.”

“Personally, I’m not interested in running from a fight,” Wright replied as he rubbed his arms. “We have to uphold our tradition of being in the right place at the right time, yeah?”

Instead of replying, Tehrani stared at her tactical plot and the blue dots representing the inbound flight of Sabres. “Communications, put Lieutenant Spencer on.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

A moment later, Justin’s voice came through the speaker on Tehrani’s chair. “Colonel, we’re coming in at max thrust. What’re your orders?”

“Link up with Beta element and engage the enemy, Lieutenant. We’re scrambling bombers and additional fighters. If the Greengold gets too banged up, we’ll pull back.”

“Understood, ma’am. Spencer out.”

Tehrani had little time to continue to ponder her tactical options. Between outgoing neutron beams from the Zvika Greengold and incoming plasma balls, the usually dull void of space was a lively place. All the while, our shields keep taking a beating.

“Conn, TAO. Master Two shields have failed.”

“TAO, vector the friendly fast movers to attack Master Two’s weapons emplacements.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

* * *

“Has anyone ever fired on a ship in space before?” Adeoye asked, the rich timbre of his voice filling the commlink.

“Once, at a shoot-ex during the Valiant Shield exercises,” Feldstein replied.

Justin listened to the banter, more focused on the battle ahead than idle chitchat. The scene on his HUD was nothing short of surreal—three moderately sized enemy warships engaged in a pitched battle with the Zvika Greengold. He swallowed. I picked a terrible week for my annual tour.

Their target, Master Two, loomed ominously. The vessel was oddly shaped, at least to his eye. Mostly black with red accent lighting, the enemy ship had two blocky turrets on its front hull, and both spewed red plasma balls. They make an excellent first target to me. “Alpha flight, link into my target package.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Feldstein said. “Taking out the turrets first?”

“If you have a better idea, I’m all ears, Lieutenant,” Justin replied. He left out his concern that the anti-fighter missiles the Sabres carried might not be strong enough to penetrate whatever armor plating the enemy had.

“That’s a negative, sir.”

“Stand by for max range.” Justin rotated his fighter’s trajectory slightly and toggled his laser designator pod on. “Alpha One, playing the music.”

“I’ve got a good lock,” Adeoye interjected.

The missile-lock-on tone sounded in Justin’s cockpit, and he immediately pressed the missile-launch button. “Alpha One, fox three.”

A LIDAR-guided missile dropped from the underside of his fighter, and a split second later, its engine fired, sending it toward the target. The rest of his element fired, with four blue icons representing the inbound warheads populating his HUD.

“Follow our birds in and engage with energy weapons, Alpha flight.”

Each pilot responded with their confirmation of Justin’s orders, leaving him to make microadjustments to his approach in order to avoid taking down friendly missiles with his miniature neutron cannons. He squeezed the trigger on his flight stick, sending dozens of blue bolts through the void.

The fusillade from the small fighters blasted through space, and all four missiles struck home. They impacted directly on the turret’s housing, exploding with brief flashes of red flame. The target remained, though dozens of neutron cannon bolts slammed into the same area.

“Alpha, break off and circle back for another pass,” Justin said.

As he jinked his craft around and sped up, enemy point-defense fire found him. His aft shields dropped like a stone, going from ninety percent charge to twenty in a few seconds. “Watch out for that AAA fire!”

He punched the afterburners, and the g-force wore through his Sabre’s inertial dampers and pressed him firmly back in the pilot’s seat. It took a few more seconds to escape the deadly barrage. Justin let out a breath and calmed his nerves once more.

“That’s some nasty point defense those ships are sporting,” Feldstein commented. “I’ve got a couple of hits on my aft stabilizer. Nothing I can’t compensate for, though.”

As Justin looped his fighter around, he lined up for another attack run. A glance at his HUD confirmed the rest of Alpha had followed suit. “This time, Alpha Two, break right with me. Three and Four, break left. We’ll try to divide their fire.”

“Roger that, sir,” Adeoye replied.

The missile-lock-on tone sounded, and Justin pressed the button to launch another Vulture missile toward their target. It barreled away, and much like his last attack run, he lined up to send a stream of blue energy at the turret. That time, the volley had the desired effect. As all four warheads impacted, the weapons mount on the hull buckled then blew apart in a dazzling display of red-tinted plasma flow. Incoming point-defense fire noticeably decreased as the element of fighters rocketed away. Maybe we hit something vital.

“Ordnance check. Next pass, we’ll hit the other turret.”

A flash of light filled his cockpit. It came from a new wormhole opening almost directly in front of his fighter. The maw of a black-hulled ship bristling with weapons emerged from it. He twisted the Sabre to the right and accelerated away to avoid a collision. As he passed, it became apparent that the new combatant had been made by whoever had made the other vessels they’d fought. Both the coloring and the hull configurations were nearly identical. The only difference was the new contact was bigger—a lot bigger.

* * *

“Conn, TAO,” Bryan began. “Aspect change… I’ve got a new contact designated Master Four. Same Lawrence-drive signature. It’s got seventy-five percent more mass than the other ships, ma’am.”

Tehrani’s heart skipped a beat as the new vessel glided into the battlespace. Still in the destroyer-size range, but it's sporting far more weapons emplacements. As if to underscore her concern, the newcomer flung a stream of plasma balls toward the already-taxed shields of the carrier. Time to go. “Communications—”

“Conn, TAO. Aspect change,” Bryan interjected. “New contact… CSV Marcus Luttrell, designated Sierra One!” The young man’s voice went up an octave as he gave the report.

About time. “Communications, send my compliments to Colonel Arrington and order him to engage the enemy.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

On her tactical plot, Tehrani watched as the Marcus Luttrell accelerated. Missiles erupted from her bow-mounted launchers along with multiple neutron beams and the coup de grâce of Terran Coalition weapons: magnetic cannons. The Galahad-class destroyer sported three turrets with dual barrels each, each three hundred millimeters in diameter. Thousand-kilogram projectiles spat out of them and slammed into the hapless enemy ship. As the missiles impacted with giant explosions of orange flame, secondary explosions blossomed across the hull.

“Conn, TAO. Master Two destroyed. Access warhead or fuel bunkerage cookoff.”

“XO, status of our bomber squadron?”

“Ten minutes to launch, ma’am. They’ll be launching with half stores, though.”

Tehrani nodded. “Until then, we’ll degrade the remaining enemy vessels.”

“Who are these people?” Wright asked quietly. “You don’t just show up in one of our star systems and attack the Coalition Defense Force.”

“If we’re lucky enough to disable something, I’ll order our Marine contingent to attempt a capture,” Tehrani replied. She made eye contact with him. “If nothing else, that should get us some answers.”

“Agreed.”

“Communications,” Tehrani began. “Contact CDF HQ on Canaan. Send our sensor logs.” She quickly glanced at Wright. “Just in case.”

“Conn, TAO. Aspect change, Master Four… Colonel, that ship is launching fighters. Same configuration as the ones deployed by the smaller vessels. I’m also detecting larger craft. Could be bombers.”

“Understood, TAO. Communications, signal Alpha and Beta elements to engage.” Allah help us. Tehrani set her jaw, staring at the tactical plot. The battle was suddenly mostly out of her hands.

* * *

“Tally ho, bandits at eleven o’clock, high!” Justin yelled. He used his craft’s mental link to designate a formation of what he assumed were four bombers behind a fighter screen. Friendly blue neutron beams issued from the Marcus Luttrell along with counter-fire filled the void around him. The contrasting colors were almost a thing of beauty—if the enemy hadn’t been trying to kill him and his fellow pilots.

“Sir, shouldn’t we attack the fighters first?” Mateus asked. “They can chew us up.”

“Negative, Alpha Four. If those bigger, slower craft are bombers, they’re the biggest threat to our ride. Neutralize them first, then clean up the remaining fighters. Beta element is tasked to engage all other enemies.”

“Understood, sir.”

Her comment wasn’t wrong, but Justin wasn’t taking any chances with their carrier. His training was clear—protect capital ships at all costs in a combat situation. While adrenaline still coursed through his veins, calm replaced his previous jitters. He methodically adjusted the trajectory of his Sabre to avoid flying head-on at the enemies screening the bomber group. The moment his missile lock-on sounded, he loosed a Vulture toward the nearest fighter. “Alpha One, fox three.”

“Alpha Four, fox three,” Mateus called a moment later.

Justin watched with satisfaction as his element tightened up after sending a salvo of four active LIDAR-tracking warheads toward the enemy. Two hit the same enemy, destroying it. One knocked down the forward shields of the fighter it connected with, while the fourth missed. We’re getting better at this. Alpha blew through the screening force and rocketed toward the bombers. “Okay, pilots, give ’em a volley of missiles, then we close in and take these guys down. They can’t maneuver, and we should be able to sit on their tails. Clear?”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Adeoye replied. “We’ll be aces by the end of the day.”

“Stow that and focus on staying alive,” Justin snapped. The missile-lock-on tone sounded again. On the HUD, the targeting reticule highlighted one of the lumbering craft that moved at half the speed of the enemy fighters. He pressed the button for missile launch. “Alpha One, fox three.” The Vulture rocketed away from his Sabre and slammed into the bomber, which didn’t attempt to evade. He might as well have thrown a paper airplane. The sensor readouts on Justin’s HUD showed a less than twenty percent shield-effectiveness drop from the impact. He whipped around the enemy, avoiding a string of red plasma balls fired from the bomber formation, and settled behind the lead craft. “Alpha One, guns, guns, guns.” He held down the firing trigger for the neutron cannons, and bright-blue bursts of energy stabbed out into the enemy. Five, ten, fifteen hits, then the bomber exploded. Damn. Those things are tough.

A new cluster of dots appeared on the HUD. Justin’s heart skipped a beat before he realized they were blue, indicating friendly forces. IFF transponders marked them as four Mauler bombers of the Gamma element. The Greengold had a single bomber squadron aboard, the Winged Lightnings.

“Hey, mates,” someone called.

Justin recognized the voice of First Lieutenant Francis Martin, a pilot who hailed from the Australian Federal State, one of the many member worlds of the Terran Coalition. The Aussie was larger than life, with a quip for everything. He and Justin had become friends over the last two weeks.

“Care to keep these ugly little buggers off our asses while we stuff their big ships full of explosives?”

Justin chuckled, and smatterings of laughter rippled through the commlink. “We’ve got your back,” he said as he rolled his Sabre around and accelerated toward the bomber formation. “Alphas Two and Four, finish off those bombers.”

“Wilco,” Feldstein replied quickly.

Martin’s voice came through loud and clear. “Glad to hear it, Spencer. Cheers, mate. I’ve got some beers on ice waiting for us. While we’re at it, maybe we can find something besides missiles to stuff into these buggers, eh?”

“Keep the commlinks clear for proper traffic,” Major Whatley suddenly barked.

It felt like the school principal finding you in the hall without a pass. The line stayed silent, as apparently no one wanted to respond. I oughta tell him to get out here and fight, rather than worry about our comms traffic. Justin grinned as he closed the distance on Gamma element. The idea that they were fighting up-gunned pirates went through his head again, but he rejected it. No, we’re fighting another military. But who? The craft attacking them matched nothing in the database, nor did the style of ship design.

The bomber pilots knew their business. Martin and the three other Maulers settled into a tight cluster formation resembling an upright diamond, allowing each to engage without being behind a friendly craft. It made life easy for Justin, as all he had to do was settle in above their formation with Adeoye. However, their opponents weren’t content to let them just blast their ships. Another wave of the snub-nosed, red-tinted fighters launched, and his HUD immediately labeled them hostile. “Alpha Three, break and engage inbound enemies.”

“Acknowledged, Alpha One,” Adeoye replied as he rolled away and engaged his Sabre’s afterburner.

Justin flew right behind him, lining up the lead enemy in his sights. The kilometers dropped quickly, and before long, the missile-lock-on tone sounded in his cockpit. Justin squeezed the firing button for a single Vulture active LIDAR-guided weapon. “Alpha One, fox three.” The missile dropped out of the munitions bay, and its engine engaged, accelerating toward the target. Six seconds later, the Vulture exploded against the enemy’s forward shield, while Justin poured neutron cannon fire into the mix.

Most of the enemies had broken off when struck by weapons fire, but not this one. The craft refused to alter course, instead sending bolt after bolt of red energy directly at Justin’s fighter. Hits piled up on his Sabre’s forward shield, and its protection rating dropped like a stone. He adjusted his shield power and redirected the aft generator forward, buying him precious few seconds to continue pouring neutron cannon fire onto the enemy. It worked—the black-and-red craft exploded in a brief flash of orange and blue before the vacuum of space consumed all available oxygen from the hapless fighter’s life-support system.

“Alpha One, splash one,” Justin called as he balanced the remaining deflector power his Sabre retained.

Adeoye’s fighter zoomed ahead, entering a series of interlocking scissors maneuvers with one of the other three enemy craft. He and the enemy pilot traded energy-weapons fire, each scoring several hits until Adeoye locked into the cone of lethality. A sustained stream of neutron-cannon bolts later, the unknown craft blew up.

“Nice shooting, Alpha Three,” Justin said.

“Whoever these guys are, they explode really well,” Mateus interjected. “Alpha Four, splash one.”

“Eyes on the ball, Lieutenant,” Justin replied with a chuckle.

While the furball continued, the friendly bomber element steadily closed the distance to the enemy frigate they’d lined up on. Justin tried to monitor his HUD’s LIDAR display as the deadly dance between his Sabre and the hostile fighters continued, to make sure nothing broke off to chase down the vulnerable bombers.

“We’re ten seconds out, chaps,” Martin said. “I’ve got a green light, Javelin ready. Gamma One, fox one.” He used the brevity code for firing an anti-ship missile.

Each one of Gamma’s bombers loosed a Javelin, which headed directly for the frigate labeled Master Three. With no escorting fighters between the warheads and their target, the only remaining obstacle was the enemy vessel’s point defense system. It flung a hail of small red plasma balls into the void, which made for an impressive display, but that was all it did. Three out of four missiles impacted its forward shield quarter, hammering down the frigate’s shields and blowing off a sizeable chunk off its bow. Secondary explosions began, and after a few seconds, the entire vessel blew apart into one-meter-sized pieces. No life pods launched.

“Take that, you stupid buggers!” Martin shouted. “Now, let's go piss on the next one, mates!”

As infectious as his enthusiasm was, something in the back of Justin’s mind told him that cheering the death of hundreds of people or aliens probably wasn’t the right way to approach the situation. But he set the thought aside and picked his next target.

* * *

Tehrani stared out the transparent alloy “window” at the front of the Zvika Greengold’s bridge. It took several seconds for the explosion resulting from Master Three’s destruction to die down. As it did, it cast a shadow across the entire combat information center. Two down, two to go. A glance at her tactical readout showed that the largest ship, Master Four, still had most of its deflector strength intact.

“Conn, TAO. Aspect change, wormholes inbound,” Bryan began. “Both are CDF signature, ma’am. CSV Glasgow and CSV Sheffield, designated Sierra Two and Three.”

The last of our escorts. “Plug them into the tactical network, Lieutenant. Designate Master Four as the primary target for all ships and bombers,” Tehrani said.

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

Her eyes went back to the tactical plot on the screen built into the CO’s chair. Blue icons of the Greengold’s escorts and fighter squadrons filled the display. They swarmed around the two remaining red icons like bees. Additional symbols for anti-ship missiles appeared from the flight of bombers and quickly accelerated into the side of Master One, merging with its icon and blinking out.

“Conn, TAO. Aspect change, Master One. She’s powering up her Lawrence drives, ma’am.”

A few moments later, the icon for the enemy vessel disappeared, leaving only the largest ship on the battlefield. Again and again, the escorts and bombers lashed out with every weapon at their disposal. It took several volleys to batter down the vessel’s shields, but once they did, explosions erupted across its hull.

“Conn, TAO. Master Four is attempting to jump out,” Bryan said as he turned around in his chair. “They’re not going to make it. Sensors show runaway exotic-particle release.”

His words were prophetic. Through the transparent alloy windows, a massive orange explosion suddenly came into view.

“Conn, TAO. Master Four has been destroyed. All enemy fighters neutralized. We’re clear.” Bryan used a soft tone, and his words were measured.

“Damage report, XO?” Tehrani asked, tilting her head slightly.

“One moment, ma’am.” Wright quickly scanned several screens of information. “Hull damage, deck eight. Two lost to the void. Several dozen wounded and light damage to the landing bays.” He pursed his lips. “All systems combat operational.”

With the sudden danger of combat passed, Tehrani’s mind found the space it needed to consider the human cost. I’ve never lost a crewman under my command before. She forced herself not to show emotion on the bridge. “Fast-mover losses?”

“Two Sabres lost, ma’am. Strong signal off one escape pod… the other pilot didn’t make it.”

Wright’s words hung over the bridge and Tehrani’s head. “Deploy search and rescue. Bring our pilot in and see if anyone is left alive in any of the enemy’s wreckage. Keep our CSP out in force… and, Communications, find CDF command. We’ve got to alert them to what’s going on.” The last part, she said for the benefit of the bridge team, as anxious stares and worried expressions had replaced the frantic pace of combat.

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

Tehrani sat back in her chair, mentally running through the combat evolution. One thing was for sure—her ship and crew had performed remarkably well for never having engaged in actual combat. We lived up to our name today. Despite everything else, that thought brought a smile to her face.

4

Two hours later, after search-and-rescue operations concluded and the escape pod of Second Lieutenant Al-Mufti was recovered, Justin and his Alpha element were the last four fighters to touch down on the hangar deck of the Zvika Greengold. The carrier had two primary bays, with the one nearest the bridge tower configured for recovery and the other set up for launch. Automated landing systems took control of his Sabre as he closed within five hundred meters of the ship. His ship came to rest near the large CVE-73 marking in the center of the flight deck. The moment his cockpit canopy opened, Justin sprang up, and the crew chief rolled a ladder over for him to climb down.

“How about that—we’re all aces!” Mateus called from across the hangar. She was still wearing her full flight suit, minus the helmet, and the flag of the Republic of Brasilia was displayed on the left shoulder of her uniform. She strode over quickly. “I can’t believe it, Spencer. We’re all alive too.”

“Not all of us,” Justin replied. “Al-Mufti didn’t make it back.”

“It was still a good day.” Mateus stretched her neck. “Feldstein and Adeoye are waiting in the ready room. Debriefing starts in thirty minutes, Major Whatley’s orders.”

Justin nodded. “I’ll be there.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m waiting for shock to set in.” He furrowed his brow. “It’s weird to describe, but in the moment, flying that fighter through space, pulling thirteen Gs, and fighting for my life…”

“Exhilarating?” Mateus rocked from foot to foot. “I’ve felt nothing like it before.”

“Not quite the word I’d use.”

She slapped him on the shoulder. “It’s the Portuguese half of me.” Mateus winked. “I’ll see you around.”

“In thirty minutes,” Justin replied and watched her walk away.

He mentally steeled himself for the debriefing while pondering what was going to happen next. All around him, the deck crew busied themselves with preparing the two squadrons of fighters and bombers for space combat once more. The Thane-class escort carriers only had three squadrons—thirty-six small craft in total—embarked. To see everything the ship carried being readied for action was a jarring sight in what had been, until an hour ago, peacetime.

Maybe I have enough time to get a message to my wife. He set off for his cabin to try. All the while, he ran the question of who they were fighting through his head. While it made little sense, Justin had the feeling the designs he’d seen were human built. But what humans would attack the Terran Coalition?

* * *

“Conn, Communications. Flash traffic from CDF command, ma’am.”

Singh’s voice interrupted Tehrani’s mental considerations as she stared at a list of stores—munitions, food, and consumables such as oxygen and water—and found it woefully inadequate for combat. She glanced up at him. “Route to my viewer, Lieutenant.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

Several seconds later, a security challenge appeared on her chair-mounted screen, to which she pressed her finger into a biometric scanner. After it had confirmed her identity, a message—text only—appeared on the panel. Reading halfway through it, Tehrani sucked in a breath. “This communique is six hours old. Why did we just receive it?”

“Jamming, ma’am. There’s still long-range communication issues, but taking out those enemy ships”—he shrugged—“seemed to reduce the amount of interference.”

“Colonel?” Wright asked. His eyes narrowed, and his face was taut. Stress leaked from behind his facade of professionalism. “What’s it say?”

“We are at war.” The words fell out of Tehrani’s mouth like a hammer.

Enlisted ratings stole glances at each other, while the officers openly stared at their commanding officer.

She forced down the bile rising from her stomach. “An unknown enemy has appeared within the Terran Coalition’s borders and is pushing steadily toward Canaan.” Our home world. Whoever they are, they know what they’re doing.

“We should address the crew,” Wright whispered as he leaned in. “Let them know what’s going on.”

Tehrani nodded and punched a button to enable the ship-wide intercom, also known as 1MC. Fear crept into her heart. Whatever I feel, I must project strength. With a set jaw, she began to speak. “Attention all hands, this is your commanding officer.” She glanced at Wright. “I would first like to thank the entire crew of the Zvika Greengold for their professionalism, adherence to duty, and incredible performance during the combat engagement we just won. No one expected a pitched battle with enemy capital-class vessels to happen today, but this crew rose to the occasion. It is an honor to command you, and you bring great credit to the Coalition Defense Force with your service. Today, we lived up to the CDF motto of Semper paratus—always ready.” She took a deep breath.

Around the bridge, every eye was on her. Even the enlisted ratings, who should’ve been paying attention to the myriad of displays, gazed intently.

“CDF Command has set Defense Condition One. The Terran Coalition is now at war with an unidentified enemy, who has a fleet of over one thousand warships. And they’re headed to our homes. All CDF vessels are ordered to return at best speed to Canaan to assist in its defense. All I expect from each one of you is that you do your duty.” Tehrani clicked off the 1MC.

“A thousand ships?” Bryan asked. “Colonel, with respect, the CDF doesn’t have but… what? Two hundred?”

Fear is a powerful opponent. Tehrani could feel it coursing through the bridge. “Lieutenant,” she began, her voice quiet but firm. “The planetary nation-states have hundreds more ships at their disposal. I might add, our warships appear to be technologically superior to theirs. Whoever they are. We will prevail.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“XO, I want a complete readiness report. Stand down from condition one. Make sure our people get some rest, because I expect the next twenty-four hours will be among the worst of our lives.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

Tehrani’s gaze swept the bridge once more. Everyone still stared, and fear was evident in most of their faces.

“Navigation,” she said as she set her jaw. “Plot a course back to Canaan and relay it to our escorts. I want to be underway in fifteen minutes.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am. Plotting jump waypoints.”

* * *

Tehrani and Wright left the bridge together, leaving Lieutenant Bryan on the conn. It had been several hours since the Zvika Greengold started her journey back to the heart of the Terran Coalition. Tehrani kept thinking she was caught in a vivid and detailed nightmare, and at any moment, her alarm would go off. Too bad that’s not reality. Their destination was the briefing room on deck one, directly aft of the bridge. Common to all CDF warships, it was considered the CO’s domain and used for command-level meetings.

“I asked Major Whatley to meet with us,” Tehrani explained as she pushed the hatch open to the conference room and strode in. “Frankly, I’m concerned about having a ship full of reservist pilots getting their flight time in as our front-line combatants.”

“You’re not the only one, Colonel.” Gabriel Whatley had already arrived. He sat at the end of the table, in a fresh khaki service uniform. An American flag patch rested on his left shoulder, and nothing was under it. After Tehrani cleared the threshold, he rose respectfully to attention.

“As you were, Major.”

Tehrani took a seat at the other end of the table, while Wright dropped into the next chair.

“Gentlemen, thank you for joining me.” She rested her hands on the hard surface. “Well, you know why I asked you here, Major. While acknowledging that the pilots we had in space today fought superbly, I want your opinion on whether we can handle sustained fighting. CDF combat doctrine calls for four sorties a day.”

Whatley scrunched his brow. “As long as I’m the CAG, Colonel, we’ll be ready for whatever the enemy throws at us. That said, I have concerns about the training of our current pilots, and I’d like to request we get our regular squadrons back as soon as possible.”

“Agreed, ma’am. I’ve already put in the request to command,” Wright added.

“With that out of the way,” Tehrani said as she steepled her hands together, “what do you propose for an on-deck combat space patrol and squadron readiness as we approach Canaan?”

“All pilots on ready thirty starting four hours out, with the Red Tails squadron on ready five,” Whatley began. “We don’t have enough anti-ship missiles to outfit all of our bombers, but I’ve ordered them distributed equally. So, we must make every shot count.” His mouth remained curled in a frown.

“I see.”

“One other thing, Colonel. I intend to suit up. If needed, I’ll launch with the combat wing. This is too important for me to sit on the sidelines.”

Tehrani stared intently at him. “Aren’t you afraid of losing operational control of the wing during combat?”

“I have to trust the squadron commanders to do their jobs. Yes, they’re reservists, but it has to be enough.”

“Your call, Major.” Tehrani shifted her gaze to Wright. “Damage control status?”

“Everything we can repair in space is done, ma’am. We recovered the bodies of both soldiers who were sucked out during the decompression event and our lost pilot. They’re all in the ship’s morgue.” Wright bit his lip. “Some of the crew are talking about a memorial. Lots of shocked soldiers.”

“It’ll have to wait until whatever is waiting for us at Canaan is dealt with,” Tehrani replied. “Allah help us, but I suspect those three aren’t the last.”

“Probably a given in war, Colonel,” Whatley interjected.

The hatch swung open. “Sorry ta interrupt, Colonel,” Major Carlyle Hodges said in his Cockney accent. “But do you have a moment?”

Tehrani glanced backward and nodded. “Of course. Have a seat.”

“Thank ya,” he replied as he pulled a chair out and sat in it. The chief engineer of the Greengold, Hodges wore a navy-blue jumpsuit that was covered in grease stains. His left shoulder was adorned with the flag of Great Britain. “I need to discuss these back-to-back Lawrence drive jumps, ma’am. The engines aren’t made for it.” His eyes bored into her. “And we’re risking exotic-particle release.”

“Our home is under attack.” Tehrani held up her right hand. “Nothing else matters.”

“Ma’am—”

“I served a duty rotation as an engineering specialist,” Tehrani interjected. “It’s eight jumps back. As long as we observe the cooldown period—”

“With respect, ma’am,” Hodges interrupted, his eyes flashing with anger, “this ship is thirty years old. Our drives haven’t been through a full refit cycle in eight years, thanks to military budget cuts. You’re risking the lives of everyone aboard.” He crossed his arms.

The outright hostility from her chief engineer shocked Tehrani. He’d always been a bit arrogant, but his current attitude was new. “Major, your objections are noted.” For a moment, she considered dismissing him, but given the forcefulness of his protest, he apparently had a genuine concern. “What would you have us do? Canaan is under attack. We need to get there and join the fight.”

“My sister lives there, Colonel. I know the stakes as well as you. It doesn’t matter if we smear our atoms across two light-years when the ship explodes coming out of a wormhole. I tried to give my recommendation to the XO earlier.” He cast a dirty look in Wright’s direction. “But he rebuffed me.”

Tehrani forced herself not to sigh. “Gentlemen, I don’t have time for your petty bickering. You’ve both demonstrated a lack of respect for the other during the last six months. I’ve tried managing it softly, but guess what. The rules just changed. Either solve this, or I’ll tell you how to work with each other until I can get replacement officers.” Her voice took on the quality of ice. “Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Wright replied crisply.

“Yes, ma’am,” Hodges echoed a moment later.

“With that out of the way… what is your recommendation, Major?”

“Only one jump per ninety minutes. It’ll delay our arrival at Canaan by four hours, but it’s the best we can do, and it still give us the ability to double jump at a critical juncture.”

“Very well. That’s what we’ll do.” Tehrani had learned a long time ago never to second-guess the chief engineer. Push them, yes, but once the ruling came down, accept it as gospel. He or she was almost always correct. “Anything else, gentlemen?”

Silence met her question.

“Very well. You’re dismissed.”

* * *

While the senior staff met and the aviation crew worked on rearming the fighters in the hangar, the Alpha-shift enlisted personnel and pilots enjoyed some off time. Justin was among them—after he’d attempted to use the ship’s communication system to call his wife, Michelle, who lived with their children back on New Washington. After the third attempt, Lieutenant Singh politely reminded him that EMCON Alpha was engaged, and violating it was a felony offense under the Universal Code of Military Justice.

Justin brought a meal back to his quarters and consumed it quietly. As he did, he tried to make sense of the day, processing the images of actual combat again and again. Fighters and bombers exploded in front of his eyes, destroyed by his hand. The Spencers weren’t particularly a military family. His father hadn’t served, but his grandfather joined in the opening years of the Saurian Wars, starting in 2376. He recalled the stories of flying unshielded fighters into the teeth of Saurian defenses and the heroic deeds of his grandfather’s squadron.

All of it had led to Justin deciding to join the CDF when he was eighteen. It had seemed like a great way to pay for his college education, see the galaxy, different planets, and areas of space, and enjoy his early twenties. I should’ve realized that signing up for the military meant I might have to fight. Justin’s mind drifted away to the day before he’d deployed for the two-week tour they were on—what was supposed to be his last duty assignment.

* * *

New Washington—Spencer Residence

Terran Coalition

12 September 2433

Justin opened his eyes to find his four-year-old daughter, Margaret—whom he called Maggie—standing next to the bed, nearly at eye level. As the mental grogginess cleared, he mumbled, “Good morning.” The bedroom door was ajar, and he vaguely remembered that they had plans to go to the park after breakfast.

She jumped on him. “Good morning, Daddy!” Maggie bounced up and down between Justin and Michelle.

“Munchkin, it’s six in the morning,” Michelle said wearily. “Do you think you could go brush your teeth and let Mommy and Daddy wake up?”

“Are we going to the park?” Maggie asked brightly, as if it were the only thing that mattered.

“Of course we are. I wouldn’t miss it for the world!” Justin replied. He grabbed her and pulled her to him in a giant hug. “Now, do what Mommy said, and we’ll make breakfast in a few minutes.”

“Okay!” Maggie shouted then bounced out of the king-size bed and into the hallway, singing as she went.

“Oh, she is so your daughter.” Michelle laid her head on Justin’s chest. “Are you looking forward to your two-week vacation tomorrow?”

“Vacation? Really?” he replied playfully.

“Oh, come on. You’re going to zoom around the galaxy, going crazy fast in a small fighter, and probably get to shoot up some asteroids or a comet. Yeah, that’s a vacation. Meanwhile, I’ll be getting her to school every morning and staying home by myself, while working full time.”

Justin raised an eyebrow. “It’s not a vacation,” he replied. “But I’ll enjoy parts of it.”

“Uh-huh. Like all of it.”

“Do you know what I’ll enjoy the most?”

“What?”

“Coming home to you and Maggie.” He leaned over and kissed the top of her head.

She giggled in reply. “You are so sweet and romantic. Almost cloyingly so.”

“It’s why you married me, right?”

“That, and who can resist a man in uniform.”

Justin rolled his eyes. “And on that note, I’m getting a shower.” He moved out of bed and stood. “Are you coming with us to the park?”

“Yeah. They just opened up that new bike path. You can take her to the fountains while I get some exercise.”

“Deal.”

Twenty minutes later, Justin was shaved, showered, and dressed. He selected a pair of shorts that came to his knees and a purple T-shirt to go with his sandals. With one last check of his appearance, which included having to duck slightly because his two-meter height cut off the top of his hair in the mirror, Justin was ready to face the day.

He walked through their modest two-story house on the outskirts of suburbia. Justin had rented it for them the year before after they outgrew his small one-bedroom apartment. Abstract artwork lined the walls along with family photos, including pictures of Maggie as a baby. Ending up in the kitchen, he found both of them seated at the table, waiting on him.

“Sorry. Took me a few extra minutes to get my beard back in regulation,” he said with a chuckle as he slid into the empty seat with a plate of hot food in front of it.

“Don’t forget the mustache,” Michelle replied in reference to a private joke from when Justin was still on active duty. “It’s never in regulation.”

Justin laughed loudly, thinking of how many times he’d gotten ribbed for showing up at basic training with a mustache. “Touché.” He dug into his food.

Michelle cleared her throat. “You forgot to say grace.”

He glanced up with a sheepish expression on his face. “Uh, grace?”

“I’ll do it, Mommy,” Maggie interjected. She bowed her head. “Heavenly Father, thank you for the food we’re about to receive. Keep Daddy safe in space, and help me be a good girl for Mommy. Amen.”

“Amen!” Michelle chorused before taking a bite of her eggs.

Each plate had bacon, eggs, and toast on it. Justin’s had more than the rest of them, and he attacked it with gusto. “Thank you, ladies. I love a full breakfast.”

“I wonder what you’ll get for breakfast on… what’s the ship you’re on again?”

“CSV Zvika Greengold. It’s a thirty-year-old escort carrier from the end of the Saurian Wars. Too bad we can’t train on the new ships like a Saratoga-class carrier,” Justin groused. “That’d be so much fun.”

“Because being in space for weeks on end is fun,” Michelle teased. “No, thank you. I prefer keeping my legs planted on New Washington firma.”

“Uh-huh.”

By the time Justin polished off his food, both his wife and his daughter had finished their meal. He leaned back in his chair and stretched, yawning. “I think it’s time we get a move on.”

“You two go ahead, and I’ll catch up,” Michelle replied. “I’ve got a quick errand to run.”

Justin nodded. “Sounds like a plan. Maggie, you ready?”

“Ready, Daddy!” she shouted at the top of her lungs, flying off the chair, and ran so fast to the front door that she was almost a blur.

“I think that’s my cue.” Justin stood and kissed his wife on the top of her hair. “See you later, baby.”

Michelle smiled in a way that always made his heart melt. “I love you.”

He turned and grinned. “Love you too.”

With that, Justin made his way to the front door, which Maggie had thrown open. She was running toward one of the two helicars parked in front of their home.

Shaking his head with a smile, he walked to his vehicle and opened it by scanning his handprint. “Okay, munchkin. In the back you go, and fasten your seatbelt.”

Maggie opened the door and climbed in. The helicar sensors flagged her size and weight, and the integrated child-protection system came out from the back of the seat and locked into place an arm on each side of her. “When can I sit up front with you?”

She asked that question every time they took a ride together. “You’ve got a few years, dear. It’s safer for you in the back.”

While most Terran Coalition citizens would engage the autopilot and allow the automated planetary-flight-control system to fly their helicar, Justin preferred manual mode. He had to accept responsibility for any accidents through several pop-up screens in the vehicle's steering system, and once he had, he powered up the throttle. The helicar shot up into the sky, and he engaged maximum thrust to skim over the trees at two hundred kilometers per hour. It only took five minutes, including landing time, to get to the park. Once they arrived, he parked near the main entrance and got out, touching a button to allow Maggie to exit as he did.

She bounded out and jumped on the ground. “Daddy, pick me up!”

One of her seemingly favorite activities was to ride on Justin’s shoulders and see the world from two meters up. With a grin, he reached down and slung her on top of him. “Hold on tight, now.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

With Maggie holding on to his head, Justin walked through the tall, genetically engineered pines. They had been grown from seeds brought from Earth and adapted to the slight environmental differences of the planet’s soil. Through a freak of genetic splicing, they had purple needles instead of the usual dark green. They were a thing of beauty and what made the park unique.

Maggie reached out and grabbed a branch as they walked by, pulling some needles off. “Here, Daddy. Take one of these with you for luck,” she said, handing a needle down to him.

He took the offered leaf and put it in his pocket. “I’ll put it in the cockpit of my Sabre.”

“Will you take me for a ride one day so that I can see space too?”

“Someday, we’ll do a family trip together… but this next trip is my last one in the CDF.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ll have completed what I promised I would, Maggie.”

“You don’t want to keep flying? Mommy said you love flying through asteroid fields and acting like a hot dog.”

Justin laughed and set her down. They’d reached the hill she wanted to slide down. “I think she was saying I like to hotdog my fighter, and she’s right. There’s nothing like pulling turns around rocks, dodging ring particles, and putting on a show. One of these days, I’ll rent a shuttle and take us up into the Oort cloud around our solar system.”

“When I grow up, I want to be a pilot just like you!” Maggie exclaimed then grabbed one of the makeshift hard-plastic sleds at the bottom of the hill and took off to the top. When she got there, she hopped onto the device and flung herself down the grass, going faster and faster until it spun out at the bottom. “That was so much fun! Do it with me, Daddy! Please, please, please!”

“Okay, Maggie.” Justin flashed a smile and started climbing up the hill.

She ran, quickly outdistancing him, and he playfully made a show of running faster to keep up. Then Justin lost his footing, and down he went, rolling over and over until he came to rest at the bottom of the slope. He looked up to see Michelle standing over him.

“I leave you for fifteen minutes, and you cake your clothes in mud?” she asked. She made a show of shaking her head. “Oh, come on, you two. We’re going home to get cleaned up.”

Maggie ran into his arms, and he lifted her back onto his shoulders. “Okay. But we’re stopping for ice cream first.”

“Yay!” Maggie shouted.

Michelle just rolled her eyes and walked away.

As she did, Justin felt thankful that he was about to have his last time away from them. When Maggie was born, he’d made the choice to get out after two years of active service, as the possibility of his dying in the line of duty always crept up on him prior to deployments. Life as a midlevel product manager for a software company might be boring, but at least he would come home to his family safe and sound every night. Children. Michelle wants a small army of them. He grinned at the thought and kept walking behind her.

* * *

Tears streamed down Justin’s face at the memory of Maggie riding on his shoulders in the park. More than anything, he longed to hold her and his wife in his arms and tell them everything would be okay and that he would be home soon. But as there was no way to accomplish that goal, he instead tried to force himself to go to sleep. Hopefully, when he woke, the war would be over. Regardless, perhaps he would be rested and ready to fight again.

5

Deep Space

Terran Coalition Inner Core

28 September 2433

Justin barely slept, if the on-again, off-again thirty-minute naps between staring at the top of his bunk could be called sleep. An hour before he was supposed to report to the squadron ready room, Justin finally roused himself from the bed. He took a quick space shower comprising thirty seconds of water followed by lathering from head to toe with soap and another two minutes of water to rinse—barely enough to beat him back into the land of full alertness.

When Justin stumbled through the hatch to the Red Tails squadron ready room, he found several pilots already there. He mumbled a hello, helped himself to a large mug of black coffee, and sat in a chair. The room was arranged like a small theater, with one exception—every chair in the place was leather, and they were extra comfortable. Makes sense. We sit here for hours, waiting for something to happen.

“Hey,” Feldstein said as she glanced up from a tablet she had been studying intently. “Didn’t hear you come in. You look like crap.”

“Good morning to you, too, Dvora,” Justin replied with a crooked grin. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“It was hard to nod off. I’ll give you that.” She set the tablet down next to her. “What’d you do instead?”

“Tried to vidlink my wife. No dice, thanks to the comms blackout. I eventually got two hours, maybe.” Justin took a sip of the hot coffee and burned his throat. “Aaagh.”

The enormity of the events going on around him was overwhelming. So much for wondering what the defining moment of my life will be. A week ago, he was just another cog in the massive wheel of the Terran Coalition, with a regular civilian job and a small family. Now, I’m at the sharp tip of the spear.

Major Whatley striding through the hatch ended the conversation.

Justin sprang to his feet along with the rest of those present and came to attention.

“As you were,” Whatley said as he walked toward the podium directly in front of the large screen at the front of the room. He synched his tablet with the interface and turned toward the group of pilots. “Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to start by congratulating you on being members of a rare breed: space-combat command pilots who’ve seen actual combat. The entire squadron acquitted itself well. And for that, I commend you.” He cleared his throat. “Now, on to business. We’re two jumps out from Canaan. Communications have improved to the point that we know who we’re fighting: the League of Sol.”

“The league of what?” Mateus interjected. “That sounds like a cult or something.”

Laughter erupted from the other pilots.

Whatley held up his hand. Not a trace of mirth was on his face. “Earth.”

The laughter stopped as quickly as it had started.

“From what the Coalition Intelligence Service can tell, we’re facing humans from Earth. Details are naturally limited, but it would appear that the World Society survived after the rest of us left.”

Justin and Feldstein exchanged glances. He was stunned. Vague bits of history came back to him from high school. Our ancestors escaped Earth over three hundred fifty years ago from communist oppression. Why now? Anger overcame him. With so many habitable planets in the Orion spur, why attack us here? They don’t need the space.

“The why doesn’t concern me. The only thing that does is defeating this enemy.” Whatley touched his tablet, and the 3-D holoprojector came to life, showing a detailed view of the Canaan system with its moons, orbital space installations, and CDF assets. “The fleet has rallied. The enemy outnumbers us five to one.”

Gasps filled the room.

“Oh goody, a target-rich environment,” Mateus said to raucous laughter.

“Lieutenant, be careful what you wish for,” Whatley replied in his gravelly tone. “Though I appreciate the sentiment.” He scanned the room. “The Red Tails will be on ready five, starting in one hour at our next jump. Get a bite to eat, handle your biobusiness, and get strapped in. I’d strongly recommend taking a ration bar with you for the hours of boredom before all hell breaks loose. Consider it a tip from a professional.” He paused for a moment. “Any questions, pilots?”

Silence greeted him.

“Dismissed and Godspeed.”

Everyone sprang up from their chairs and made a beeline for the hatch.

As Justin got down to the first row, Whatley held up his hand. “A word in private, Lieutenant Spencer.”

Justin stepped to one side. Uh-oh. “Of course, sir.”

The hatch closed behind Feldstein, and they were alone.

As Whatley stared at Justin, he had a feeling that Whatley was sizing him up. The major had quite the reputation as an old-school soldier with a gruff and demanding demeanor.

Finally, Whatley spoke. “I’m allowing you to remain in nominal command of the Red Tails. I don’t enjoy having a reservist as my lead fighter pilot, but”—he shrugged—“I have no other choice.”

Justin stiffened and grimaced. “With respect, sir, I did my duty, and Alpha element held its own.”

“You more than held your own. But it doesn’t change that you’re not a career pilot, and as far as I’m concerned, you didn’t join for the right reasons.”

“Sir?”

Whatley smirked. “Come on, Spencer. You and I both know you got a scholarship out of this, put in the minimum time, took deferral to the reserves as soon as you could, and hoped never to see the inside of another military small craft as long as you lived. That about sum it up?”

For a moment, Justin froze. His cheeks heated, while his mouth opened and closed several times. The truth was undeniable. The way he puts it makes me sound like a coward. Justin briefly felt shame before anger took over. He set his jaw. “Major, I… Look, I couldn’t afford school. I tested high in the CVAB. I’d always loved the idea of flying a fighter in space. So, yeah. I took advantage of the hand life dealt me.”

“In my book, you join the military for one reason, son. That’s defending your country against all enemies, foreign and domestic… in case you don’t remember the oath we took.”

Justin gritted his teeth. “Do you have a point, sir?”

“I always have a point, Lieutenant.” Whatley moved, closing to within two inches of Justin's face. “The moment an active-duty squadron is available to replace the Red Tails, I’m taking it. Until then, do as you’re ordered, stay out of my way, and try not to get the men and women under your command killed. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.” Justin forced the words out through barely disguised rage.

“Dismissed.”

Justin turned on his heel and marched out of the ready room as he struggled to control his emotions. Who the hell does Whatley think he is? I did my duty. A black cloud followed him as he prepared to enter the cockpit once more.

* * *

“Conn, Navigation. Lawrence drive emergence complete, within a thousand kilometers of target,” Mitzner called as she shifted in her seat.

Tehrani gazed straight ahead, past Mitzner and Bryan and out into the black void of space. Seven jumps in ten and a half hours. We’re probably lucky to be alive. She turned to Wright. “Any signs of exotic-particle release?”

“No, ma’am.” Wright leaned forward. “I doubt luck had anything to do with it.”

“And you attribute our good fortune to?”

“Maybe a small touch of divine intervention? I could be charitable and credit our chief engineer.”

Since Tehrani had laid down the law the previous day, Wright and Hodges had seemed to get along much better.

“Both sound plausible to me. What about intel updates?”

“Nothing beyond what we already know. The holonews channels are filled with panicked people and rumors of invasion fleets being sighted across the Terran Coalition. CIS still says there’s one force, and it’s at Canaan. They appear to be going for a knockout blow.”

“It would make sense to decapitate our leadership, primary shipyards, and military installations.”

“Pearl Harbor.”

Tehrani stared at him. “Pearl what?”

“The site of a battle back on Earth. Second World War,” Wright began. “I studied military history during my time at the academy. The Japanese military attempted to destroy the American Navy’s Pacific fleet in one fell swoop. The Americans got lucky and didn’t lose their carriers.”

“I think I remember reading something about that.” Tehrani quirked her nose. “As long as we don’t go down in the history books as losing the war during our first battle.”

“Conn, Communications,” Singh interjected. “Flash traffic from CDF Command.”

“My viewer, Lieutenant,” Tehrani replied. She turned to the monitor as a vidlink image appeared.

“Colonel, this is Lieutenant Andrew MacIntosh. I’m attached to General Irvine’s flag staff.” The young man on the screen was wearing CDF duty khakis. He spoke with a bit of a brogue, which matched the Scottish flag on his left shoulder in the country position.

Tehrani checked the series of authentication codes that came through then nodded. “Understood, MacIntosh. What can we do for you?”

“The CSV Conqueror suffered catastrophic reactor failure while attempting a Lawrence drive jump to the fleet’s muster location. She’s under attack by a small force of League escorts and bombers. The Zvika Greengold is ordered to jump immediately and relieve her by any means necessary then render aid as required to get that battleship back in operation. General Irvine wishes to explicitly remind you that losing any capital vessel will be a severe blow to our cause.”

“Understood, Lieutenant. Will there be any backup?”

“We can’t spare anything beyond your battlegroup. Once the Conqueror is back in action, your unit will receive additional orders. Command out.”

“I’ll give him this—he’s direct,” Wright said. “I see a problem here.”

Tehrani turned her head. “Oh?”

“Our escorts are one jump back. Their drives aren’t as powerful as ours, and we couldn’t jump other ships through without overly straining our engines. That wasn’t supposed to be a problem—”

“But it is now.” Tehrani closed her eyes. Allah help us. “Four or five thousand soldiers are on that old battlewagon, hoping we’ll ride to the rescue, XO.” Smiling, she said, “Semper tempus,” then pointed toward his ballcap emblazoned with the Zvika Greengold’s Latin motto.

“We should at least check with engineering.” Wright made a face. “I have no interest in dying in a Lawrence drive malfunction.”

“Agreed.” Tehrani chuckled and toggled her chair-integrated intercom to contact the primary engineering spaces. “Major Hodges, can you hear me?”

“Yes, ma’am. What can I do for you, skipper?”

“We need to jump as soon as possible. What’s our current risk level?”

“Too high, ma’am. To get under one percent of failure, I need another ten minutes.”

“Make it five.”

“Ma’am—”

“Five minutes, Major.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

Tehrani smiled as the line clicked off. “I learned a long time ago that engineers always pad the estimates.”

“Ain’t that the truth.” Wright laughed. “We’d better alert flight control. This is going to be hairy. I assume you have a plan?”

“Drop out as close to the Conqueror as possible, launch our birds, and hope it’s enough.” I make it sound so easy. While it’s true that we trained for this, the real thing is far different from training scenarios.

“Ah, the simple plan.”

“Touché, XO.” Tehrani turned her eyes forward. “Navigation, plot a jump course to the coordinates loaded in our tactical computer from command.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

“TAO, raise shields and charge the energy weapon capacitor.”

Bryan nodded. “Aye, aye, ma’am. Shields energized. Capacitor charging.”

“Attention, all hands. This is Colonel Tehrani,” she said after engaging the 1MC intercom. “General quarters! General quarters! Man your battle stations. This is not a drill. I say again, man your battle stations. I say again, this is not a drill.” She took a breath. “TAO, set condition one throughout the ship.”

The lights on the bridge turned blue and dimmed, allowing the computer screens to show the information they displayed more clearly. “Condition one set throughout the ship, Colonel. All battle stations manned and ready.”

“Conn, Navigation. Course plotted, and jump drives charged.”

“Navigation, engage Lawrence drive.”

The lights dimmed on the bridge dimmed even further as the wormhole generator created an artificial tunnel through the stars directly ahead of the Zvika Greengold. Blue, green, red, and purple radiated around the portal as it came into being. A few moments later, the vessel surged forward and slipped from one dimension of space and time into another.

6

Justin shifted his legs inside the cockpit of his Sabre. After a few hours at ready five, it became increasingly difficult to keep his feet from getting restless. Though he tried to focus on the combat ahead of him, Whatley’s words stung. Over and over, Justin had questioned why he joined the CDF and whether it was honorable to be there because he wanted to improve his life. I know I love my country too. He forced the thoughts out of his mind, remembering the words of a flight-combat instructor who’d once told him that any distraction in battle would prove fatal.

“I wonder why these guys had to come all the way from Earth to invade us,” Feldstein said on the commlink channel reserved for Alpha element.

Mateus answered her. “Who cares? The commies are back. We’ll fight them and send them running back to Earth with their tails between their legs.”

“How do we know they’re communists?” Justin asked, amused.

“Because freedom always triumphs over totalitarian rule.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” Adeoye interjected. “Do you not remember we’re the ones whose ancestors fled their homes in unproven spaceships, endured great hardships, and eventually found a new home after a decade of searching?”

“Yeah, we all read the history books in school.” Mateus chortled. “Still, these guys are no match for the CDF.”

“We don’t know that,” Justin replied. “And no one had better get overconfident. I promise you that’ll get us all killed. Stay focused, watch your six, and remember our training.”

“Yes, sir,” Feldstein said before anyone else could speak. “I wonder how long we have to the engagement.”

“I’d wager the moment we drop out of Lawrence drive, we’ll launch,” Justin replied.

Almost on cue, he felt the carrier transition out of its wormhole and into normal space. Justin had been on enough ships to know the telltale signs of subtle changes in movement—the Zvika Greengold had its own “tell,” a high-pitched whine that went on for a moment as it snapped back into physical reality.

“Red Tails, scramble, scramble, scramble!” Whatley’s voice filled the commlink. “Hostile fighters fifty kilometers away.”

Justin flipped his commlink to the squadron frequency. “Alpha element, launch now!” He reached down and activated the electromagnetic catapult system, which hurled his fighter down the tube and into open space at a respectable velocity. A moment later, his HUD fully initialized and synched its sensor displays with the local tactical network. The Conqueror, labeled as Sierra One, loomed large on the map. Two League frigates maneuvered next to it, firing plasma cannons into the weakened battleship’s shields. Elsewhere on his display, red icons representing enemy fighter and bomber formations blinked into existence. “Alpha, I show a flight of six bombers on a direct intercept with Sierra One. Break and engage.”

The rest of the Red Tails squadron signaled their acknowledgment of his orders through the comms system, and the icon for each pilot turned green. Justin, meanwhile, focused on the rapidly approaching bombers. The idea that they were in a real shooting war hadn’t quite sunk in yet. Part of his mind still acted as if he were in a sim trainer. The missile-lock-on tone sounded, and he pressed the missile-launch button. “Alpha One, fox three.” The anti-fighter active LIDAR-tracking weapon dropped from his internal storage bay, triggered its engine, and flew away, its speed increasing exponentially.

The League bombers scattered, some trying to avoid the incoming missiles and others turning toward Alpha, attempting to engage. Justin’s missile bobbed and weaved through chaff and spoofing decoys before it exploded against the shields of its target. Despite the direct hit, the bomber shrugged off the blow and kept coming.

Justin whipped his fighter around and settled directly behind his target. He held down the trigger for his miniature neutron beams, sending bolt after bolt of deadly blue energy into the shields of the hapless bomber. After eight direct hits, it exploded in a ball of orange-and-blue fire. “Alpha One, splash one.” As he spoke, Justin lined up the next enemy craft, only to see another Sabre slide in and open fire with its energy weapons and dumb-fire rockets. It only took a few seconds for the bomber’s shields to fail.

“Alpha Four, splash one,” Mateus called.

“Where’d you get the idea to use ground-attack rockets like that?” Justin asked. He was quite impressed with her ingenuity.

“These things can’t maneuver to save their lives, sir. I figured if I got close, I could shred them. The crew chief put a ground pod on. It looks like it checks out.”

Justin brought his Sabre behind yet another enemy bomber. “Good thinking, Mateus. Just next time, give me a heads-up, okay?”

“You got it, Lieutenant.”

Justin’s second score of the day exploded as he released the firing trigger on his neutron cannons and took a moment to maintain situational awareness on his HUD. Alpha had eliminated the League’s bomber element, and the two enemy escort vessels continued to engage with missiles and plasma cannons. A neutron beam erupted from the Zvika Greengold and impacted the nearest frigate’s shields. Why isn’t the Conqueror firing? She should make quick work of these ships. The battleship appeared to be disabled.

“Spencer, this is Whatley. Come in. Over.”

“I read you loud and clear, Major,” Justin replied.

“We’re about to launch a flight of bombers to engage the League frigates. I want Alpha to cover them as they approach. Think you can handle that?”

Justin bit back a nasty reply and instead focused on the task at hand. “Yes, sir. I’ll shift my element back toward the Greengold.”

“Good. CAG out.”

A cluster of four new blue icons appeared directly outside of the Greengold’s launch bay. Justin’s Sabre immediately IDed the craft as a flight of four Mauler bombers—Gamma element. He adjusted his flight path to meet up with them as they sped away from the carrier. “Alpha One to Gamma One. We’ll be serving as your escorts to tonight’s dance. Please join up with your partners and prepare to shoot our friends over there until they explode.”

“Mate, leave the jokes to the Aussies, okay? You sound like a bad kiwi over there trying to fake it,” Martin replied.

Laughter filled the commlink channel.

“Yeah, okay, I’ll remember that when you’re getting your arse shot off,” Justin snapped back.

“For the last time, use proper comms-traffic discipline, or I’ll ground you,” Whatley interjected.

“It’s called blowing off steam, mate. You ought to try it sometime before you blow yourself up with all this pent-up angst.”

More chortles sounded through the comms system. Justin couldn’t contain himself and burst out laughing.

“Lieutenant Martin, one more word, and I pull your wings,” Whatley ground out.

“Acknowledged, sir.”

Sliding into formation with the Maulers, Justin checked his HUD. Whatley is such a wet blanket. He had no time to think about his dislike for the CAG, however. Additional groups of red icons appeared on the sensor display, and they rapidly separated from the two frigates. Two elements had two fighters each. Alpha element was so close to the enemy vessels that there was barely enough time to line up before entering missile-lock-on range. As Justin waited for the tone to sound, twin blue neutron beams streaked in front of his cockpit canopy. The light momentarily blinded him, as at close range, it was intense. “Alpha One to all Alpha units. Watch out. The Greengold’s lighting up that frigate.”

At last, the lock-on tone buzzed. Justin immediately pressed the missile-launch button, an instinctive reaction primarily built on muscle memory. The Vulture dropped from his Sabre’s internal-stores bay and accelerated away. A few moments later, it hit home, exploding on the shields of the enemy craft. Justin then sent a barrage of blue neutron-cannon shots toward his foe, tracking the fighter movement for movement. It exploded in a ball of orange flame then was quickly extinguished by the vacuum of the void.

“Hey, Spencer,” Martin said. “There’s two point-defense turrets on the side of this bugger we’re attacking. Think your boys could take some heat off our missiles? I’d much rather they smack the side of that monstrosity than get blown up in space. Follow?”

“Makes sense to me. We’ll try to take out one of them for you,” Justin replied.

“Cheers, mate.”

“How about for every PD gun we take out, you get a round for Alpha?”

“Best suggestion I’ve heard out of you blokes all day. Cheerio.”

Justin clicked the commlink over to his element channel. “Alpha, break and engage, point-defense turrets on Master Two, port side. We’ll take the one closest to our bombers. Tactical sensor network shows its shields are down.”

“Wilco, Alpha One,” Feldstein replied.

As the four fighters pawed the vacuum, hurtling toward the enemy capital ship, Justin took a moment to check the status of his element. Stores were down twenty-five percent, and Mateus had hull damage. I’m going to have to remind her to be cautious. Flying blind at the enemy is a gamble. He pushed the thought down and focused on the gun-lead indicator while switching his active-missile weapon to the dumb-fire-rocket pod. The second the range gauge turned green, he held down the trigger, sending dozens of blue bolts at the turret.

Joined by the rest of Alpha element’s weapons, the fusillade was impressive. LIDAR-tracked missiles, dumb-fire rockets, and hundreds of neutron-cannon shots filled the void, and most struck home. Eventually it was too much, even for the tough armor of the turret. It blew apart into its constituent atoms. “That should even it up, Gamma.”

“Thanks, mates!” Martin replied. “Gamma One, fox one.”

Anti-ship missiles hurtled away from all four Mauler bombers, heading in straight-line trajectories toward the League frigate. The remaining PD emplacement on the vessel fired away, its red energy hammering at the darkness of space. But for all the ferociousness of the light show, it was an empty gesture. All four warheads hit the port side of the ship, and explosions spread outward from the impact site. After a few seconds, a colossal orange-and-blue wall of flame erupted from the frigate, and when it cleared, nothing was left except small debris.

“And another one bites the dust, mates!”

* * *

“Conn, TAO. Master Two destroyed by friendly fast movers,” Bryan called. “All fighter elements continue to engage Master One.”

Tehrani stared at her tactical plot, noting the mass of blue icons as they rapidly shifted position around the remaining League vessel. Not a bad way to start a fight. She glanced at Wright. His face was bathed in blue light from the Zvika Greengold being at condition one. “So far, so good.”

“I feel it prudent to mention something about counting chickens before they hatch.”

“Touché, XO,” Tehrani replied. She shifted her focus toward Singh. “Communications, get me the Conqueror.”

“One moment, ma’am.” Singh turned his head slightly. “Coming through for you now on vidlink, Colonel.”

A human male appeared on the screen above the CO’s chair. He wore the same khaki service uniform the rest of them did, only his had the flag of the United States on the left shoulder. His face was smeared with soot, and blood caked his brown hair. A glance at the area behind him revealed a CIC in shambles—a collapsed overhead, with fire damaged and broken consoles littering the area. “Thanks for the assist,” he began, his voice gravelly. “Brigadier General Rubin at your service.”

“Colonel Tehrani. Pleased to meet you, General.” She flashed a small smile. “We’re maintaining control of the battle space as much as possible, but I wanted to see if you needed anything else to get your ship underway again.”

“Negative. My chief engineer indicates that he needs another ten to fifteen minutes to get the Lawrence drive back online, then we’ll jump into Canaan’s orbital-defense zone for further repairs.”

“We’ll hold them off,” Tehrani replied. “Any chance you can provide fire support from your big guns?” The Conqueror sported six triple-barreled turrets of four-hundred-millimeter magnetic cannons—the largest mounted by any CDF capital ship. Capable of flinging helicar-sized projectiles, they packed a serious punch.

“Sorry, Colonel. Every scrap of power we’ve got is needed for shields and the Lawrence drive.” Rubin gritted his teeth. “Help us get out of here, and I promise that before this battle is over, you’ll get to see what our weapons can do against these Leaguers.”

Leaguers? Heh. That might stick. “I’ll hold you to that, General. Good luck. We’ll hold the line.”

“Godspeed, Colonel. Rubin out.”

I haven’t heard anyone say Godspeed in a while. Tehrani briefly pondered the topic. During the First and Second Saurian Wars, Godspeed had been the rallying cry of the CDF. The word was thousands of years old and traditionally an exhortation for a pleasant journey. It had evolved to mean an appeal to God for help.

An old battle cry came to her. Fight the good fight, no matter the odds. Asking God for help wasn’t a new concept, as she was a Muslim who prayed several times a day to Allah. Though not the five times required of me. Perhaps I’ve been lax in my faith. But she had no time for further rumination as the battle continued.

“Conn, TAO. Master One neutralized… she’s drifting in space and launching escape pods.”

“Communications, send my compliments to Major Whatley and his wing on a job well done.”

Wright leaned in. “Don’t jinx us, skipper. I doubt that’s the last of whatever assets they’re throwing at the Conqueror and, by extension, us.”

“Conn, TAO. Aspect change… inbound wormholes.”

Tehrani’s breath caught in her throat as she waited for the next report. She gave Wright a wry grin. “I’ll remember that next time.”

“League signature confirmed, ma’am,” Bryan said. “One destroyer, one larger vessel classified as a heavy cruiser in tonnage. Designated Master Three and Four, respectively.”

Before Tehrani could issue orders, the League heavy cruiser opened up. Deceptively small visually, it packed a serious punch in both plasma cannons and what appeared to be beam-based energy weapons. Both streaked toward the Conqueror, lighting up its port shields. With no counterfire, the exchange was a decidedly one-sided affair.

“Conn, TAO.” Bryan cranked his head around. “Ma’am, Sierra One doesn’t have anywhere near full shield power. She can’t handle sustained bombardment.”

“Communications, order the next bomber element into space. Redirect all fast movers to Master Three,” Tehrani said. She glanced at Wright. “We’re not designed to go up against capital ships. Any bright ideas?”

“Pray.”

Tehrani didn’t reply as she focused on the tactical plot. Another group of blue icons appeared near the Zvika Greengold, labeled as Epsilon—Mauler medium bombers. Coupled with the remaining three bombers from Gamma element and the Sabre space-superiority fighters from Alpha flight, all eleven craft engaged Master Three as one. The dots resembled an angry cloud of bees, buzzing around a much larger foe. She felt momentary relief as several Javelin anti-ship missiles slammed into the enemy’s deflectors, and they dropped like a stone.

“Conn, Communications. General Rubin reports that their shields are under twenty percent, and the Conqueror is taking further hull damage.”

“TAO, firing point procedures. Target Master Three with our forward neutron beams.”

“Firing solution locked, ma’am.”

“Match bearings, shoot, neutron beams.”

The Zvika Greengold struck at the League heavy cruiser with both its forward beams, and the thin blue spears of energy impacted the enemy shields with a red displacement effect visible through the transparent alloy windows at the front of the bridge. Tehrani glanced at the tactical plot. The result was negligible. Almost immediately, the Leaguer capital vessel switched its target. Dozens of red plasma balls arced through space and connected with the carrier’s shields.

“Conn, TAO… forward shield arc taking increasing strain. Wait, aspect change, Master Three. They’ve launched a squadron of fighters.” Bryan glanced back at the CO and XO chairs. “Direct intercept on our bomber elements, ma’am.”

“Communications, order the air boss to launch the next Sabre element—Beta.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

Wright leaned in and whispered into Tehrani’s ear, “We could put everything in space. Probably end this quickly.”

She shook her head. “I thought about it, but given the time it takes to rearm and refuel, we’d get caught with our pants down if something else happened or we’re needed elsewhere in the Canaan system. No, we have to stick to the minimum amount of assets to win.”

“Got it, skipper.”

While the reasoning made sense, it pained Tehrani to her core that she was asking her pilots to do so much with so little. Better get used to that feeling, if this turns into a war. The next thought through her mind was they were already at war, and she would have to come to grips with it.

* * *

“You got the target-rich environment you were hoping for, Mateus,” Justin said through gritted teeth as he matched maneuvers with a League fighter directly in front of him. The missile-lock-on tone sounded, and he pressed the button to fire a heat-seeking “fire and forget” missile. “Alpha One, fox two.” At the same time, he squeezed the flight-stick-integrated trigger for his miniature neutron beams and repeatedly sent their deadly energy into the aft shields of his target. Between that and the missile, the enemy craft exploded brightly in the darkness of space. “Alpha One, splash one.”

“We’re getting to be pros at this,” Feldstein remarked.

“Hey, mates, I could use some help over here,” Lieutenant Martin cut in. “I’ve got two of these cheeky League buggers on my tail, and they won’t piss off!”

“Alpha Two, with me,” Justin replied. “Hang on, Gamma One. We’re coming.”

“Yeah, trying to, mate.”

Justin glanced at his HUD. The tactical picture was muddled, with dozens of icons overlapping one another. He thought back to the training simulations they’d run through. Always four on four. They were nothing like actual combat. As his Sabre rocketed across space, League plasma balls and Terran Coalition neutron beams crisscrossed the area, their glow eerie and beautiful at the same time.

“Any day this week, mates!”

While Martin’s commlink calls were cheerful and even funny on some level, time was running out. The icon representing his Mauler bomber flashed red, showing it was taking hull damage. Justin toggled his afterburner and cued the commlink. “Alpha Two, push it up. We’ve got to close the range pronto.”

“Wilco, sir.”

The Sabre accelerated, and the g-forces pushed Justin firmly back in his seat to the point that he saw stars. Just as he reached the limit of human endurance, the missile-lock-on tone sounded. Justin throttled back and pressed the launch button. “Alpha One, fox three.” An active LIDAR-guided warhead dropped out of his craft and hurtled off toward the target. He watched as it tracked the enemy movement for movement and finally exploded against the shields of the League fighter.

Before Justin could line up to finish the fighter off with his miniature neutron cannons, another missile streaked in and blew up the target.

“Beta element engaged,” another pilot practically shouted through the commlink.

“Nice shooting,” Justin remarked. He let out a breath as the mental pressure of combat abated momentarily.

A fresh group of four Sabres raced into the fray. League craft dropped like flies as they exploited tactical surprise, as one downside of a quick-turning tail chase was that the pilots involved lost overall situational awareness. While the dust settled, Justin reexamined his HUD, which was mostly clear of hostile fighters and bombers. The Leaguer heavy cruiser continued to fire on both friendly capital ships, as did the destroyer. The enemy frigate, though below fifty percent hull integrity, was still combat-capable and added its weapons to the mix.

“Hey. Mates. Yeah, I’m talking to you over in the short little ugly fighters. How about some cover fire while we engage this cruiser,” Martin said. “Half my bombers have holes in ’em, and these buggers seem to have unlimited energy to shoot at us.”

“Alpha, form up and assist me in covering Gamma and Epsilon elements,” Justin said before he switched the commlink channel back to squadron command. “Martin, we’ll engage their point-defense turrets as much as possible now that you’ve got the cruiser’s shields down.”

“Thanks, mate. Time to finish these wankers off!”

Still smirking, Justin turned his craft toward Master Three. The dark void of space seemed to glow as dozens of the suddenly ubiquitous red plasma balls flashed by his Sabre, but he stayed the course. Juking slightly to make his fighter harder to hit, Justin maintained a laser-like focus on his target—an anti-small-craft point-defense weapon belching death out of its barrel. Space usually isn’t this crowded. Before the previous day, he’d never seen more than a squadron in space at any point in time.

Justin squeezed the trigger on his flight stick, sending dozens of blasts from the miniature neutron cannon on his fighter into the turret. Twisting the stick from side to side, he avoided most of the incoming fire. The missile-lock-on tone buzzed, and he loosed a LIDAR-tracking warhead at the offending turret, while Feldstein and Adeoye added their own neutron cannons and missile fire to the fusillade. At the last possible second, Justin pulled up and hit his afterburner. He was rewarded with the League point defense turret exploding as one of the anti-fighter Vultures hit it.

“Thanks, mates. That opened up a hole in their PD coverage,” Martin said. “We’ve got a special delivery for them to take advantage of it.”

As Justin looped his Sabre around after gaining distance on the heavy cruiser, he was treated to a sight he’d never seen before. The four Maulers, led by Lieutenant Martin, lined up on an attack run toward Master Three. In perfect formation, the bombers loosed one anti-ship Javelin missile each and veered off. With little point-defense fire coming from the League vessel, all four struck home. The heavy cruiser’s shields glowed red, and the HUD showed a twenty percent drop in shield strength.

“Nice shooting, Epsilon.”

“Yeah, that’ll teach those wankers not to mess with us. Care to join us for another pass, Alpha?”

“You got it, Lieutenant.” It seemed as if they might pull it off after all.

“Spencer! Quit hotdogging and pay attention to your HUD.” Whatley’s harsh rebuke came through the commlink loud and clear.

“Sir—”

“Another flight of enemy fighters is inbound. Break and engage.”

“Roger. Wilco,” Justin ground out. “Alpha, form on me.” He adjusted his HUD’s sensor radius outward and realized Whatley was right. As usual. Red icons representing six of the League space-superiority fighters raced toward the friendly bomber formation. How many fighters do they have to fling at us, anyway? Justin deftly adjusted his flight stick, pointing the Sabre in the enemy’s direction.

* * *

“Conn, TAO. Master Three shields have failed on their port quarter.”

Tehrani sucked in a breath. Localized shield failures had resulted in several hull breaches and damage across the Zvika Greengold’s superstructure. The old girl’s hanging in there, regardless. She gripped her chair’s hand rests. “TAO, direct all bombers to Master Three’s port quarter.”

The tactical plot was a jumbled mess. Groups of red and blue icons denoting small craft were layered on top of one another. That led to a loss of situational awareness and made it increasingly difficult to issue orders beyond generic requests to attack a specific target. Blue light from the overhead bathed Tehrani’s monitor as she pondered what to do next. The bridge shook as more plasma-cannon fire from the enemy smacked into them.

“Navigation, come about to heading zero-three-eight, mark positive five. All ahead flank.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

“TAO, firing-point procedures, Master Three, forward neutron beams.”

“Firing solutions set, ma’am.”

Seconds turned into a minute as the carrier adjusted its heading and brought its forward arc into range of the League heavy cruiser’s port quarter. The moment Tehrani saw they’d made it, she grinned fiercely. “TAO, match bearings, shoot, forward neutron beams.”

Bright-blue beams of energy erupted out of the Zvika Greengold, slashing at her foe. The thermal heat of the weapon burned and melted the outer armor of the League vessel. While the display was impressive, the enemy’s armor held. Another wave of red plasma balls raced toward the Greengold, splashing red energy on the already-weak shields.

“Conn, TAO. Aspect change… inbound wormhole.” Bryan’s voice held a note of fear.

Tehrani felt it too. The addition of any more enemy warships would probably tilt the battle out of their reach. “Report, Lieutenant.”

“CDF signature, ma’am.” Bryan exhaled quietly. “CSV Marcus Luttrell on station. Designated as Sierra Two.”

Tehrani felt some of the fear abate. “Communications, send my compliments to Colonel Arrington. TAO, designate Master Three as the priority target for the battle group.” Please, Allah, let the rest of our ships get here soon.

“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Singh replied quickly.

Almost immediately, the Marcus Luttrell turned, and her weapons suite lashed out at the large League cruiser. Magnetic cannon turrets, neutron beams, and missile cells all unleashed their fury at the enemy. While in a head-to-head fight, the destroyer would be outmatched. With the other vessel’s shields down, it evened out.

Faced with three targets, the cruiser split its fire between the Luttrell and the Greengold while seeming to forget the Conqueror existed.

Friendly bombers and fighters added streams of miniature neutron-cannon fire along with antiship missiles. The concentrated effect of the various munitions’ slamming into the heavy cruiser at the same time was pronounced. Pieces of armor blasted off, followed by significant secondary explosions that blew chunks of hull into the depths of the void. Finally, something vital was hit—either a reactor, a warhead magazine, or a shuttle bay—and the League vessel exploded into two-foot pieces.

Spontaneous, wild cheering broke out on the bridge as younger soldiers and a few officers clapped. It only took a few seconds for a grizzled senior chief to yell, “As you were! Maintain proper bridge protocol!”

Tehrani suppressed a smile. I suppose the youngsters have earned it. She turned her attention back to the tactical plot. A frigate and a destroyer remained. They maneuvered about and continued to fire on the Conqueror. They’re persistent, if nothing else.

“Conn, TAO,” Bryan called. “Sierra One is powering up its weapons.”

While the volume of fire from the Zvika Greengold’s small craft and the Marcus Luttrell was impressive, it was nothing compared to what the Conqueror could hurl into the fight. Helicar-sized shells weighing over a thousand kilograms raced out of her magnetic cannons, while half a dozen blue neutron beams raked the enemy warships. The frigate exploded outright under the barrage, barely leaving enough debris to scan. The remaining League destroyer merely suffered its engine housings being sheared off by the powerful Terran Coalition energy weapons. Its running lights dimmed, and the crippled wreck tumbled in space.

“Wow.” Wright let out a short whistle. “That’s some serious firepower.”

Tehrani nodded. “I’ve never seen a battleship fire its primary armament before. Glad they’re on our side.”

“Conn, Communications. I have General Rubin for you, ma’am,” Singh interjected.

“Put him on my monitor, Lieutenant.”

The familiar face of Rubin appeared on the monitor above Tehrani’s head. He wore a fierce warrior’s grin. “Colonel, please pass on my gratitude to your pilots and crew. We wouldn’t have survived without their courage and sacrifice.”

Two pilots lost to save a battleship. Briefly, Tehrani considered the cost. Logically, losing two souls to save thousands was a win. But it was still two families who wouldn’t see their loved ones again. She’d never had to write a letter of condolence to someone who died under her command. That makes three in the last twenty-four hours, and Allah only knows how many more. While sadness crept into her mind, she pushed all emotion down. There will be time to grieve after the battle. “Thank you, General. Likewise, your ship ended the battle with an exclamation point. I’m in your debt.”

Rubin shook his head. “Just wait till we get the Conqueror fully operational again.” He narrowed his eyes. “She’ll blast every League warship between here and Canaan to bits.” Something off screen distracted him for a moment, then he turned back to the camera. “Our Lawrence drive is charged. Good hunting and Godspeed, Colonel. Rubin out.”

The screen went black, and a few moments later, the massive battleship opened a wormhole through the stars. The physical manifestation of the tunnel was a kaleidoscope of colors, seeming to erupt from space. As the event horizon opened, the Conqueror engaged her sublight engines and glided through. In the space of just a few seconds, the vessel disappeared from normal space with no trace of its existence remaining.

“Conn, TAO. All hostile fighters are down. No enemy contacts remain.” Bryan turned around in his chair, grinning from ear to ear. “Shall I order search and rescue deployed, ma’am?”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Lieutenant,” Tehrani replied. “Deploy S and R, but maintain combat space patrol.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

“XO, compile a complete damage report in the next ten minutes,” Tehrani said as she stared out of the windows.

“You’ll have it in five,” Wright replied, glancing up from his tablet. “Mercifully light.”

Tehrani pursed her lips and tried to calm her brain, which seemed to be running at a few thousand kilometers per hour. She reflected on their performance. The Zvika Greengold had been named after an Israeli soldier from twentieth-century Earth. He’d taken on an entire enemy armored division with a single tank—and won. God must’ve stood with him. As He did with us today. It crossed her mind that she’d better honor the adhan—the call to prayer—this day, above all days. The thought passed as damage reports came in, and the business of running the ship continued.

About an hour later, Bryan interrupted her mental reverie. “Conn, TAO. Aspect change… inbound wormholes, ma’am.” He paused for a moment. “CDF signature. It’s the rest of our escorts. Two Argyle-class frigates designated Sierra Three and Four.” The CSV Glasgow and the CSV Sheffield rounded out their battlegroup. Mostly geared toward point defense, Argyle-class frigates carried missile cells and neutron beam emitters but lacked magnetic cannon turrets.

“Is search and rescue done yet, Lieutenant?” Tehrani asked.

“Yes, ma’am. They’re pulling back now,” Bryan replied.

“Pull in our bombers and all but four fighters for CSP. I want everything we’ve got ready to get back into space as soon as possible.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Wright said as he went back to work.

Through the windows, Tehrani watched as the dozen small craft they had in space came in for landings on the flight deck. The sight always inspired and awed her. She waited for what the day had in store for them next.

7

The flight deck seemed to rush to meet the landing gear of Justin’s Sabre as he brought the craft into the expansive hangar. He settled directly on top of the massive CVE-73 stenciled into the flight deck, one perk associated with commanding the lead element in the Red Tails. Probably the only one. After toggling off the engines, flatlining his craft’s miniature fusion reactor, and triple-checking the safeties on the remaining weapons in his fighter’s munitions bay, Justin popped the cockpit canopy.

An automated ladder rolled up and locked itself onto the canopy lip, and Justin climbed down quickly.

“More hull damage, I see,” a crew chief wearing a brown helmet called as she walked over. “Would you quit getting my planes shot up, Lieutenant?”

“Hey, tell that to the bad guys. They won’t leave me alone,” Justin replied with a snicker.

“How many did you bag this time?”

“Several. A few were assists.” He shrugged. “I’m not really keeping score.”

“Why not? You need to paint kill marks on your fuselage. Ace status is well-earned and something to be proud of.”

Justin shrugged. “Just doing my job.”

A commotion across the flight deck interrupted the conversation. Whatley’s voice carried as he stood screaming at a man who also had a brown helmet. “Senior Chief, I don’t care what your excuse is. I want these birds refueled, rearmed, and ready for combat in one hour. Do you get me?”

The older man stood stoically with his arms crossed. “Major, there’s what you want, then there’s reality. We’re on a training cruise. Most of my flight-operations personnel are brand new. We’re going as fast as we can.”

“Then get the rest of your crew complement in here and double up on maintenance operations!” Whatley thundered.

Groups of pilots and enlisted personnel stopped to watch the spectacle. Getting to see a senior NCO and the air group commander rip each other a new one in public wasn’t an everyday occurrence.

“They’ll fall over each other trying to move equipment, Major. The last thing we want is someone to drop a live warhead on the deck.”

“Stop. Making. Excuses. Get the off-duty personnel up here and get to work.” When the NCO didn’t move, he bellowed, “That’s an order!”

Justin stared in amazement at the display from Whatley. I suppose he’s an equal-opportunity ass kicker. Practically everyone on the flight deck had dropped whatever task they were doing.

“Yes, sir,” the senior chief ground out before turning on his heel and walking off.

“What the hell are you staring at, Spencer?” Whatley shouted as Justin entered his line of sight. “Don’t just stand there. Get your ass in gear and make ready to fly again!”

Without thinking, Justin snapped off a jaunty salute. “Anything you say, sir!”

“Oh, hell no.” Whatley tore across the flight deck like a man possessed. “Drop down and give me twenty-five pushups, Lieutenant.”

“This isn’t boot camp, sir.” Justin crossed his arms in front of his chest. Anger surged through him as he gritted his teeth. I’m through taking guff off this guy.

“Get down on my deck and give me twenty-five pushups, or I’ll have you confined to the brig, dobber.”

Justin bristled at the use of the derogatory term. Wow, this guy has some gall. I’ve probably got the highest kill count in the entire CDF right now. For a second or two, he thought about punching Whatley in the jaw. But he brought that emotion quickly under control and dropped to the alloy deck. “One, two, three, four,” he called. “I love the Coalition Defense Force!” The cadence from boot camp was an old memory. After twenty-five pushups that got progressively more painful, he stood.

“Well, look at that. Dobber still remembers basic PT. Now, get cleaned up and return to your ready room. That goes for everyone here! Move it!” Whatley screamed.

As Justin made his way off the flight deck, Feldstein came up behind him. “You don’t have to take that crap from him,” she whispered. “Put in a report with Major Wright.”

“No. I won’t be that guy. Whatley thinks I can’t cut it, fine. I’ll show him I can.”

Feldstein nodded. “I respect that, but if it gets out of hand…”

“If it gets out of hand, I’ll challenge him to a one-on-one and kick his ass in a simulator.”

“I’ll pay real credits to see that,” Feldstein replied. She squeezed Justin’s shoulder. “How about some food? I’m famished.”

“Deal. Shower first, though. I think my suit’s cooling unit gave out. I sweated out practically my entire water supply during the last thirty minutes in space.”

“Roger that, sir. See you in a few.”

Justin stalked off, trying to clear the jumble of emotions in his head. Surprised he was still alive on the one hand and pissed off that his commanding officer couldn’t accept that he was doing his best on the other, he forced himself to calm down. Calm, cool, and collected, Dad always said. He was convinced it was the only thing that would see him through the next battle.

* * *

Presidential Center

Canaan

28 September 2433

The Presidential Center, home of the executive branch of government for the Terran Coalition and known commonly as the White House, was a beehive of activity. Only twenty-four hours earlier, President Jason Nolan had been a year into his first term in office, dealing with seemingly mundane tasks like sorting through the domestic budget while fighting with the Senate and Assembly. He felt like he’d aged ten years in those twenty-four hours. They all say the job ages you. How true it is.

Six hours ago, the League of Sol fleet had entered Canaan system proper. No response to any of our communication attempts. Random attacks throughout the solar system. Nolan was still numb, trying to process a sneak attack from Earth. I would never have thought other humans would be the greatest threat the Terran Coalition had ever seen.

Every hour, another briefing from the military came. He steeled himself as a member of his protective-service detail pushed the door open to the state-of-the-art command-and-control bunker at the base of the building, fifteen floors down.

“Mr. President, welcome, sir,” Abdul Karimi called. An older man, he had streaks of gray hair, at least where his scalp wasn’t bald. Dressed in a sharp gray suit, Karimi was Nolan’s handpicked Chief of Staff. They had known each other for decades.

Everyone in uniform stopped what they were doing and came to attention, while the civilians stood respectfully.

“Please, return to your duties,” Nolan said. He took a few steps and dropped into his seat at the head of the conference table, which was surrounded by holoprojectors and gigantic screens. “Any major updates?”

“We’ve got General Irvine ready to join, sir. She has some insights on the enemy’s tactical operations,” Karimi answered. He gestured at a corporal who was manning a computer station.

A few moments later, a screen came to life with a vidlink, which was clearly being transmitted from a CDF capital ship. An expansive bridge and a CIC area were in full view, but in the center of the screen was General Gabrielle Irvine. She wore a khaki service uniform with an array of campaign ribbons, and the four stars of her rank insignia denoted her as a top-ranking general. “Mr. President,” she began as the camera captured her glancing between different people with her piercing green eyes. “I have a brief update, sir.”

“By all means, General.” We pin our hopes on whatever genius strategy this woman can bring forth. He was thankful that Irvine’s strategic acumen was revered. She’d been the architect of several anti-piracy campaigns and stared down the Jalm’tar Confederation during several cross-border raids.

“Mostly, the League forces haven’t engaged. They’re sitting there.”

Nolan furrowed his brow. “I’m not a military man, General… but that seems odd, doesn’t it?”

“It’s not what I’d be doing. That’s for sure, sir.” Irvine cleared her throat. “But whatever the reason, it’s giving us time to get our reserve fleet in formation, and every hour we get is one more for our nation-state militaries to arrive.”

As it was a supranational entity, the Terran Coalition’s constituent planets had their own military forces for self-defense. After decades of peace, many of the large nations, including the United States and Great Britain, had retaken control of their vessels a little over eight years prior. It seemed to Nolan that the decision had been in error. Hindsight—always twenty-twenty.

“I’m assured that everything, aside from token forces for home defense, is on its way to Canaan.” He paused for a moment, thinking over what she’d said. “I take it from your turn of phrase that there has been combat in Canaan system proper?”

“Yes, Mr. President. Small actions. They’ve hit a couple of fuel refineries in orbit around our gas giant. I would categorize those attacks as probes. They’re attempting to gain information on our capabilities while inflicting damage.”

“Are we responding?”

“Only if it’s critical infrastructure. The fleet can’t afford to be caught out of position or take losses. As it was, the CSV Conqueror was almost destroyed an hour ago. Luckily for us, a reserve escort carrier—the Zvika Greengold—responded in time, and she escaped.”

Nolan put his hands on the table and stared into Irvine’s eyes—as much as he could through a screen. “General, in your professional opinion, what are our chances?”

“Are you a religious man, Mr. President?”

“I am.”

“Then I’d pray hard to God. Because we will do our best, and I believe wholeheartedly that every man and woman in the CDF will do their duty and then some. But we need those reinforcements. Period.”

In other words: not good. Nolan nodded. “Thank you, General. Is there anything else we can do for you right now?”

“No, sir.”

“I won’t keep you, then.”

“Thank you, sir. Godspeed, sir.” Irvine stood from her chair and saluted.

“Good luck, General.”

The screen went black as the connection was severed.

Karimi said, “Sir, I still recommend we get you to a safe location.”

“We’re asking nearly every soldier in the Terran Coalition to come here and put their lives on the line to defend Canaan,” Nolan began quietly. “I will not be the coward that cuts and runs. Are we clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have we completed the militia call-up?” Nolan rubbed his right eye. “If the fleet fails, that will be our last line of defense.”

“The last time I checked with the Department of Home World Defense, every available member was mustering along with police and first-responder units planetwide,” Karimi replied. “There’s not much else to do now except wait for the inevitable attack. Unless those reinforcements arrive first… General Irvine plans to attack if that occurs.”

Nolan stood. “All right. I’ll be in the Oval. See you in fifty minutes.”

Karimi sprang to his feet along with the rest of those in the bunker. “Yes, sir.”

* * *

A tradition since the naval sailing ships of ancient times was for the commanding officer of a vessel to have quarters near the bridge. CDF warships were no different—with a small day cabin comprising a part-time office directly aft of the command center and a pull-out rack for sleeping. While Tehrani had an expansive suite assigned to her in officers’ country, she’d spent every waking and sleeping moment in the last twenty-four hours either in the CO’s chair or in her day cabin.

The hatch chime sounded.

“Come in,” Tehrani called.

Wright appeared as the hatch swung open. Major Whatley was close behind him. Both men came in and braced to attention.

“Major Wright reports as ordered, ma’am.”

“As you were, gentlemen. Please have a seat.” She gestured to the two chairs in front of her desk and a small plate of sandwiches on it. “I thought we could use some quick refreshments while we discuss operational readiness.”

Both men sat, and Wright cleared his throat. “Thank you, skipper. Can’t remember the last time I ate.” He grabbed a sandwich and bit into it with gusto.

Whatley shook his head. “I had a ration bar, ma’am. I’ve found over the years that trying to fly a space-superiority fighter on a full stomach isn’t a good idea.” He cracked a smile. “Especially since I threw up in my helmet once during a training run. That’s a lesson one never forgets.”

“How are our repairs coming?” Tehrani asked.

“Shield generators are back to one hundred percent. Flight-operation control is still reporting some issues with one catapult, but all in all, we’re in fighting shape. Engineering teams set up portable structural-reinforcement generators in areas with hull damage… but the old girl’s going to need yard time once this is over.”

“The bigger problem is pilot fatigue and inexperience in our flight crews at generating sorties.” Whatley crossed his arms. “It’s been a long time since the Coalition Defense Force fought an actual war. Well, that’s coming back to bite us. These kids are used to refueling and rearming the small craft once in a day, maybe twice on a grueling training mission. Operational tempo now? I wouldn’t be surprised if we end up needing every fighter on the Greengold to run four sorties a day.”

The concern raised by Whatley dovetailed into her fears regarding the Zvika Greengold’s readiness. We’ll push the raw youngsters, but we all have to be careful not to push them so hard that they fail. She set her jaw. “Options, CAG?”

“We push our crew as far as possible without breaking them.” Whatley smirked. “Nothing like some on-the-job training. I already tuned up the senior crew chiefs. I told them I want every bird on this ship ready to fly within two hours.” He glanced at Wright. “If they can do it in four, I’ll be happy.”

Both Wright and Tehrani laughed.

“I’m glad I’m not in your space aviation division, Major,” Wright said between chuckles. His expression turned serious. “What about pilot fatigue? I’d think sending out tired men and women when lightning-fast reflexes are needed would cause… shall we say, additional casualties?”

“True pilots feed off the energy of flying through the vacuum and searching for targets,” Whatley said matter-of-factly. “Anyone who doesn’t shouldn’t be in the cockpit.”

Tehrani’s eyes flicked to Whatley. “That’s harsh, Major.”

He shrugged. “Perhaps. But true, ma’am. My point is that we’re going to suffer losses. This is war. You should get ready for it.”

For a moment, Tehrani considered arguing with him, but she decided against it. She saw little point in stoking a debate in which they disagreed on the eve of what would bring more battles. So she nodded instead. “I remain hopeful that there will be a diplomatic solution to this once the CDF prevails in its defense of Canaan.” Her eyes went down to her desk. “But I realize that’s unlikely. Far more likely that we’ll be engaged in a multiyear conflict, not unlike the last Saurian War.”

“Is there anything the doctor can do for keeping pilots awake?” Wright asked.

“No stims,” Whatley immediately countered, his voice slightly raised. “I will not have my people amped up on stims and zoned out of their minds. Clear?”

Wright raised his palms. “No offense meant, CAG.”

“Sorry, XO. I’ve seen too many pilots die because they were on something they shouldn’t have been. The human body needs its rest, and we must stagger our rotation schedules. If the conflict sustains, once we bring more pilots aboard, that’ll solve the problem. Until then, we have to make do.”

“Which means we continue to use the least force possible.” Tehrani frowned. She hated not sending overwhelming force. “I’d like to remind you both of Lancaster’s Law.”

Both men stared at her quizzically.

“I don’t follow, ma’am,” Wright said finally.

“Boiled down, the stronger the friendly force when compared to the enemy, the fewer losses taken. Allowing the League nearly equal numbers engagements flies in the face of military theory and strategy.”

“Perhaps, but it allows us to continue to fight,” Whatley replied. “I don’t like it any more than you do, Colonel. Maybe once our deck crews learn how to generate sorties quicker, we can dispense with these tactics.”

Tehrani inclined her head. “I hope so, CAG.”

“We should talk stores and consumable munitions. Anti-ship and anti-fighter missiles, especially the LIDAR-tracking variety, are running low.”

As Whatley spoke, Tehrani felt as if his eyes were boring into her. The CAG’s gaze was so piercing that she glanced away for a moment. That man only has one setting: intense. “XO, put in a request for resupply… but, Major, I wouldn’t expect to see it before our next battle. Try to conserve any way possible.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Whatley crossed his arms. He apparently didn’t like her answer.

Before anyone could speak further, the intercom went off. “Colonel, I’ve got flash traffic for you,” came the voice of Lieutenant Singh. “Straight from General Irvine.”

“Put it through to my monitor.”

A moment later, a text message appeared on her tablet device. Tehrani skimmed it, and her jaw dropped. “Gentlemen, I’m afraid we’ll have to continue this later. We just received orders to intercept a League squadron attacking Canaan’s primary shipyard installation at the moon Goshen.”

Whatley let out a sigh as he stood. “Any reinforcements?”

“No. Just our battlegroup.”

“God help us all.”

Tehrani couldn’t disagree with that sentiment. While she wanted to make the trip down to the ship’s chapel to pray, instead, she stood and led the way back to the bridge. A portion of her still struggled with the situation. Thoughts of missing her husband coupled with fear for her extended family raced through her mind. Still, duty was duty. My job as a soldier is to protect the Terran Coalition. If I do my job as well as everyone else, we’ll all be fine. The idea kept her going.

* * *

“Would you pass the salt?”

Justin opened his eyes to see Feldstein gazing at him. Alpha element had gone as a group to the nearest officers’ mess for some food while the hangar teams refueled and rearmed their craft. He shook his head as if that would clear the exhaustion in every facet of his being. “Uh, sure.” He closed his hand around the shaker and passed it to her.

“Are you okay?” Mateus asked. She set her fork down. “Kind of looked like you were a million light-years away, Lieutenant.”

Everything within Justin wanted to scream. No, I’m not okay! The concept of fighting a real shooting war was something he still couldn’t wrap his brain around. Service for him was a vehicle to a better life. But that’s the deal I made. Guilt clawed at the recesses of his mind. But that doesn’t mean I’m not good at this and not doing my duty. He forced the emotion down, covering it instead with what he hoped passed for a calm, cool, and collected expression. “Yeah. Just tired.” He chuckled. “How many flight hours have we logged in the last two days?”

“Enough to keep our certifications up for the next two years,” Adeoye deadpanned. “This should mean we don’t have to do our two weeks next year.”

The four of them laughed.

“I think you qualified as a double ace,” Mateus continued, a hint of deviousness in her voice. “Keep this up, and they’ll make you go active duty and teach cadets how to fly.”

“I don’t think we’re going home anytime soon.” Justin’s plate contained the remnants of a Salisbury steak along with a serving of mashed potatoes and green beans. He took a bite of the nearly cold potatoes. “I mean, let’s get real.”

Feldstein dumped salt onto her Salisbury steak. “I haven’t been able to reach Robert.”

Mateus tilted her head quizzically. “You said you were divorcing him when we trained together last year.”

“We got counseling instead.”

“Ah.” Mateus smirked. “I’m too passionate to be tied down to a man right now. I want to see the galaxy first. Then maybe settle down.” She took a sip of water. “Maybe. I’ve never felt more alive than I do when we’re out there flying our fighters and riding the tip of the spear into the throat of the enemy.”

“Are you sure you passed the psych evals required to join the CDF?” Justin asked. His lips curled up in a smile despite his attempt to deliver the barb entirely straight-faced.

“Ha-ha.” Her eyes narrowed. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“At least she’s on our side,” Adeoye interjected.

“Any idea what’s next, sir?” Feldstein asked. “I heard some scuttlebutt that we’d join the main fleet shortly.”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Justin said as he shrugged, then he put his hands on either side of his face and rubbed it, letting out a yawn. “I’d do just about anything for a few hours of sleep.”

“We sleep when we’re dead,” Mateus replied. “Did you guys catch President Nolan’s speech?”

“All I heard was blah blah blah, defeat the League of Sol, blah blah blah.” Feldstein took another bite of her food. “I didn’t vote for him, before anyone asks.”

“No politics,” Justin warned. “Not now.”

The four of them exchanged glances.

Adeoye set his fork down. “Politics will be set aside. I am confident of this,” he stated. “This event will be the defining moment of our lives. We’ll all remember how the four of us rose to the occasion.”

Justin couldn’t argue with that. He briefly ruminated on the idea that every generation seemed to have something that set it apart from the others—the Saurian Wars, the Exodus from Earth, and the Diaspora, in which the various nation-states had set out to colonize their own planets in the local sector. This is our challenge. My challenge. “Agreed.” He took a sip of his iced tea. “You should all get as much rest as possible. God only knows when we’ll be going back out to fight.”

Feldstein set her fork down on the table and the napkin in her lap. “I’m going to head down to the shul.” The Zvika Greengold had several worship areas, including a Jewish shul, a Christian church, and a mosque for the Muslims aboard.

“Why?” Mateus asked.

“To pray.”

“Ah.”

“It seems like a good time to ask God for help.” Feldstein shrugged. “I’ll confess I’m usually lax about going to the shul. But…”

“You don’t have to explain yourself,” Justin interjected. “Can’t hurt.” He flashed a grin. “I’m going to head back to my stateroom and lie down. Hoping to get an hour of shuteye.”

As they all stood, the alarm klaxon sounded, and a voice boomed through the ship’s intercom. “Attention all hands. This is Colonel Tehrani. General quarters! General quarters! Man your battle stations. This is not a drill. I say again, man your battle stations. This is not a drill.”

“So much for the best-laid plans.” Mateus wiggled her eyebrows. “I suppose we’ll be heading down to the ready room now?”

Justin closed his eyes briefly and forced himself to focus. “Yup. Let’s go get suited up.”

“No rest for the weary,” Adeoye said.

The group walked out and made its way down the passageways of the Zvika Greengold. All the while, Justin thought about the last twenty-four hours, including the loss of three of their people and the enemy craft he’d destroyed. And those I’ve killed. There was no escaping it. He longed to hear his wife’s voice and see his daughter. He took solace in hoping that if he survived, he would see them after the battle.

8

Justin and his pilots donned their flight suits in record time—less than five minutes for the entire group to get their softsuits on and complete a pressure check with helmets attached. In the event of decompression, the suit kept its wearer alive until rescue and had a built-in homing beacon to aid recovery.

When they strode into the Red Tails squadron ready room, Major Whatley was waiting. The group stood at attention as one.

“As you were,” Whatley said in his gravelly voice. “I’ll make this brief.” He touched a button on the controller tablet, and the holoprojector morphed into an image of a large shipyard complex. “Our communist-bastard friends are attacking an installation that has twenty percent of our drydock space. We have one objective: stop them at any cost.”

“Sir, do we have projections for what we’ll be facing?” Justin asked.

Whatley turned and glowered at him. “Multiple destroyers with a space-superiority fighter escort. We should expect more. Capital ships, bombers… you name it. This is a priority target for them.”

“If it’s such a priority target, why not send a fleet?” Feldstein asked from one row behind Justin. “It seems silly to send in just a few destroyers.”

“Would you like me to contact the League fleet commander and ask him for you, Lieutenant?” Whatley asked mockingly. “Maybe I could get him on a vidlink so you could talk to him. How about that?”

Feldstein turned bright red. “I’m sorry sir. It just makes little sense—”

“Lieutenant, it doesn’t matter whether the enemy makes sense to us or not. They simply are. We don’t ask why. We show up and kill them. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Feldstein replied crisply.

“Good. Moving on. A flight of four Mauler bombers will launch with you—Epsilon element. Alpha will engage targets of opportunity, provide close escort, and eradicate the enemy presence. Questions?”

“When do we launch?” Justin asked.

“The Greengold is spinning up her Lawrence drive now. You launch the moment we clear the wormhole. Man your craft!”

Pilots sprang up from their chairs and headed quickly toward the exit. Justin, however, stayed behind. He marched up to Whatley. “Major, permission to speak freely.”

“Oh, this oughta be good. Did I offend you, Spencer? Care for a hurt-feelings form to fill out?” Whatley’s lips curled into a smirk.

Justin’s heart beat faster, and his face grew warm. He’s just pushing my buttons. Determined not to give the man the pleasure of an emotional response, Justin set his jaw instead. “Major, with all due respect, I am the commanding officer of Alpha element and the Red Tails squadron. You will not discipline one of my pilots outside of the chain of command or shame them publicly. If you have an issue with one of my pilots, it goes through me.” He gulped. “Sir.”

Silence descended across the ready room. Whatley stared at him, his brow furrowed as if he were deep in thought or perhaps surprise. “That sounded suspiciously like the beginnings of a backbone, Lieutenant.” He pursed his lips. “Okay. Done, dobber. I’ll just come down on you twice as hard.”

“If you’ll excuse me, sir, I have a war to fight.” Justin turned on his heel and marched off. That felt good. Really good.

Whatley gave no response, for once.

* * *

For the third time in a day, blue light bathed the bridge of the Zvika Greengold. A dozen additional enlisted personnel stood watch. Battle stations were manned and ready across the vessel.

Tehrani was adjusting to the new normal of combat every few hours. While she still felt a rush of adrenaline, it wasn’t the same as it had been the last time. Am I getting used to it? She briefly recalled taking part in the Valiant Shield exercises, but they didn’t hold a candle to the real thing.

The other major difference was that simulated losses in a fleet exercise held no emotional weight. Everyone went home to their families, and the absence of friends and colleagues in the mess wasn’t an ever-present reminder of the cost of war. How does one get used to that?

“All systems ready, ma’am,” Wright said. “Damage-control parties standing by, and our fighters are ready to launch.”

“Good,” Tehrani replied as she nodded. “Give us another week. We’ll be veterans.”

Wright snorted. “If we’re still alive.”

“Touché.”

“Conn, Navigation. Lawrence drive charge completed,” Mitzner called. “Ready to jump at your command.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Tehrani said. “TAO, weapons and shields status?”

“Shields fully charged. Energy-weapons capacitor at one hundred percent, ma’am,” Bryan replied.

Once more unto the breach. “Communications, order the battle group to follow us in.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

Tehrani stared at her tactical plot. It’s time to go. “Navigation, activate Lawrence drive, all ahead full.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

Space erupted in a spectacular display of colors as a vortex formed in front of the ship. The Greengold slid through. The view changed briefly to the inside of the wormhole, directly followed by the blackness of space—albeit with a new set of stars visible.

“Conn, TAO. Sensors online… showing three League of Sol destroyers, designated Master One, Two, and Three.” Bryan turned around. “Master One and Three are pretty banged up. It appears as if they took damage from automated defenses.”

“Prioritize those ships for our fast movers,” Tehrani replied. “Launch ready fighters and bombers.”

“All ready craft launching now, ma’am,” Wright said. “I show four Sabres and four Maulers in space and forming up.”

“TAO, firing point procedures,” Tehrani began, not missing a beat. “Master Three, forward neutron beams.”

“Firing solutions set, ma’am.”

“Match bearings, shoot, forward neutron beams.”

* * *

Justin was filled with wonder and amazement as his Sabre rocketed out of the Greengold’s hangar bay, pawing the vacuum. It was difficult not to be. Bright-blue beams erupted from the carrier’s bow and slammed into the shields of one of the enemy destroyers. Red energy radiated around the strike. If he weren’t in the middle of a fight for his life and the continued existence of the Terran Coalition, it might’ve been a beautiful display.

“Alpha One, I’m showing a bunch of debris out here,” Feldstein said. “Guessing it’s what’s left of the defense emplacements.”

That deep inside of Canaan’s system-defense grid, there would be point-defense and anti-ship batteries, but most of the protection would come from other ships. At least that was what Justin remembered reading. “In other words, we’re on our own?”

“Exactly, sir.”

A group of four enemy fighters lit up on Justin’s HUD. They headed directly for the Epsilon bomber formation. “Alpha, break and attack inbound enemies. Weapons-free status. I say again, weapons-free status. Splash ’em.”

“Well, what else did you expect us to do?” Mateus asked in a goofy voice. “Shake hands and offer them a bowl of feijoada?”

Feldstein laughed. “It might give them indigestion.”

As they bantered back and forth, Justin watched the range to target close rapidly. He lined up with the lead fighter and waited for the missile-lock-on tone. Checking his weapon stores, he was happy to see that besides the normal Vulture LIDAR-active-tracking antifighter missiles, he had a pod of dumb-fire rockets. Those will come in handy if League bombers appear. Heh, when they appear. A harsh buzzing filled the cockpit. Justin depressed the missile-launch button. “Alpha One, fox three.”

The weapon dropped smoothly out of the internal weapons bay, ignited its engine, and sped away rapidly. A moment later, a blue icon appeared on Justin’s HUD, representing the Vulture. He lined up the targeting reticule for his miniature neutron cannons and squeezed the firing trigger the second he was in range.

Between the missile and numerous streaks of blue neutron energy, the target exploded in short order. The orange blast quickly ended, as the available oxygen supply from the fighter’s life-support system was consumed almost immediately.

But the remaining League craft weren’t sitting ducks. They gamely returned fire from their plasma cannons while sending anti-fighter warheads from their internal weapons stores into the fray.

Justin’s HUD came alive with competing alerts, missile icons, and threat indicators. Like every other encounter so far, the engagement quickly degenerated into a quick-turning dogfight, with him chasing enemies’ aft sections to score another kill—with the added challenge of avoiding death himself. “Alpha One, splash one. Engaged with hostile fighters.” He rocked the flight stick to the left, avoiding a stream of plasma balls as they sailed past his craft. “Epsilon, you’re clear for an attack run.”

“Right, mate, we’re on it. Going after Master Three. Keep those buggers off us, Alpha,” Martin said. “Extra beer for all of you if my old girl doesn’t get shot up again.”

“You’re on, Martin.” Justin laughed softly. Even in the heat of battle, the colorful pilot brought a smile to Justin’s face. He sent another volley of neutron energy at a League fighter, which dodged most of the incoming fire. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mateus eradicate another enemy.

“Alpha Four, splash one.”

Taking advantage of the momentary lull in fighter combat, the four Mauler bombers lined up for their attack runs. Martin took the lead, and two anti-ship missiles streaked away from his craft. The others followed in short order, leaving a total of eight fusion warheads headed for the League destroyer. Following them in, the bombers added streams of miniature neutron-cannon energy to the mix, causing red impact effects all over the shields of the enemy vessel.

A Lawrence-drive-generated wormhole opened within a few kilometers of Jason’s craft. It took a few seconds for the onboard combat computer to classify its IFF as the CSV Marcus Luttrell. Justin breathed a sigh of relief as the friendly destroyer opened up with all its might, sending neutron beams and magnetic-cannon rounds into Master Three. The Leaguer ship took a beating, and eventually, its protective screens blinked out. Instead of red shield effects, minor explosions blossomed across its armor plating and hull.

“Right on, mates. That’s how you do it!” Martin exclaimed. “Can you do something about the bloody wanker trying to lock me up, Alpha? I’d much rather stick a Javelin up this commie’s tailpipe than have to veer off to avoid another missile heading for my old girl.”

Justin had to stare at the HUD and its augmented-reality display for several seconds before he picked out the offending fighter Martin was talking about. Once he located it, Justin tagged the target as his primary and engaged full afterburner. The Sabre rocketed forward, quickly reaching maximum thrust. He allowed the g-forces to build to an almost unbearable level, mentally calculating the time to intercept. Come on. Come on. The Greengold couldn’t handle an extended capital-ship engagement, and the bombers needed time to lock on properly and fire their large, poorly maneuvering anti-ship missiles. But the League pilot seemed to have an almost myopic focus on Martin’s craft and didn’t react to his approach.

The missile-lock-on tone sounded, and Justin pressed the launch button. An active LIDAR-tracking warhead dropped out of the internal stores bay. A moment later, its engine engaged, and it rocketed away. “Alpha One, fox three!” he called.

As his fighter entered energy-weapons range, Justin lined up as best as he could and held down the firing trigger. Streaks of blue energy erupted from his craft and zoomed through the void. Several hit, followed closely by the missile. The enemy craft exploded in bright-orange flame. “Alpha One, splash one. You’re clear, Epsilon leader.”

“Thanks, mate. Now, enjoy the show.”

Four Javelin missiles blasted away from the flight of Mauler bombers. With no fighter cover remaining, all the enemy vessel had for protection was its point-defense emplacements, and they weren’t up to the task. Three out of the four warheads impacted the hull of the League destroyer, turning the armor molten and exposing the innards of the ship to the vacuum of space. A few seconds later, secondary explosions erupted from the stricken vessel. It blew up before Justin’s eyes, reduced to one-meter chunks that posed no threat except to an unshielded shuttle. It didn’t quite register mentally that besides erasing the ship, hundreds of souls had been erased from the universe at the same time.

“Pleasure doing business with ya, buggers,” Martin said.

It took Justin a moment to realize Martin was transmitting on the guard frequency.

“Now, how about you bugger off, or we’ll do the same thing to your other ships here, yeah?”

To Justin’s immense surprise, someone with a Russian accent spoke, also on the guard frequency. “You capitalist pigs will die. League conquers all, and death of comrades only inspires us further!”

“What are you? Off your face, mate?”

“My face is on, capitalist dog!”

By that point, every CDF pilot in space was snickering at the exchange. Justin could barely contain his laughter as he aimed his Sabre toward the next group of enemy fighters. “These guys fly about as well as they speak English,” he said.

“All right, wanker. We’ll see you off presently,” Martin replied. “Tally ho, boys. Giant target at one o’clock!”

Still laughing, Justin down-selected to the lead fighter of the next group of bandits headed toward the Mauler flight. He patiently waited for the distance to close enough for a solid missile lock while Martin continued his comedic activities. Justin felt glad for the brash pilot—the running stream of jokes allowed him to forget for a moment that they were in a life-or-death battle.

9

Long shadows ran across the bridge. The area was bathed in dim blue lights as the Zvika Greengold maintained condition one. Tehrani monitored the battle from her tactical plot, noting with satisfaction that Alpha element had cleared a path for the bombers once again. Icons representing anti-ship missiles blossomed from each Mauler and raced into the side of a League destroyer right as the Marcus Luttrell opened fire with magnetic cannons and neutron beams.

“Conn, TAO. Master One neutralized,” Bryan said. “Its engine pods sheared off during the attack run by Sierra One. I’m detecting escape pods launching.”

“Communications, send my compliments to Colonel Arrington,” Tehrani began. Two down, one to go. Shocked by their performance so far, she marveled at how they were dispatching the enemy vessels with ease.

“Don’t count your chickens before they hatch,” Wright intoned.

Tehrani turned toward him. “Get out of my head,” she replied with a grin. “I just thought this was a bit too easy.”

“Yeah, I’m not jinxing us. We can save that for the after-party.”

“Party?”

Wright raised an eyebrow. “Ma’am, when this series of battles is over, this ship’s gonna rock like you’ve never seen. You might want to take shore leave.”

“I can put my liquor down just the same as you, XO.” She winked. “Just because I’m a Muslim doesn’t mean I can’t have fun.”

“Point taken, ma’am.”

“Conn, TAO. Master Two entering weapons range.”

“TAO, firing-point procedures, Master Two, forward neutron beams.”

“Firing solutions set, ma’am,” Bryan said.

“Match bearings, shoot, forward neutron beams.”

Twin spears of blue neutrons shot out of the Greengold and crossed the void at the speed of light. They slammed into the shields of the remaining League destroyer, and the impact point crackled with blue and red hues as the deflector generator pushed back against the solid-energy weapon. The enemy’s protective screens held, but from Tehrani’s readout, they’d weakened considerably from the full power blast. Red plasma balls and anti-ship missiles erupted from the League warship and lashed the Greengold along with the Marcus Luttrell.

“Conn, TAO. We’re taking significant shield damage to our forward arc, ma’am.”

Tehrani checked her display and mentally plotted a new course. “Navigation, come to heading zero-three-eight, mark negative fifteen.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Mitzner called. “Coming to course zero-three-eight, mark negative fifteen.”

The ship rotated slightly, and its thrusters kicked in, pushing them to the direction prescribed. The incoming fire from the League vessel slowed and started hitting the starboard shield instead of the forward generator. All the while, combat between the friendly and enemy small craft continued. To Tehrani’s practiced eye, the blue forces were clearly winning the engagement—at least so far. They’d taken one craft lost to almost a dozen Leaguers. I’ll take that rate of exchange any day. Her heart skipped a beat as she realized how easy it was to be happy she’d only lost one pilot.

“Conn, Communications. A wide-band transmission is coming from the remaining League vessel. Can’t read it, ma’am.”

Wright snorted. “Distress call, most likely.”

“We need to finish that ship off quickly,” Tehrani replied. She leaned forward as a small seed of fear implanted itself in the pit of her stomach. “Communications, vector all friendly assets to attack Master Two.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Singh answered quickly.

The Marcus Luttrell commenced another attack run on the hapless League destroyer. Backed by the Mauler bombers nipping at the enemy’s heels, the Gladius-class vessel’s magnetic cannons and neutron beams flashed in the deep. High-explosive and armor-piercing projectiles raced toward the enemy and exploded against its shields, while the blue neutron beams bored away. Between anti-ship missiles and the Luttrell’s barrage, the Leaguer’s deflectors failed, and minor explosions dotted its hull.

“TAO, energy-weapon capacitor recharge status?”

“Eighty percent, ma’am,” Bryan called over his shoulder.

“TAO, snap shot, Master Two, forward neutron beams.” In CDF parlance, a snap shot was firing a weapon without an affirmative firing solution—a best guess. I’m taking a chance here, but every second counts. Tehrani could almost feel more League forces about to jump in.

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

Two blue beams stabbed out from the Greengold and speared the League destroyer. They burned through the brittle armor, bored through the hull, and erupted out of the other side of the hapless vessel. A series of secondary explosions started small then blossomed into an explosive wave that blew the ship apart.

“Conn, TAO, Master Two destroyed.”

A few cheers rang out on the bridge before a sharp-tongued senior enlisted soldier barked, “As you were. Maintain focus!”

Tehrani stared at the plot, which showed the few remaining enemy fighters being run down by Alpha element and its expertly flown Sabres. She breathed a sigh of relief and glanced at the readout for the shipyard—damaged but still in one piece. “Well, that was a nice change of pace,” she said with a smirk in Wright’s direction.

“Makes me begin to believe we’ll beat these guys in no time,” Wright replied. “Though trying to keep a damper—”

“Conn, TAO. Aspect change, inbound wormhole.” Bryan interrupted. A moment passed. “League signature, ma’am. I’m showing a frigate at heading two-seven-eight, range seventy kilometers. She’s right on top of us.” He took a breath. “Contact designated as Master Four.”

I knew it was too good to be true. “TAO, designate Master Four as the primary target for all friendly forces.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.” A few seconds later, Bryan spoke again. “Conn, TAO. Aspect change, inbound wormholes!” His voice tensed as he spoke. “New contacts… two heavy cruisers, designated Master Five and Six. They’re targeting Sierra One, ma’am.”

For a moment, Tehrani’s tongue caught in her throat. Two heavy cruisers? They’d barely taken one out—with help—in the last engagement. If we lose this shipyard, it will cripple our ship-repair capabilities in Canaan. Why hasn’t Command sent more help? She pushed the thoughts out of her mind and focused on the battle. One problem at a time. “Communications, direct the Marcus Luttrell to engage…” She glanced at the plot for a moment. “Master Five.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

“What’s on the flight line and at ready five, XO?”

“Four Mauler bombers… Delta element, ma’am,” Wright replied. He paused and leaned closer. “We need reinforcements. There’s no way our task force will defeat two capital ships.”

Tehrani set her jaw and whispered back, “We can’t abandon the shipyard. Get those bombers in space now.” She turned toward Singh. “Communications, request immediate reinforcements from General Irvine’s command.”

* * *

A short distance away, Justin stared numbly at the battlefield. Fresh League fighters streamed out of the shuttle bays on both newly arrived heavy cruisers, complicating an already-dangerous tactical situation. The only support forthcoming from the Zvika Greengold was another element of bombers. He steeled himself for another fast-paced dogfight. “This is Spencer to Alpha flight. Form on me and prepare to engage hostiles bearing zero-one-zero, two clicks out. We’ll take a run at the ones attacking the Maulers first.”

“Understood, Alpha One,” Feldstein replied.

“This is what I call a target-rich environment,” Mateus cracked. “At this rate, I’ll be a triple ace before the day’s out.”

“Or in a pine box,” Justin said darkly. “This is for keeps, people. Keep it tight and watch your six.”

On Justin’s HUD, a group of eight League craft headed straight for his Sabre element, while others peeled off and zoomed away toward the bombers. Damn, this is going to get hairy. He clicked the safety to his neutron cannons off. “All fighters, break and engage.”

* * *

“Conn, TAO. Forward shields at sixty-eight percent effectiveness. Master Five and Six coming about to engage us on our fore quarter,” Bryan said, his voice carrying across the bridge of the Zvika Greengold.

The deck plates rumbled and vibrated as more plasma cannon blasts and a few missiles made it through their point-defense screen.

Tehrani adjusted her safety harness and stared at the tactical plot then lifted her head and made eye contact with Wright. “If we adjust our heading here,” she said as she touched the screen, “our bombers and the Marcus Luttrell could focus-fire everything they’ve got on Master Five. Do you see anything I’m missing?”

Wright shook his head. “No, ma’am. The only emergency ripcord I can think of is launching all of our small craft.”

“Which we want to avoid at all costs to deal with whatever comes next.”

“Yup. Don’t you wish we were on a Saratoga-class carrier about now?”

Tehrani smiled. “Too big and impersonal. I enjoy knowing the life history of every officer and most senior enlisted personnel under my command.” She turned back to the front, all business. “Navigation, adjust heading to zero-eight-five, mark zero. Increase thrust to flank.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

“TAO, designate Master Five as the priority target for all friendly bombers and inform Sierra One of our new course and speed.”

Arrington is a good-enough ship driver that I don’t have to spell this out for him. Tehrani noted with satisfaction that as they turned, so did the Marcus Luttrell and both Epsilon and Delta elements. Eight Mauler bombers went straight for the League heavy cruiser, while the Luttrell provided fire support. Magnetic cannon shells, neutron beams, and anti-ship missiles crisscrossed space with red plasma balls and the Leaguers’ versions of directed energy weapons. It inflicted significant damage on the enemy’s shields, but they held. Both bomber elements accelerated away for another pass.

“Conn, TAO. Aspect change, inbound wormhole,” Bryan began. “CDF signature… Argyle-class frigate, CSV Sheffield, designated as Sierra Two. She’s dropping out off the port bow, ma’am.”

What in the heck are they doing here? Tehrani’s mind raced with alarm. She’d warned the frigates off because they had limited weaponry and were of little use against a heavy cruiser.

To her concern, almost immediately, the two capital ships shifted their focus to the new friendly contact. Crucially, they landed several hits on the Sheffield’s hull before she could raise her shields. The tactical plot updated with an icon showing primary-systems failure on the frigate.

“Navigation, bring us about. Intercept course on Sierra Two, flank speed.”

“Skipper?” Wright asked.

“We have to get close enough to extend our shields around them.”

“Our shields are almost fifty percent depleted.”

“Your point, XO?” Tehrani asked quietly. “They’ve got to jump out of here as fast as possible. Or we’ll lose over two hundred good men and women.”

The next report from Bryan only emphasized her point. “Conn, TAO. Sierra Two shields are critical, ma’am. I think she’s suffering reactor failure.”

“Communications, get me the Sheffield.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Singh replied.

A good thirty seconds passed, which seemed like an eternity. “Any time today, Lieutenant,” Tehrani said with a glance at Singh.

“I’m sorry. They’re not responding—”

“Conn, TAO. Sierra Two shields have collapsed.”

“Extend ours, Lieutenant.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

Suddenly, a bright explosion filled the windows at the front of the bridge. Gasps of shock went up from the officers and enlisted crew. Tehrani felt her knees go weak. She knew what had happened before glancing at the tactical plot to see that the icon for the Sheffield had disappeared.

“Conn, TAO. Sierra Two destroyed, ma’am,” Bryan said somberly. He turned in his chair, his mouth wide open in shock. “I couldn’t get our shields around them in time. I’m sorry.”

“We can only do our duty, Lieutenant,” Tehrani replied in a monotone. “We’ll have time to grieve for our friends later. Now, we keep fighting. Navigation…” Thuds from repeated weapons impacts shook the Zvika Greengold. “Resume previous course and turn our port side to the enemy.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Mitzner called.

As the watchstanders’ commands flew back and forth, Tehrani took a few moments to pray for the dead. O God, if they were doers of good, then increase their good deeds. If they were wrongdoers, overlook their bad deeds. O God, forgive them and admit them into Paradise. With the prayer completed, she narrowed her eyes and searched for any possible advantage over the enemy.

* * *

While Justin’s flight helmet had a built-in anti-glare safety feature that dimmed bright lights, he was still blinded by the Sheffield’s explosion. That frigate had two hundred soldiers aboard. Justin immediately pushed the thought down. He would have time for examination of his flying and tactics later. For the moment, he had to focus on one objective: stopping the Leaguers from doing the same thing to the Zvika Greengold.

Grim determination to press on and defeat the enemy filled him. I’ll blow every one of them out of the void.

Two remaining bombers in the formation Alpha had attacked veered off toward the friendly carrier. Justin kicked his Sabre’s afterburners to max thrust and settled into the six o’clock position of one of the enemy craft. He stroked the firing trigger of his fighter’s neutron cannons. The bomber exploded after six bolts hit, collapsed its weakened shields, and shredded the paper-thin hull.

“Nice shooting, sir,” Feldstein called. Her craft loosed two missiles that tracked the remaining bomber. The explosive impact blew the Leaguer apart. “Alpha Two, splash one.”

“It’s not a contest,” Justin replied, grinning. “Okay, we’re clear for a moment. Status check, Alpha flight.”

“Full hull and shields. Stores at thirty percent,” Mateus reported.

“Moderate hull damage. Stores at fifty percent,” Adeoye said. “Still fully combat capable, sir.”

Before Feldstein could chime in, Justin’s HUD lit up with a bevy of new red dots—eight more League bombers launched four at a time from the two heavy cruisers.

He despaired at the sheer numbers of the enemy. “Tally ho, bandits.” Justin quickly tagged the two groups of enemies. “Adeoye, you’re with me. Feldstein and Mateus, intercept the second blob. Under no circumstances can we allow them to launch missiles on the Greengold. Are we clear?”

“Crystal, sir,” Feldstein replied.

“I love a target-rich environment,” Mateus crowed in the background. “Time to take out the trash.”

Note to self—she’s nuts. Justin adjusted the trajectory of his Sabre, drawing an imaginary line through space in his mind. The aim was to come at them slightly off head-on, making the enemy waste their energy-weapon shots while giving him the ability to get a missile lock. He engaged his afterburners yet again. The energy level hadn’t entirely recharged, so he only got a ten-second burst out of them, but it was more than enough. The lock-on tone buzzed, and he pressed the missile-launch button. “Alpha One, fox three.”

As the active LIDAR-guided missile flew away, the bomber it tracked attempted to deploy countermeasures and dodge. It played right into Justin’s hands. He settled behind the enemy craft as the missile hit its shields and depleted them by half. Neutron-beam energy stabbed out from the Sabre and sliced through the remaining deflector strength, repeatedly smashing the thin hull. The Leaguer exploded in a ball of bright-orange flame.

“Alpha One, splash one!”

“Alpha Three, splash one,” Adeoye called.

Justin glanced at the tactical overlay on his HUD and noted with satisfaction that the rest of Alpha was tightly engaged. However, two League bombers had broken through the fighter screen and were closing on the Greengold. He pointed his craft directly at their six o’clock and triggered the Sabre’s afterburners. With even less charge than before, they went dead after six seconds of thrust. Dammit, they’re just outside my range. Then it hit him—he could keep triggering the afterburner and squeeze a series of one-second minibursts out of it. The crew chief is gonna rip me a new one.

“Zvika Greengold to Alpha element. Enemy bombers are almost in range. Request you take them out immediately,” Singh said, breaking into the commlink for squadron commanders. “Do you read, Lieutenant?”

“Loud and clear, Zvika Greengold. I’m about to splash those bandits for you,” Justin replied.

It took him another twenty seconds, but his fighter finally entered weapons range. He toggled the secondary weapon selector to the dumb-fire rocket pod he’d had the crew chief load. I hope to hell this trick works twice. Sliding in directly behind the closest bomber, Justin held down the flight-stick-integrated trigger for his neutron cannons while firing the rockets at the same time. The volley struck home as warhead after warhead exploded against the enemy’s shield. Coupled with damage from the barrage of blue energy, the Leaguer exploded in a fiery ball of orange.

Justin didn’t even have time to give the commlink signal for another kill as he quickly altered his heading and locked on to the next target. Another six-second burst of rockets and neutron cannons resulted in a second destroyed bomber. “Alpha One, splash two.”

“Nice shooting, Lieutenant,” Singh said. “Greengold out.”

Justin pondered for a moment how he was still alive. He’d already taken out several League craft, adding to his running total of over ten. I’m not even that good of a pilot. Perhaps the Leaguers were simply worse pilots. Another wave of bombers launched from the heavy cruisers along with a few fighters. He glanced at the HUD and realized they were closely escorting the larger craft. Whoever’s in charge over there apparently learned their lesson. It would make interdicting the next group that much harder.

“I’m all for a target-rich environment, but this is getting ridiculous,” Feldstein said. “How many bombers can they hold in those cruisers, anyway?”

“As many as we can blow up.” Mateus chortled. “What do you Americans say? Bring it on.”

Chuckles from all four pilots filled the channel before Justin spoke. “I read four fighters. They appear to be headed right for us.” He paused as he tagged the craft as priority targets. “Alpha Three and Four will engage the bombers. Feldstein, you’re with me. We’ll splash the fast movers and join in to mop up the others. Questions?”

“None, sir,” Adeoye replied.

The Sabres belonging to Mateus and Adeoye sped away on a direct intercept course with the incoming bomber wave, while Justin adjusted his heading slightly to give himself a better attack profile on the rapidly closing enemy fighters. Both sides exchanged active LIDAR-guided missiles, which the superior CDF electronic warfare capabilities spoofed. Justin didn’t see what happened to Feldstein’s warhead, but his hit its target.

Feldstein rolled off to engage one of the four bandits, while Justin tried to spin out and match the maneuvering of the damaged League craft. He initiated a series of scissors moves, swapping places several times and trading ineffective energy-weapons fire with the enemy fighter. Justin was so engrossed in the twisting and turning of the tail chase that he nearly jumped out of his skin when the missile alarm sounded. A quick glance at the HUD showed two warheads inbound.

“Look out, Spencer. You’ve got two fighters on your tail,” Feldstein called. “I’ll be there as soon as I erase this idiot in front of me from the universe.”

Justin twisted his flight stick to the right, rolling away from the inbound threats while simultaneously releasing multiple balls of high-tech LIDAR spoofing chaff. One missile struck a decoy and exploded, while the other tracked him move for move. At the last second, he tried a high-G maneuver, pulling up relative to how his fighter was pointed and engaged the afterburner. It wasn’t enough—the explosion and impact threw Justin forward as the Sabre’s shields absorbed most of the blast. But not everything—the master alarm sounded, its piercing drone insistent of attention. Damage indicators in his HUD sprang up around his left engine. I have to do something now to change the battlefield, or I’m going to die. Fear crept up inside of him, supercharging his senses. “This is Alpha One declaring an emergency.”

Streams of red plasma balls shot by the transparent cockpit canopy of Justin’s fighter. Dread built up within him as he juked from one side to the other, trying to avoid being blown up. He recalled the words of one of his flight instructors, warning him never to let the enemy penetrate his OODA—Observe, Orient, Decide, and Act—loop. The only thing that would even the odds was to take out one of the pursuing fighters. There’s no way to do that with them locked on my six.

Justin made a quick decision and pulled back hard on the flight stick. His Sabre responded immediately, even with engine damage. G-forces climbed rapidly and brought physical pain as he swiftly turned toward his former pursuers. Combat tactics called for avoiding head-to-head slugging matches at all costs, but it was not the time for timidity.

Justin toggled his heat-seeking missiles to double fire. He only had four in total. This had damn well better work. Unlike LIDAR-tracked missiles, the heat seekers didn’t need a lock. He stroked the firing button. “Alpha One, fox two.”

A bright plume of flame accelerated away from his fighter as Justin held down the trigger for his miniature neutron cannons, sending bolt after bolt of blue energy at the enemy fighter he’d lined up with. Plasma balls found his forward shields and whittled them away, ten percent at a time. He’d briefly questioned the logic of his decision before both warheads impacted on the unlucky Leaguer, who didn’t maneuver away. Rewarded with an orange fireball, he breathed a sigh of relief as the remaining fighter streaked by.

“Alpha Two, splash one! I’m on the way, Spencer. Hang on.”

“Roger, Alpha Two. I got one too. Auto repair unit is online, and I’m reengaging the enemy.”

“I could use some help over here,” Mateus said. “These Leaguer bombers are tough.”

“Got any dumb-fire rockets?” Justin asked.

“Negative, sir.”

“Then switch to neutron cannons and close in. It's not worth wasting your Vultures on them.”

“Wilco.”

The HUD flashed with a message that Justin’s engines had been repaired—as much as they would be by the auto-repair unit. He toggled the thrust up to maximum and set off toward the nearest fighter. The faster he could eliminate them, the faster he could help his fellows in splashing the enemy bombers. As he ran the proper engagement tactics through his mind, he had a thought that seemed out of place: This is fun, in some bizarre way. But another portion of his brain chided him. People are dying out here.

10

“Conn, TAO. Forward shields at sixteen percent,” Bryan called. “Forward deflector generator is overheating and close to failure. Sierra One is taking hull damage.”

While the bridge was a seemingly carefully coordinated level of chaos, Tehrani was the eye of the storm. She stared at the tactical display. It showed the two League heavy cruisers bracketing them and, worse, swarms of bombers attacking them from all vectors. We did our best. But at some point, their best wasn’t enough. Options for retreat ran through her mind. “What else can we get into space, XO?”

“They’re popping so much fire into us, ma’am, that I wouldn’t recommend any launch attempts. If one of those plasma balls got lucky and took out a fully loaded bomber… the Greengold wouldn’t survive,” Wright replied quietly. “Probably need to think about bugging out.”

No! Tehrani pursed her lips. “Communications, put me live on the general distress frequency.”

“You’re on, ma’am.”

“This is Colonel Tehrani, CSV Zvika Greengold, requesting assistance from any friendly vessels. I say again, this is the Zvika Greengold requesting assistance. We are under heavy attack, and if we withdraw, enemy forces will finish off the shipyard we’re protecting.” She turned to Singh and made a cutting gesture across her neck.

“Conn, TAO. Forward shields have failed.”

To underline Bryan’s report, a series of jolts shook the entire bridge crew in their harnesses, including Tehrani. She held on tight as the deck bucked. “Navigation, emergency turn to port. Present our starboard shield to the enemy. Ahead flank!”

Wright’s face betrayed his fear. “Colonel, I again must urge you to consider retreat.”

She closed her eyes for a moment. “Communications, signal the fast movers to head to within thirty-second combat-landing range of the ship.” Tehrani opened her eyes and stared at Wright. “We wait until the last possible moment.”

* * *

“You heard the Colonel. Everyone back to the Greengold.” Justin’s pulse quickened.

Ominous numbers of red dots appeared on his HUD, signaling another wave of enemy fighters and at least two bombers incoming. Dammit. If we don’t stop those bombers, they’ll destroy the Marcus Luttrell or the Greengold. Both ships were heavily damaged. He wasn’t sure how the Luttrell had stayed in one piece. The little destroyer was shot full of so many holes that it didn’t resemble a ship.

I can’t let that happen. Justin wasn’t entirely sure how he’d reached the conclusion that he had to stop the Leaguers by himself, but when he did, it was with a steadfast resolve. Engaging the afterburner of his Sabre, he performed a loop and headed back toward the enemy.

“Sir, why are you turning around?” Feldstein asked.

“Someone’s gotta stop those bombers, Lieutenant. You and everyone else get back to home plate. I’ll cover you.”

“We’re not leaving you, sir.”

“I’ve no desire to die today, Feldstein. The moment I get those bombers, I’ll push it up and perform a combat landing. In the meantime, make sure the rest of Alpha element gets back safely so that I don’t have to worry about you.”

A pregnant pause came through the commlink connection. “I understand, sir.”

“Bring them home safe. Spencer out.”

“Godspeed, sir.”

The exhortation, from a time gone by in the CDF, didn’t strike home for Justin. The only thing getting him out of the situation he was in, besides his skills, was good luck. Sometimes all we need is for the bad guys to have a run of bad luck.

With grim determination, he adjusted the flight stick and aimed directly for the group of fighters racing at him. I need to change the rules here. Justin pulled up the stores list on his Sabre. Three LIDAR-tracking missiles and four heat seekers remained. He inhaled through his nose.

“You should run back with the rest of your friends, capitalist pig,” someone said over the guard frequency in heavily accented English. “If not, we run you down.”

Justin deftly disabled the launch safeties on his heat-seeking missiles, allowing him to toggle-fire all four at the same time. He stroked the missile-launch button, and the quintuplets of death dropped from his fighter’s internal munitions bay. Each Eagle’s engine ignited, and they blasted off toward the approaching League craft.

“Come on down,” Justin said after changing the commlink frequency. “I’ll be glad to wait.” While his tone was confident, even cocky, he wondered if he’d bitten off more than he could chew. Hopefully all four warheads won’t find the same fighter.

Luck, fate, or perhaps something more was on Justin’s side. The four missiles danced around the battlespace, quickly gaining targets and beginning their terminal homing mode. Two picked the first Leaguer, while the other two locked onto his wingman. Both enemy craft exploded in orange flame. “Alpha One, splash two.”

“Spencer, what the hell are you doing out there? Get back to home plate.” The commlink’s squadron command channel erupted with the raspy voice of Major Whatley. “I don’t need any dead heroes.”

As Justin rotated his craft and lined up on the closest Leaguer, his mind was alive with how to respond to his commanding officer. “I’m sorry, sir. You’re breaking up.”

“Spencer! Don’t give me that bull—”

He turned the commlink off and took a deep breath. I’ll deal with the court-martial later. Justin had one task: stop the last two League bombers on a direct attack run toward the Zvika Greengold. Both had already loosed anti-ship missiles, which in the carrier’s weakened state—especially if they hit the right spot—could destroy the vessel.

He pressed one finger down on the afterburner initiator while holding his flight stick with the other hand. As his Sabre closed the distance, he realized he was coming in upside down, at least from his perspective. After a barrel roll, Justin was on the same plane of engagement.

Justin switched his designated target to the nearest anti-ship missile headed toward the Greengold and sent a stream of blue neutron-cannon energy at it. Trying to hit an object that small was a great challenge, but one bolt dinged the outer skin of the warhead. It exploded in a bright ball of blue fire. As the second one passed, he fired a continuous burst. Just as it was almost beyond engagement range, the missile blew up. He let out a deep sigh and pulled his fighter around.

The League bombers flashed by quickly, still heading straight for the Greengold. Justin pulled fourteen Gs as he looped around, pulse-firing the afterburner to keep his intercept speed up. The missile-lock-on tone blared, and he squeezed the launch button on a LIDAR-guided anti-fighter weapon, which dropped from the Sabre’s internal weapons bay. A moment later, it barreled off into the blackness of space. Because of the close range, it only took five seconds to slam into the enemy bomber’s aft shield and explode.

Holding down his energy-weapons firing trigger, Justin put shot after shot into the bomber’s tail section and was finally rewarded with it exploding into a million pieces. He didn’t call his kill over the commlink or even mentally acknowledge it. Like a machine, he turned his focus to the last bomber and slid his craft over to line up behind it.

The lock-on tone sounded again, its loud buzzing almost a dagger to the mind. Justin launched another LIDAR-guided anti-fighter missile, leaving him with only one left in onboard stores. He was dangerously low on munitions. If this keeps up, all I’ll have left are my neutron cannons. Despite the League bomber’s attempt to maneuver away, the friendly warhead pressed home its attack and hit the enemy’s protective shields. Again, Justin was ready, firing bolt after bolt of blue energy into its hull. Like the other craft before it, the bomber exploded in a ball of orange flames, burning against the blackness of space for a moment before it consumed all onboard oxygen.

Justin felt utterly amazed he was still alive as he stared at his HUD. Four more kills—and somehow his fighter was operational despite no support. He noted with satisfaction that the rest of Alpha element and the friendly bombers were clustered around the Greengold, ready to land. As he turned his Sabre back toward the carrier, a sixth sense came over him. The hair on the back of his head stood up. It took a moment to realize why: the remaining League fighters were directly behind him.

The inbound-missile alarm went off, filling the cockpit of Justin’s craft with a persistent beeping. Muscle memory leaped into action as he deployed several canisters of LIDAR-spoofing chaff and pulled up hard on the flight stick.

“Capitalist has trouble to fight real pilot,” came the same heavily accented Russian voice over the guard frequency. “Enjoy fake afterlife, kozyol.”

As Justin looped around, he narrowly avoided one of the enemy missiles that didn’t take the bait and go after his chaff canisters. The other one did—exploding violently but harmlessly eight hundred meters away. Too close for comfort. He flashed by the two League fighters and killed his forward thrust, using the speed he’d built up to execute a turn in heading that reversed the Sabre’s course. The g-forces from it nearly caused him to black out. But in combat, nearly was the difference between life and death.

“Where you go, pig? Come back and fight.”

Justin grinned as he kicked his engine thrust back to maximum and engaged the afterburner. It only took him a few seconds to settle into the six o’clock position of the nearby enemy craft. While his onboard LIDAR system locked on the target, he cued the transmitter on the commlink. “Hey, Leaguer. I’ve got a weather report for you.” The missile-lock tone sounded, and Justin immediately pressed the launch button. “A thousand degrees Celsius and fiery.” The weapon raced away and, thanks to the short distance, quickly entered terminal-homing mode and exploded against the fighter’s shields. All the while, he sent bolt after bolt of blue neutron energy into the hapless target. A moment later, the League craft exploded in a ball of orange.

“Just you and me, mudak.”

“What’s a mudak?” Justin asked. His Sabre pawed the vacuum as he tried to line up the last enemy. “I don’t think I’ve heard that insult before. Did you make it up just now?”

Hard laughter filled the commlink. “Russian word for testicle. It mean you, idiot. You cannot fight entire League. We sweep you aside.”

“Yeah, well, I swept your friends aside like they weren’t even there,” Justin replied. He squeezed the firing trigger for his craft’s neutron cannons, sending bolt after bolt of highly charged blue energy into the void.

A few connected with the enemy, but the opposing pilot had skill. He juked to one side and rolled away from the barrage. Then, in a flash, the League fighter pulled a one-hundred-eighty-degree Immelmann change in direction. The distance between the two craft decreased to point-blank range as the Leaguer fired aggressively at Justin’s Sabre.

The missile-lock-on alarm sounded, causing Justin to pull back hard on his flight stick, attempting to match the Immelmann. Simultaneously, he triggered his chaff dispenser, only to find it empty. Oh shit. For a moment, panic threatened to take over inside Justin’s mind. He forced it down and hit the afterburner, trying to gain some distance on the incoming warheads—anything to give him space to work with.

It didn’t work. Both tracked his fighter flawlessly and exploded violently against the Sabre’s shields. They failed in an instant, and the loud buzz of the master alarm filled the cockpit.

“Paka paka, Terran,” the Russian pilot called harshly across the void.

Justin realized as he moved his flight stick to the right that his controls were sluggish. A glance at the internal repair diagnostic showed why: damage to the Sabre’s internal hydraulic systems and a busted thruster. His HUD showed the Leaguer lining up perfectly behind him. I was so close. Part of him demanded to know why he’d had to be a hero, especially when he’d avoided any hint of combat throughout his short military career.

“Bye-bye yourself, Leaguer.” Feldstein’s voice cut through the mental noise.

With shock followed quickly by relief, Justin stared at the sensor display as two active LIDAR-tracked missiles loosed from Feldstein’s fighter and ran into the aft shield of the enemy craft. Just like that, it exploded in a ball of flames, and he went from being dead to saved.

Justin let out a breath. “Lieutenant, thank you.” His voice shook. It took a few seconds for him to realize how close to death he’d come.

“No problem, sir. That was one hell of a show you put on. We were all cheering, but it looked like you could use some help.”

“You arrived just in time,” Justin replied. His voice broke as he spoke.

“Never out of the fight, sir.”

“I’ll drink to that.” He paused for a moment and tried to move his craft from side to side. It was still extraordinarily slow to respond to his inputs. “I think I’ve got a flight-control problem, Lieutenant. Could you come alongside and take a look?”

“Yes, sir. Can you maneuver to head back to the Greengold?”

After fighting with the controls, Justin got his Sabre pointed in the general direction of the carrier. “She’s lined up as best as I can, but fine movements are difficult.”

“Understood, sir. Give me a moment here.”

It didn’t take long for Feldstein to match speeds with him, especially considering that his afterburner was out, and Justin’s fighter was barely moving at half of its speed potential. Her Sabre came in closer, until he could see her through the cockpit window. “Sir, you’ve got some big chunks of wing missing out here, and you’re trailing vapor. Not sure what it is. Could be O2. Might be fuel.”

“Thanks, Lieutenant.” Dammit. I can’t land in this condition on a crowded flight deck. It wasn’t even an option because of the risk to his fellow pilots and shipmates.

“Alpha One, this is Major Whatley. What is your status?”

Justin flipped his commlink to the command channel. “Heavily damaged, sir. Probably won’t be able to land. Recommend you recover all pilots and come back for me later.”

“Figure out a safe landing vector, Spencer. There won’t be a later.”

Nothing that didn’t end in a string of curse words came to Justin’s mind. He muttered, “Acknowledged, sir.”

Feldstein cut in. She’d overridden his comms channel with a private commlink. “Sir. I wanted to tell you it’s been an honor serving with you. That was… brilliant, sir.”

Justin looked out of his cockpit toward her craft and saw her hand up in salute. He brought his hand to his brow and returned the gesture. “Likewise. Thanks for saving my rear end. Hopefully I’ll get to repay you someday.”

“I’m going to hold you to that.”

* * *

Tehrani held on to the CO’s chair so tightly that her knuckles turned white. The bridge seemed to heave and bend around them. Though the shift was an optical illusion, it still generated concern. Sparks showered from the overhead behind her, and what sounded like a fuse blew. It left parts of the area in darkness, with dark shadows playing across the consoles.

“Hull integrity is at seventy-eight percent, ma’am. The Marcus Luttrell is shot full of holes. It’s time to scoop our pilots and go,” Wright said insistently.

As Tehrani opened her lips to give the order for all craft to perform a combat landing, Bryan interrupted her. “Conn, TAO. Aspect change, inbound wormhole.”

She held her breath.

“CDF signature! It’s the Conqueror, ma’am!” Bryan’s tone drifted toward unprofessional.

Tehrani had no problem forgiving the momentary lapse. “Communications, send General Rubin my compliments and request his immediate assistance.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

“Conn, TAO. Conqueror has extended her shields to include us and Sierra One,” Bryan called.

As he spoke, the rumbling ceased. The massive battleship swept forward, and its magnetic cannons spoke as one. Helicar-sized shells erupted from the triple-barreled turrets, sending a wave of death toward the League heavy cruisers. Simultaneously, Starbolt anti-ship missiles and neutron beams lashed out and impacted their hulls as the protective deflector screens collapsed. One ship exploded outright as a neutron beam found a fuel bunkerage or warhead magazine, while the other hung on, firing back with everything it had.

A ragged cheer lasting a few seconds went up from the enlisted soldiers on the bridge and quickly died down as it became apparent the fight was still on. The battered League heavy cruiser swung around. As it did, a fresh wave of plasma balls crashed against the overextended shields of the Conqueror.

“Conn, TAO. Sierra Two can’t take too much of this,” Bryan called. “She’s already lost more than half of her shield cohesion.”

Tehrani stared at her tactical plot momentarily. Of course they did. The farther out a deflector generator tries to project from the hull, the worse the problem gets. “Navigation, intercept course, Sierra Two. TAO, send our fast movers back at Master Six.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

A series of orders and responses followed as the bridge team worked to get the ship closer to the Conqueror and finish off the last two League vessels. On Tehrani’s display, the icons representing Alpha and Epsilon rushed toward the enemy. Additional symbols showing anti-ship missiles separated from the blue dots marking the bombers and dashed away.

“Conn, TAO. Master Five disabled.”

Again, the Conqueror’s entire weapons suite lashed in the void. Magnetic cannon shells flew out of their barrels, while blue neutron beams raked the remaining League vessel. In the grand scheme of things, it wasn’t fair. Cruisers weren’t designed to stand up to line battleships. But Tehrani felt no remorse as she watched the enemy ship explode into one-meter chunks.

“Conn, TAO. Master Six destroyed. All enemy contacts are down.”

Tehrani allowed herself a momentary smile. “Thank you, Lieutenant. Order our fighters to clean up the remaining enemy small craft.” She checked the tactical plot—only one was left. “Then get our people back aboard.”

“How’d you know?” Wright asked quietly.

“I didn’t,” Tehrani replied. “I was about to order a withdrawal.”

He nodded. “Well, a miss is as good as a mile, as my grandmother used to say.”

She thought of a famous general from the Ottoman empire—Osman Nuri. He’d held the line against Russian forces during a brief war between the two countries in the late nineteenth century on Earth. The fighting they were currently engaged in—brutal defensive actions and what seemed like a last stand—was what had made the pasha a hero. Will I go down in history the same way? Losing my command but inspiring others to fight? Tehrani forced the thoughts from her mind and focused on the task at hand. “Do we have a damage report yet?”

“Working on it, ma’am.”

“Work faster,” Tehrani replied with a smile. “I fear we have little time before we’re thrust into the next battle.” And may Allah have mercy on our souls.

* * *

“How’s it going, sir?”

“Peachy,” Justin replied.

Feldstein was still only twenty meters away from him, flying close escort. While the enemy threat was gone, his fighter was still nearly unflyable. The autorepair system was attempting to repair the flight-control surfaces, but with so much damage, it was a herculean task.

“Any improvement in controlling your bird, sir?”

“Negative. I can steer, but it’s very sluggish.”

An unfamiliar voice broke into the conversation. “Alpha One, this is Zvika Greengold flight deck control. I show you coming in at two hundred meters per second. Slow to fifty and stand by to call the ball.”

Justin cued his mic. “Negative, Control. I don’t have enough positive control over my fighter to land. Request permission to eject and be retrieved by S and R.”

“Negative, Alpha One,” Whatley interjected. “We don’t have time for that evolution. Who knows when the next wave will show up… the Greengold needs to get scarce. I’ve ordered the flight deck to prepare for a hazard landing and clear off section three.”

“Sir, it’s too much of a risk to the ship,” Justin protested. “If my craft were to explode, it would cause secondary explosions. Leave me behind and come back later when it’s safe.”

“Stow it, Spencer. I give the orders around here, and no one, not even your sorry ass, gets left behind. Follow instructions for once in your life.”

The commlink clicked off with a noticeable sound, leaving Justin in silence. The hangar bay of the carrier grew larger in front of him. Soon, he would be able to make out the deck crew running around and other fighters taxiing around the area. Fear gnawed at him. “Feldstein, am I still trailing vapor?”

“Yes, sir.”

Justin closed his eyes. If I believed in God, now would be a good time to pray. It wasn’t so much that he didn’t think a higher being existed or even that it had created the universe. He’d long ago decided that whatever people had in life was the product of their own work, luck, and nothing more. God, if He existed, didn’t interact with lower life forms. Still, it would’ve been comforting to believe in something more. Justin tried with all his might to keep the Sabre straight and level. Beads of sweat dripped down his forehead. “Slowing to twenty-five meters per second, Control.”

“Acknowledged, Alpha One. I show you at three-quarters of a kilometer. Call the ball.”

“Alpha One, ball, one point five.” Justin’s reply indicated he could see the optical landing system lights and was nearly aligned for a landing in the forward portion of the bay. Gravimetric arrestor control would snag the Sabre as he flew it in, but with his controls so sluggish, it would be nearly impossible to course correct.

“Roger, Alpha One. Ball at five hundred meters per second. Adjust axial course as necessary.”

Justin tried to control his breathing, heart rate, and stress level. He would have to adjust course to avoid slamming into the bulkhead. Usually, it would have been child’s play. “Confirmed. I see the lights.”

At the last second, the carrier pitched up slightly. “Oh shit,” Justin said as he tried to match the movement. His hard maneuver on the flight stick generated an overcorrection.

“Abort! Abort!” the landing officer screamed. “Full-power abort!”

“Negative,” Justin replied as he forced the fighter down centimeter by centimeter. “I can’t turn fast enough to abort. Deploy emergency arrestor barrier.” He flipped the commlink to the private channel with Feldstein. “Lieutenant, if it looks like I’m going into another craft or something flammable, shoot me down.”

“Sir?”

“That was a direct order, Lieutenant. I will not cause the deaths of everyone on this ship. Are we clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

Every ounce of concentration Justin had went into trying to effect slight changes in his course to line up with the gravfield that would catch his fighter and stop its forward momentum. Every attempt resulted in immediate overcorrection. He couldn’t slow down because the Greengold was moving too fast. He suddenly wondered if he was going to die.

“Alpha One, adjust five degrees to your left.”

Justin grunted. “Acknowledged.” Yeah, file that under ‘No shit, Sherlock.’

The last seconds ticked down, and not a moment too soon, he reduced thrust to three meters per second as his Sabre entered the flight deck. He was too high and fast. Red lights flashed, showing he was off target, before the gravfield tried to grab his craft. It shot through the first and second arrestor fields, leading Justin to determine he was probably about to buy the farm.

Suddenly, Justin’s entire body pitched forward, and his helmet collided with the lip of the cockpit HUD screen. As his vision blurred, he saw stars. I’m not dead. A glance out of the canopy confirmed that the last and strongest emergency arrestor field had grabbed his fighter. It gently lowered the Sabre to the deck. He popped the canopy-release button and turned to see a ladder pushed up against the side.

“LT, you okay in there?” a crew chief called up. “Let us know if you need a medic.”

“No, no. I can climb down,” Justin replied. He felt determined to exit the fighter the same way he’d entered it—on his own two feet. One rung at a time, he made it down to the deck. As soon as Justin did, his knees gave out, and he grabbed the ladder to steady himself.

A small crowd had already gathered around and gave a cheer.

He held up a hand. “Thanks, guys. Nothing to be excited about… I was just doing my job.”

Mateus pushed out in front of the group of pilots and flight crew. “You were like a hero from the holovids, shooting down enemies left and right and evading fire.” Her eyes held admiration. “I wish I could fly that well.”

“Did she just admit someone else is a better pilot?” a Turkish bomber pilot by the name of Orhan Yavuz asked. “Someone get a recording!”

Laughter coursed through them all, and the sound echoed throughout the expansive flight deck. Feldstein appeared at Justin’s side, holding her helmet and wearing a broad grin. “Nice to see you in one piece, sir.”

“It’s nice to be in one piece,” he replied.

The crew chief that had provided the ladder climbed out from underneath the Sabre. “Well, I’ve got some good news, Lieutenant.”

“What’s that?”

“Everything’s repairable, and we’ve got the parts. You’ll be ready to fight in six hours.”

“Really?” Justin felt surprised at the pronouncement, considering how the onboard repair system couldn’t restore full flight control.

“Yeah, these birds have a flaw in the internal hydraulic system. If they get hit just right, well, the entire system craps out. You got unlucky enough to suffer the flaw.”

“That’s what we get for always going with the lowest bidder,” Feldstein replied. “Damn politicians. Always shorting the military.”

“So, let's go wet down our newest quadruple ace,” Mateus interjected, earning a rousing cheer.

“Spen-cer! Spen-cer! Spen-cer!” the group chanted.

Justin’s face turned bloodred, and he wasn’t sure what to do. He only knew he wasn’t interested in being celebrated—not with the loss of another pilot and the ship heavily damaged.

“Attention!”

Justin didn’t recognize the voice, but everyone immediately went rigid, with their arms at their sides.

“Clear the flight deck, pilots!” Whatley screamed, his voice raspy and hoarse. He came to a halt directly in front of Justin and stared him down. “Soaking up the glory, Lieutenant?”

“No, sir.”

“Uh-huh. I heard the reference about wetting down your kills,” Whatley said as he turned and swept the flight bay with his piercing gaze. “There will be no consumption of alcohol by any pilot at any point today. If you violate my order, I’ll have you thrown into the brig. Do I make myself clear?”

“Sir, yes, sir!” Justin shouted along with everyone else.

“Good. Glad to hear you’re capable of following an order, Spencer.” Whatley got two inches from Justin’s face. “If you ever violate another direct order from Colonel Tehrani, me, or any other officer appointed over you, I will bust you back to private and put you on latrine-cleaning duty for the rest of your CDF career. Dismissed!”

Fury shot through Justin at the speed of light. For a moment, he balled his fists and thought about punching Whatley in the nose. But he forced it down, turned on his heel, and stalked off with the rest of the pilots.

Feldstein caught up to him and put her hand on his shoulder. “Hey, look… don’t listen to him. You’re a damn hero for what you did out there.”

Justin wrenched away and kept walking. “Whatever. I’ll be in my cabin.”

11

While the crew had worked feverishly to repair battle damage, Tehrani had camped out in her day cabin, going through paperwork and writing condolence letters to the families of those killed in action. She’d never had to do that before. In fact, she’d lost no one under her at any posting until the previous day. Such is the reality of war. Tears fell down her face as she wrote a letter to the mother of a young soldier lost in the engineering spaces. Once she had finished, she sat quietly until the next meeting was scheduled to begin, trying to clear her mind and soul.

Tehrani felt trapped in a nightmare that wouldn’t end. Only I know it’s not. This is my reality now. She thought back to her husband and family, wondering if she’d ever see them again. Will he get a note from the fleet commander, thanking him for my sacrifice?

A few hours later, the senior staff gathered in the conference room on deck one. Tehrani strode through the hatch to find Wright, Whatley, Hodges, and Bryan already present.

They sprang up from the table as she entered.

“As you were,” she said, gesturing at the chairs. “Please take a seat.” I wonder if my nose is still red and my cheeks puffy. It wouldn’t do for those under her command to see her emotions. She steeled herself against any display as she sat. “Where are we at, gentlemen?”

Hodges went first. “Colonel, we have partial power restored to our engines and can maneuver at twenty-five percent of maximum thrust. Both reactors are back online, and hull patches are proceeding.”

Tehrani glanced between the men. “When can we be ready to fight?”

“Technically, we could fight now,” Wright began. “If we had to. But our survival chances will go up a lot once they repair the shields. Call it six hours.” He spread his hands out on the table and bit his lip. “Colonel, I think we have to consider the possibility that the Zvika Greengold is out of the fight, unless there’s literally nothing else left in the cupboard. We’re in terrible shape. Major Hodges gave me a schedule that has repairs ongoing for a week to regain full power to all systems.”

“The pilots are ready to fly on thirty minutes’ notice,” Whatley stated. He crossed his arms. “All you have to do is get us there, and we’ll take out as many of the bastards as we can.”

“You’re talking about a last stand,” Wright interjected.

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about, XO.”

“Gentlemen, I’m not ready to order such an undertaking and will not unless the fleet needs us. Our orders are to repair and rearm,” Tehrani said, leaning forward to retake control of the discussion. “That said, we must be ready to fight at a moment’s notice.”

“While we could fight now, Colonel, my pilots need rest.” Whatley leaned back. “I can have stims prescribed for them, but I’ll tell you in no uncertain terms—hopped-up pilots are dead pilots. Give us a few hours of sleep, a good meal, and a shower. After that, I’ll have them back in top shape for you.”

“I should put out there that half our point-defense emplacements are nonfunctional. If we have to engage, our port side will be susceptible to enemy missiles,” Bryan said. “We’re probably a day away from fixing the damage. I’ve got armory crews working nonstop.”

It added up to a picture that Tehrani didn’t want to acknowledge, let alone accept. Yet her duty still called. The desire to reenter the fight, help defeat the League, and save the billions of civilians on Canaan raged just under the surface of her soul. It competed with another desire—to inflict pain on the enemy and make them pay for the death and destruction they’d spread. Her mouth curled into a snarl as she thought of the judgment that awaited the so-called League of Sol.

Wright’s voice brought Tehrani out of her thoughts. “Colonel, we need to stay on stand-down.”

“Very well,” she agreed reluctantly. “Focus your efforts on propulsion and the hangar. Shields are secondary, while the weapons are a tertiary concern.”

They stared at her quizzically.

“Getting to the battle and launching our fighters is the primary objective if the fleet needs us. In that situation, nothing else matters.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Wright replied.

Some of the others appeared as if they wanted to argue, but the XO’s words carried finality.

“Thank you all,” Tehrani said. “You’re dismissed.”

As the group filed out, silence descended over the conference room. She stared at the ship’s seal on the wall along with the flag of the Terran Coalition. The Latin words of their motto Semper tempus meant “Always in Time.” I hope if the call comes, we’re able to answer.

* * *

The mess hall was busy with dozens of officers, many of them pilots. Justin just wanted to be alone. He waved at a few friendly faces, including Martin. The big Australian had a group of bomber drivers at his table, all bragging loudly about the capital ships they’d polished off.

Justin felt deep within himself that the battles weren’t over. Officially, the ship was on a damage-control hold, with repair crews laboring to repair holes in the outer hull and patch critical systems. Something in his soul kept repeating, “This isn’t over.”

So he ordered dinner and waited for the call to return to his Sabre. He replayed the previous engagements repeatedly, including Feldstein’s expert save. Without her, I’d be dead now. Still, he pondered what had caused him to go all holovid hero. The action was completely outside of his normal personality.

Whatley appeared at the side of Justin’s table. He seemed to have a stealth mode, able to mask his approach at will. “I’ve reviewed the sensor records of the battle, Lieutenant Spencer,” he began without preamble.

“Uh, yes, sir,” Justin replied. He didn’t spring to attention or rise from his seat, remembering that customs and courtesies didn’t apply in the mess. If he was being honest with himself, not showing Whatley that respect made Justin feel good. Why is he questioning me again? I got his point last time, loud and clear.

“You disobeyed a direct order and engaged multiple hostiles,” Whatley said. “While apparently ordering your wingmen and other friendly forces to bug out to home plate. Is that accurate?”

Justin set his jaw. “Yes, sir. I wanted to ensure the safety of my people as much as possible.”

“And you did that by ignoring orders?”

“Because otherwise, one of those League bombers might’ve gotten through and blown up the Greengold, sir.” Justin folded his arms. “It was the right call.”

Silence followed for a few seconds. Whatley stared at Justin, as if he’d discovered something unique about him. “I see.” He raised an eyebrow as if in deep thought. “Carry on, Lieutenant.”

As Whatley turned on his heel and strode off, Justin felt troubled by the interaction. Is the Major upset about my actions, or does he approve? It was another stress factor in an already-untenable situation. He sighed and went back to waiting for his food to arrive.

“So this is where you snuck off to,” Feldstein called.

He whirled around to see her, Mateus, and Adeoye standing a few feet behind the table. “Uh, hey, guys. Come on over. Have a seat.” He forced a smile.

“Whatley come over to rip you a new one?” Mateus asked. “He’s just mad we have more kills than he does.”

“It doesn’t all come down to kill ratios and counts,” Adeoye interjected. “There is more to flying than such metrics.” He took a seat across from Justin. “Isn’t that right, sir?”

“Yes. It’s not about individual performance. It’s more to do with how we function as a team.”

Feldstein pulled out a chair and dropped into it. “Wow, look who’s getting gray hair,” she joked. “Whatley must be getting into your head, Spencer.”

Justin chuckled. “No.”

As they sat and bantered, some of his stress released. That he’d come face-to-face with certain death only a couple of hours before remained a strange dichotomy. He questioned repeatedly why he’d chosen to turn around and stage a last stand. The best he could come up with was a desire to see his friends survive.

“You seem like you’re pretty far away, sir,” Feldstein said, turning the conversation from jovial to somber.

“Just thinking,” Justin replied.

Mateus slapped him on the shoulder. “I’m going to have to step up my game,” she said. Her accented English seemed to get more of a lilt as she got progressively more exhausted by combat. “I can’t have our flight leader running up the score on me.”

The peals of laughter that erupted from the table were interrupted by the mess stewards’ bringing out the meals all four had ordered. Once each plate had been set down along with drinks, they left them to their food.

Justin picked up his fork and ate with gusto but stopped when he realized that both Feldstein and Adeoye had bowed their heads. He paused out of respect for his friends. I’ve never known either of them to pray before eating.

“Uh, sorry, I didn’t mean for you guys to stop,” Feldstein said as she glanced up. “Just giving thanks.”

“To whom?” Mateus snorted.

“God.”

Before a debate could break out, Justin interjected, “Personally, I’m hopeful we’ll have the block on communications lifted soon.”

“I’d love to talk to Robert,” Feldstein said. “This might sound crazy, but I miss him more after every combat sortie.”

Mateus took a bite of chicken. “I can’t wait to get back out there. I am alive in the cockpit.” She bared her teeth. “It’s the most exhilarating feeling I’ve ever had.”

A smart-aleck remark came to Justin’s mind, but he decided against using it. “I got my Sabre up to fourteen Gs today.”

Adeoye’s eyes got as big as saucers. “Seriously? Fourteen?” He stared. “That is incredible. Did you have any blackout symptoms?”

Justin shook his head. “None at all. I was pulling back hard, coming out of a turn and accelerating toward a bomber. It just… happened.”

“I must try that myself.”

“You never talk about having someone back on Lagos, Adeoye,” Mateus said. “Got a lucky lady?”

“I do not.” He shook his head. “I’ve been too busy with school and my CDF duties to engage in courtship.”

Mateus grinned. “If you play your cards right…”

“Okay. You two can take that conversation somewhere else.” He harrumphed.

All four of them laughed loudly, and Justin continued to find his cares and concerns fading away. It felt good to be among friends.

* * *

Nightfall came and went in Lawrence City. Each hour seemed like an eternity to Jason Nolan as he waited for word of the outcome of the battles in Canaan’s skies. He’d taken a small dinner directly in the Oval Office and was sitting quietly, staring out the window into the beautiful night sky. The skyscrapers of the metropolis stretched into the heavens. One of the primary space elevators was visible from the White House until its lights disappeared into the darkness.

A soft knock came at the door.

“Come in,” Nolan called.

The door swung open, and Abdul Karimi entered alone. His face was ashen. “Sir, we need to talk.”

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?”

Whatley’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.”

His motivation was pure, and the argument resonated. But it clashed with duty, and duty won. “No. Our pilots could turn the tide or hold the line until the reinforcements arrive. We’re going.”

“You’re the skipper,” Wright said, his mouth in a tight line. “Promise me you won’t sacrifice the crew in a needless gesture.”

“Never.”

“Thank you.”

Tehrani shifted her gaze back toward the front of the bridge and the darkness of space. Allah help us all. She cleared her throat. “Communications, get me 1MC.”

“Tied in, ma’am,” Singh reported.

She stared at the mic built into her chair. “Attention all hands, this is Colonel Tehrani. General quarters. General quarters. This is not a drill. Man your battle stations. I say again, man your battle stations. Set condition one throughout the ship.” She paused. “The fleet has called for help, and the CSV Zvika Greengold will answer the call. I know the last twenty-four hours have been hell for all of us. I do not take this action lightly, but it’s what we all signed up for when we raised our hands and took the oath. Do your duty. Fight hard. Fight well. Make me proud. Tehrani out.”

The lights on the bridge turned blue and dimmed as the general-quarters klaxon tolled. A moment later, Bryan turned around. “Conn, TAO. Condition one set throughout the ship.”

Tehrani nodded. “Energize our shields. Charge the energy-weapons capacitor. Navigation, plot a Lawrence drive jump to the fleet’s projected location ten minutes from now.” She punched another button on the CO’s chair. “Major Whatley, can you hear me?”

“Loud and clear, ma’am. I’m on my way to the hangar deck now.”

“I want everything we’ve got ready to launch in ten minutes.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Tehrani out.”

All that remained was to wait. The next ten minutes were an eternity.

* * *

With the general-quarters klaxon still ringing in his ears, Justin rushed into the flight bay, helmet in hand. Pandemonium was all around him as crew chiefs, munitions techs, and maintenance team members rushed about, performing last checks on the thirty-one combat spacecraft left on the Zvika Greengold. Resolutely, he trudged toward his Sabre. Pockmarked and charred in several places but still operational, it sat like a chariot of old, waiting to carry him into battle. It looks about like I feel.

“Attention on deck!”

Justin turned to see Major Whatley standing at the front of the flight line, holding a portable public-address amplifier in his hand.

“Pilots, front and center!” Whatley’s voice reverberated off the alloy walls of the hangar and caused everyone to turn toward him.

The rest of the pilot cadre formed into neat rows. Justin joined them and came to attention.

“As you were,” Whatley began in his gruff tone. The major appeared worried, with dark rings under his eyes. “I’m not here to sugarcoat this, ladies and gentlemen. We’ve been called on because the fleet is close to being overwhelmed. We’re going up against extreme odds.” He paused. “I know most of you young’uns don’t remember, but I’ve been CDF for fifteen years. My father was CDF for thirty years. He fought the Saurians in both wars. He told me stories about going into battle, outnumbered three to one in fighters that didn’t even have shields. He and his pilots told each other they were going to fight the good fight, no matter the odds. They believed God was at their side and would guarantee victory.”

Justin glanced around to those on his right and left. Worried faces greeted him.

“That’s what we’re going to do today. In a few minutes, the Zvika Greengold will drop out of her Lawrence drive wormhole, and we’re all launching—including me. We’ll stand together, fight together, and prevail together. I know you’re reservists, and we weren’t prepared for this. But all of you”—Whatley made eye contact with Justin—“have performed superbly. In every engagement so far, our air wing has acquitted itself better than it had any right to. It’s an honor to fly alongside and lead you. So, men and women of the Greengold’s flight wing… man your craft! Fight like there’s no tomorrow, because there isn’t if we fail.” His voice rose. “Fight the good fight, no matter the odds!”

Out of nowhere, the entire company shouted, “No matter the odds!” The tumult shook the deck plating.

“Now, get out there and kick those Leaguer bastards back to Earth, where they belong! Dismissed!” Whatley yelled, and they all took off running.

Justin dodged several crew chiefs then slid to a stop next to his Sabre.

A hand touched his shoulder, and he whirled around to see Whatley.

“Lieutenant, I want to shake the hand of a brave man.”

For a moment, Justin froze, then he took Whatley’s hand, gripping it firmly. “Thank you, sir.”

“I’ve been rough on you, perhaps undeservedly. You’ve done well and fought bravely. Good luck out there, and Godspeed.”

As Whatley turned to go, Justin said, “Sir, wait. You were right. I joined for the wrong reasons.” He bit his lip. “But I’m fighting for the right ones now.”

“I know.” He held up a finger. “Don’t think for a minute this means I’m easing up on you.”

“Of course not, sir,” Justin replied with a grin.

“Mount up, son. Give ’em hell.”

Justin slotted his helmet into the O-ring at the neck of his flight suit and climbed the small ladder leading to the cockpit. Once he’d slid down into the seat, he looked over the side and gave a thumbs-up.

The crew chief returned the gesture and triggered the sequence to seal the cockpit’s windows while Whatley watched.

Out of the corner of Justin’s eye, he caught Whatley saluting him. He quickly turned and snapped off a salute of his own. A wave of emotion washed over him as he realized how much the respect of the older officer meant. As the major stalked off, Justin started his preflight checklist. Halfway through, he stopped and pulled out the small paper photo of Michelle and his daughter he’d printed earlier in the day and affixed it to an uncovered portion of his flight controls, in a position that didn’t obstruct any instruments. This is what I’m fighting for.

* * *

While the pilots readied for battle, Tehrani sat in the CO’s chair, bathed in blue light from the overhead and counting down the minutes and seconds till they jumped. Additional damage-control teams along with additional watchstanders had reported to the bridge several minutes ago, answering the call for battle stations. They had little left to do but wait.

“Conn, Navigation. Lawrence drive charge completed,” Mitzner called.

Tehrani sucked in a breath and turned to Wright. “Ready?”

“I think the proper answer is ‘Yeah, it’s what we trained for.’ But I’d be lying if I said I ever thought we’d be in another war within my lifetime.” Wright forced a smile. “Just our luck.”

“Luck has nothing to do with it, Major,” Tehrani replied. Her eyes went back to the small monitor above her head. “Navigation, reconfirm jump coordinates.”

“Triple-checked, ma’am. We’re ready to go.”

“Navigation, engage Lawrence drive.”

The lights dimmed as the FTL system drew massive amounts of power from the Greengold’s energy-distribution system. Directly ahead of them, an artificial wormhole whirled into being. Its coloration changed by the second from green to blue to red and every color in between.

“Conn, Navigation. Wormhole stable, ma’am.”

“Take us in,” Tehrani replied as she exhaled. “Best speed.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

The wormhole appeared to grow as they approached, an optical illusion of the swirling vortex. The Zvika Greengold crossed the event horizon and, not more than a second later, appeared on the other side. Disruption from the transit disabled sensors and shields, something that vexed all known users of the Lawrence drive, but it couldn’t be helped.

“Conn, TAO. Sensors online. Transit complete. Within five thousand kilometers of target,” Bryan said. “We’re slightly behind the CDF battle line and roughly a thousand kilometers from the flagship.”

“Navigation,” Tehrani said as she leaned forward, “intercept course, Sierra Seventy-Eight.” The icon indicated a battleship-class vessel, and it had a lot of League small craft around it. After a few seconds, the IFF transponder identified the ship as the CSV Conqueror. She grinned. It’s only right that we ride to their rescue once more after they saved us.

“Course set, ma’am.”

“Max thrust.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Mitzner replied. “Ion engines still answer at fifty percent of nominal output.” There was a great deal of fear in her voice.

“Keep trying for more, Lieutenant,” Tehrani said. “As the engineers make repairs, the thrust potential should go up. If not, we’ll make do.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Tehrani sat back in her seat, glancing between the tactical plot and the watchstanders around her. Some quick mental arithmetic told her it was time to get their fighters in space. She punched the intercom button on the CO’s chair, linking into Whatley’s Sabre. “Major, this is Colonel Tehrani.”

“Go ahead, ma’am.”

“Readiness status?”

“All my pilots are strapped in and awaiting launch orders.”

“You’re cleared to launch, Major. Godspeed and good hunting.” The use of the old terminology, for some reason, felt comforting to Tehrani.

“Acknowledged. Same to you, Colonel.”

14

With his preflight checks completed, Justin adjusted inside the Sabre’s cockpit. They were minutes or perhaps only seconds away from combat. He’d checked, rechecked, and triple-checked every aspect of his craft. All weapons hardpoints were full, and all systems were go. He had nothing left to do except wait.

“Anyone know who Zvika Greengold was, anyway?” Mateus asked.

Justin welcomed the distraction. “Didn’t you read the introduction email from the ship’s automated greeter when we reported aboard?” he replied.

“Nah, I was too busy getting ready to smoke all of you in our final flight tryouts.”

Snickers filled the commlink.

“Zvika Greengold was an Israeli tank commander during a war on Earth,” Feldstein interjected.

“More than that,” Justin replied. “What I read said he took on hundreds of enemy armored vehicles with one tank. He fought for days with little support and was burned over thirty percent of his body. Historians credit him with nearly single-handedly saving the Jewish state.”

“That fits somehow,” Adeoye said, “as we have repeatedly gone up against superior forces and won.”

Justin pondered Adeoye’s words. What’s in a name? Perhaps the knowledge they served on a ship named after a man who’d performed heroic deeds made them all want to live up to his example.

A quick burst of acceleration from the carrier cut the conversation short. This is it. The knowledge that they were riding into an emergency in which everything hung in the balance wasn’t lost on him. What’s that my dad used to say? “We’re playing for all the marbles.”

“All fighters, launch, launch, launch!” Whatley thundered.

The forcefields protecting the hangar bay snapped off, and Justin jammed the throttle on his Sabre to maximum thrust. Pitching forward, the craft zoomed out of the flight deck and into space. Behind him, the rest of Alpha element followed along with the rest of their squadron. The stream of fighters and bombers exiting the carrier was a sight he’d never seen before. Typical flight operations limited launches to four to eight small craft at a time and never over twelve.

Justin gripped his flight stick tightly as he took in the scene before him. Hundreds of capital ships arrayed in line formations were battling it out. Crisscrossing beams of blue streaked across the blackness of the void, while thousands of red plasma balls answered them. Plumes of exhaust from large missiles could barely be seen, and tiny orange explosions dotted the sky. It took him a moment to process the explosions as fighters and bombers in their death throes. Hopefully more of them than ours.

Whatley’s voice broke through Justin’s thoughts. “All Greengold squadrons, this is Major Whatley. The CSV Conqueror—our old friend—is getting lit up by League bombers, bearing zero-two-eight. Engage max thrust and afterburners. Red Tails, you have the lead.”

“Acknowledged, sir,” Justin replied. He slid his craft to the heading indicated and toggled the afterburner. “Alpha, keep up. Beta and Gamma, maintain formation. Alpha and Beta will engage hostile bombers. Gamma—your objective is the League fighters. Good hunting!”

The Sabre rocketed forward, and he slammed back in his seat. Ugh. I think they forgot to fix my inertial dampers. It certainly felt as if there was a bit more weight on his chest than the maneuver would typically cause.

Flying through the void of space with the battle raging all around him was surreal. Justin almost felt as if he were in a simulator. A friendly destroyer exploded off his port side, sending waves of flame and debris into the path of his fighter. As he juked around it, two League ships blew up simultaneously. Grimly determined to add his own charges to the butcher’s bill, Justin pressed on.

“Spencer, watch your HUD,” Whatley cautioned. “A squadron of Leaguers is headed straight for you.”

“Aye, sir,” Justin said. His eyes went to the HUD, and sure enough, a cluster of red dots was inbound. “Red Tails, tally ho. Bandits at twelve o’clock high.”

The enemy fighters were coming in from above the Z plane his squadron was on, and he pitched up slightly to line them up head-on.

“Reinforce shields forward, stand by for max range, and engage. We’ll take one pass and break through to our actual target—the bombers.”

As the range continued to close, Justin reflected on how calm he felt. There he was, flying into the mouth of hell, yet he felt as cool as a cucumber. I wonder if this makes me a veteran.

With a wry grin, he settled onto the leading League craft. The missile-lock-on tone buzzed. “Alpha One, fox three.” Two LIDAR active-tracking missiles dropped from the internal weapons bay and zoomed away from his Sabre. He’d toggled the dual-fire option on, remembering from previous engagements that it took two direct hits to kill one of the fast-moving enemies. A few moments later, he was rewarded with a minor explosion.

“Alpha element engaged! Press through them, people. Gamma, cover our six. Next stop is those bombers.” He used the HUD’s interface to highlight a group of three craft on an attack run toward the Conqueror, labeled as Sierra Two Hundred Thirty-Six on the display.

The battle raged around Alpha element but not directly with it. As Justin pressed on with the other three fighters in a tight finger-four formation, his Sabre’s sensors detected multiple anti-ship missiles launched from the bombers they were racing toward. At the range they were at, neither he nor the other pilots could do anything to intervene. All three warheads hit the Conqueror, impacting brightly on its shields and generating an EMP wave.

Fusion warheads, most likely. He cued his commlink. “Max afterburners. We’ve got to get to intercept range.”

“Roger. Wilco,” Feldstein replied.

“Save me a few, Spencer,” Mateus said with a snicker. “I can’t have you running up the kill score on me.”

Justin couldn’t help but laugh. Her single-minded focus on destroying Leaguers at least put things into perspective. Once his afterburner ran out of charge, he kept pulsing it, pushing the device to its limit. The split second that the targeting reticle turned green, he held down the trigger for his fighter’s neutron cannons. “Alpha One, guns, guns, guns!”

Toggling the ordnance selector, Justin armed the dumb-fire rockets and added them to the fusillade. Several hits later, the enemy bomber exploded. “Alpha One, splash one.” With a slight roll, he slid behind the nearest enemy and opened fire once more.

“I said to save one for me, Spencer.” Mateus chortled. “Alpha Four, splash one!”

The bomber directly in front of Justin exploded as he took his finger off the firing trigger, and he pulled up relative to the explosion to avoid a rapidly expanding fireball and debris field. “Alpha One, splash two!”

He looped his Sabre back around and checked the HUD. More enemy fighters and bombers were already clearing their respective hangar bays, while the dozens of capital ships he could see exchanged directed-energy weapons fire. Blue and red shield effects lit up the void, bathing everything in an eerie glow. The result was almost beautiful. Justin picked a new target and designated the unlucky fighter as a priority intercept for the rest of Alpha element. The four craft turned as one and accelerated into the thick of the fight.

* * *

“Conn, TAO. Sierra One Hundred Fifty-Eight destroyed,” Bryan reported. The bridge shook from plasma-ball impacts, as the Leaguers had found them almost as soon as the damaged carrier emerged from its Lawrence drive wormhole. That was also the third friendly vessel blown up in the last sixty seconds.

Tehrani stared at the tactical plot. She could do precious little to change the outcome of the battle. Her pilots were committed, and the lack of anti-ship weaponry on the Greengold was telling. The nearest enemy ship in range was a small frigate, and it was being pummeled by bombers as well as the Conqueror’s magnetic cannons. Might as well help see those bastards off. “TAO, firing-point procedures, Master Six Hundred Seventy-Three. Forward neutron beams.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am. Firing solutions set.”

“Match bearings, shoot, forward neutron beams.”

Two blue spears shot out of the Zvika Greengold’s bow, crossed the void at the speed of light, and slammed into the hull of the enemy frigate. In one side and out the other, they cut through its brittle hull like a hot knife through butter. Moments later, the vessel exploded in a chain reaction of orange-and-blue flames that quickly vanished in the darkness of space.

Out of the corner of Tehrani’s eye, a blue dot marked as disabled and very close to the center of the League fleet started moving. At first, she thought it was an optical illusion or a sensor echo. She zoomed in the plot to see the icon labeled as the CSV Salamis. The info box attached to it proclaimed Major Levi Cohen as the commanding officer. A reservist. Lots of those in action today. By Allah, that ship dates back to the Saurian Wars. She realized they must’ve pulled it out of the emergency-reserve mothball fleet. What could the old destroyer possibly accomplish? “TAO, can you ascertain the course for Sierra One Hundred Sixty-Eight?”

Bryan turned around after a few seconds. “She’s on a direct collision course with Master One, ma’am.”

Yes. The flagship. That would make sense. A shiver went down Tehrani’s spine. Irvine had gone after the enemy dreadnought at the center of their formation, but it had decimated her attack force. The destroyer must’ve been disabled in that attack. And now a group of brave men and women plan to finish the job, no matter the cost.

“Conn, Communications. Flash traffic from General Irvine. She requests any vessels able to provide cover fire for Sierra One Hundred Sixty-Eight do so immediately.”

Tehrani made eye contact with Singh. “Send to commander, CSV Salamis… Godspeed, and may Allah take you into paradise.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

“Conn, TAO. LIDAR effects… aspect change, new Lawrence drive wormholes opening.” Bryan’s tone changed to one of surprise. “Terran Coalition signature but not CDF. They look like armed merchant vessels, ma’am. New contacts are heading toward the nearest enemy vessels and powering up their weapons.”

“God help ’em. Freighters, I don’t care how up-gunned they are, aren’t designed for fleet combat,” Wright whispered. “That takes some guts.”

“Too many heroes,” Tehrani replied softly. “May we remember them.”

“I’ll settle for God helping us blow these assholes to hell.” Wright crossed his arms. “Apologies for the language, ma’am.”

For once, Tehrani couldn’t agree more. The battle continued.

15

Amid a stream of blue neutron cannon bolts, the League fighter directly ahead of Justin’s craft exploded in a bright-orange ball of flame. Debris no bigger than a standard tablet spread out and, as he zoomed through the cloud, smacked into his Sabre. It sounded like a heavy rain coming down on an alloy roof. Justin scanned his HUD, searching for his next target. It had been like that the entire battle, one tail-turning dogfight after another. “Alpha One, splash one bandit.”

“Alpha Two, splash one,” Feldstein called. She’d broken off to engage a flight of League heavy bombers, and all the Alpha-element pilots were using the dumb-fire-rocket trick first discovered by Adeoye—which was great, at least while the pods lasted.

The personal victories couldn’t mask the overall situation of the fleet, however. Justin kept fighting like a man possessed, but it did little to alter the battle on a large scale. Ship after ship from the CDF side either exploded or was forced to jump out on an emergency basis—a risky proposition even a few minutes inside the Lawrence limit. The unlucky ones blew up anyway during the jump attempts.

In the distance, a single friendly contact accelerated blindly toward the League fleet—Sierra One Hundred Sixty-Eight. The vessel seemed to be in a sweet spot, too far away from the enemy escorts for them to catch up and too close for the massive battleship at the center of the formation to engage.

“Now, that takes some balls,” Whatley said.

“I wouldn’t want to be the commander of that destroyer,” Justin replied quietly. “There has to be a better way. A way to win and get to go home.”

“Not always, son. If you were watching carefully, you’d know Cohen ordered his crew to abandon ship. Pay attention, because that’s how a real officer deals with things like what we’re facing.”

The ultimate sacrifice. Justin, in the heat of the moment only a few hours before, had been willing to make it. But something was different about staging a last stand against the enemy and the inevitable death from ramming another warship. At least in his mind, Justin was still in control, even when fighting that last stand against incredible odds. He told himself that to make it feel better.

Another enemy fighter wandered into range of his forward HUD, and he rocked his Sabre toward it. “Alpha One, engaging hostile LIDAR spike, heading zero-eight-two, range fifty kilometers.”

As Justin hit his afterburner control and raced forward, Mateus fell into formation off his starboard side. The closer they got, the better resolution his fighter’s onboard sensor suite got, and what had initially appeared to be one fighter turned out to be a group of four. “Alpha Four, watch yourself. We’re outnumbered two to one.”

“Target-rich environment, Lieutenant,” Mateus crowed. “Just like I like it.”

“So you keep saying,” Justin mumbled.

The missile reticule on his HUD changed color, indicating that they were close enough to get a solid lock-on. After a few seconds, the tone buzzed. “Alpha One, fox three,” he called while simultaneously pressing the launch button. A Vulture raced away from his Sabre in target-acquisition mode. It took a moment for the warhead to track and explode against the lead enemy’s shields. Following up with a barrage of neutron cannon bolts, he assumed another quick victory was on the horizon.

But the Leaguer pilots were made of slightly sterner stuff. All four broke sharply, scattering their formation. A few of Justin’s shots hit, but most sailed wide of the target. The first enemy fighter reduced his forward momentum and squeezed off a barrage of red energy bolts, and Justin’s craft overshot.

Justin rocked his flight stick and accelerated, turning out of the incoming fire and reversing his course with a pitchback maneuver. The other pilot was completely surprised and fell behind. Justin let out a breath and glanced at Mateus’s position on his HUD. Another enemy craft was matching her move for move as she attempted a high-speed scissors attack. The dots exchanged places several times, but the hostile was obviously gaining position on her.

“Lieutenant, he’s almost got you. Break left and pull out. I’ll swing over and run him down.”

“Oh no, you don’t, Spencer. I will not be denied this kill,” she replied.

As she was speaking, the Leaguer matched her turn and cut his speed. He settled behind her six o’clock and fired his energy weapons repeatedly, scoring multiple hits on Mateus’s shields. The pilot followed up with a dual heat-seeking missile launch. Despite her best effort, both warheads exploded near her Sabre.

“This is Alpha Four declaring an emergency!” Mateus practically shouted. “Master alarm… my reactor is going critical. I’m punching out.” After a burst of static, silence followed.

On Justin’s HUD, the icon representing Alpha Four blinked out of existence. “Mateus, can you hear me? Mateus?” He paused and sucked in a breath. “Mateus?” Dammit. She’s gone. He hoped against hope that the escape pod had gotten far enough away before the reactor went hypercritical. A moment of sadness was replaced by rage as he rotated his Sabre—just in time to see the enemy pilot performing a barrel roll, presumably in celebration of his kill. We’ll see about that, you son of a bitch. Justin kicked the afterburners up and quickly did the mental geometry required to calculate his course to intercept. He caught the craft as it looped around and loosed a barrage of blue neutron-cannon shots. “Alpha One, guns, guns, guns.”

Several bolts connected with their target, creating bright-red shield effects on the enemy fighter before it rolled away. Justin followed the craft, pitching down and slowing his forward speed. In the back of his brain, something reminded him that sacrificing speed in a multi-fighter combat situation was a bad idea. He paid it no heed and pressed on. As Justin veered in and out of his Sabre’s firing arc, he squeezed the trigger, sending more fire toward the Leaguer. The few that hit urged him onward to more. Tighter and tighter he turned, losing more speed as he fought to stay on the aft of the enemy craft, who adopted what a CDF pilot would call a guns-D strategy of wild course changes.

In the midst of it all, the missile-alert tone sounded. Justin scanned his HUD, and his eyes widened with shock. Two heat-seeking missiles were less than five hundred meters away, and right behind them, three League fighters streaked toward him. Oh shit.

* * *

“Conn, TAO. Master Four Hundred Twenty-Six is coming about. She’s locked onto us, ma’am.”

Tehrani gripped the armrests of the CO’s chair as she pondered Bryan’s report. The League heavy cruiser had taken a firing pass on the Conqueror and broken off presumably to recharge its shields and was in their face, flinging plasma balls at every friendly vessel in range. “Has Sierra Ninety-Six engaged?”

“Not yet, ma’am,” Bryan replied quickly.

“Communications, request Sierra Ninety-Six redirect all fire to Master Four Hundred Twenty-Six.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Singh said. A moment later, he looked over his console at her. “Message delivered. Flash traffic from commander, CSV Conqueror—will launch an alpha strike in thirty seconds.”

Thirty seconds until all hell rains down on the enemy. Tehrani grinned fiercely. “TAO, firing point procedures, Master Four Hundred Twenty-Six. I want you to target their weakest armor points and aim for the hangar bay. We’ll wait to shoot until the Conqueror works her magic. Clear?”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

Wright leaned in and whispered into her ear, “You realize CDF CONOPS is the carriers stay out of the fighting, right?” While he delivered the words with a calm smile, he had an edge to his voice.

“Of course. They also don’t cover a situation like this,” Tehrani replied.

“Our shields are down to thirty-two percent, skipper.”

“Ask me what’s really on your mind, Benjamin.” She hoped the use of his first name would defuse any tension.

“What’s your plan B?”

“Emergency Lawrence drive jump out, with as many of our fighters as can make it back in sixty seconds.”

Wright’s face turned pale. “That’s it?”

“That’s all there is. Just like last time.”

He nodded and pursed his lips. “I know you’re right. But God…”

“What’s the old saw, XO? War is hell.” Tehrani turned her attention back to the tactical plot above her head. The CDF ships—those that hadn’t been destroyed already—maintained a cohesive battle line and gamely engaged the advancing enemy forces. But they were up against so many League vessels. For every one they neutralized, four more took its place, like an onrushing tsunami. The rate of loss they’re taking… why do they do it? For that matter, why is this so-called League of Sol even here? What has the Terran Coalition possibly done to them to justify an all-out sneak attack? She vaguely recalled bits of information from history lessons in school about communist empires on old Earth that had conquered only for the sake of trying to take over the world. I guess some things never change.

“Conn, TAO. Aspect change, Sierra Ninety-Six. She’s preparing an alpha strike, ma’am. I show all magnetic-cannon turrets ready to fire along with her neutron beams.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant. Confirm firing solution on Master Four Hundred Twenty-Six.”

“Firing solutions set, ma’am. I’m targeting its hangar bay as instructed.”

A group of four fast-moving blue dots labeled Delta veered toward the enemy heavy cruiser on Tehrani’s monitor. They were Mauler-class bombers. Martin appeared to be timing his attack to match up with the Conqueror’s. How quickly we’re all turning into veterans. She stole a glance at the icon for the CSV Salamis. It continued to accelerate, its course unchanged—straight at the League flagship.

“Conn, TAO. Sierra Ninety-Six is prosecuting the target.”

The Conqueror—battered, with its armor plating burned and melted—was like a prizefighter that didn’t know when to quit. Her weapons blazed defiance as blue neutron beams erupted from her hull and connected with the League vessel. Coupled with a volley of a dozen missiles and thirty magnetic-cannon shells, the impacts rained down on its protective shields. At some point during the bombardment, the shields failed, and hits landed on the armor plating of the cruiser.

“TAO, match bearings, shoot, neutron beams.” Tehrani leaned forward as she spoke. The timing had to be perfect.

Twin blue energy beams shot out of the Greengold and lanced through the hangar bay of the enemy ship. A small series of explosions blossomed around the hull nearest to the hangar. One after the other, the bursts of orange-and-blue flames grew until the stern of the vessel blew clean off.

“Conn, TAO. Master Four Hundred Twenty-Six neutralized.”

“Nice shooting, Lieutenant. What’s coming in next?”

“Three more destroyers, ma’am, designated—”

“TAO?” Tehrani prodded.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. Sierra One Hundred Sixty-Eight is on terminal approach. She’s less than fifty kilometers from Master One.”

Tehrani quickly brought up the tactical plot and zoomed in to the area around the League flagship. The screen was impersonal, an antiseptic display of blue and red dots, with relevant information such as speed and heading. She imagined that the enemy was flinging everything they could at the destroyer, which was little more than a speck among giants. The bravery shown by Major Cohen, a man she only knew by name, was awe-inspiring. To ride into the face of certain death took incredible guts. Or balls, as I’m sure the master chief would say. As the kilometers closed in the blink of an eye, Tehrani mouthed a prayer in Arabic, asking Allah to watch over the souls of Cohen and his crew and guide them into heaven. The blue icon representing the Salamis merged with the red graphic that represented Master One.

“Conn, TAO. Sierra One Hundred Sixty-Eight… destroyed.” Bryan’s voice sank, then it rose again. “Aspect change, Master One. Multiple explosions, ma’am. Debris separating. She’s disabled! Repeat, enemy flagship disabled!”

Hope was a fickle thing. Sometimes it manifested as grim determination to press on and at other times as ebullient optimism. On the bridge of the Zvika Greengold, it was a bit of both. The enlisted personnel and several senior officers let out a series of cheers. Bryan high-fived Mitzner. A raucous chant of “CDF! CDF! CDF!” broke out and was taken up by most of the crew.

“As you were! Maintain proper bridge protocol!” the master chief rasped.

“TAO,” Tehrani said as the chant stopped, “status of the enemy fleet?”

“Slowing their advance, ma’am. Some vessels appear to be ceasing forward movement.”

But most continued. The battle was far from over. Tehrani set her jaw. “TAO, firing point procedures, forward neutron beams, Master Four Hundred Twenty-Eight.” Their target was the nearest enemy vessel to them—a destroyer.

“Firing solutions set, ma’am.”

“Match bearings, shoot, forward neutron beams.” Even with their brilliant victory over the flagship, the fight ahead would be brutal. Without the promised nation-state reinforcements, she still saw no way to win. But she pushed the depressing thought down and went back to work.

* * *

Justin pulled up hard on his flight stick, dropping a trail of flares. The flares ignited almost instantly and attempted to decoy the incoming missiles with their five thousand degrees Celsius burn temperature. He killed his Sabre’s afterburner, hoping to cool his engine exhaust just enough for the enemy warheads to take the bait. One overshot and exploded violently, close enough that it shook his craft and jostled Justin. The second slammed into his weakened aft shields, knocking them down to five percent effective strength.

Red bolts of energy streaked by the cockpit canopy, putting a fine point on how bad a predicament Justin was in. His OODA loop was so compromised it hadn’t even registered to call for help yet. “Alpha One to any friendly fighters, my wingman is down, and I’ve got three bandits on my tail.” He jammed the throttle back to max thrust and engaged the afterburner. “Repeat, any friendly fighters. Mayday! Mayday!” Beads of sweat dripped down Justin’s forehead.

“Spencer, this is the CAG. Execute guns-D and keep those bastards guessing.”

“Roger that, Major,” Justin replied. Immediately, he launched his craft into a wild series of random twists and turns, accelerating and decelerating and doing his best to avoid the massive volume of fire directed toward him. After no fewer than twenty dodges, one of the red dots directly behind him disappeared, and for a split second, he saw a faint orange glow in the canopy reflection.

“CAG, splash one,” Whatley said calmly. The man sounded like he was merely giving a to-go order for his lunch. “Spencer, break right, ten degrees declination.”

Justin was well aware his life wasn’t in his hands at the moment. He sucked in a breath and rocked the flight stick as instructed, pulsing his afterburner simultaneously. To his surprise, Whatley overshot him, then things got weird. The major’s Sabre turned a full one hundred eighty degrees, still flying forward. Blue bolt after blue bolt erupted from its neutron cannons, and both pursuing League fighters were caught unaware. The first one blew apart into centimeter-sized chunks, while the second attempted to avoid. It lasted a few seconds longer than the other before it, too, exploded.

“CAG, splash two.”

“Uh. T-Thank y-you, sir. How’d you do that?”

“You did read the flight manual, right, Lieutenant?”

“Uh. Yes, sir,” Justin replied sheepishly.

“There’s a little-noticed feature these Sabres have… you can disengage your inertial damping system and use the station-keeping thrusters to turn your bird. It’s quite a shock to anyone not expecting it.”

Justin vaguely remembered seeing someone do that in a demonstration flight once. And that’s why Whatley gets paid the big bucks. He scanned his HUD. The remaining League fighter was headed straight for him. “We’ve got company, Major.”

“I see it, kid. That one’s all yours. Took out your wingman, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Send the bastard on to God, and we’ll let Him sort it out.”

Justin rotated his Sabre toward the enemy without replying to Whatley’s instruction. Instead, his mind was laser-focused on the approaching hostile. The missile-lock-on tone buzzed, and he automatically squeezed the trigger, dropping a Vulture active-LIDAR-tracking missile toward the target. The Leaguer fired a similar warhead at him, which he avoided with ease. That League tech doesn’t appear to be as good as ours. Perhaps a technological advantage would help them in the long term. It would do much to explain the number of kills he and the rest of the Zvika Greengold pilots had racked up.

The enemy fighter blew past him as both craft exchanged energy-weapons fire. Without the three wingmen backing the Leaguer up, his movements were less confident and aggressive. The fight quickly turned into a turn-tail chase as they both tried to gain an advantage. Potshots at each other scored few hits, and Justin didn’t have enough time for missile lock-on. I’m still fighting this guy’s war. I need to fight mine. Clarity came to Justin, and he toggled the secondary weapon selector to his heat-seeking warheads. At the same time, he overrode the safety controls and set them to double launch.

Justin whipped through a tight series of scissors moves and borrowed a trick he’d seen Whatley perform in a different combat and slowed dramatically through one turn. The Leaguer overshot on full afterburner, and Justin pressed the missile-launch button. “Alpha Two, fox two.” Twin heat seekers rocketed away from his Sabre and tracked the enemy fighter relentlessly. He took the time to make a transmission on the guard frequency. “Hey, Leaguer. Alpha Mike Foxtrot.” A few seconds later, both missiles hit its shields and detonated. The resulting explosion took the other craft with it. “Alpha One, splash one.” It felt good to erase from existence the person who’d probably killed his friend.

“More heavy bombers inbound,” Whatley rasped. “Alpha, get after ’em. I’m going to assist Beta.”

“Roger, sir.”

“And Spencer… nice shooting. What’d you learn?”

“Don’t allow emotion to overcome good tactical judgment.”

“Ah, lookee here. The kid can learn.”

Justin could almost feel the smirk he was sure was emanating from Whatley’s face. “Occasionally and twice on Sundays.”

“Good hunting, Lieutenant.”

With that, Whatley was off. Justin turned his attention to the inbound flight of League bombers flying directly toward the Zvika Greengold. It surprised him that they weren’t attacking a more capable capital ship, like the Conqueror, but it didn’t matter in the end—only that his element did its job. The squadron information screen on his HUD showed ten green dots and one red one. One was absent. Feldstein and Adeoye’s craft were functioning at one hundred percent—at least according to the integrated sensors. “Alpha One to Alpha Two, come in.”

“This is Alpha Two. Go ahead,” Feldstein replied quickly. “We were worried about you for a minute there, Lieutenant.”

“I was worried about myself.”

“Is Mateus…”

“I don’t know. She said she was ejecting, but it’s so chaotic out here that my sensors didn’t pick up an escape pod.” He hoped against hope that her IFF was malfunctioning but knew it was unlikely. Moreover, he couldn’t spare the brain space to think about it. They had a job to do—stay alive and defeat the enemy. “Form up on me and switch to dumb-fire rockets if you have any left. We’re going bomber hunting.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

The intercept vector was a favorable one for Justin’s fellow Alpha element members to catch up to him without staying at maximum afterburner the entire time. He took the time to examine the battlespace and get a feel for the ebb and flow of the fighter combat. Most of the friendly small craft were of the planet-based variety. The only carriers the CDF had in its inventory were the Thane class. While they were all present and accounted for, three hundred sixty fast movers weren’t enough to shift the tide in any meaningful way.

“Everyone lock up a separate bomber,” Justin said. “Take one high-speed firing pass then get behind and terminate these guys.”

“Sir, there’s another flight of fighters headed our way,” Feldstein called. “Four bandits, bearing one-two-eight degrees negative declination.”

“Forget them. Take out the bombers, then we’ll shift targets.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Justin lined up the lead enemy and squeezed his firing trigger the moment it entered maximum range. Return fire in the form of red energy bolts rushed toward him. He added his dumb-fire missiles to the mix. Each hit substantially impacted the bomber’s shields. They failed, and chunks of armor broke off. At the last second, Justin rolled to his left, and his final rocket smacked the enemy craft, causing a chain reaction of several small explosions that blew the bomber apart. Only after the intense glow from the brief fireball had faded did he realize that three anti-ship missiles were headed straight for the Greengold. He briefly considered pursuit but discounted the idea. The carrier’s CIWS systems would have to be up to the task.

* * *

“Conn, TAO. We just lost two of our point-defense emplacements, port side.” Bryan turned his head around. “Fifty percent reduction in point-defense effectiveness on that quarter.”

“Communications, have Major Whatley designate one of his squadrons to protect us until repairs can be made,” Tehrani said. She turned toward Wright. “XO, prioritize getting our CIWS emplacements back online. By any means necessary.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

Tehrani brushed a wisp of brown hair out of her face and focused on the tactical plot. The blue overhead lighting amplified the screen and made watching it easier. Across the battlespace, the League ships had stopped their advance, except for a few pockets of vessels still moving forward. She assumed they had a rigid command structure that didn’t allow for individual commanders’ initiatives.

The Greengold shuddered from another series of hits.

“TAO, who’s shooting at us?”

“Master Four Hundred Thirty-Six, ma’am. Enemy destroyer, and it’s coming about for another pass.”

On the plot, Tehrani quickly found the enemy along with two frigates maneuvering aggressively. “Firing-point procedures, Master Four Hundred Thirty-Six, forward neutron beams.”

“Firing solutions set, ma’am.”

“TAO, tag Master Four Hundred Twenty-Eight and request Delta element engage as she approaches us. ” Tehrani grinned fiercely. “We’ll see how many times they’ll fall for that particular trick.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Bryan replied with levity in his voice—the sound of a man who had hope he would live to see another day.

Wright leaned in. “Bad news, Colonel. Damage-control parties report multiple hours to get our PD guns back online. One’s completely gone, while the other is suffering from a severed power conduit.”

“We must make do,” Tehrani replied. Her heart sank. At any moment, the Leaguers would realize how badly her ship was wounded and concentrate everything they had on the port quarter. I owe it to my crew not to sacrifice them in a meaningless gesture. “Run a Lawrence drive calculation to put us across the system, closer to Canaan and inside the Lawrence limit,” she whispered.

“Shouldn’t the navigator do that, ma’am?” Wright replied equally quietly. “I’m rusty enough that I might put us into the sun.”

Tehrani chuckled. “No, I don’t want to alarm the crew. Just in case we have to bug out quickly.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.” Wright turned and bent over his tablet, hard at work on the equations.

“Conn, Communications,” Singh called. “Flash traffic from CSV Victory, ma’am. Vidlink is active.”

“Put it on my viewer, Lieutenant.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

The screen above Tehrani’s head sprang to life with an image of General Irvine. Her face was harried, and dark circles were visible under her eyes. “Attention, all CDF forces. The enemy’s flagship has been disabled and, with it, their command-and-control structure. Our reinforcements are minutes away, but victory is still far from certain. Engage the enemy at all points of attack and don’t hold back. We must press them and send them on the run. You’ve all fought bravely and valiantly. Continue to do your duty, and we will prevail! I will see you all at the victory celebration. Good hunting and Godspeed.”

“I wish we knew how long we had to hold,” Wright groused. “But it’s good to hear the American and the British space navies are on the way.”

“The CDF should never have disbanded and downsized the way it did,” Tehrani said. “That decision was short-sighted.” She glanced at the tactical plot and noted that the League destroyer she was tracking was almost in range. “TAO, reconfirm firing solution for Master Four Hundred Thirty-Six.”

“Firing solution set and confirmed, ma’am.”

The League vessels flew into firing range, loosing a barrage of the ubiquitous red plasma balls. The view through the Zvika Greengold’s windows filled with the glow from the enemy weapons, while the Greengold’s point-defense systems—those still working, anyway—blazed away at incoming missiles. Delta element sent three anti-ship missiles at the hapless destroyer, pummeling her shields to less than ten percent.

Tehrani grinned. “TAO, match bearings, shoot, forward neutron beams.”

Two blue spears of solid energy shot out from the bow of the Greengold and first depleted what was left of the League vessel’s deflector screens. For a split second, the enemy’s shields held with a red skid effect visible. Then they were gone. Because of the positioning of the two ships, the neutron beams speared the destroyer from bow to stern, punching a hole clean through the thin hull. Moments later, it exploded in a flash of orange-and-blue flame, with nothing left to prove it had ever existed except one-meter-long chunks of debris.

“I would again remind you that CDF tactical doctrine states that carriers are to stay back, out of a direct ship-to-ship engagement,” Wright said and laughed. “The way you’re going, ma’am, we’re going to get awarded a battle star.”

“Desperate times, desperate measures, XO.” Tehrani set her eyes back to the tactical plot, searching for the next target. She had many to choose from.

16

“Beta three declaring an emergency. Mayday, mayday, mayday. I’m punching out,” someone calmly stated.

Justin winced. That made three pilots from his squadron with a total loss of craft and an unknown number of them killed in action. They were down to eight combat-effective fighters. All around the Red Tails, debris from destroyed Leaguers filled the void. We’ve fought a good fight. He maneuvered through space as he did the mental mathematics to plot a course to bring his Sabre behind the enemy displayed on the HUD.

“Any word on those reinforcements, CAG?” Feldstein asked.

“What do I look like? A prophet? They’ll get here when they get here,” Whatley groused. “Until then, keep killing the bastards.”

“Wilco, sir.”

Justin laughed softly. I’d wager the major is having a blast over there. Some people were seemingly made from steel. Whatley was one of them.

The calculations Justin had made appeared to work, as his Saber glided behind the enemy he was tracking. To his surprise, he was close enough for a guns solution, and he held down the firing trigger. Dozens of blue neutron-cannon bolts flew into the hostile craft, and it exploded violently. “Alpha One, splash one.”

Another League fighter exploded to his left. “Alpha Two, splash one,” Feldstein said tightly. “Two more in this group.”

I’m down to my last heat-seeking missile. Justin quickly toggled through his stores, having lost count during the nonstop fighting. He only had one warhead left. He’d expended all active LIDAR trackers and dumb-fire rockets. Better make it count.

His craft shuddered from a volley of hits, and Justin slowed his Sabre dramatically. The enemy overshot. Time seemed to slow as he pressed the missile-launch button while holding down the firing trigger for his energy weapons.

The enemy craft blew apart, and its debris cloud struck his cockpit canopy with a series of short metallic impacts that sounded like rain hitting a tin roof.

Adeoye’s voice filled the commlink. “Alpha Three, splash one.”

Justin didn’t even bother to call out his latest kill. “We’re clear.”

“For now,” Feldstein replied. “They seem to have a never-ending supply of these things.”

As if on cue, another blob of red dots appeared on Justin’s HUD. He groaned. “Quit jinxing us.” Justin paused. “Stores check?”

“I’m out except energy weapons,” Feldstein replied.

“Same for me,” Adeoye said.

Justin despaired. Tail-turning dogfights, even against inferior technology, would eventually end up with him and the rest of Alpha dead or ejected. He cued the commlink and set it to the squadron commander’s channel. “CAG, this is Alpha One. We’re all Winchester, sir. Recommend we pull back to the carrier and attempt to resupply.”

“Negative, Alpha,” Whatley barked. “We hold.”

“Sir—”

“Son, listen. There’s no time to get a new load of missiles. We’re going to stand and fight until we can’t fight anymore.”

Again, the ultimate sacrifice. Who am I to consider stepping aside? Cohen and the crew on that destroyer didn’t. Justin set his jaw. Even though he could make peace with the notion of dying, sacrificing those under him felt like a bridge too far. “Sir, can I at least order my wingmen back?”

A pregnant pause came through the commlink. “Lieutenant, I respect your desire to take care of those under your command. It’s an excellent trait. But not today… today we’re all in. We hold the line or die trying. You get me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Carry on. CAG out.”

Justin resolutely stared at the HUD and calculated his course. The Leaguers might overwhelm them in time, but he was determined to take as many of the enemy out as possible—to make the sacrifice worth it. Maybe if we kill enough of them, they’ll stop coming.

* * *

“Colonel, it’s time to pull our fighters back,” Wright whispered. He’d leaned in close to her to avoid having his words carry throughout the bridge. “Everyone is Winchester, and it’s suicide for them to go into wave after wave of enemies with full missile loads.”

Tehrani grimaced, as the words stung. He was right, but she couldn’t bear to admit defeat. I suspect most of our ship commanders feel the same way as I do. “Not yet. We wait until the last possible moment.”

“Ma’am,” Wright said, his voice rising, “it’s my duty to insist on proper procedure. Canaan’s defense system is operational. We should get what’s left of our air wing, bug out, and make another stand there—after rearming our pilots so they’ve got a snowball’s chance in hell!”

“As you were,” Tehrani replied forcefully. “Order each squadron to continue engagement until each craft is under fifty percent hull integrity. At that point, they are to bug out to home plate. Clear, XO?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

While Wright’s words were respectful, his tone was anything but. Tehrani made a mental note to address it later—if they had a later. Meanwhile, the battle raged around them. While the CDF battle line had slowly but stubbornly given way earlier, the loss of every ship had become more and more devastating. It allowed the League forces to concentrate their firepower on an ever-dwindling number of targets, to horrific effect. Escorts endured the enemy assault, with destroyer after destroyer exploding as waves of the deadly plasma balls overloaded their shields, melted away armor, and seared them from the universe. The fight was quickly becoming a rout.

“Conn, TAO. We’ve got a heavy cruiser on a direct approach, ma’am. Designated Master Four Hundred Sixty-Nine, it’s focusing on the Conqueror.”

Inwardly, Tehrani groaned. They just don’t stop coming. “TAO, firing point procedures, Master Four Hundred Sixty-Nine, forward neutron beams.” She studied her tactical plot. “Do any of our bombers have anti-ship missiles left?”

“Firing solutions set, ma’am.” Bryan turned his head. “No, ma’am. All munitions expended. Our beams can’t get through their shields at full strength.”

Tehrani already knew that, but it didn’t change that they had to try. “Request fire support from the Conqueror,” she replied quietly.

“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Bryan said as he faced forward.

Seconds passed without a response from the CDF battleship. According to Tehrani’s readout, the Conqueror was in worse shape than the Greengold. Her shields had collapsed, and her forward armor was nearly depleted. Still, her magnetic cannons blazed defiance into the void. Missiles erupted from her Vertical Rail Launch System, and neutron beams far more potent than those the Greengold mounted reached out and burned the enemy heavy cruiser’s shields.

The moment the League vessel’s shields dropped below fifteen percent, Tehrani made her move. “TAO, match bearings, shoot, forward neutron beams.”

Two blue spears of energy shot out of the Greengold and slammed into the enemy ship as it closed with the CDF formation. After a few moments, the beams penetrated the cruiser’s defensive screens and impacted its hull. But unlike the last few times, there was no series of secondary explosions and no last-second destruction of the target. Plasma balls zoomed out of the Leaguer’s forward turrets along with red energy beams and a brace of missiles. Against the weakened shields of the Greengold and her degraded point-defense systems, the barrage scored many hits.

“Conn, TAO. Forward and port shields failed, ma’am!” Bryan’s normally professional voice went up an octave, and his volume rose. “We’re taking hull damage, concentrated in the hangar decks and ventral armor.”

His words stoked fear in Tehrani’s heart. She pulled up a hull-integrity readout. The forward portion of the ship had already turned yellow. “Navigation, emergency turn to port, flank speed. Come to heading two-seven-zero, thirty-degree up bubble.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Mitzner replied.

As the Greengold labored to get out of the way of incoming fire, more and more hits registered against the ship’s light-armor skin. Tehrani suddenly pitched forward and was only held back from flying out of her chair by the restraint straps. “Damage report, XO,” she barked.

“That last impact got us good, ma’am,” Wright replied. He pointed at a blinking red indicator on the screen built into the XO’s chair. “Multiple power conduits lost amidships.”

He didn’t have to tell Tehrani the rest of the story—enough were disabled that the secondary conduits and bypasses wouldn’t be able to route power to all systems. Eventually, something significant would quit functioning… like shields or their engines. She bit her lip. “Communications, order our fighters and bombers to return to home plate. Priority-one tasker.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Singh replied immediately. “Order transmitted.”

“I take it we’re leaving,” Wright said quietly.

She nodded. “Dead heroes don’t help anyone.”

Another wave of plasma balls slammed into the Greengold, and Tehrani realized she’d waited too long as the lights on the bridge flickered and went out. It only took a moment for the emergency lights to turn on, bathing the area in red light. The CO’s chair and its integrated panel bank were nonfunctional. “Does anyone have power to their consoles?”

“Conn, TAO. Negative.”

“Conn, Navigation. Negative.”

“Conn, Communications. Negative.”

Well, that’s all the major systems. Tehrani brought her small hand comm up to her lips. “Conn, Engineering. Hodges, can you hear me?”

“Aye, Colonel!” Hodges’s grainy shouts came through the speaker. “No power is getting forward of section fifteen. We’re working on it.”

“Work faster, Major,” Tehrani replied. “Do you have engine control?”

“No, ma’am. Most of our electronics are fried.”

Yelling came from the background, but she couldn’t make it out.

“Emergency power coming on now, ma’am.”

Right on cue, computers and consoles came alive across the bridge. “Conn, TAO. I’ve got sensors back online.” Another series of weapons impacts jostled the crew. “Master Four Hundred Sixty-Nine continues to engage.”

“TAO, do we have any weapons left?” Tehrani asked, her voice taut with tension.

Bryan turned his head around. “No, ma’am. Neutron beams are offline, as is point defense.”

Tehrani made eye contact with Wright. “Abandon ship?”

“I’m sorry, skipper,” he said. “It’s time. A few more hits will probably see us off.”

As Tehrani opened her mouth to give the order, Bryan spoke. “Conn, TAO. Aspect change… inbound Lawrence drive wormholes!” He paused. “They’re CDF signature, ma’am.”

“How many?”

“A lot, ma’am. It looks to be the balance of our reinforcements.”

The tactical plot populated with dozens of new blue icons, many of them in close proximity to the Zvika Greengold. Hundreds of additional dots appeared as fighters and bombers streamed out of launch bays on the American carriers. Tehrani hummed a cheerful tune.

“Conn, Communications. Inbound vidlink from the USS Saratoga.” The American-built carriers had reverted to nation-state control several years prior.

“Put it through to my viewer, Lieutenant.”

A few seconds later, her monitor came to life with the image of the Saratoga’s bridge, focused on a man in a khaki service uniform. He furrowed his brow. “Colonel Kevin Reynolds, commanding officer, USS Saratoga, at your service. We’ve extended our shields around you, Zvika Greengold.”

Tehrani let out a breath. “It is a great relief to see you, Colonel Reynolds. We were getting worried.”

“Better late than never,” Reynolds said. “Maneuver behind us, and our battlegroup will protect you, Colonel.”

“I’m afraid our engines are down at the moment,” Tehrani replied. She looked at Wright. “ETA, XO?”

Wright shook his head. “Damage control is reporting it’ll be hours before we’re able to move with more than station-keeping thrusters.”

She turned back to her viewer. “I’m afraid the Greengold isn’t going anywhere for a while.”

“Roger that. Hold position as best as you can. We’ve got the watch, Colonel. Saratoga out.”

After the vidlink blinked out, Tehrani pulled up the tactical plot once more. The mass of blue icons continued to spread out, like a mighty rushing wind. Magnetic-cannon turrets fired, while bright-blue neutron beams crisscrossed space and lit up the blackness. Orange flame dotted the view in the Greengold’s windows, the telltale signature of an exploding warship. Meanwhile, the red dots representing the League vessels disappeared one by one.

As it sank in, she bowed her head and whispered a prayer in Arabic, thanking Allah for His help.

“Conn, TAO. Aspect change, all enemy contacts. They’re retreating, ma’am… straight toward the Lawrence limit at flank speed.”

“It’s over,” Wright said. “Dear God, that was too close.”

“More aptly, it’s just begun,” Tehrani replied.

Across the board, the League ships streamed away from Canaan’s beleaguered defenders, pursued by swarms of bombers and every available capital-class vessel. They were still full of fight, though. The newcomers took losses, as did the remaining CDF vessels. One group of enemies seemed to focus their firepower square on the Victory. Her shields had taken a beating for a while and were close to collapse. One burst of plasma balls finished the deflector power off, and hits landed on her hull.

Dozens of additional plasma balls slammed into the Victory. Tehrani glanced down at her tactical plot, hoping against hope that other friendly vessels were within range—anything that could shield the stricken flagship. A group of anti-ship missiles bobbed and weaved through multiple layers of integrated point defense, and while most were destroyed, one made it. It sailed through the shredded front armor of the mighty battleship and exploded within with a fiery blast of orange-and-blue flame. Secondary explosions blossomed across the forward hull and into the bridge tower. Tehrani could only watch in horror.

Silence filled the bridge, and a feeling of dread so dense that one could cut it with a knife descended across the room.

“Conn, TAO,” Bryan finally said. “Sierra One disabled.” He glanced back at her. “CSV Victory is transmitting a general distress call, and command of the fleet has transferred to General Saurez on the CSV Fernando Frontin.” A heavy cruiser, the Frontin was far less capable a warship than the Victory. “The fleet continues to advance.”

While his last words were superfluous, Tehrani was thankful her young tactical officer had uttered them. Almost instantly, a wave of relief swept the bridge. At the current stage of the fight, morale was incredibly powerful. The outcome still teetered on a knife’s edge, and a perception that without Irvine, all hope was lost would quickly become fatal. Still, being unable to contribute anything further was galling. If only we had our engines and working weapons. “How long until the enemy can jump out, Lieutenant?”

“We engaged them close to the limit, ma’am. No more than ten minutes, max.”

So they sat, unable to affect the ongoing battle and watching as the Greengold’s remaining fighters and bombers attacked targets of opportunity and provided cover fire for the new fast movers from the American and British carriers. They destroyed hundreds of League vessels in quick succession, and eventually the enemy broke. First in pairs then in groups, the Leaguers abandoned their formations with their carefully crafted lanes of fire and ran. At that point, the battle was truly over. Mop-up continued, and the new arrivals made the most of their limited engagement time.

“Conn, TAO. Aspect change… enemy contacts are charging Lawrence drives. Wormholes opening, ma’am. They’re jumping out.”

Waves of red dots disappeared from Tehrani’s tactical plot. A few, with serious battle damage and nonfunctional FTL drives, remained. “XO, I want a bow-to-stern damage report in fifteen minutes.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

“Conn, Communications. Remaining League ships are requesting surrender terms.”

Tehrani snorted. “Let the generals deal with that.”

“Three hots and a cot for them, while we have a war to fight,” Wright groused.

“According to the Canaan Alliance charter,” Tehrani replied. “We don’t have to like it.”

“Just enforce it.”

“Touché.”

Wright shook his head and buried himself in his console, while Tehrani felt shocked to be alive. A few stray red icons representing enemy fast movers remained on her screen, but they dwindled by the moment as the overwhelming superiority of the nation-state reinforcements saw them off. “Recover our pilots as soon as practical, XO. Launch search and rescue… and may Allah have mercy on our lost and wounded.”

“Amen,” Wright replied, looking up from his screen. “I’m still working on the damage report, ma’am, but it’s safe to say we won’t be moving for a few hours.”

“Thank you, XO.”

17

In nearly stunned amazement, Justin watched as hundreds of friendly fighters swept the skies clear of enemy vessels. Mostly American and British designs, they were all variations on the Sabre he flew. For a moment, it felt as if the hand of God had reached down and exacted a price from the League. I remember my mother saying a miss is as good as a mile. But as the feeling of amazement faded, Justin examined the cost. Four of his squadron’s pilots showed red on his overview display—ejected or dead. Of the three squadrons from the Zvika Greengold, they had at least a thirty percent rate of loss. The statistic was sobering in the extreme.

“CAG to all friendly craft,” Whatley said. “Return to home plate. We’re done here. The Americans can have their glory. I won’t risk any more of you in mop-up.”

“Acknowledged, sir. Alpha is RTB.”

Feldstein and Adeoye came up from behind him, falling into formation. Justin took notice and cued his commlink to the private Alpha channel. “Let’s do the missing man. To honor Mateus.”

“Yes, sir,” Feldstein replied quickly. She sounded pained. “I’m going to miss her.”

As the two other Sabres slid into a finger-four formation, the number-three position was empty. Honoring a comrade fallen in battle was a time-honored tradition, and the weight of losing Mateus hit Justin like a ton of bricks. I lost someone under my command. Combat produced a high unlike anything he’d ever experienced. But the certain knowledge that someone’s daughter wasn’t going home overwhelmed him.

“Lieutenant Mateus was a fine pilot and a good friend,” Adeoye said. “I suppose on the bright side, she’ll stop cleaning us out at cards.”

The joke, delivered in his rich timbre, was just enough to shake loose even more emotions.

Justin blinked as a tear slid down his cheek. “I don’t know where we’re going from here, but it’s been an honor to serve with you.”

“Same here, Spencer.” Feldstein’s voice almost broke. “Damn, what a day.”

“And here you all are, carrying on.”

For a moment, Justin’s heart felt like it had quit beating. “Mateus? Is that you?”

“Of course it’s me,” she replied. “What? You think I’m coming to you live from the afterlife?”

Silence reigned for more than a few seconds before Feldstein finally spoke. “What happened? We thought you’d bought the farm.”

“Lowest-bidder tech again. Comms were down on my escape pod. I just rewired it myself.”

Relief washed over Justin, and for a second, he felt guilty in his happiness that his friend wasn’t dead and he didn’t have to face losing someone close to him—at least not yet. “Well, I think this calls for a celebration.”

“Drinks in the mess. Lots of drinks!” Mateus replied.

“Hear! Hear!” Feldstein said with a chuckle.

As the Zvika Greengold came into view, Justin felt stunned once more. The proud carrier had more holes in her than he could count. Vapor was escaping from several wounds, while half the ship’s point-defense turrets were simply gone, mangled metal in their places. He wondered how she was still in one piece after the visible beating taken. I guess they build those things to last.

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 said 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 competitors 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.”

“There’s no point in assigning blame now. What matters is how we move forward. The entire Terran Coalition has enjoyed the spoils of peace. We thought we were invincible.” Anand snorted. “Well, that was a crock, and now our teenagers will get to pay the price for our arrogance and stupidity. I was reviewing the CDF war plans in case of invasion by an outside power of significant strength. We’re far enough behind the curve that it warrants a draft.”

Nolan shook his head. “I’d rather wait and see how many people volunteer. I think the lines will snake around every recruiting station in the Coalition come tomorrow morning. Perhaps we won’t need one.”

“With respect, Mr. President, that’s a dream. If for one reason and one reason only. This is a war for survival, and everyone in our nation needs skin in the game. If there’s no draft, we could eventually end up in a situation where the affluent and wealthy don’t volunteer. Such a thing would breed resentment and hurt morale.”

Nolan laughed, despite everything going on. “Pradeep, if I didn’t know better, I’d say one of my bright young left-wing speechwriters had fed you talking points.”

Anand rolled his eyes. “I think not.”

They laughed before Nolan continued. “I’m speaking off the cuff here, but what we really need is a unity government.”

Anand locked eyes with him. “It’s been a long time since we had one of those.”

“The Second Saurian War.”

“Yeah, fifty-five years ago, and it fell apart during the conflict.”

“So, it’ll be up to us to ensure it succeeds.” Nolan spread his hands out on the desk. “I’m going to ask my vice president to resign. For the good of the nation. In her place, I’ll nominate someone from a center-right party.”

Anand gaped at him. “Seriously? You expect her to resign? Just like that?”

“For the good of the nation,” Nolan repeated. “And a promise that when my second term is up, I’ll endorse her candidacy for president. That’s her end goal, of course.”

“Remind me not to play poker with you,” Anand replied. “I’ll put some feelers out and see if I can help you find someone that understands the concept of unity.” He paused. “Tell me—have you thought about a strategy for how to fight this war?”

“Beyond surviving whatever they throw at us next?”

Anand nodded.

“I have,” Nolan said as he steepled his fingers. “Earth. If we want to defeat this League of Sol, it must be done by taking Earth.”

“Crossing the galactic arm… I can’t even think about the logistics of such an endeavor.”

“That’s up to the military,” Nolan replied. He’d already ordered the chairman of the Joint Chiefs to begin planning. It would take at least five years to build up their fleet properly, and it would also take that long to beat the plowshares of the Terran Coalition back into swords and truly go on the offensive—maybe less, if the entire population mobilized. “Our job will be to galvanize the people.”

“On that, we agree, my friend.” Anand sat back in his chair. “What can I do for you? Anything?”

“Well, you are the de facto leader of your party, as I am of mine,” Nolan said. “I want a message to go out from both of us to every operative, talking head, and political commentator we have, respectively. Unity, not attacks, and no cheap political points.”

“Conservatives aren’t monolithic, you know.”

“Nor are Liberal-Democrats. We’ll have some stragglers, I’m sure.”

Anand smiled in return. “Done.”

Nolan inclined his head. “One other thing.”

“Name it.”

“Pray for me. Pray to God that I will have wisdom and that He will guide me to make the right decisions.”

Anand furrowed his brow. “I will spend a lot of time in the temple, praying to Waheguru, asking for His guidance. I would only ask that you do the same for me when you pray.”

Nolan stood and extended his arm. “I promise I will. Daily.”

Anand shook his hand warmly. “May you walk in the path.”

“God bless and…” Nolan thought of an old phrase. “Godspeed.”

“Godspeed, indeed.”

* * *

Following the somber ceremony to remove the honored dead from the hangar bay, Justin wandered the ship. Many of his fellow pilots had gone to a multifaith service organized by the chaplains, but he didn’t see the point of going. He’d never been much on religion and typically only went on Easter and Christmas with his family. To him, it was more of a cultural celebration than anything to do with faith. To join in on the service seemed like hypocrisy. He walked for a good hour, down a corridor filled with printed images of those lost. They’d been hung up as a memorial to the fallen. In the quiet of his mind, even as soldiers milled about him, Justin pondered how he’d survived the last forty-eight hours but found no easy answers.

Justin ended up on hangar deck B. Hundreds of enlisted personnel in brightly colored jackets delineating their different departments of the space aviation force worked feverishly. The deck plating was scarred with black carbon scoring from energy-weapon hits, while holes were visible in the superstructure. He found it something of a miracle that the ship had survived in the first place.

After strolling around for a bit and taking in the scene, he arrived at his Sabre. Though battered and scarred, the fighter was still space worthy and looked like it was already under repair. Justin glanced for a moment at the distinctive red stripe painted onto the vertical stabilizer on the back of his craft. It reminded him of the long and storied history of the Red Tails squadron. The unit's lineage traced back to 1940s Earth—during a time when humans still sorted superiority by skin coloration and creed—an idea that was ludicrous on its face, now. I hope to do their memory justice.

A technician rolled out from under the craft and sprang to his feet. “Sorry, Lieutenant! Didn’t see you there.”

“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 point 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!”

Wild cheers broke out along with sustained applause.

“Shut up! He’s still talking,” Justin yelled, as did others.

The tumult died down quickly.

“Life will change within the Terran Coalition. Those of you old enough to remember the height of the Saurian wars will no doubt recognize some of the measures we’re considering—things like nationalizing manufacturing to prioritize weapons, armor, starships, and other needed war material. Though millions of our citizens are lining up to volunteer to fight, a draft must remain on the table. Let there be no doubt… this will be a long war. It’s a war worth fighting and the challenge of our generation. I plan to speak to you often over these next months, and I ask everyone to set aside our political differences to work together as citizens of the Terran Coalition. We will form a unity government by the end of the week that includes all major parties. I have asked the leaders of our major religions to come together and plan a week-long prayer-and-fasting event.” Nolan bit his lip. “To have any hope of victory, Almighty God must be in our hearts and minds. We formed this nation hundreds of years ago after escaping oppression at the hands of the World Society. Today, we will not surrender in the face of their descendants. What was worth fighting for then is still worth the cost. So, my fellow citizens, stand firm. Work hard. Be prepared to sacrifice. We’re in this together.”

Nolan paused. “During our last conflict, the CDF went into combat with the battle cry of ‘Fight the good fight, no matter the odds.’ Let that be our battle cry now. No matter the odds! May God bless you, and may God continue to bless the Terran Coalition.”

Silence followed in the mess hall for a few seconds. Then someone with a voice that Justin didn’t recognize cried, “Fight the good fight, no matter the odds!”

“No matter the odds!” Justin and dozens more screamed. As he did, he realized that he was part of something greater than himself. He was simultaneously shaken to the core and prouder than he’d ever felt in his life.

Clapping rang out for what seemed like several minutes until it finally died down and allowed those seated at Justin’s table to resume their conversation.

“I’m ready to go cap some Leaguers,” Mateus said between bites. “Just point to their nearest carrier.”

“Going to single-handedly eradicate the League of Sol?” Feldstein asked with a smirk.

“I’ll leave a few for you. Just so you can feel good about yourselves.”

They all laughed.

Adeoye took a sip of his drink. “Let us see who has more victories in a month, Ms. Mateus. I suspect it will be me.”

“Oh, really?” Mateus deadpanned.

“He’s a quiet one,” Justin said. “You always have to be careful of the quiet ones.”

Feldstein took her last bite of potatoes. “And on that note, I’m going to the shul.”

“What’s a shul?” Mateus asked.

“Church for Jews,” Feldstein replied hastily.

“What’s that? Like two, three times in twenty-four hours?” Justin grinned. “Might need to get a cot set up for you.”

“Oh, lookee here, a regular funny man,” Feldstein said as she stood. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I need to pray after spending a day trying to kill people while they’re trying to kill me.”

“All I need is a stiff drink and a deck of cards so I can clean you all out.” Mateus took a swig from her glass. “Who’s with me?”

Adeoye leaned forward and grinned. “Count me in.”

“I’m heading for my cabin,” Justin announced. “Rack time, and if I’m lucky, talking to my family awaits.” He stood.

“Take care, Lieutenant. That was some great flying today,” Feldstein said. “See you around, guys.”

As Justin walked away, he heard Mateus and Adeoye ribbing each other about who was going to win the card game, and the banter brought a smile to his face. One thing was certain—they’d gelled as a team. Where the sands of fortune would take him, he didn’t know. But at least the president seemed to know what needed to be done, and Justin was ready to get on with it.

* * *

By 2000 hours Coalition Mean Time, Justin had returned to his cabin. While much of the crew headed down to the surface to take shore leave while the Zvika Greengold underwent repairs, he wasn’t interested. Above all, Justin wanted to see and talk to his wife. Lieutenant Singh had announced over the PA system as he walked down the corridor that the communications blackout was over.

The moment Justin crossed the threshold into his small cabin, he grabbed his tablet and engaged the vidlink application. A few moments later, Michelle’s face, framed by a dark room that he recognized as their bedroom, came into focus.

“Baby, oh my God, you’re okay!” The words flooded out of her mouth. “I was so worried.”

Justin sat on the couch, cradling the tablet like it was the most sacred object in the universe. “I’m sorry. I tried to call, but there’s been a system-wide communication blackout.”

Tears poured down her cheeks as she pushed her long brown hair out of the way. “Are you safe?”

“Yeah. The news is reporting it, right? No enemy ships left in Canaan system,” Justin replied in a monotone. “I was so scared I wouldn’t see you again.”

“Did you fight?”

He bit his lip. “I flew four combat missions in twenty-four hours.” The enormity of what he’d been through, as he uttered the words, finally caught up with him. “We all did.”

“When are you coming home?” Michelle asked through her tears. “Maggie is worried sick, but I’ve been telling her we couldn’t talk right now, and everything was okay, but she needs to hear it from you.” She shook. “I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about, hon.” Justin touched the screen. “My unit’s been called to active duty.”

“Then you’re not coming home,” she replied quietly.

“No. There’s some talk about shore leave in a few months, if it goes well. But all indications are this war is just beginning.”

Michelle sucked in a breath and tried to dry her tears. “I understand, baby. Do you think we can talk while you’re out there?”

“No force in this universe will prevent me from vidlinking my wife and daughter,” Justin said. He forced a smile to his lips. “Are you okay?”

“No.” She started to cry again. “Three families got notifications today,” she said between sobs. “On our block. I stayed by the door, on my knees, begging God not to let it be you.”

Tears formed in Justin’s eyes, and he let out a breath. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. He answered my prayers, because you’re still here.” She pursed her lips. “Maggie’s asleep… it’s two a.m. here, but next time?”

“Yes. I’ll plan a little better.” Michelle had long ago accepted that any faith he had wasn’t shown outwardly. Even if I know she wishes that were different. “We’ll get through this. I promise.”

“Promise me you’ll come home, Justin.”

“I promise you that with every fiber of my being, I will do everything in my power to come home.” He glanced down. “But as I’ve learned the last two days, combat is unforgiving. Tomorrow might be my day. I don’t know. What I know is I’ve got some great reasons to fight hard, stay alive, and hold both of you in my arms again.”

Michelle, despite her tears, grinned. “I’ll hold you to that, Justin Spencer.”

“You do that. I’d better get off of this before I spend my comm rations.”

“Rations?”

“Wartime… everything’s going to be rationed, from what I heard. We’ve never known anything like this in our lifetimes.”

“I suppose I might have to learn how to sew. Maggie goes through clothes every two weeks.”

Justin laughed. “Hopefully it won’t get that bad.” He paused and touched the screen again. “I love you.”

“I love you too. God bless.”

The screen went dark, and Justin set the tablet back on his desk. He thought of Michelle and playing with Maggie in their backyard. Determined to make it through another day, he took off his duty uniform and prepared for bed. Memories of happier days sustained him, and he eventually fell into sleep—with the belief that the next day, the CDF would take the fight to the enemy.

Epilogue

Unity Station

Deep Space—Between the Orion and the

Sagittarius Arms

25 October 2433

Unity Station was the largest space-borne construction ever undertaken by the League of Sol. For fifty years, they had slowly built it into a mammoth facility capable of supporting twenty thousand crew and hundreds of ships, and it had enough storage space to supply fleets of vessels a thousand strong. The station was the pinnacle of socialist engineering and a representation of how far they would go to ensure the whole of humanity existed solely under the banner of the League.

Fleet Admiral Chang Yuen stepped off the VIP shuttle that had carried him from the LX Vasily Kanin to Unity Station. The moment he did, a massive honor guard of hundreds of League Navy sailors came to attention. Their arms snapped to their chests in the salute of the League. He returned the gesture as the familiar tune of their anthem blared from an unseen speaker somewhere on the hangar deck. At the end of the rows of sharply dressed men and women, another admiral in a black dress uniform stood. Yuen made his way slowly through the lines.

“Admiral Yuen, I welcome you to Unity Station,” the other man stated. His name tag read Admiral Yegor Voronin.

“Thank you.”

“I’ve had quarters prepared for you, and crews are standing by to resupply your flagship.”

Yuen smiled thinly. “I suggest we dispense with the pleasantries and make our way to your office to discuss the war effort.”

The Russian stared at him with cold, hard eyes. “Of course.” He snapped his fingers, and a young lieutenant appeared at Voronin’s side. “Please escort Admiral Yuen to the observation deck. I will join him shortly.”

Both men touched their closed right fists to their chests. Yuen stalked off, following the lieutenant. Instead of making small talk, he spent the time observing the surrounding sailors. To his disgust, most had numerous uniform violations, and discipline appeared lax, as small groups congregated around others performing their duties. Individualism is never a moment away from threatening our society. To Yuen, individualism was the worst enemy a human could face. The League had spent centuries eradicating it from all aspects of their system, replacing it with a spirit of shared sacrifice and glory. Anyone who displayed the slightest hint of thought against the principles of the state was corrected.

A ten-minute walk later, Yuen and the lieutenant arrived at a well-appointed conference room adorned with the flag of the League of Sol and various posters, some urging citizens to report antisocial behavior and others showing victory over the capitalists of the Terran Coalition. The lieutenant departed, leaving Yuen alone.

By Yuen’s count, Admiral Voronin arrived twenty minutes later. Yuen spent the time analyzing personnel files and ship readiness reports from the roughly seventy vessels that had escaped the disaster at Canaan.

Voronin cleared his throat as he walked through the hatch. “My apologies. I had a few issues to deal with.”

Yuen held up his hand. “Seville will arrive back at Earth shortly. I am his replacement.” He grinned coldly. “This post should’ve been mine and would have, if it weren’t for the interference of Admiral Lambert. Now that it is… we’re going to do things my way.”

“The political officers seem to insist on us doing it their way.” The large Russian cleared his throat. “I don’t want things to get off on the wrong foot here. We have equal rank. My duty is to command this station and see that you have the resources and logistical support to win the war. Forget everything else. I want our sailors’ sacrifice to mean something. We lost a hundred thousand men and women in that stupid cluster of a battle with the Terrans.” His gaze drilled into Yuen. “Don’t make the same mistakes.”

“A political officer made the mistakes—one with little tactical training. Mine will realize the gravity of the situation and not interfere.”

Voronin stared. “You have control over your political officer?” He glanced around the room as if he was afraid of being overheard. “That’s not possible.”

“It is when you catch the aforementioned political officer engaging in individualist behavior.” Yuen licked his lips. “He won’t trouble us. Now, the next wave of ships will be here in two weeks.”

“How many?”

“Three hundred. Not enough for a straight-up slugfest with the Coalition Defense Force, but the CDF has to spread out, covering dozens of planets. We, on the other hand, will consolidate our strength and attack at their weakest points, landing our troops and taking over their outermost worlds.”

“That’s what Seville wanted to do,” Voronin replied. “But they wouldn’t let him.”

“His loss, our good fortune. I’ve never much trusted the French element of the League, anyway.” The animosity between the French, the Russians, and the Chinese was legendary, as they represented three distinct wings of ideology. As a student of The Art of War, Yuen was always playing the long game. He thought not in days, weeks, or months but years and decades. The Terran Coalition might have superior technology and an element of esprit de corps, but the League would eventually win out. In the end, capitalist democracies defeated themselves. That they’d had to flee Earth in the first place was proof positive. “Work with me. Together, we will crush the enemy.”

“For the glory of the League,” Voronin replied. He slapped his hand to his chest.

Yuen mimicked the gesture. “For the glory of the League.”

THE END

Battlegroup Z: Book 2 – Hostile Spike: Fresh off their last minute victory, Justin Spencer and the Zvika Greengold are forced into battle against overwhelming force - can they hold the line once more? Find out in book 2!

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Acknowledgments and Afterword

Before I share my acknowledgments, I want to include as a bit of an Authors Afterword some notes on the namesakes of the CSV Zvika Greengold and the Red Tails squadron. Those of you who’ve read a Daniel Gibbs novel or two know I like to weave in references to people from history. Some are self-explanatory, such as Marcus Luttrell or Yitzhak Rabin.

Others are not, as I found out during the ARC process.

First, the Red Tails squadron; it’s named in tribute to the 332d Fighter Group. A unit of the famed Tuksegee Airmen, the 332d was the first African-American fighter unit to serve in combat with the US Army Air Force. They derived their nickname from the distinctive red vertical stabilizer fins on their aircraft, and had a near-perfect bomber escort record against the Luftwaffe. There’s some great Wikipedia entries on the subject, as well as a terrific movie entitled “Red Tails” that tells their story.

Second, Zvika Greengold. After WWII military history, modern-day Israeli military history is my next most read subject. During the Yom Kippur War in 1973, then Lieutenant Greengold commanded a small group of two damaged tanks. With them, he faced down multiple Syrian army divisions. Estimates place the number of enemy armor units destroyed by his hand at between twenty and sixty. Even when burned over twenty percent of his body, Lt. Greengold fought on against incredible odds. For his actions, he was awarded the Israeli Medal of Valor. It is the highest award for Valor in the Israeli Defense Force — analogous to the US Medal of Honor.

With that, I’ll begin my acknowledgments.

I’d like to start by again thanking my father for the many hours of amazing sea stories from his thirty years of service to the US Navy. A few worked their way into my stories, and gave me a window into the life of a sailor far from home.

To all those who have helped me over the last three years in making this crazy dream of a sci-fi universe where Christians, Jews, and Muslims work together for the betterment of all – thank you. The list is too numerous to count, but you know who you are.

To my editor, Susie – Thanks for helping me polish this book to the point it's something to be proud of – and for not rolling your eyes too much at my constant questions.

To those who have sent me emails over the last few years saying that the Echoes of War series rekindled your faith – thank you. I can think of no greater honor.

As always, I give thanks to those brave men and women in the US military I have had the pleasure of working beside for the last fifteen years. Thank you for your service.

Finally, I give thanks to God for the words I’ve written and the life granted to write them in.

Until next time, Godspeed.

- Daniel Gibbs