Date: 2000-01-01 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Science Fiction; War; Fiction
Description: Protracted war is inevitable. Six weeks ago, Lieutenant Justin Spencer was just another reservist in the Coalition Defense Force. Becoming a lifer wasn’t in the cards—until the League of Sol brutally attacked the Terran Coalition. With several pivotal battles now under his belt, friends and strangers alike call Justin a hero. But he finds the accolades difficult to swallow when the night only intensifies images from his first taste of combat. Then he’s faced with an active duty extension. The League is hitting supply convoys on their long journeys between the mining colonies. Without the rare

Hostile Spike

Battlegroup Z Book Two

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

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Acknowledgments

Hostile Spike 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

Lawrence City—Canaan

Terran Coalition

25 October 2433

Almost four weeks after his last combat, First Lieutenant Justin Spencer walked into a small bar on Canaan. The capital of the Terran Coalition, Canaan was the site of the largest battle since the end of the Saurian Wars. Six weeks ago, Justin had been serving his last two-week annual tour of duty as a reservist. But suddenly he and every other member of the Coalition Defense Force, active duty or reserves, were locked in a struggle against a numerically superior force, the League of Sol.

Justin had spent the last week on shore leave, while the hangar bay was exposed to vacuum for refitting and striping the deck. He ran a hand through his shortly cropped brown hair and wished they’d ended up in drydock at New Washington. At least I could’ve seen my family. He sorely missed his wife, Michelle, and his daughter, Margaret. But for the next few hours, at least, Justin resolved to push the war out of his mind and focus on the moment. If nothing else, he would allow himself some joy with his friends.

As he pushed the door shut, his second-in-command and wingman, Second Lieutenant Dvora Feldstein, motioned him to a table in the back. She was a short woman, perfectly suited as a pilot, and one of the best in the Red Tails squadron.

“Hey,” Justin said as he plopped his nearly two-meter-tall frame into one of the four chairs at the high-top table. “Took me a while to find this place. Lots of pilots, eh?”

“What makes you say that?” Feldstein replied with a smirk.

“Oh, the general ‘We’re better than you’ attitude everyone in here is giving off, and it’s called The Ready Room, for crying out loud.”

Feldstein snickered. “Valid point.” Her lips curled into a smile. “Feels weird not to have my uniform on.”

“Oh, I think we’re supposed to even on liberty, but I got tired of the attention.”

“A flyboy tired of attention? Be still my beating heart,” she teased.

Justin shrugged. “I mean, I can’t even pay for a meal. Total strangers come up to me constantly, wanting to shake my hand and thanking me for my service.”

“And?”

“Isn’t it weird? It feels weird to me.”

“They know we saved their lives,” Feldstein replied. “And almost everyone appreciates it and the sacrifices made.”

Justin couldn’t readily explain why the attention bothered him. He furrowed his brow. “Six weeks ago, no one cared or gave you a second look if you had the same uniform on.”

“Six weeks ago, a massive empire of communists from Earth wasn’t trying to take over our planets and convert us all to nice little socialists.” Feldstein made a face. “Seriously, Spencer, find something else to grouch about. My bank account looks a little better thanks to the free meals, and who doesn’t want to be looked up to?”

“I guess you’re right.”

“Of course I am. Get used to it.”

Justin laughed loudly and turned to his right just in time to see Second Lieutenant Elisabete Mateus walk through the same door he’d entered. He waved her over.

She flew over to the table, dodging a waiter with a large tray of beers. “Good evening, my fellow warriors. May I?” she asked, pointing at an empty chair.

“Like you have to ask,” Justin replied with a snort.

“Oh, this girl always likes to see if she’s wanted,” Mateus said. Her first language was Portuguese, and she had a slight trace of an accent. “Have you ordered yet?”

“Four beers,” Feldstein replied. “But they haven’t arrived yet.”

Mateus grinned and adjusted her top. “I should’ve ordered for you.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I don’t look like I came straight from a church service like you two.”

Justin had to admit she had a point. Mateus was a beautiful woman and seemed to enjoy wearing clothes that accentuated that fact. Every time they’d gone out as a group, though, the lot of them ended up not paying because someone was hitting on her. “So, another night with no bar tab?” Nothing wrong with that. I like the free drinks too.

That got him a glowering stare from Mateus and Feldstein. “It’s the twenty-fourth century. We’re past that,” Feldstein stated.

“Speak for yourself. I never pay for drinks or food,” Mateus retorted.

Second Lieutenant Jackson Adeoye interrupted their conversation. Hailing from Lagos, one of several worlds that made up the African Union, he’d served with them for several training tours. “Friends!” he roared. “The last night before our merry band returns to the stars, where victory and glory await.” The rich timbre of his voice and his distinct Nigerian accent made the words come to life.

“Our foursome is complete!” Feldstein said with a chuckle. “Mateus here was just regaling us with how she doesn’t have to pay for her meals.”

“There is no such thing as a free lunch,” Adeoye replied. He slid into the final open chair. “But I would buy the lieutenant lunch any day.”

“Get a room.” Spencer crossed his arms while rolling his eyes in mock annoyance.

As they all laughed, the waiter arrived with a tray of mugs filled with a dark golden-brown drink with a good three centimeters of froth on the top. “Your order, folks. The gentlemen at the table over there”—he pointed at a group of men with close-cropped hair that resembled a TCMC recruiting poster—“took care of your drinks. Enjoy.”

“See, I told you,” Mateus said to another round of loud snickers.

Spencer held up one of the mugs. “To our fallen comrades and friends. May they live on through our honor and deeds.”

“Hear! Hear!” Feldstein replied and lifted her mug with the rest of them.

The cold liquid felt good as it rushed down Justin’s throat. He set the glass down. “I expect these next months to be hard.”

“Anything worth doing will be.” Adeoye deposited his own mug onto the table. “But God willing, we’ll keep winning.”

“I don’t think God has anything to do with it,” Justin said darkly.

“Justin—”

He turned and stared at Feldstein. “I’m sorry, but I don’t want to hear it. It’s everywhere in the Terran Coalition right now. God’s on our side. God will help us win.” Justin bit his lip. “Tell that to the eleven pilots memorialized on the side of my Sabre.”

“Perhaps it would be best to choose a different topic,” Mateus interjected. She appeared uncomfortable and had a frown on her face. “We’re here to party, not debate.”

“Great idea,” Justin said and forced a smile. I’m in a bear of a mood. Probably the return to combat getting to me. He wanted, more than anything, to see his family. All they’d been able to do so far was vidlink a few times.

Feldstein picked up her mug and took a swig. “To Earth and victory!”

“To victory!” what seemed like the entire bar shouted at once.

Justin nursed his drink and laughed along with the rest of them, but his heart wasn’t in it. He couldn’t quite set aside the desperate combat situations he’d been in a month ago, and practically every night, he woke up in a cold sweat, thanks to recurring nightmares. They were always the same—a League fighter picking off his friends one by one then finally destroying his craft. He woke up as the cockpit filled with flames. Perhaps once they got back to the front, the dreams would fade, especially if they had some genuine success against the enemy rather than a desperate defense of their capital planet.

* * *

CSV Zvika Greengold

Low Orbit—Canaan—Terran Coalition

26 October 2433

The following morning, Justin questioned his sanity. Why did I stay up until 0200, getting so drunk that I could barely avoid the shore patrol? Judging from the pool of mostly dried vomit next to his bed, he knew the night hadn’t ended when he got back to his cabin. In his college days, being toasted was a fairly regular occurrence, but since he’d gotten married, the number of times Justin had over three drinks in an evening was countable on one hand. Grinning sheepishly, he chugged another half mug of coffee and tossed the empty container into the cleanup bin in the officer’s mess.

“You look like death warmed over, sir.”

Justin whirled around to see Feldstein behind him. “Seriously? Did you install stealth tech in your combat boots?”

She chuckled. “Nah. I’m naturally equipped with stealth mode.”

He laughed. “I’m not used to partying like that.”

“I can tell,” she commented dryly. “We’re going to be late.”

“Can’t have that. Whatley will never let us hear the end of it.” While Justin and the commander air group had initially clashed, they’d eventually developed a strong rapport with each other. Once the major finally got it through his skull that I wasn’t a coward. Another side of his brain told him he’d changed too. A few months ago, he would never have considered the possibility of sacrificing himself for another, much less acted on it. Circumstances sometimes forced rapid changes.

“So, let’s go,” Feldstein prompted. “And get out of whatever la-la land you’re in.”

Little else was said as the two of them tromped through the passageways of the carrier. Despite its relatively small size—the Zvika Greengold only carried thirty-six combat spacecraft—almost twenty five hundred personnel were assigned to the ship. They were split between the soldiers manning the vessel, the aviation crew, and the Terran Coalition Marine Corps contingent. The Greengold was like a small city in space.

When Justin rounded the corner, the double hatch for the hangar was open. A few steps later, they were walking on the deck plates. The ribbed alloy made for a different sensation through his combat boots. It almost felt as if the plating were trying to grab his feet and hold them.

The rest of the pilots were already present. Mateus and Adeoye stood with others from the Red Tails squadron, while the bomber pilots congregated around First Lieutenant Francis Martin.

“Now, mates, let’s make sure we give a proper welcome to our cobbers!” Martin yelled. His accent placed him as being from one of the British Commonwealth worlds—more specifically, a planet settled by Australians.

As Martin spoke, a squat fighter roared into the hangar bay. Justin had never seen anything like it before. Rectangular wings, a shortened fuselage, and impressive room for external stores defined the craft. It resembled a flying armory because of the half dozen pylons on each wing to attach missile pods or other munition packages to.

“What is that?”

“That, Lieutenant Feldstein, is an SF-79 Boar,” Major Gabriel Whatley replied with a bemused smirk. “Hero of the Saurian Wars.”

“How so, sir?” Justin asked.

“The Saurians threw squadron after squadron of heavily armored bombers at us. While our front-line space-superiority fighters were well suited for mixing it up with other space-superiority fighters, they sucked at getting slow and sitting behind a bomber, shooting it full of holes until it blew up. Especially when the Saurians wised up and installed aft turrets.”

Mateus appeared from behind a group of pilots. “It sounds to me like you saw this in person, Major,” she said overly sweetly. “Did you fly one yourself in the ancient times?”

“I was flying a Boar in training when you were still in diapers, Lieutenant.”

Everyone in earshot broke out laughing. “Oooh. He got you there, Mateus.” Justin slapped her on the back. “Keep trying. One of these days, someone will lay a glove on the CAG.”

“When I’m dead,” Whatley replied in a gruff but good-natured voice.

Another wave of chuckles swept through the pilots as Boar after Boar landed on the deck. Unlike the Sabres and the Maulers, the Boars lacked wraparound cockpit canopies, and instead, they had a small transparent alloy window at the front. Directly under it, each nose had a brightly colored piece of art painted on it. Most resembled the face of a tiger or a shark with large teeth around the barrel of the integrated rapid-fire magnetic cannon.

Justin felt impressed by the precision of those flying the squat little fighters. The last one of twelve touched down, and small doors on the side of each craft opened in unison. I guess they planned it. Cute. Clad in flight suits, the pilots exited their vehicles and lined up in a neat row.

A woman stepped forward and removed her flight helmet. “First Lieutenant Adrianne Green reports as ordered, sir.”

“At ease, Lieutenant.” Whatley extended his arm toward her. “Welcome aboard the CSV Zvika Greengold, your new home away from home.”

Green smiled. “Glad to be here, sir.” She glanced at the rest of the pilot cadre. “Who’s got the most kills on this ship?”

“Lieutenant Spencer, currently. Twenty-six, counting assists,” Whatley replied.

Her eyes widened. “Not bad. I’ll still beat you,” Green said. She turned back to Whatley. “Permission for the Black Hogs to come aboard, sir?”

“Granted. Spencer will show you to your quarters and give your pilots the nickel tour. We depart tomorrow morning for the combat zone.”

“Of course, sir. We’re ready to go.” Green smirked. “Positively looking forward to blowing some Leaguers out of space.”

“You’ve come to the right place,” Justin said. He crossed his arms. “The Greengold has a reputation for being in the right place at the right time.” Green’s demeanor made him bristle. Her tone came off as smug and superior. I’m probably making a mountain out of a molehill. Still, he was protective of his squad. They’d earned their stripes, and anyone else would have to earn bragging rights too.

“Oh, really?” Green replied, her tone caustic. “I’m sure we’ll be able to significantly enhance that reputation, then.”

“Leave it on the battlefield,” Whatley interjected gruffly before more comments could be made. “Lieutenant Spencer, I believe I gave you a direct order to show the Black Hogs around. Do so now.”

“Yes, sir,” Spencer replied as he came to attention. Some things don’t change. Whatley’s one of them. He gestured to the double hatch back to the passageway. “Lieutenant, after you.”

Green strode forward without another word.

“Oh, goody. I don’t think this carrier’s big enough for three squadron commanders with big egos,” Feldstein whispered into Justin’s ear.

He turned and rolled his eyes at her. “I don’t have a big ego.”

“Keep telling yourself that, flyboy.”

“Just remember, the last sound the Leaguers will hear is brrrrrrt,” Green called. She turned her head back and grinned.

“There’s no sound in space,” Justin replied. He set his jaw and steeled himself for the hour to come.

* * *

Colonel Banu Tehrani strode into her day cabin on the Zvika Greengold with a few minutes to spare. Situated directly aft of the bridge, it contained her office as well as a small bunk for sleeping near the CIC during battle or other critical situations in which she couldn’t be fifteen minutes away in the bowels of the vessel. Tehrani commanded the Greengold and its associated battlegroup. She was on her last tour of duty and had planned to retire in six months. Funny how things change so quickly.

As she sat in her chair, the chime on the hatch buzzed. “Come in!”

The hatch swung open, and a tall, dark-skinned man with short hair, wearing a CDF khaki service uniform, strode through. He came to attention before the desk. “Major Benjamin Wright reports as ordered, ma’am.”

Tehrani gestured. “Please, sit.”

He relaxed and dropped into the indicated seat. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“So. How are we today?”

“Ever heard the phrase ‘What has God wrought?’”

She shook her head. “I can’t say I have.”

“It’s something from school that had always stuck with me. The first message humans sent across a telegraph line, back in something like 1870.” Wright shook his head. “You know, ancient times.”

Tehrani laughed. “The Saurian Wars seem like ancient history, considering our technological advances.”

“Truth. Well. Anyway, I suppose I’m marveling a bit at how fast we got this ship ready to fight again. Engineering said it would take six weeks, but we’re as good as new at four.” Wright’s eyes twinkled. “I suspect that has more to do with our resident chief engineer padding his stats.”

“Perhaps,” Tehrani replied good-naturedly. For whatever reason, Wright and Hodges had a bit of a competition. It sometimes affected the ship's operation, but she was content to allow them their petty rivalry unless it did. “All systems go?”

“One hundred percent green across the board. We’ve got full stores, all weapons tested and operational, full munitions for the aviation component in our magazines, and enough food for six months. Half of it’s combat rations, but we won’t starve.”

“I sense another but in there.” After two years of working together, Tehrani had come to know her senior officers well. In a sense, they were less her subordinates and more of an extended family.

Wright let out a sigh. “Colonel, our replacement personnel… they’re green. Beyond green. The new pilots for the Red Tails squadron are two months out of flight school. They’re straight-up nuggets. The Golden Aces squadron was so badly damaged that CDF command withdrew it from active duty, and we got a squadron of SF-79 Boar fighters in its place.”

“Boars? That’s four-decades-old technology.”

“Yeah, well, apparently, these particular Boars have shields on ’em.” He shrugged. “I won’t say this out loud anywhere but in here, ma’am, but it seems to me the Greengold is getting the dregs of possible reinforcements.”

Probably because that’s all there is. The thought was unwelcome and scary. Tehrani wondered how bad the situation really was. Because one thing was for sure—CDF command wouldn’t tell a lowly colonel commanding an escort carrier if the war was already lost and they hadn’t realized it yet. She forced her mind back on task. “Why do you say that?”

He quirked his nose. “Ma’am, I read over some of the service jackets. They sent us people that a month ago would’ve been discharged for poor performance.”

“We’ll have to make do.”

“I know, but I wanted to bring it to your attention.”

Tehrani put her hands on the desk. “Have you ever trained for convoy escort duty?”

After a pause, Wright laughed. “Beyond some command-scenario sims? No, ma’am. Nothing real world, not even an exercise.”

She turned her tablet around to face him. It showed a map with several jump points flashing red. “We’ll be providing escort for thirty-three merchant ships forming up at New Washington. Eight jumps to the outer colonies.”

“That’s a lot of ground to cover and a fair number of vessels to protect. How many warships?”

“Twelve. Our depleted battle group along with another one built around the CSV Conqueror,” Tehrani replied with a smile.

Wright nodded thoughtfully. “An older battlewagon and hopefully some decent escorts… not a bad force.”

“I wish our own group were stronger. Command still hasn’t assigned us replacement ships. So it’ll be us, a repaired CSV Marcus Luttrell, and the CSV Glasgow—another Argyle-class frigate.”

“Well, then. Hopefully it’s a milk run.”

Tehrani’s stomach twisted into knots. She had no delusions about the size of the task before them. “Our orders impressed on me how vital it is for supplies to get to the mining colonies and the shipments of rare earth metals such as neodymium, promethium, and lithium in return. Without them, our shipyards will grind to a halt.”

“No new ships… League wins. Got it, Colonel.” Wright sighed. “I’ll do my best to get us whipped into shape. Permission to schedule random battle drills, zero-G firefighting, and other ship casualty scenarios?”

Tehrani grinned wolfishly. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. Between you and the master chief, we’ll jell these raw recruits into soldiers.”

“Amen to that, ma’am.”

2

Presidential Center

Lawrence City—Canaan

26 October 2433

Over the previous month, Jason Nolan had transitioned from a peacetime president of the Terran Coalition—with an agenda mostly set around expanding government support for the poor and dealing with what he saw as trade inequality with the aliens that surrounded the Coalition—to a wartime leader. Gone were the boisterous policy discussions with groups of young aides who had outsized ideas on how to make the economy better. Grim assessments of casualties had replaced them along with endless war planning sessions.

At 0700, Nolan walked through a door held open for him by a member of his protective detail and into the state-of-the-art command-and-control bunker at the base of the White House in Lawrence City. The act felt as natural as his first cup of coffee. There’s probably something wrong with that, he reflected.

“Attention on deck!” one of the junior officers called.

For the briefing, the room was lined with CDF personnel along with numerous civilians in business suits.

“As you were,” Nolan said. He made a beeline for the seat at the head of the table.

His chief of staff, Abdul Karimi, sat down next to him. An older man with prominent streaks of gray hair—where he wasn’t already bald—Karimi had been with him for almost a decade, during the time Jason had worked his way up from the Assembly to the Senate and finally the Presidency. “We’re ready if you are, sir.”

“By all means,” Nolan replied. He sat back in the chair as everyone else took their respective seats.

Another man, not quite Karimi’s age but still clearly over fifty, stood. General Antonio Saurez, Commander, Space Fleet, was the overall flag officer for the CDF’s spaceborne forces. His voice carried a vague Spanish accent. “Mr. President, not much has changed at the front from yesterday.” He gestured toward a holoprojected map of Terran Coalition space. “Except we lost another mining colony. Newbottle.”

“Lithium, right?”

“Yes, sir.” Saurez crossed his arms. “Sir, I cannot overstate to you how important it is for us to reinforce our outer planets and hold them at all costs. Whoever’s running the campaign against us now is smart, Mr. President.”

“As opposed to whoever showed up at our doorstep with a thousand ships and almost captured Canaan?” Nolan snapped. “Am I to believe that individual was dumb, General?”

“As a matter of fact, yes, sir. Our ability to project power and wage war is governed by the number of warships we have in service. Right now, across the Terran Coalition, we’re ramping up ship production. In five years, we’ll effectively double our fleet and be ready to stage offensive actions. Undoubtedly, our enemy has developed intelligence to that effect and is attempting to deny us the raw materials to do so.”

Nolan set his jaw. “General, I’ve made it clear that I respect your opinion as a professional military officer. Call me what you will… a layman, a politician, whatever. I can tell what public opinion is—and the Terran Coalition as a whole is frankly pissed.”

Karimi put a hand on Nolan’s shoulder. “Mr. President, we should be careful of allowing emotion—”

“This isn’t about emotion. It’s about morale.” He turned to Saurez. “What would you say the CDF’s morale level is right about now, General?”

“It’s good, sir. We beat the enemy, and when we can get favorable terms for battle, we win every engagement.”

Am I the only one who sees it? Nolan glanced at several of the faces around the table. “We’re winning defensive battles. We need to take the offense.”

“That’s out of the question for the next five years,” Saurez replied flatly. “Period, sir. I don’t like it any more than you do.”

From the rows of side chairs arrayed along the walls, a young man Nolan didn’t recognize leaned forward. “Sirs, there might be a way.”

Saurez whirled around, moving faster than a human could track. “Lieutenant, not here.”

The young man immediately went rigid and sat back in his chair. “Yes, sir.”

“Who is that?” Nolan asked.

“Lieutenant Andrew MacIntosh, sir. He’s a good officer, but he’s still young and doesn’t yet know when to close his mouth.” Saurez turned back toward the projector. “Back to the task at hand, sirs. We need to beef up our border presence. I want to bleed capital ships away from the core worlds and transfer them into mobile fleets that can quickly respond to League attacks.”

Nolan stared at him. “Defense in depth?”

“Exactly, sir.”

Nolan licked his lips and sighed. “We can’t be entirely focused on defense, especially as we’re asking the population to make sacrifices.”

“Speaking of sacrifices, Mr. President,” the commerce secretary spoke up. A woman with a soft voice but an iron constitution, she was a member of the rival Liberal Party, the main center-right political party in the Terran Coalition. In a tradition going back two hundred years, each administration had at least one cabinet-level secretary of the opposition party. “The latest ration-restriction proposal is on your desk.”

“Good,” Nolan replied. “And the draft law?”

Saurez and Karimi exchanged glances.

“Sir, we’re still not sure if that’s the right way to proceed,” Karimi said, finally breaking the awkward silence.

Nolan closed his eyes. “Abdul, how long have you known me?”

“Twenty years, sir. A long time.”

“That’s right. Have I ever asked you to do something I wasn’t serious about?”

“Well, sir—”

“Listen to me. We need a draft, and we need it now.”

“Both the Coalition Defense Force and Terran Coalition Marine Corps have far more applicants than we need at present, sir,” Saurez chimed in. “There’s no reason to impose a draft under these conditions.”

Nolan sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers. The subject was one that mattered much to him. He was convinced that without a draft, the cost of the war wouldn’t be shared across all sections of the populace, and in time, it would lead to caustic results and divisions the League could exploit. “I’ve explained to you both until I’m blue in the face why it’s of paramount importance that we institute a draft.”

“Sir, your concerns are valid, but at this time—”

“By the time it’s a problem, we won’t have the political will to enact the law, General Saurez!” Nolan snapped. “I want the particulars delivered to the Assembly by the middle of next week. Do I make myself clear?”

Saurez went ramrod straight in his chair. “Sir, yes, sir.”

Nolan turned to the Secretary of State. “Donald, please tell me you’ve made some progress with our former allies.” Since the League had attacked, he’d been pressing to put the Canaan Alliance back together. Once the predominant military and economic force in local space, it had dissolved after the end of the Saurian Wars and the belief that they had ended the specter of war between the various races that called the Sagittarius Arm home. God, how wrong we were.

“I’m sorry, sir. We’ve been rebuffed by the Matrinids, the Saurians… and most non-Terran Coalition human-controlled worlds.”

The answer wasn’t unexpected, but it still stung. After the initial no replies to Nolan’s pleas for assistance, they’d tried traditional diplomacy instead, and that had come up short as well. “Is there anything we can do to change their minds?”

“Well, sir, the Matrinid ambassador suggested that if we could demonstrate military superiority over the League, it would make their entry into the war more politically palatable at home.”

“Because it’s less risk to them, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

Nolan exploded, “Damn them! Damn them all. We shouldered the burden when it looked like the Saurian Empire was poised to swallow every planet in this sector!” He took in the shocked expressions on the faces around the table, and the anger drained out of him. “I’m sorry. That was unprofessional.”

“I understand your feelings, sir,” Saurez said after a long pause. “It seems we’re on our own.”

“For now.” Nolan cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, get the draft markup language moving forward.” He made eye contact with Karimi. “Agreed?”

“Yes, sir,” Karimi replied. His tone sounded as if the direct nature of the conversation had chastened him.

“And I approve the plan to pull battlegroups from our core planets for these mobile defense forces. Are we done?”

“Yes, sir. That’s it for today,” Saurez said. He was still ramrod straight.

“Good. Thank you.” Nolan stood. That was the cue for everyone else to leave, which they did in short order.

As Saurez was about to exit, Nolan motioned him to the side along with MacIntosh. “A word privately, gentlemen.”

“Of course, Mr. President. What can I do for you?” Saurez asked.

Nolan grinned. “I want to hear what Lieutenant MacIntosh thinks we can do to hit back at the League.”

Saurez grimaced and let out a sigh. “Sir, I cannot argue strongly enough—”

Nolan held up his right hand. “General, as I said, I respect the military’s judgment and leadership, but as your commander-in-chief, I am ordering you to explain any and all options to attack the League of Sol on its home turf.”

“Yes, sir,” Saurez grated out. He turned to MacIntosh. “Lieutenant, explain and keep it brief.”

MacIntosh pulled himself up to his full height. “Well, uh, s-sir…” His Scottish brogue came through loud and clear. “We have in our inventory stealth recon fighters. They carry miniature Lawrence drives with a twenty-five lightyear range.”

“They also have no weapons to speak of besides basic energy cannons,” Saurez snapped.

“Let him finish, General.” Nolan crossed his arms. “He’s got my attention.”

“We could get a carrier close enough to launch a direct attack on their space-based infrastructure, and yes, I know those fighters don’t have hardpoints, but they could be modified to carry anti-ship missiles. They’re only so underarmed to preserve stealth.”

“Even if all that went down exactly as you proposed, Lieutenant,” Saurez began with the tone of a man who’d said the same thing before and didn’t like repeating himself, “the impact on the League’s ability to wage war would be negligible. Meanwhile, if they got lucky and found the carrier, we’d be down a significant asset. It’s not worth the risk!”

Nolan pursed his lips. “You forget the morale boost we’d get and the hit they’d take. We’d prove in one fell swoop that they’re not safe from our reach. That is worth the risk, General.”

Silence surrounded them while Karimi and the protective detail looked on impassively.

Saurez finally spoke. “Mr. President, you’re the boss. If you order me to do this, I will. But I cannot stress to you enough that it’s foolhardy. It takes six years to build a Saratoga-class carrier. Please consider that.”

“We could use a smaller carrier,” MacIntosh said quietly. “That wouldn’t carry as much risk.”

“It sounds to me like this plan has promise,” Nolan stated. “Come back to me with an operational plan. Find a way to make it work.”

“But, sir—”

“Do it, General,” Nolan replied. “Dismissed.”

Saurez turned on his heel and marched away, MacIntosh in tow.

As MacIntosh cleared the door, Nolan thought he saw the smallest hint of a smile on his face, which in turn made Nolan grin. “Abdul, follow up on this for me. Daily.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What’s next?”

“Briefing with the SecDef on shipyard expansion, sir.”

“Lead the way.”

3

One of the constants of the universe, at least in the Coalition Defense Force, was paperwork. Forms existed for practically every known action on a ship, from personnel requests to promotions to crew discipline and the ever-present after-action and sitrep reports. After almost twenty years in uniform, Tehrani was used to it, but that didn’t mean she enjoyed or liked the triplicate filling out of everything under the sun. Since 0600, she’d been at her desk in the day cabin just off the bridge, toiling away.

The tablet on her desk buzzed.

A welcome distraction. Tehrani put down the specialized device for form editing and picked up her tablet. The vidlink tab was up, showing Major General Shingo Yukimura, the commanding officer for their carrier division, which included several Thane-class vessels. She sat up straight and touched the accept button.

Yukimura appeared on the screen. “Colonel Tehrani. I hope I didn’t wake you.” He wore the standard khaki duty uniform and had the Japanese nation-state’s flag on his right shoulder—a red circle against a white background.

“No, sir. I keep the Greengold on Coalition Mean Time.” She grinned. “And I’ve been crunching paperwork for hours.”

“I’ll cut right to the chase, Colonel.” Yukimura had overall control over most convoy assignments in their sector. She’d gotten to know him as he took over the role after the attack on Canaan. By all appearances, Yukimura was a highly competent and outstanding leader. “The Conqueror and her battlegroup won’t be joining you at New Washington. They’re needed to deal with a League attack on one of our border planets.”

Tehrani leaned back in amazement. Her jaw dropped. “Sir, that leaves us with three warships to escort a couple dozen civilian freighters.”

“Yes.”

“That’s insane, sir.” Her shock was rapidly replaced by anger. “I read the reports from previous convoys along this route. Multiple probing attacks by frigates and destroyers. Waves of capital ships. The last one lost fifty percent of its merchantmen.”

“I agree with you, Colonel. But orders are orders. Carry them out to the best of your ability and accept that some of the civilian ships probably won’t make it.”

Tehrani’s stomach twisted into a knot. The idea of sending untrained civilians into a war zone to die didn’t sit well with her. “Can’t you shake some more ships loose, sir?”

“No.” Yukimura shook his head. “It’s terrible out there, Colonel. That’s all I can say. I trust your pilots will do the best they can. If it comes down to it, you are ordered to protect your command and the battlegroup over the civilian freighters. It’s a lot easier to replace a bulk cargo hauler than a carrier.”

The harsh calculation of war made Tehrani’s heart sink. She forced the emotion back. “I understand, sir.”

“I’ll try to have some additional escorts added to your battlegroup for the return trip.” Yukimura paused. “Oh, and one last thing. I decided to assign the designation of Battlegroup Z to your force.” His mouth curled into a small grin.

Tehrani rolled the name around in her mind. It did have a certain ring to it. “May I ask why, sir?”

“Oh, just a bit of historical play on words. Look it up if you have the time.” Yukimura turned serious once more. “Good luck, Colonel, and Godspeed.”

“Thank you, sir. Godspeed to you too.”

The tablet went dark, leaving Tehrani to her thoughts. She sat back and stared at the overhead. The brutal reality of the conflict had been laid bare. For the entirety of her service in the Coalition Defense Force, she’d always thought the CDF worked for good in the galaxy. The orders to leave the civilians behind if the need arose didn’t shake her belief, but it was a far cry from what she’d always been taught. Leave no one. Risk everything to save just one. Such was rooted in the Terran Coalition’s collective religions—all espoused putting oneself in harm’s way to save the least among them. I’ll do my best to see us through.

The chime to the day cabin’s hatch interrupted Tehrani’s ponderings. “Come.”

“Skipper,” Wright began as he pushed the alloy door in. “Sorry to barge in on you during paperwork hour.” He gestured behind him. “I wanted to introduce you to Captain Shikoba.”

A petite woman of no more than thirty strode through the opening and came to attention. “Captain Isabella Shikoba reports as ordered, ma’am.” She stood ramrod straight.

The effect reminded Tehrani of a cadet review, and she raised an eyebrow. “At ease, Captain.”

“She’s our convoy liaison officer,” Wright explained. “And will be helping us corral the freighter commanders.”

“Ah.” Of course he’d want me to meet her. “Please, sit down, both of you.” Once they did, Tehrani pressed on. “We trained for this sort of thing, of course, but with TC Merchant Marine spacers. They’re practically an arm of the CDF.”

Shikoba smiled. “Not flesh-and-blood independent ship drivers convinced that the military is out to control them.”

Tehrani laughed, as did Wright.

“I’d say that sums it up,” she said. “How are you doing so far? Getting buy-in?”

“Lots of jostling for position. The captains with bigger ships want special privileges. It’s like herding cats.” Shikoba wrinkled her nose. “I’d rather be over here, fighting the League.”

“Careful what you wish for,” Tehrani replied. She stared at the younger woman. “Is this your first assignment on convoy duty?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Shikoba glanced away. “The last liaison officer for this route was killed in action a week ago.”

Silence descended over the small room.

Wright pursed his lips. “Well, that was before the Zvika Greengold arrived.” Though his voice was full of bravado, it sounded forced. “You ask those Leaguers at Canaan what happened when our pilots got them in their sights.” He glanced at Tehrani. “We’ll be jumping to New Washington shortly, ma’am. Picking up the convoy there on the outskirts of the Lawrence limit.”

Tehrani nodded. “Very well. Captain, have you decided what ship you’ll be making your home on in the fleet?”

“One of the bulk-cargo freighters, ma’am. It has an upgraded tactical network interlink,” Shikoba replied. She shifted. “Of course, half the other ships claim we’re showing favoritism to the company that owns that particular freighter.”

“You’ll never make everyone happy. Until we pull their collective posteriors out of the fire, the civilians will whine and complain every chance they get.”

Shikoba laughed politely. “As you say, ma’am.”

“I don’t recognize the symbol on your country flag, Captain. What’s it from?” Tehrani asked.

“Oh.” She touched the patch. It consisted of two bears with an eagle superimposed on them. “It’s the Inuit flag, ma’am. We have a small planet toward the border. Not much compared to Churchill or New Washington. But it’s ours.” Shikoba flashed a grin. “Aleut is a borderline ice world—which suits us just fine.”

“You’re going to have to tell me more about that one of these days. But now, I’m afraid I have to get back to clearing my backlog of clerical work.” Tehrani stood.

Both Wright and Shikoba immediately got up. “Thanks for taking a few moments, ma’am,” Wright stated. “I’ll show Captain Shikoba back to the hangar deck. She’ll be transferring ships between jumps.”

“Thank you, XO. I plan to be on the bridge when we jump out of New Washington.”

“Excellent, ma’am.” Wright gestured to the door. “After you, Captain.”

* * *

Justin was in something of a foul mood. He’d hoped their trip through New Washington’s solar system would give him enough time to at least take twelve hours of shore leave and see his family. No such luck—they would barely be in the system for six hours and never close enough to the inner planets to make a trip by shuttle possible. Instead, he got to sit through Major Whatley’s combat space patrol briefing. So he sat in one of the leather chairs in the Red Tails’s ready room along with a few dozen other pilots. The difference was that his chair had CO stenciled into the back of it. I’d much rather be seeing Michelle and Maggie.

“Thank you for coming, everyone,” Whatley began as he touched the controls on the podium. The lights dimmed, and the holoprojector came alive with a 3-D image of the Greengold. “I’m going to spend the next thirty minutes educating you all on how we protect a convoy with one escort carrier, one destroyer, and a frigate since the rest of the battlegroup was assigned elsewhere.”

Somewhere in the back of the room, someone with a voice Justin didn’t recognize yelled, “With the Boars! Brrrrrrt!”

Would someone burst those guys' bubble already? Justin kept silent, waiting for Whatley to do just that.

He didn’t disappoint. Whatley raised the lights, staring directly toward where the Black Hogs pilots sat together. “Who the hell said that?”

Silence was the only reply.

“Who’s the red-bellied coward that won’t own up to what you said?” Whatley thundered. He waited a few seconds. “Either stand up and say it to my face, or I’ll PT your entire squadron until you’ve got blisters on your hands and feet from running and doing pushups.” His tone of voice left no room for interpretation of whether he was serious.

One of the Boar pilots got to his feet. “Uh, I did, sir.”

“That’s the last time I hear your ridiculous sound effects in my briefing, Lieutenant. Do you get me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I didn’t hear you!” Whatley shouted.

“Sir, yes, sir,” the unlucky pilot yelled.

“Sit down.” Whatley took a moment then dimmed the lights. “What I was about to explain to you is that we’re going into a convoy escort mission with limited resources. We will only have one element of each type of small craft in our inventory in space at any given time. Being overwhelmed could happen quickly, and if it does, civilians die. Our objective is to keep that from happening.” He turned back toward the pilots. “Above all, you have to work as a team. Watch each other’s sixes, and remember that together, we’re more than the sum of our parts. Understand?”

“Yes, sir!” Justin shouted, joined by dozens of the others.

“Good. Now, pay attention.” The holoprojection shifted to a map of local space. A series of dotted lines between solar systems appeared. “This is our route. Eight jumps from New Washington to the border zone staging area. Each end is considered a safe zone, as New Washington has its own significant defense fleet, and the staging area has a fleet carrier battle group on station.”

“Are there any systems along the way seeing more attacks than others?” Martin asked. He was on the other side of the ready room.

“Good question, Lieutenant,” Whatley replied. “It would be nice if there were an obvious pattern, but no such luck. The League seemingly engages at will, anywhere along our path. Previous convoys have tried changing it up, and they still get hit.”

Justin cleared his throat. “What about jumping into deep space as opposed to solar systems?”

“As I’m sure you know, Spencer, most freighters lack the power in their Lawrence drives to jump into deep space safely.”

While the in-depth science behind Lawrence drives—which were artificial wormhole generators—was beyond Justin’s knowledge, he’d read material saying what Whatley had just repeated. It still baffled him that the companies who made the freighters wouldn’t spring for better equipment to avoid pirate attacks, or in this case, hostile military forces. Then again, they probably never expected such a thing in our lifetimes. Again and again, the complacency that had set in over the last few decades throughout the Terran Coalition proved to be a significant hindrance.

“Anything else from the peanut gallery?” Whatley asked acerbically. “Good. Moving on. Halfway through the chain of jumps, we’ll stop at a forward CDF refueling station with its own defense unit. Consider it a safe haven.” He gestured at one of the icons representing a solar system, which blinked green. “We may be attacked at any time by an overwhelming enemy force. That’s something I want to stick in your mind. Be mentally prepared. While only one element will be in space, I’ll keep an additional element on ready five.”

Groans rippled through the room. Though Justin didn’t join the chorus, he understood the frustration. Hour after hour of sitting in a cockpit, unable to use the bathroom, eat, or do anything got old—especially with no end in sight.

“My recommendation is to ensure you don’t eat anything except c-rations within three hours of going on duty. We all know how long it takes the body to process them,” Whatley said with a grin. “Gamma element will provide combat space patrol for our first jump, followed by Beta and Alpha for the second and third jumps respectively. Boar and Mauler elements will stay on ready five but not launch unless the Leaguers attack. Any questions?”

No one had any. Whatley’s plan of engagement was thorough, as usual.

“Very good. Rest up and get some sleep tonight. Tomorrow starts hell week. Dismissed!”

Amid the mad dash for the doors, Justin didn’t move as fast as the rest.

Feldstein fell in next to him as he cleared the hatch. “Three ships guarding an entire convoy?” she asked in a tone of disbelief.

“What does Mateus like to say? Target-rich environment?”

“Sir, that’s nuts. More like a suicide-rich environment.”

Justin stopped in the corridor and stared at her. “It’s what we signed up for, right?” At her nod, he continued. “We do the best we can and hope it’s enough.”

“Yes, sir.”

As they resumed walking, Justin felt unsettled. Maybe it was fear of the unknown. Whatever it was, he felt sure they would be happy to see the end of the convoy run. Then turn around and do it again. An old saying about the definition of insanity crept into his mind. I wish I could’ve said goodbye to my wife properly while we were here.

4

The next day, Tehrani could feel the tension on the bridge of the Zvika Greengold. They’d completed one jump successfully but had seven more to go. The sense of dread wasn’t something she was used to, since it was her first time on convoy duty. In the series of combats they’d fought against the League a month ago, the nonstop nature of the action kept her adrenaline pumping. In turn, it had afforded her the luxury of endless hours of contemplation. She felt comforted that midday prayers had concluded an hour before. Ever since the war started, Tehrani had gone to the mosque more often and actually cracked open her Koran. Confronting death had its way of affecting everyone.

Seated in the XO’s chair, Wright said to her, “All ships under escort report Lawrence drive cool-down complete. We’re ready to jump, ma’am.”

“Too bad we’re escorting merchant freighters with piss-poor Lawrence drive models. We could’ve jumped two hours ago,” Tehrani replied. It wasn’t their fault that the cargo ships weren’t designed for combat, but it did complicate the run—and endanger her crew.

“I think we’re seeing the effect of thirty-five years of peace. I read something about merchant vessels previously being required to be able to keep up with a warship… but those were phased out because of deregulation.”

Tehrani snorted and let out a sigh. “As long as we make the run with a minimum of combat, I don’t care.”

First Lieutenant Zachary Bryan, the tactical action officer, turned around. “I’m hoping to light up some more Leaguers and get another battle star.”

“And that’s why I’m in charge,” Tehrani replied. “As you were, Lieutenant.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Bryan said. He faced his console once more.

“Navigation, verify Lawrence drive coordinates for next convoy jump.”

“Coordinates verified, ma’am. We’re ready to engage,” Mitzner replied.

“Communications, alert the convoy to stand by for jump two.”

The Greengold’s Communications officer, First Lieutenant Gopinath Singh, spoke. “Aye, aye, ma’am.” He was tall for a human male and had a commanding presence on the bridge. His bright-purple turban, a symbol of his Sikh religious beliefs, enhanced his height by several centimeters. “Captain Shikoba reports all merchant vessels ready.”

“Navigation, execute Lawrence drive jump.”

As soon as the words left Tehrani’s mouth, the lights on the bridge dimmed. She could feel the hum through the deck plates, up into her black combat boots. Directly ahead of them, a bright multicolored artificial wormhole sprang into existence. Its maw opened, and the Zvika Greengold blazed through at maximum sublight speed. Dozens of other pinpricks of light engaged simultaneously, generated by the other ships in their convoy.

Suddenly, as quickly as it had started, they were on the other side.

“Conn, TAO. Sensors coming back online. We’re within ten thousand kilometers of our jump coordinates. No contacts. All merchant vessels confirmed on my board. CSV Marcus Luttrell and CSV Glasgow designated as Sierra One and Two respectively.”

So far, so good. “Thank you, Lieutenant. Communications, order all vessels to follow our lead.” Tehrani paused. “Navigation, bring us to heading zero-eight-zero and maintain z-axis at present elevation. Ahead half.”

Wright leaned in. “We could just sit at the jump-in point. Rather than taxing the freighter’s engines.”

“And if the Leaguers have somehow pinpointed our location?” Tehrani asked with a grin. “Always keep them guessing.”

“Valid point, Colonel.”

Hurry up and wait. That seemed to be how life worked since they’d left space dock, but Tehrani had a hard time relaxing in any way, shape, or form. Every sense she had felt heightened, and the hair on the back of her neck stood up and wouldn’t go down. I’m being irrational. There’s no evidence that the League has intelligence on our convoy routes.

After a few minutes passed without incident, her level of unease eventually settled.

“Conn, TAO. Aspect change… LIDAR effects, bearing two-seven-eight, mark positive fifteen. Range fifty-thousand kilometers. Multiple inbound wormholes.”

Tehrani sucked in a breath. Damn it. Why’d I ignore that sixth sense? I’ve brought us all into peril. “Classification of contacts, TAO?”

Bryan didn’t respond for a moment. He tapped something on his console before turning toward the CO's chair. “League-of-Sol-signature confirmed, ma’am. Two Lancer-class frigates designated Master One and Two.”

Tehrani punched the button for 1MC on her chair. While civilian and even some alien militaries preferred fancy touch screens and neural-integrated computers, the CDF had stuck to the tried and true: buttons and knobs. They didn’t fail in combat. The shipwide intercom came on with an audible click. “Attention, all hands. This is the commanding officer. General quarters, general quarters. Man your battle stations. This is not a drill. I say again, this is not a drill.” Almost immediately, the lights on the bridge dimmed and turned a deep blue. “Set condition one throughout the ship and raise our shields.”

“Condition one set throughout the ship, ma’am,” Bryan replied. “Shields at maximum. Point-defense online and in automatic mode.”

“XO, launch the alert fighters.”

“Aye aye, ma’am. That’ll be Beta and Epsilon respectively.”

Tehrani nodded curtly. “TAO, designate—” She glanced at her tactical plot. “Master Two as the priority target.” The frigate was the closest to their formation of nearly defenseless freighters.

“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Bryan replied.

Two clusters of blue icons separated from the Zvika Greengold on the screen in front of Tehrani. One was quickly labeled as Beta and the other Epsilon. Groups of red dots appeared around the enemy vessels and accelerated away.

“Conn, TAO. The enemy has launched fighters, ma’am.”

“XO, get the next fighter element from our Red Tails squadron on deck and ready to launch.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Wright replied.

The Marcus Luttrell turned sharply and sped toward the enemy interlopers. Its magnetic cannons sent a wave of high-explosive shells at ten percent of the speed of light toward the closest League frigate. Coupled with neutron beams and a volley of missiles, it made a significant dent in the Lancer’s shields.

“Navigation, intercept course, Master Two,” Tehrani ordered as the Greengold’s fighters and bombers merged into the mass of red dots denoting League Shrike fighters.

Wright leaned in. “Are we mixing it up again?”

“That we are, Major,” Tehrani replied with a grin. “The sooner we neutralize this enemy, the sooner we can get out of here.”

“We’re still two hours away from a safe jump.”

Wright’s words registered in her mind, and she knew those two ships weren’t the last Leaguers they would see. Again, she cursed the poor planning of their civilian leaders. “TAO, firing point procedures, Master Two, forward neutron beams.”

“Firing solutions set, ma’am.”

It took a few minutes for the lumbering carrier to close the distance enough for their primary armament to be effective. As the Greengold moved forward, the Marcus Luttrell raked the frigate with another alpha strike before darting out of range. Tehrani noted that the destroyer’s shields were below fifty percent.

The moment they got to their median range, she spoke. “Match bearings, shoot, forward neutron beams.”

Twin blue beams erupted from the Greengold’s bow, moving at the speed of light. They slammed into the protective screens of the League frigate, which failed after only a few seconds. Against a capital ship or heavily armored opponent, their assault wouldn’t have worked. But the Lancer had a brittle hull and limited armor plating. The neutron beams speared the hapless warship, blowing through its superstructure like it wasn’t even there. The vessel's bow blew off, and it started to tumble through space, out of control.

“Conn, TAO. Master Two has been neutralized.”

Tehrani didn’t allow herself to savor the victory. The only objective was the next target. “TAO, firing point procedures, Master One, forward neutron beams. Designate it as the primary target for our battlegroup.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am. Firing solutions set. Two minutes to energy armament recharge.”

Wright touched her shoulder. “Colonel, we just lost another fighter from Beta element. Recommend launching our next group of Sabres.”

So intent on the ship-to-ship portion of the battle, Tehrani had lost track of the fast movers. She scanned her screen and confirmed her XO’s report. “Do it.”

* * *

On the flight deck, Justin’s Sabre sat in readiness along with the other three craft of Alpha element. Since the scramble alarm sounded in their ready room, they’d raced to their fighters and completed the preflight checkouts. While Alpha was supposedly on ready-thirty alert status, it was actually closer to ten minutes.

“Spencer, Beta’s gotten worked over pretty bad,” Whatley said over Justin’s commlink. “I show Alpha ready to launch.”

“Yes, sir. We’re locked and cocked,” Justin replied enthusiastically. His mind was clear of all distractions. The only thing that mattered was engaging and defeating the enemy.

“Then get out there and kill some Leaguers before they start popping our freighters.” As always, Whatley’s tone was exceedingly gruff.

“On our way, sir.” Justin flipped the commlink channel to the air boss. “Boss, request permission to launch.”

“Permission granted, Alpha. Good luck, good hunting, and Godspeed.”

With a grunt, Justin turned the commlink channel back to his element. “Okay, boys and girls, we’re getting our turn at bat. Launch on me.”

He held down his throttle control and pressed the button to activate the magnetic accelerator catapult on the Greengold. His Sabre rocketed out of the flight bay and sped away. Feldstein, Mateus, and Adeoye were right behind him.

The integrated battlespace-awareness system in Justin’s HUD populated with friendly and hostile contacts. The blue icons associated with Beta element were missing two fighters, and one of Epilson’s bombers flashed red, indicating severe hull damage.

He gripped his flight stick with his right hand and lined up with the closest enemy craft. “Alpha, push it up to max speed and engage afterburners. The first objective is to assist our brothers.”

“Acknowledged, sir,” Feldstein replied.

As the Marcus Luttrell and the Zvika Greengold exchanged weapons fire with the remaining League frigate, Justin and the rest of Alpha flight weaved through the convoy of freighters. The sight was unique to behold. Most of the time, civilian cargo haulers plied their trade alone, or sometimes they flew in a small corporate convoy of two or three vessels. To see over thirty together with a CDF escort was unprecedented. At least during peacetime.

Unlike most engagements, with the two friendly Sabres locked in a tail-turning dogfight, Justin and his fellows didn’t have to endure incoming missile and energy-weapon fire. Instead, he settled into an attack vector on the nearest Leaguer and lit off his LIDAR active-tracking system. The missile-lock-on tone sounded, and Justin squeezed the launch button. A single Vulture dropped out of his internal-stores bay and blasted off toward the enemy. “Alpha One, Fox three.”

Missiles zoomed away from the other three craft in the element while Justin tracked his quarry, stabbing at it with bright-blue neutron-cannon blasts. Several bolts connected, and the League Shrike exploded in a brief ball of blue-and-orange flame. “Alpha One, splash one,” he called. “Alpha flight engaged.”

Feldstein’s Sabre raced by as a flurry of energy weapons erupted from it. Another enemy craft blew up, followed quickly by two more. Justin noted with satisfaction that his pilots didn’t seem to have any cobwebs from their month-long combat hiatus. It certainly helped that Beta worked these guys over pretty good. None had more than twenty percent shield power.

“Beta One, I see you’ve taken significant hull damage.”

“Still combat capable, sir,” the pilot replied. “And nearly full stores.”

Justin made a quick decision. “Return to home plate. Both of you. We’ll get S and R out here to scoop up the escape pods from Beta Two and Four.”

“Sir—”

“That’s an order,” Justin barked.

“Roger. Beta is RTB.”

Justin rotated his craft and leveled out on a vector to intercept the active flight of League Totem heavy bombers. Three of them were headed directly for the Marcus Luttrell, while the fourth seemed to have disappeared. I guess Beta got it before we arrived.

The voice of Lieutenant Francis Martin, the colorful commander of the Zvika Greengold’s bomber squadron, came over the commlink. “Attack run commencing on Master One, mates. Stand clear of the blast radius. And if you’re a pansy-ass commie, please put your head between your legs and kiss your arse goodbye!”

Justin laughed loudly. The ribald banter from the Aussie was still a welcome distraction in combat. “Wilco, Epilson One. Enjoy the fireworks.”

“You’d better believe it, mate.”

A good fifteen seconds passed. Right before Justin and the rest of Alpha element hit the League bombers' maximum engagement range, bright-blue spears of directed energy cut across his cockpit canopy. That would be the neutron beams on the Marcus Luttrell. They sliced through the unshielded hull of the remaining enemy frigate. Another two beams from the Greengold added to the destruction, and a moment later, the vessel exploded into one-meter-sized chunks.

For a few seconds, Justin allowed himself to believe they’d successfully defended the convoy, as he closed with the remaining bombers. The notion was quickly dispelled as multiple wormholes appeared on his HUD. With a firm grip on his flight stick, he decided the best thing he could do was clean up the enemy before them as quickly as possible.

* * *

“Conn, TAO. LIDAR effects… inbound wormholes.”

Tehrani glanced at her tactical plot, which didn’t yet register the new vessels. They can’t be friendly. It would be too much to ask that the attack they’d already repulsed would be it for the run. “IFF, Lieutenant?”

“One moment, ma’am,” Bryan replied quickly. “Aspect change. Enemy contacts confirmed. Three Cobra-class destroyers.” Cobra was the new designation from CDF command. Who knew what the Leaguers called the vessels. “Designated Master Three, Four, and Five.”

Three new red icons sprang into being on Tehrani’s monitor. They headed straight for the merchant ships on an intercept vector. “TAO, designate Master—” She checked the plot to be sure of her orders. “Four as the battle group’s primary target.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

“Navigation, come to heading zero-one-zero, declination fifteen degrees.”

The Marcus Luttrell accelerated toward the new threat, while the Greengold turned. The mass of the carrier coupled with its weaker engines—compared to a vessel designed for fast space warfare like a destroyer or a frigate—led to an agonizingly slow wait. Tehrani felt a tap on her shoulder and turned toward its source.

“Colonel, I’ve got an idea. If we fly under a couple of merchant ships here”—Wright pointed at a series of blue dots on the tactical plot—“we might take the lead enemy vessel here by surprise. They’re probably focused on the Luttrell coming in at max sublight.”

Tehrani grinned. “I thought you were all for staying in the back and letting our small craft do the heavy lifting.”

“Well, yeah. That’s what a carrier typically does, but you want to be different, and it’s my job to help.” Wright winked. “Besides, it does feel pretty good to notch a ship kill.”

With a shake of her head, Tehrani stared at the tactical plot and drew a series of lines over the touch screen. “Navigation, input the course I just drew into the system and drop us ten thousand meters, Z-axis.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Mitzner replied.

As the Zvika Greengold worked her way toward the fight, the Marcus Luttrell carried on the battle. First, it turned at the last moment after entering maximum effective weapons range and made almost all the plasma balls fired by the League destroyers miss. Then with the grace of a ballet dancer, the ship let loose with a full alpha strike of magnetic-cannon rounds, neutron beams, and missiles. Before the enemy could get a shot in, the Luttrell darted out of range—to begin the deadly dance once more.

Tehrani watched the plot like a hawk. The moment the Greengold cleared the last merchant ship, she barked, “TAO, firing point procedures, forward neutron beams, Master Four.”

“Firing solutions set, ma’am.”

“Match bearings, shoot, forward neutron beams.”

Two blue spears of energy shot out from the carrier’s bow. Moving at the speed of light, they made contact with the League destroyer’s shields and hammered away at them. Meanwhile, the Marcus Luttrell let loose with every weapon system it could bring to bear. As the last missile slammed into the energy barrier, the deflectors failed, and the blue beams made contact with the hull. The alloy turned molten and glowed red.

“Conn, TAO. Master Four shields are down.”

Tehrani grinned wryly at Wright. “XO, I heard those Boar pilots are always bragging about how ballsy their fighters are. I think it’s time they put up or shut up.”

“Couldn’t agree more, ma’am.” Wright touched a button on his chair. “XO to the boss. Launch the alert Boars.”

As Tehrani turned back to the tactical plot, a new group of icons appeared directly outside of the Greengold’s launch bay. May Allah help them in their goal.

* * *

A League space-superiority fighter blew apart less than five hundred meters from Justin’s Sabre. The brief orange explosion was a funeral pyre for the unlucky pilot who flew it. He rocked his flight stick to the right, avoiding a collision with fragments from the hull. More red dots appeared on his HUD as additional enemy craft entered the battlespace.

“Alpha, re-form and defend the bombers. They’re taking another pass at us.”

“Wilco, sir,” Feldstein replied, her voice staticky over the commlink. “Looks like the Boars are getting into the fight.”

Four new blue icons appeared representing the Gamma element. They raced away from the Zvika Greengold and headed directly for the nearest League destroyer—Master Four— hich still hadn’t been able to rebuild its shield grid. The Mauler bombers twisted, with Alpha providing close support, and came around for another pass.

Justin tightened his grip on the flight stick as a formation of three League fighters zoomed toward them. Inbound missiles lit up his LIDAR array but not the lock-on warning system: the enemy was firing exclusively at the bombers. “Alpha, drop chaff. Now, now, now. Break left and engage bandits.” He hoped the LIDAR-spoofing material would help confuse the warheads.

One of the Leaguers entered his sights as he brought his Sabre around. Justin squeezed the trigger for his miniaturized neutron cannons, sending dozens of blue bolts into the void.

“Alpha Two, fox three,” Feldstein called. A Vulture detached from her fighter and zipped away. A few moments later, it slammed into a League craft and blew off part of its wing. Sustained bursts from her neutron cannons finished the enemy off. “Alpha Two, splash one.”

Momentarily distracted, Justin glanced out of the canopy of his cockpit as the Boars roared into the fight. Most Terran Coalition fighters appeared aesthetically pleasing. Not so the squat armored Boar. It wasn’t built for looks. Instead, it was built to blow things up. Coming in at a high rate of sublight speed, the group of four lit up the enemy destroyer. Every couple of seconds, each craft fired a round from its ventral-integrated magnetic cannon, shredding armor and subsystems wherever they hit. Dumb-fire rockets and neutron-cannon bolts added to the maelstrom. At least two of the vessel’s plasma-cannon turrets exploded, while anti-ship missiles from the Mauler element slammed into the already-damaged hull. Secondary blasts erupted from areas already damaged by CDF weapons fire, and the League ship began to drift.

“Scratch one destroyer,” Green, the squadron commander for the Black Hogs, announced.

Justin scanned his HUD, searching for additional targets. Not too shabby. Hope that they would beat back the enemy with limited losses rose in him.

* * *

“Maybe we shouldn’t have been so quick to insult those Boar pilots,” Wright said with a chuckle.

While everything on the bridge was still bathed in blue light, Tehrani couldn’t help but feel the room had brightened just a tad. Two enemy destroyers down in a few minutes would do that to the mood. She locked eyes on the tactical plot. One left. Her recollection of the after-action reports from the previous convoy runs suggested two waves followed by a pause then more attackers. We should get a break to rearm and tee up the next fighter elements on deck. “Yes, I think you’re right, Major,” Tehrani murmured. “We owe them an extra-special dinner tonight from the senior-officers’ mess.”

“Agreed.”

The kernel of hope in Tehrani’s gut grew as the last wave of fighters and bombers the Leaguers launched was quickly eliminated. Until Bryan interrupted her thoughts, that was.

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

Tehrani let out a breath. So much for military intelligence. She steeled herself for what came next.

“Conn, TAO. New contact identified as Rand-class heavy cruiser. Designated Master Six.”

There had to be some irony in the universe somewhere for CDF command to name a ship from a communist empire hellbent on conquering the Terran Coalition after Ayn Rand. Tehrani only knew of Rand in passing from her childhood education—that and a planet named Galt, beyond the Coalition’s frontiers. They’d long proclaimed to be the real capitalists and condemned the Terrans as a statist empire. She suppressed the urge to roll her eyes at the thought.

“TAO, designate Master Six as the priority target for the fleet. XO, stand by to launch any available small craft.” Tehrani turned toward the front of the bridge. “Navigation, plot an intercept course with Master Six, all ahead flank.”

The Rand, which to a casual observer would appear deceptively small, charged forward. It had emerged on the other side of the merchant ship’s formation, and as a result, almost all friendly forces were out of position to intercept. Red balls of plasma and neutron beams stabbed out from the heavy cruiser’s hull. As the nearest vessels tried to scatter, a barrage of the plasma balls slammed into an unlucky freighter’s shields. They only held for a few moments before the superheated matter smacked into the nonexistent armor and brittle hull of the civilian freighter. A chain reaction of explosions started and ended in chunks of alloy less than a meter wide.

“My God,” Wright muttered.

A second merchant ship was luckier—instead of exploding, the Rand’s neutron beams shaved its engine pods off, leaving the vessel tumbling through space, but at least its crew might have a chance at survival.

Tehrani peered at Wright. “Ideas?”

“We’re out of position and outgunned, ma’am. They played us.”

“By the time we get in range, that cruiser will have destroyed half the convoy.” The tactical plot confirmed Tehrani’s comment, and she momentarily blanked on what to do next. Think, dammit. I have to change the rules here. The solution hit her suddenly. “Communications, order the convoy to prepare for an emergency Lawrence drive jump to our next destination.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Singh replied.

“No objection, XO?”

“Well, it’s risky, but I don’t have a better idea.” Wright offered a half-hearted grin. “That’s why you get paid the big bucks, Colonel.”

“Conn, Communications,” Singh interjected. “Captain Shikoba has asked me to convey her deepest concern about your order. She believes it will lead to unnecessary loss of life.”

“Noted.” Tehrani set her jaw. “Instruct her to carry out my orders.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

“Navigation…” Tehrani turned toward Mitzner. “Plot our Lawrence drive jump and stand by to engage.”

“Should I order our small craft back?” Wright asked.

“Yes.”

“What about the ejected pilot?”

Wright’s words hit Tehrani like a ton of bricks. She’d forgotten, in the heat of battle, that they had a missing pilot from Beta element out there. “See if either of the on-deck SAR crews are willing to volunteer.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.” He touched his screen. “Both did, ma’am.”

“Get the number-one bird in space. Tell them to be sure they pay attention to orders, because we will leave without them if it’s required.”

Wright nodded grimly at her. “Understood.”

5

With the bombers and the Boar elements headed back to Zvika Greengold, Jason and the rest of Alpha busied themselves trying to keep League fighters from picking off the vulnerable merchant ships and slower small craft. As he destroyed yet another Leaguer, Jason noticed a new friendly contact emerging from the Greengold. Its ID flashed on the HUD, designating the late arrival as a search-and-rescue craft.

He cued his commlink. “Rescue One, state intent. We’ve got orders to head back to home plate for emergency Lawrence jump.”

“Alpha One, we’ve got a pilot in space with a strong beacon,” someone on the SAR bird replied. “You know the drill. That others may live. If you could give us some cover on your way back to the Greengold, I’d appreciate it.”

Justin felt like he was having another one of those moments of clarity. He had two paths in front of him—the safe choice, heading back with the rest of Alpha, or going the extra mile, above and beyond the call of duty. What shocked him was how quickly he made the choice. “Rescue One, understood. I’ll take up close escort position off your port side. You got one shot at this, then we’re bailing out. Confirm. Over.”

“Roger, Alpha One. Confirmed. Thanks for the assist.”

“Are you insane?” Feldstein practically screamed into Justin’s ear. “The convoy is about to jump.”

“If it were me out here, I’d hope someone tried.”

“At least let us go with you.”

“No. I won’t risk the rest of Alpha. Get back to the Greengold, cover her from incoming missiles, and stand by to execute a combat landing.”

“But—”

“That’s an order, Lieutenant,” Justin replied with an edge to his voice.

“Yes, sir,” she replied curtly, and the line cut off immediately.

Justin interlinked his sensor net with the SAR bird, affectionally known as a Jolly Green. Typically, emergency distress pings didn’t populate the board, but with his craft communicating directly with them, a contact appeared with Lieutenant Hastings’s ID attached to it. This is gonna be close. Perhaps it was luck or good fortune, but so far, the enemy hadn’t noticed them. At least, they haven’t visibly reacted to the Jolly Green.

As they raced toward the stricken pilot, Justin thought about the horror it must be, to be stuck in the void as the battle raged, unable to affect it or even take steps to save yourself. Relying solely on others is not a place I would ever want to be. He scanned the sensor display once more, part of a rotating three-second situational-aware check ingrained into him as a fighter jock. Oh shit. Four League craft had broken off from the forces engaging the freighters and turned toward the Jolly Green.

The odds were not good. Justin would’ve gladly taken two on one, but four amounted to suicide. He keyed his commlink to the guard frequency as a sudden inspiration hit him. “This is Lieutenant Justin Spencer calling the four League fighters bearing zero-one-two, range fifty kilometers.”

“Do you wish to surrender, Terran?” a French-accented female asked.

“You’re headed toward an unarmed search-and-rescue craft engaged in rescue operations. Please break off.”

A pregnant pause followed. “Wouldn’t you shoot us down if the roles were reversed?”

Sudden revulsion hit Justin. “Never. Killing a man or a woman in a spacesuit after ejection is murder.”

“Lucky for you, Terran, I agree.”

To Justin’s complete disbelief, the four League fighters peeled away and headed back toward the main force.

“Why, Leaguer?” He was dumbfounded that it had worked, especially with what he’d seen so far of the enemy.

“Because we’re fighter pilots, first, last, and always. You don’t murder an unarmed foe. At least, that’s what a commander I greatly respect instilled in me. The next time we meet, Terran, I’ll shoot you down. This, I promise you.”

Justin grinned. “May the best pilot win.”

Perhaps he imagined it, but he thought he saw one of the League craft waggle its wings in salute.

The commlink beeped, indicating a direct call from the Jolly Green. Justin toggled it over.

“Rescue One to Alpha One. We’ve got our man. Heading back to the barn. Not sure how you scared them off, but there’s four pararescue men over here that will be eternally grateful, Spencer.”

“Roger that, Rescue One. I’ll maintain close escort.” Justin scanned his HUD. The convoy tried to avoid the enemy’s heavy cruiser as much as possible, but another freighter had been lost, by his count. We’ll get a jump-out order any moment. Justin tightened his hand around his flight stick and hoped they wouldn’t be left behind.

* * *

“I don’t know how, but the SAR bird got Hastings. They’re headed back to the barn,” Wright announced. “Master Six is coming around for another firing pass.”

Tehrani glanced at the tactical plot. They were already in range of the Rand. “TAO, firing point procedures, forward neutron beams, Master Six.”

“Firing solutions set, ma’am,” Bryan replied crisply. “We’ll be in range momentarily.”

Wright leaned over and whispered into Tehrani’s ear, “Our neutron beams won’t scratch their paint, skipper.”

“I know,” she replied equally quietly. “We just need to distract them for thirty seconds until our last few small craft can land.” After the incredible heroism shown by the Jolly Green, Tehrani wasn’t leaving them behind. She couldn’t. The moment the icon for the League capital ship breached the circle around the Zvika Greengold on her screen, showing it within firing range, she directed her attention to Bryan. “TAO, match bearings, shoot, forward neutron beams.”

Two beams shot out of the carrier’s bow and connected with the Rand at light speed. Impressive weapons, especially against undershielded foes, but the Rand shrugged off the attack like a linebacker plowing through someone half his weight. The cruiser replied with a wave of plasma balls and energy-weapon attacks that lit up the Greengold’s shields.

“I think we got their attention, Colonel,” Wright intoned as he was thrown around in his harness. “SAR bird is twenty seconds out.”

Tehrani held her breath as the final two blue dots merged with the icon representing the carrier.

“All merchant vessels report ready to jump, ma’am,” Singh interjected.

“Communications, order them to jump immediately,” Tehrani replied. “Navigation, activate Lawrence drive.”

Flurries of orders and replies swept the bridge, and Tehrani sat like the beacon of a lighthouse in the middle of a hurricane. The lights dimmed, and directly in front of the ship, an artificial wormhole opened. Lights flashed briefly as the freighters disappeared through their own portals through the stars. Waiting until the absolute last second, she let out a breath and double-checked the tactical plot. Only the Zvika Greengold remained. “Navigation, all ahead flank.”

The trip through the wormhole was exceedingly rough thanks to League weapons fire impacting their deflector screens. The bridge crew shook in their harnesses, and Tehrani thought the effect was akin to bull-riding machines she’d seen before in bars—usually American ones. A few seconds passed as they glided out the other side, and the shaking stopped.

“Conn, TAO. Sensors back online. No hostile contacts.”

“Conn, Navigation. Transit complete, ma’am.”

Tehrani let her head hit the back of her headrest. “XO, begin damage control efforts. Terminate condition one and stand down battle stations.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am. I’ll have a full report for you within half an hour.”

“How many civilian vessels are we missing?” Tehrani asked, staring into his eyes.

“Seven, ma’am. Six from enemy fire, and one didn’t survive the jump.”

A couple of gasps went up from the senior officers, though no one spoke. A wave of sadness and despair swept across the bridge.

My call cost twenty spacers their lives. Before regret could form, her mind pushed back. If I hadn’t ordered the jump when I did, we’d all be dead—for nothing. At least if the supplies made it, their sacrifice would mean something.

Wright seemed to sense how she felt. “That anyone got out is a win, ma’am. Asking us to defend a large convoy with three ships is tantamount to suicide.”

Tehrani pursed her lips. “If it were our last jump, I might feel better about it, XO. But here we are, beginning our journey.”

“We’ll get to the other side. I know it.” Wright flashed a grin at her. “What’s that you guys say? God is great?”

“Allu Ackbar. God is the greatest.”

“Well, He’s going to see us through.”

The words were meant as encouragement, but they spoke to doubts deep in her soul about her commitment to faith and truly believing that God, whatever His name was, controlled the universe’s outcomes. Why not prevent the League from attacking us in the first place? She decided to set aside that rabbit hole of thought and focus on repairing the ship. “We live in hope.” Sotto voce, Tehrani continued, “Thank you, Benjamin.” She used his first name on purpose, reinforcing the personal nature of the comment.

“Any time, ma’am.”

* * *

Justin strode into the pilots’ ready room, still in his flight suit, like most of the rest present. Feldstein, Mateus, and Adeoye were right behind him, and they sat together. The mood was somber, at least among the Red Tails squadron members, and even the normally chipper Lieutenant Martin was quiet.

All small talk and whispers ceased instantly when Whatley came in through the hatch. Everyone rose and stood at attention.

“As you were,” Whatley rasped as he stepped behind the lectern. “Anyone care to tell me what went wrong?”

He’s sure not pulling his punches. Justin cleared his throat. “There were too many enemy fighters, bombers, and ships, sir.”

“So, in other words, the problem was that the bad guys showed up with too many people on their team, Lieutenant?”

“Sir—”

“There are sixty-nine dead merchant spacers out there, Spencer. Because”—Whatley pointed at Justin—“you screwed up. Along with you.” He pointed at another pilot at random. “All of you did.”

Justin thought Whatley’s eyes were going to explode out of his head. His face had turned a bright shade of red. “Sir—”

“Stow it, Spencer. I do not want to hear excuses right now. You got your collective asses handed to you by the commies. If this keeps happening, there won’t be a convoy to defend.”

“Sir,” Justin barked, “get us more ships, or let the entire wing launch. You can’t expect us to do the impossible.”

“If we launch the entire wing, who’s going to defend against the attack that comes two hours later while you’re all refueling?”

Justin set his jaw. “With respect, sir, what would you have us do?”

“Get better at your jobs. Focus on teamwork.” Whatley’s eyes flicked to Mateus. “Lieutenant, you only had a twenty-three percent hit rate on your neutron cannons. I expect better.”

“I’m a triple ace,” Mateus shot back. “In six engagements.” Her eyes flashed anger. “There were too many for us to take on all at once.”

“There’s your problem right there. Get this through your thick skulls, ladies and gentlemen. This war is not about your personal kill score. It’s about protecting the men and women to your right and left. Period. I want simulator time dialed up until you’re all hitting the target forty percent of the time with the neutron cannons. You will practice working as a unit. You will watch each other’s backs. If you don’t, I’ll bust you all back to private and find some real pilots! Do you get me?” Whatley thundered, spit flying out of his mouth.

Even though every fiber in his being wanted to lash out at Whatley and tell him he was full of it, Justin bit his lip then replied, “Sir, yes, sir.”

The rest of them followed.

“Good. Now get the hell out of my sight.”

While the rest made their way to the exits as fast as their legs would carry them, Justin remained behind. He crossed his arms and waited for the clang of the hatch to signify that they were alone. “That was uncalled for, sir.”

“Was it?” Whatley stared at him.

“They did their best, sir. So did I.”

“And in this case, your best wasn’t good enough. So get better.” Whatley’s expression softened just a touch. “I’m going to be hard on everyone, especially you, Spencer. They’ve got to get out of this kill-count mentality and focus on the objectives. It doesn’t matter how many times you make ace if the civilian ships we’re escorting, our carrier, other capital ships, or the planet we defend go down. Do you get what I’m saying?”

“Yes, sir. But if I may, your delivery model sucks.”

Whatley snorted. “I don’t care about your perception of my delivery model, Lieutenant.”

“The pilots need to know you’ve got their backs.”

As Whatley stared at Justin, he seemed to flip a mental coin. “No, they need me to ride them as hard as I can. You, on the other hand… they do need to know you have their backs. Which your stunt with the Jolly Green showed in spades.” He smiled slightly. “Now get out of here. And reinforce that we have to work together.”

“Yes, sir.” Justin briefly came to attention then turned and walked out the hatch. Even after the small victories he and the rest of them had achieved, he found it almost impossible to be anything but depressed.

6

The mood of the pilots’ mess, which after the Battle of Canaan had been energetic and even jovial, now resembled a tomb. The losses hadn’t helped, but the final nail in the coffin had been Whatley’s debriefing session. Justin suspected that much like him, everyone else was replaying every action they’d taken. He’d searched for something he missed or a specific maneuver he could’ve used that might have changed the outcome. I don’t think there was a way to win with what we had to work with.

He set his tray on a table. While the mess stewards had piled his plate high with chicken and dumplings along with bread and a side of broccoli, the last thing Justin wanted to do was eat.

Feldstein sat down next to him. Her tray was filled with food as well. “You look like crap.”

Justin turned his head and snorted. “Thanks. You too.”

“Hasn’t your wife taught you never to tell a lady she looks bad?”

In his state, Justin wasn’t remotely interested in banter. He shrugged. “I’m sorry. Probably not good company right now.”

“We got our asses handed to us,” Feldstein said as she unrolled her silverware and put the napkin in her lap. “I hate to say it, sir, but it’s not going to be the last time.”

“Yeah. I know. I’m thinking more about those merchant spacers that aren’t going home.”

His comment cast a somber tone.

Feldstein said little then bowed her head and whispered a prayer in Hebrew that Justin couldn’t understand. She looked up and offered a small smile. “Hopefully, they’re in a better place.”

“Heaven?”

Feldstein took a bite. “Yes.”

“I’ll leave that to you and the others.” Justin pursed his lips. “All I know is we’ve got one life, and I’d hoped to make the most out of it.”

“Have you talked to Michelle and Maggie lately?”

Thankful for the subject change, Justin shook his head. “Not since we left. I’m supposed to get some comm credits tonight. What about Richard? How’s his ship doing?”

“Good. They’re on rotation to home defense for the next three months.” Feldstein put her fork down. “I’m not sure I could do this if he wasn’t.”

Justin blinked. I hadn’t thought of it like that. She has to worry about her husband too. I just have to worry about myself. “I suppose I’m lucky that way. My wife is nowhere near the combat zone.”

“Unless the damn Leaguers invade New Washington,” Feldstein replied darkly. She took another bite. “I’m sorry, sir. Probably not the best of company either.”

He snickered. “I think that applies to all of us.”

Feldstein put her fork down again. “You know, the aw-shucks routine is nice and all, but you should know I and the rest of the squadron respect the hell out of you, sir. Going back again today to make sure the SAR bird got out along with Hastings… you’re on the way to becoming a legend.”

“If it was me out there, tumbling through space in one of those pods, or worse, in the vacuum, I hope someone would do the same for me. That’s why I did it.” He sucked in a breath. “Speaking of the rest of our merry little band, where are Mateus and Adeoye?”

“The last I saw of Mateus, she was headed to the simulators, ranting about wanting to improve her neutron-cannon accuracy percentages. Adeoye is…” Feldstein turned away. “He’s really bothered by the ship losses. I think he blames himself.”

“We all do.”

“It’s not our fault, sir.”

“Really? Because we’re the sharp tip of the spear. You heard the major. Every time we miss, we help the enemy.”

Feldstein scrunched her face, and her cheeks turned red. “That’s a slogan, not a solution. You know as well as I do that there was no way to win.”

“So? We go on our merry way, eating and drinking as if nothing happened?” Justin put his fork down. “Look, I know your heart’s in a good place. But right now, I don’t want a pep talk. All I need is a conversation with my family before I go back out there at a moment’s notice and probably buy the farm.”

For a moment, he thought Feldstein was going to go off on him in the middle of the mess. Instead, she chuckled. “Do you know where the expression ‘buy the farm’ comes from?”

“No, I’m afraid I don’t.”

“Hundreds of years ago, if a pilot crashed in a farmer’s field, the government had to pay for the lost crops. The farmers got quite good at marking up the cost of their crops. Hence the expression ‘bought the farm.’” Feldstein smirked. “Funny how that’s survived all this time.”

The factoid made Justin smile. “The more things change, the more they stay the same.” He stood. “I’m going to go see if I can get those communications credits I’m due. See you in six hours? Alpha has the 0400-to-1000 CMT scramble watch.”

“Yeah, I’ll be there. Not like there’s anything else to do on this ship, anyway.” She grinned. “I hope you get through.”

“Me too.” Justin turned and walked out of the room. The mood was still as dour as when he’d entered half an hour ago. It seemed to permeate the entire vessel as he walked the passageways, snaked his way through the bowels of officers’ country and finally ended up in the section of staterooms reserved for the pilots and other space-aviation officers. He pushed the hatch to his quarters open and let it close with a thud behind him.

The room was dim, but the lights came on automatically, a motion sensor triggered by Justin’s entry. It felt so lifeless and empty. As he’d only been assigned to the Zvika Greengold for two weeks, he’d packed no real personal items in his space duffel. He didn’t even have family pictures. As a result, the area was untouched and sterile, an ever-present reminder of how suddenly the war had broken out, leaving shattered dreams and plans washed away.

Justin spotted his tablet sitting on the small desk in the corner of the stateroom. He glanced at his commlink, chronometer, and health tracker attached to his wrist like a watch of old. The time was almost 2000 hours CMT. Roughly when I should be able to reach home.

He sat down and pulled up the vidlink application. Michelle’s profile was the first contact. The screen stayed dark for a good forty-five seconds, leading him to believe it wasn’t going to connect.

Then Michelle’s smiling face appeared.

Right next to her was his four-year-old daughter, Maggie. “Daddy!” she exclaimed. “Mommy wasn’t sure you could talk tonight.”

Justin’s lips curled into a wide grin. “Nothing was going to keep me from my girls.” He gulped. “I miss you both so much.”

“We miss you too,” Michelle replied.

Beneath her smile, Justin recognized the unmistakable signs of sadness, not the least of which was puffiness around her eyes. After several years of marriage, he knew what crying looked like on her.

“How was your day? It’s what? Six p.m. ship time?”

“Not quite. More like eight. But who’s counting? I’ve got a watch shift from 0400 to 1000 hours tomorrow morning, so I’ll get a few hours of sleep.”

“Daddy, did you fight the Leaguers again? Everyone at school is talking about how the Coalition won’t let them take our planets.”

The innocent way in which Maggie asked the question, coupled with the thought that a four-year-old girl shouldn’t be thinking about war, cut Justin to his core. “Honey, don’t worry about all that. I’m going to keep you and Mommy safe.”

“Are you going to die, Daddy?”

Michelle let out something that sounded like a cross between a choke and a cry. “Maggie, don’t say things like that.”

Justin’s heart nearly broke. She’s only four. She shouldn’t have to think about life and death. “I’m going to do everything I can to come home, baby girl.” Justin couldn’t find it within himself to make a promise he might not be able to keep.

“You can’t promise?”

Justin shook his head. “All I can promise you and your mother is that every time I get into my cockpit and ride into the stars, I’ll do everything in my power to come home to you both.”

Maggie began to cry, tears streaming down her face. Michelle wrapped her arms around the little girl, trying to comfort her. “Daddy’s going to come home.” She directed a dirty look toward the camera. “Isn’t he?”

“I won’t lie to her, Chelle. She deserves to know her father’s fighting a war. If we don’t tell her, the kids at school will.”

“Have you killed people, Daddy?” Maggie broke free of her mother’s embrace. “One of my friends said that all murderers go to hell. I don’t want you to go to hell!” she practically shrieked.

Justin touched the screen, wishing he could will himself to move through the camera and hold them both. “Honey, listen to me. You’re very young, and so are your friends. They just parrot stuff they hear at home. I can’t tell you whether people go to hell or not. But I promise you what I’m doing isn’t murder. These League of Sol people, they attacked us. We’re just defending ourselves. Okay?”

“Okay.” Maggie’s lip quivered. “Does that mean God is okay with it?”

Answering questions about faith was difficult for Justin. He’d agreed long ago with Michelle not to promote his lack of belief but found it difficult not to share his viewpoint. “Baby girl, I don’t think He’s okay with war, but it’s a necessary evil. Hey, enough of this talk. How are you doing in school?”

“I got an A for my English studies,” Maggie replied, beaming. “And a B plus for math.”

“Not bad for a kindergartener.” Justin forced a smile and winked. “You’ll be acing first grade in no time.”

“I don’t want her growing up any faster than she already is,” Michelle interjected. She ran her hands through Maggie’s brown hair. “Okay, munchkin, time for you to go to bed.”

“But, Mom—”

“No buts, little lady. Go lie down, and I’ll come read a story to you in a few minutes, okay?”

“Okay.”

Justin put his hand on the screen again. “Good night, Maggie. I love you.”

“I love you, too, Daddy.”

Watching his daughter disappear from the vidlink frame, Justin wondered if he’d ever see her again or hear her voice. Tears fell out of his eyes as the thought overwhelmed him.

“Baby, what’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry,” Justin said. “I miss you guys so much, and I… I don’t know if I’ll return to the ship. Each time I launch into space, it’s a gamble.”

“You know, maybe it would help if you pray and ask God to watch over you.”

Justin sighed. “You know my stance on religion, dear. It hasn’t changed.”

“If you’re telling me that you question whether you’ll survive every mission, what do you have to lose, Justin?” Her voice rose in pitch.

“Look. We agreed when we got married—no conversion attempts. I get it. You’ve got faith. I’m glad you do, because I don’t. I think we only get this one life. So I try to live it to the absolute fullest.”

Michelle smiled ruefully. “I’m still going to pray for you.”

Justin allowed himself to grin. “I won’t turn it down. If, by chance, there’s something up there that cares about us… I’m sure your intercessions will help.”

An awkward silence followed before Michelle shifted. “I’m terrified, baby. I know you don’t need that weight on you right now, but it’s hard. I keep seeing the chaplain with a senior officer. Another four families got notifications this week.” Tears filled her eyes. “Do you have any idea how long you’ll be at the front?”

Millions of families across the Terran Coalition were undoubtedly asking that question. If you boiled it all down, regardless of the rightness of the fight or that they were locked in a war for survival, mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, wives, and husbands across the land went to sleep each night wondering if they would ever see their loved ones again.

Justin bit his lip hard enough to hurt. “They’re saying nine- to twelve-month deployments, hon.” He paused. “I’m hoping that if we put into space dock at New Washington, I can get liberty to see you and Maggie.”

“What’re the odds of that?” Michelle asked. She dabbed at her eyes, drying her tears.

The posters lining the hallways of the Zvika Greengold reminding everyone to keep their mouths shut about deployment information flew into his mind. “Loose lips sink ships and all that, dear.” He offered a lame smile. “You’ll know when I get there.”

Michelle chuckled. “You only had a few weeks left.”

“I know.”

“The news says no one is being allowed to leave the CDF or the Marines right now.”

“It’s called a stop-loss order,” Justin replied. Officers and enlisted personnel alike detested them. “And yes, it’s servicewide.”

“Part of me is so proud of you,” Michelle said, her eyes again brimming with tears. “I know you’re out there, defending us. It means so much to me. And another part of me is equally furious and scared that it had to be you. Why you? Someone else could be out there fighting instead.”

“Dear—”

She held up her hand. “Let me finish. Once I process all that, then all I feel is shame that I’d be willing for our family to do nothing while this war is fought.”

“Honey, I understand how you feel. Part of me didn’t want to be here either.” He thought back to his decision to turn and engage the entire League force when it looked like the Greengold would be overwhelmed back at Canaan. “I had a change of heart. For whatever it’s worth, my place is here. I know it. It’s where I’m supposed to be.”

“Maybe it’s where God wants you to be.”

Justin chuckled. “I suppose I deserve that for getting all metaphysical on you.”

“Promise me you’re going to come home. I don’t know if I can raise our daughter alone, but more importantly, I don’t want to do this without you. I love you, Justin Spencer. Now and forever.”

“I promise you I’ll do everything in my power to come home.”

“That’s not the same.”

“It’s the best I can do without lying. And I won’t lie to you, Michelle. I love you and Maggie too much for that.”

She nodded and sat back on the couch. “Can you do something for me?”

“Maybe,” Justin said with a crooked smile. “Depends on what it is.”

“Please don’t bring up the war if you can with Maggie. She’s too young to understand all this.”

Justin raised an eyebrow. “She seemed like she understood it to me.”

“Justin!”

“Honey, if we don’t talk to her about it, her friends and the holoprojector will. I’m sure it’s nothing but around-the-clock coverage of this battle and that. From what we’ve seen out in the fleet, those news types talk nonstop about the war.”

Michelle crossed her arms. He knew the look well. She was mad. “That doesn’t mean we need to encourage it. Please, Justin. You don’t see her crying at midnight because she’s terrified you’re going to die.”

Justin closed his eyes and hung his head. He would’ve cried, but most of his tears had already flowed out for the evening. Instead, he felt shame. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize…”

“It’s okay. I know you meant well, but please, try to hold back her enthusiasm to talk about the war.” She brushed her hair out of her face.

Okay, we need to change the subject before I think about jumping out of an airlock. The thought was only half in jest. “I really hope I can visit in the next few weeks.”

“Do you think it’s possible?”

“Yes,” Justin said with a grin. “Beyond that, I can’t say much.”

“The news keeps trumpeting how well we’re doing,” Michelle tilted her head. “But something about it doesn’t hit me as accurate. Not with the rationing going on. There’s a drive going to get people to donate extra electronics and even things like pots! Why would we be doing that if we’re winning?”

“Because the government needs raw materials to build more warships, and rare earth elements are always in short supply.” Justin quirked his nose. “That’s why they’re called rare.”

“Oh, look at you, Mr. Smarty Britches.”

Justin grinned. If I were at home, this line of banter would lead to something else entirely. “Better than calling me dumb.”

She laughed. “You didn’t answer the question.”

“It’s going fine. We’re holding our own.”

“Don’t lie to me.” Michelle crossed her arms. “How bad is it?”

More than anything, he wanted to tell her the war would be won within the year. I wish I thought it would be. Everything they’d seen and heard so far indicated sustained offensive action by the League. The waves of ships were relentless. CDF battle groups would eliminate an enemy unit, and before they even got back to spacedock to crack open a drink, two more would take its place.

“Justin, I know that look.”

“I forget how well you know me sometimes. It’s going to be a fight. I don’t know how long, but it seems like… something on the same level we faced during the Saurian Wars. Beyond that, I can’t say, and please try to remember our comms are being monitored.”

“Monitored?” Michelle’s face contorted.

“Baby, we’re at war. I have no doubt a shackled AI is listening to every commlink going out of every military vessel, checking for breaches of secrecy.”

Michelle touched her fingers to her lips then to the screen. “I love you.” She smiled. “I want you to know that I pray every hour for the safety of you and everyone else on the Zvika Greengold.”

Part of Justin wanted to lash out and tell her there was no such thing as God, only what they saw around them. For a reason he couldn’t readily explain, every time God or religious belief came up lately, he got defensive. Instead, he smiled. “Can’t hurt.” Justin paused. “I’m out of comm credits, hon. Next week?”

She nodded ruefully. “I’ll be here. You’d better be too.”

“Count on it.”

The screen went blank, leaving Justin to a darkened room.

7

The insistent buzzing of the intercom woke Tehrani from her slumber. She opened her eyes with an annoyed groan to see the large digital alarm clock displaying 0300 CMT. It took a moment for her to clear the grogginess and pull herself entirely out of sleep mode.

“Go ahead,” she mumbled, realizing the call had come from the bridge.

“Sorry to wake you, Colonel,” Bryan said. He was standing the midnight watch as command duty officer. “But we’re showing some sensor anomalies that I think you might want to take a look at.”

“League vessels?”

“Possibly, ma’am.”

“I’ll be right there. Call the XO down too.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

The day cabin was only a few steps from the bridge, and Tehrani cursed her earlier decision not to bring up a new uniform. She made herself as presentable as possible in sixty seconds, pulled on her shoes, and strode the few meters down the passageway.

“Colonel on the bridge!” an eagle-eyed senior chief barked.

All personnel not strapped into their seats came to attention and saluted.

“As you were,” Tehrani replied, quickly returning their salutes.

Bryan stood from the CO’s chair. “Ma’am, we keep seeing a sensor ghost at about three hundred thousand kilometers off the port bow.”

“Space is full of them,” Tehrani said with something of a smirk. She crossed her arms. “What necessitated waking me?”

“This one matches our movements.”

A-ha. Tehrani grimaced. “I’ll take the conn now, Lieutenant.”

“Colonel Tehrani has the conn. Aye, aye,” Bryan replied. He made his way to the tactical console and took over for the young second lieutenant learning the ropes during the third watch. She moved off to a subconsole in the back of the bridge.

“This is Colonel Tehrani. I have the conn,” she stated formally. As she sat down, Tehrani punched the intercom button and routed her communication to Major Whatley’s quarters.

“Whatley here.” He sounded exhausted.

“Major, we have a situation in progress. I suspect the convoy is about to be hit again. Get the next shift of pilots ready for combat immediately.”

It seemed as if his brain hadn’t quite engaged yet. “Uh… that’s first watch, ma’am. We can have two elements each of fighters and bombers plus an element of Boars ready in thirty minutes.”

“Do it, Major.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

The line clicked off, and Tehrani turned her attention to the tactical plot. She superimposed the last thirty minutes’ worth of sensor data with tracking lines and, most importantly, the “ghost” LIDAR returns. Her concentration was interrupted by the familiar voice of her XO.

“Reporting as ordered, ma’am,” Wright said as he slid into the XO’s chair directly next to Tehrani’s. “What’s going on?” He cracked a grin. “I was just about to get some beauty sleep.”

“You need it,” Tehrani replied with some mirth. “Check this out.” She turned her screen to face him.

Wright scanned over it. “Oh. Yeah. That doesn’t seem good. Not only does it look like someone’s tracking us, but whoever it is seems to have figured out where the most damaged freighters are.”

“Got it in one, XO.” Tehrani turned back toward the front of the bridge. “We’ll have more small craft on deck in…” She checked the ship’s time. “Twenty-three minutes.”

“The last report I saw from the Marcus Luttrell indicated main propulsion was fully operational, and they had all weapons back online.” Wright’s face betrayed worry. “That little ship seems to get shot to hell and back a bit too often for my taste.” He grumbled. “We oughta have at least a heavy cruiser, eight destroyers, and a small fleet of frigates out here, with another escort or light carrier.”

“What’s that expression you like to use? ‘When pigs fly’?”

Wright laughed loudly. “That’s it, ma’am.”

The bridge momentarily quieted, and Tehrani took a moment to ponder her XO’s words. As the commanding officer of an escort carrier, she’d been trained for convoy escort duty. Past wargames had shown just what he mentioned—strong carrier battlegroups backed up with capital-ship firepower watching over large formations of freighters. Key to their plans was an ample number of fast space-warfare vessels—destroyers and frigates—to prevent an enemy from nibbling at their flanks. Now they ask us to protect dozens of civilian ships with a force barely large enough for customs duty on a core world. An undercurrent of fear coupled with anger ran through Tehrani. She pushed it down and focused on her task.

In times past, CDF officers grumbled about command and the Joint Chiefs being too cautious, not committing enough warships, or one of any number of common complaints. But the problem wasn’t with headquarters. We lost so many ships at the Battle of Canaan that it’s a small miracle our tiny battlegroup is still functional.

A change on the tactical plot caught her eye. “TAO, confirm sensor ghost has closed to two hundred thousand kilometers.”

Bryan turned around. “It has, ma’am. I’m not getting strong enough echoes off its hull or propulsion to give you an estimate on what class of ship it is.”

“Too bad we don’t have a stealth raider with us,” Tehrani muttered. They were clearly about to get jumped. Allah help us if they bring another heavy cruiser. She reached down and punched the 1MC intercom. “Attention, all hands. This is Colonel Tehrani. General quarters. General quarters. Man your battle stations. I say again, man your battle stations. Set material condition one throughout the ship. This is not a drill. I say again, this is not a drill.”

The lights on the bridge immediately faded to blue, which had the effect of making the screens and consoles easier to see. A klaxon sounded once and cut out. Throughout the rest of the vessel, it would blare for five minutes. Anyone not awake after that was probably already dead.

Wright leaned in. “Going to GQ this early?”

“Best to be prepared.”

“You realize the uniform of the day is camo, right?” Wright asked.

Tehrani turned toward him, annoyed until she saw the wide grin plastered on his face. “Seriously, Major?”

Wright snickered. “Well, just saying. Your uniform is a bit… well, ripe.” He raised an eyebrow. “Is your command-in-space insignia out of place there? I think the ribbon bar’s off too.”

She shot back a withering look. “Don’t push a good joke too far.” Unable to keep a straight face, Tehrani smiled. “Thanks. I needed that.”

“Don’t mention it, ma’am.” He sighed. “Captain Shikoba just reported a minimum of two hours before the freighters can jump.”

“All of them?”

“Merchant Marines are pretty gung-ho on sticking together. They all go, or none of them do.”

While Tehrani could respect the sentiment, if a few freighters had to be sacrificed to get the overall convoy through, that was what her duty demanded. And what’s a few more nightmares for a fleet officer to deal with? “Do we have the ability to override their navigation consoles remotely and trigger a jump?”

“Uh… er, um…” Wright’s eyes nearly popped out of his skull. “I’m not sure, ma’am. I’ll dig into it.”

“While you’re at it, perhaps you should perform a uniform inspection for the rest of our bridge team.” Tehrani smiled wickedly. “Since you’re handing out demerits.”

“I think we can pass on that for now,” he shot back before directing his gaze to the screen attached to his chair.

Despite her attempt at a breezy attitude, mostly for her crew’s morale, Tehrani privately despaired. She couldn’t imagine a situation in which the Leaguers didn’t throw everything they had at the convoy. If they do, we probably won’t survive. The thought sobered her, though at the same time, it caused Tehrani to focus every bit of creativity and tactical prowess she possessed on finding an advantage. A prayer went through her mind. Allah, watch over Your warriors, and if it is Your will, grant us victory over this enemy.

* * *

An obnoxious klaxon woke Justin from his slumber. It felt like only moments before, he’d finally fallen into sleep. He wiped his eyes, carefully removing the hard crust that had built up around their edges, and blinked a few times.

That’s the scramble alarm. Like a bullet, he shot out of bed and raced to the bathroom, where he relieved himself quickly. No time for a shower. I guess I’ll smell up my flight suit. He rapidly pulled the one-piece jumpsuit that went under his space-rated flight suit, then he took the journey from his quarters to the flight deck at an all-out run.

“I don’t think that mustache is in regulation, sir,” Feldstein called as Justin entered the Red Tails locker room to put on his space-rated flight suit.

“Yeah, probably not. Don’t forget to tell the major.”

Feldstein snickered as she locked the seals on her boots in place. “How’d you sleep?”

“Better than last night. I don’t remember anything after zonking out,” he replied. As he spoke, he stepped into his suit and went through the same protocol as she was, checking all joints and seals. In the event of ejection, their lives depended on it.

“Same nightmare?”

Justin pursed his lips. “Yeah.”

“You can’t single-handedly destroy every League fighter, bomber, and capital ship in the galaxy.” Feldstein’s voice grew soft. “Don’t take that burden on yourself.”

“I close my eyes, and I see that freighter blowing apart.” Justin peered at her. “Those men and women depended on us. We failed them.”

“No, we didn’t. It’s war, sir.”

“A jaded vet already?”

“We do the best we can, and that’s all God or our fellow men can ask of us.” She touched his arm. “There’s a Hebrew proverb from the Talmud: whoever saves a life, it is considered as if he saved an entire world.”

Justin stared at her. “What’s a Talmud?”

“It’s a holy book… writings of our most respected rabbis. The point is, how many people have you saved, Justin? I’ve lost count of the number of times you bailed me out. You’ve got to stop beating yourself up.”

“I should probably see one of the fleet shrinks.” Counseling was already being offered to the entire ship’s company. Centuries of research on post-traumatic stress disorder showed that it was best treated by talking with fellow soldiers as soon as possible after the battle that triggered the reaction.

“Not a bad idea, sir.” She took a step back. “My suit’s good. What about you?”

Justin snapped the gauntlets into place and sealed them. “Yeah, me too.” He grabbed his helmet from the locker. “Ready room? I’m hoping there’s some coffee.”

Feldstein grinned. “I impressed some young private into making us a fresh pot and bringing down biscuits from the mess.”

“Why not some scones?” Justin asked with a smirk.

“Scones? Seriously?” Feldstein cracked up. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t hit me as a scone kind of guy.”

“What’s wrong with eating a scone?”

“If you have to ask…” A stern expression came over her face. “I guess we’d better get in there.”

“Yeah.” Justin began going into combat mode, in which he shed all other concerns and focused on one task: defeating the enemy. He squared his shoulders, gripped his helmet tightly, and strode through the hatch into the ready room.

“Nice of you to join us, Lieutenant Spencer,” Major Whatley rasped.

Justin immediately felt on the spot. He looked around to see most of the Red Tails pilots already there along with a few bomber crews. The ever-present Boar-squadron pilots sat together on the left side. One of them made a brrrrrrt. It seemed to be their unofficial motto or something.

“I was making sure my suit was ready to face the vacuum.”

“Probably a good thing, Sabre boy,” one of the Boar drivers shouted. “Those short little ugly fighters of yours have poor armor.”

For a moment, Justin allowed his ego to take over. He turned and smirked at the man. “And just how many kills do you have?”

“Uh—”

“When you’re over thirty, let me know, and we can talk.”

Multiple cheers broke out, and Mateus let loose with a catcall. “Listen to our man here. Sabres rule. Boars eat our dust.”

“Attention!” Whatley shouted.

Those standing turned toward the major and froze into place, while those sitting leaped up and did the same.

“Now that you’re done peacocking, let’s consider the task at hand, which isn’t insulting one another. Focus, ladies and gentlemen, on going into the void and erasing our Leaguer friends from existence.”

“Sir, yes, sir!” Justin shouted along with the rest of them.

“At ease and sit down.”

As the pilots complied with his order, Whatley continued, “The skipper thinks we’re about to have company.” He pulled up the current formation of the fleet on the holoprojector. It showed the Zvika Greengold in the center of the convoy, with a sphere of freighters around her. Icons representing fighter elements populated and spread out from the carrier. “Last time, they had a heavy cruiser. There’s no reason to believe they’ll come with anything less than all-out force.”

“What options do we have for getting through a cruiser’s shields, Major?” Mateus asked.

“Put enough anti-ship missiles on target, and even a battleship will fall, Lieutenant.” Whatley turned toward the Boar pilots. “You guys are always razzing the rest of us about how awesome your decades-old fighters are.” His mouth curled into a grin. “It’s time to put up or shut up. Clear?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Good. Now, all of you get to your fighters. I want everyone in this room ready to launch in ten minutes. Move out, pilots!”

Justin jumped out of his seat along with everyone else and headed for the door.

Whatley’s voice carried over the tumult. “And when you all get back, I’ll be conducting a series of scramble drills. Twenty minutes is unacceptable. Now go kill some Leaguers!”

With his blood pumping, Justin realized the vacuum had one benefit: he wouldn’t have to listen to Whatley tune him and the rest of the pilots up. He grinned. The major means well, but damn, his delivery model could use some work.

8

The soothing blue hue emanating from the overhead, bathing the bridge in dim light, did little to assuage Tehrani’s fear of what was coming next. She stared at the tactical plot, thinking that at any moment, the enemy would jump them. The question of how the League was tracking them so well also worried her, though she had no time to ponder it.

“Conn, TAO. Ghost sensor image is less than one hundred thousand kilometers away.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant.” Tehrani turned to Wright. “Convoy-jump status?”

“Still an hour and twenty minutes out, minimum, ma’am.”

Every minute more was a gift, and Tehrani viewed it as such. Her eyes went back to the plot. Think. There’s got to be something you missed. A light bulb turned on in her mind. “XO, what convoy members have the best weapons and shields?”

Wright leaned over and pointed at a tight cluster of four icons. “Those. The company that runs them kept getting hit by pirates on runs to the Jewel Box nebula. They all have enhanced shielding and weapons. I’m pretty sure one of them even has a neutron beam.”

“Civilian ships can’t obtain those legally,” Tehrani murmured. She grinned. “But good for us.” She traced a series of lines on her screen. “Get with the convoy liaison officer. The moment the Leaguers jump in, I want the damaged ships to come about hard to port and dive under the Greengold. These vessels”—she touched the cluster of more heavily armed freighters—“should fill the gap. And politely let the master of the one you think has a neutron beam know that would we be grateful if they used it on the enemy.”

“I’m on it,” Wright replied with a twinkle in his eye. “I like your tactics. These guys won’t expect a freighter to open up on them.”

“I hope it’ll be the last mistake they make.”

Time continued to crawl by. Each tick of the digital clock above Tehrani’s head felt like an eternity. As it counted down the minutes until the convoy could safely jump, she felt hope that they might make it out of the system without a fight. Their next jump would take them to a CDF forward operating base, which would offer safe harbor and possibly reinforcements.

“Conn, TAO,” Bryan announced. “Aspect change, multiple inbound wormholes.”

So much for us getting out of here without combat. Tehrani set her jaw. “Identity and range, Lieutenant?”

A pregnant pause followed as Bryan tapped his console and sucked in a breath. “League signature confirmed, ma’am. Three Lancer-class frigates bearing two-seven-six, mark positive fifteen. Contacts designated Master One through Three.” Then he said, “Another wormhole. Rand-class heavy cruiser, designated Master Four. All vessels are launching small craft. Range is roughly two thousand kilometers.”

“TAO, best guess—ETA to enemy intercept?” Tehrani figured they’d meant to jump in the middle of the formation, but Lawrence drive jumps were an inexact science. Our gain.

“Frigates are five to eight minutes from firing range on the closest freighters, ma’am. The Rand is slower. Call it fifteen, tops.”

When she glanced at the digital clock, Tehrani’s heart sank. Forty-five minutes of fighting with that cruiser? Allah help us. They could do nothing except engage and hope for the best. “Navigation, bring us about to heading two-seven-zero, mark negative ten. All ahead flank.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Mitzner replied.

“TAO, firing point procedures,” Tehrani said as she double-checked the tactical plot. “Forward neutron beams, Master Two.” She paused. “Designate Master Two as the primary target.” As the closest ship, it would feel their wrath first. “XO, get everything we’ve got on deck into space.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

Fighters and bombers streaked out of the Zvika Greengold’s launch bays, appearing on the tactical plot as blue icon groups that sped toward the enemy. Tehrani whispered a prayer in Arabic for her pilots and the allied fleet. May they return safely home. She knew many would not.

* * *

After the hurry-up-and-get-ready part of the scramble drill, Justin and his fellows stared at the clock during the hurry-up-and-wait portion. Some of the pilots had engaged in spirited banter, but Justin kept quiet, for the most part, lost in his thoughts. He replayed some of the latest simulator runs he’d engaged in through his mind, always seeking to hone his tactics.

“This is Whatley,” he announced on the all-pilot-wide commlink. “We’ll be launching shortly. As usual, it will be a high-risk, target-rich environment. Fight the good fight, no matter the odds!”

“No matter the odds!” Justin yelled back, as did every other pilot active on the channel.

The launch indicator for Alpha element turned green on Justin’s HUD. He clicked the commlink to the channel for the entire Red Tails squadron. “Alpha and Beta elements, launch by predesignated groupings.”

As the squadron commander, he went first. His Sabre shot off the flight deck like a bat out of hell. In seconds, the carrier had disappeared from his canopy, and the vastness of the void replaced his view. Except a dozen other vessels were in range. Justin could make out the running lights of several, while a couple of the freighters had unique lighting patterns that lit up the night.

“Bandits. Bandits bearing two-seven-five and closing fast,” Feldstein called.

“Alpha, break and attack,” Justin replied. “Beta, provide close escort for the bomber element the moment it launches.”

“Wilco,” Adeoye said in his rich baritone. “I count four bandits.”

A glance at the HUD confirmed his observation. Four League fighters were headed straight for them, with another four right behind. If that weren’t enough, a formation of bombers was moving toward a freighter. The missile alarm sounded, indicating an inbound warhead. Justin pulled back on his flight stick violently, sending his Sabre up. Simultaneously, he dropped several packs of jammers in hopes of spoofing the threat.

Justin felt the vibration a split second after his HUD registered the explosion from the enemy missile that mistook a jammer for his fighter. He looped around, searching for the craft that had fired on his Sabre, only to find it flying directly toward him. Red balls of plasma flashed by his cockpit canopy, and in return, he sent bolts of blue neutron-cannon energy back. At the last possible second, the missile tone sounded, and Justin triggered a Vulture LIDAR tracker’s launch. It flew straight and true, impacting the enemy craft on its weakened fore shields and blowing it apart. “Alpha One, splash one.”

While the single-seat fighters bobbed and weaved amongst one another, angling for any advantage, the Marcus Luttrell opened up with every weapon in its arsenal on the nearest League frigate—Master Three. Magnetic-cannon rounds flashed in the void along with a full brace of anti-ship missiles and blue neutron beams. The colors lit up the blackness around Justin’s Sabre and bathed the cockpit in an eerie hue.

“Our mates over there are going to take out those buggers before we can get to them.” Martin said with faux annoyance. “And to think I got out of bed early for this.”

“I think we’ll have plenty of targets,” Mateus replied.

Justin couldn’t help but join in the banter. “Yeah, here we are, taking the League out one fighter at a time, while the bombers get to knock out five hundred at once.”

“But we still get looked down on by the rest of you. How’s that work, mate?” Martin chortled. “Bombers get no respect.”

As Justin turned his craft, he slashed back toward the enemy formation, which was down to three fighters thanks to the attentions of his wingmen. He lined up the nearest enemy and squeezed the firing trigger the moment he heard the missile tone. “Alpha One, Fox three.” The LIDAR-tracking warhead dropped out of his Sabre’s internal stores bay and raced away. Simultaneously, he sent bolt after bolt of neutron-cannon fire at the unlucky Leaguer. They connected, and coupled with the impact of the Vulture, it was enough to destroy the opposing pilot.

The work of defeating the fighter escorts, while necessary, masked a more significant problem. No matter how many of the single-seat craft Justin and his fellows downed, more always came. And when that Rand gets here in a few minutes, there’s going to be a lot of dead merchant spacers in this convoy. With the sobering thought rattling around in his brain, Justin picked another target and engaged his afterburners.

* * *

“Conn, TAO. Master Three shields have failed. She’s turning away and accelerating.”

Tehrani scanned the tactical plot and grinned wolfishly. The enemy frigate had taken a gamble by staging a high-speed firing run on one of the freighters on the convoy’s outer sphere—a bet they were about to lose. “TAO, firing point procedures, forward neutron beams, Master Three.”

“Firing solutions set, ma’am.”

“Coordinate with Sierra One for a time on target attack. I want them to match up with us perfectly.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Bryan replied. A moment later, he turned around. “Time on target confirmed, ma’am.”

“Match bearings, shoot, forward neutron beams.”

First, the Marcus Lutrell—Sierra One—let loose all the mag-cannon turrets she could to bear on the fleeing vessel. As the destroyer added its neutron beams to the fray, so did the Zvika Greengold. Bright-blue spears of death erupted from the carrier’s bow and bored through the League ship’s brittle hull. Explosions blossomed across its surface, while crew close enough to the escape pods made use of them. The final death blow came from the Marcus Lutrell. Several large anti-ship missiles with fusion warheads exploded within the doomed frigate’s exposed bowels. They hit something big, either the primary reactor or a missile magazine, and blew up in a massive fireball. The shockwave destroyed many of the escape pods before they got far enough away, leaving chunks less than a meter across in its wake.

“Scratch another Leaguer escort,” Wright said quietly. “If I were keeping score, I’d say we’d have quite a few kill marks on our hull.”

Despite everything going on around her, Tehrani chuckled. “Only fighters get kill markings, Major.”

“Maybe we should get that regulation changed.”

Too focused on the tactical plot and the ongoing battle to answer, Tehrani zoomed in on the four up-armed freighters she’d deployed on the Leaguers’ attack vector. “Signal Captain Shikoba, now’s the time. Have them target Master Two.”

Wright nodded. “Aye, aye, ma’am.”

A few moments later, the ships altered course. A collection of weaponry—purple plasma cannons, xasers, and even projectile-based point-defense turrets—fired on an unsuspecting enemy frigate. It had already taken significant deflector damage, and the unexpected barrage hammered them down. The red shield effects disappeared, and merchant-vessel fire hit home against the Leaguer’s hull.

“TAO, designate Master Two as the primary target,” Tehrani barked. The Zvika Greengold was out of arc, so she couldn’t send her weapons into the fray. “Immediately.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Bryan replied.

On the tactical plot, the Marcus Luttrell arced back around and accelerated toward Master Two. Magnetic-cannon shells spat from its turrets along with bright-blue neutron beams. They raked the enemy vessel from bow to stern and neatly sliced off a portion of the hull superstructure near what appeared to be the bridge or command center. One of the Mauler bombers from Gamma element got off an anti-ship missile, which avoided all point-defense fire the frigate could throw at it. A moment later, the warhead blew up in a flash of blinding light. The enemy ship broke in two, atmosphere trailing both sections, while secondary explosions spread.

“Damn. Those League ships blow up real good,” Wright commented.

“We’re taking candy from a baby right now, XO,” Tehrani replied tightly. “That will change the moment Master Four gets into weapons range.”

The remaining League frigate began another attack run. Its forward cannons flung red balls of superheated plasma at the freighter with the weakest shields, while red beams lashed out. The friendly vessel’s deflectors failed, and one of the beams pierced the hull, going clear through the ship and out the other side.

Tehrani saw it happen on her tactical plot, and her eyes flashed. “TAO, can you obtain a firing solution on Master One?”

“Negative, ma’am. She’s too far away, and Sierra Sixteen is blocking our shot.”

While Tehrani ran different tactical scenarios through her mind—complicated by the Marcus Luttrell being out of position for an intercept—one of the freighters turned tightly out of formation and accelerated toward the enemy vessel.

“What the heck does he think he’s doing?” Wright asked with a grumble. “Civilians can’t take on warships.”

“This one thinks he can, apparently,” Tehrani replied dryly. “What’s the make of that ship? I don’t think I’ve seen it before.”

“Holden-Nagata Mk II. Sweet little freighters. Fast for their class too,” Wright’s said with admiration.

“You seem to know a lot about civilian ships, XO.” Tehrani flashed a smile. “I didn’t realize it was a hobby of yours.”

“Oh, I figured I’d get a job as a freighter captain once I finished my stint in the CDF. You know me… born spacer.”

Tehrani addressed Singh, “Communications, warn that ship off. Order them back into formation.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.” The Sikh lieutenant paused. “Ma’am, they sent a text-only message back. ‘We’ve got this.’”

Wright snickered. “Well, they’ve got balls. I’ll give them that.”

Tehrani barely refrained from rolling her eyes. She didn’t care for the expression, but it had seemingly survived for centuries. “I don’t want more dead heroes.”

Her comment sobered Wright. He frowned. “Me either, Colonel.”

The squat little freighter, meanwhile, fired its forward plasma cannons. A stream of purple energy issued from it, and most of the shots hit home against the League frigate. The warship didn’t even bother to maneuver away. It absorbed everything the civilian ship threw at it and kept churning out waves of missiles, red beams, and plasma balls. Impact after impact severely weakened the freighter’s shields, but it pressed on. At the last moment, it assumed a direct intercept vector—the bow of the civilian vessel pointed directly amidships of the enemy frigate.

“What the hell are they doing?” Wright stared at the plot. He spoke into the intercom on his chair. “Get the freighter out of there! They look like they’re going to ram—”

“No,” Tehrani blurted out. “Look.” She pointed at the plot as the sensor scan showed the freighter’s shape morphing. A retractable door opened on the ventral side of the ship, revealing a short barrel. “Is that what I think it is?”

Wright stared. “Son of a… They’ve got a cruiser-sized neutron beam on a spinal mount.”

As he spoke, a giant blue beam shot out of the freighter. It slammed into the League warship’s shields and pierced them like a hot knife through butter. A split second later, the beam exploded out of the other side of the frigate. Explosions blossomed across the frigate’s surface, and the ship blew apart.

“They got lucky and hit the reactor,” Wright said in disbelief. “Okay, I’ve seen it all now.”

“Conn, Communications. A text message from the freighter. They ask if we will refrain from reporting on their weaponry. Apparently, they lack the necessary permits.”

A ripple of nervous laughter swept over the bridge, and Tehrani joined in. “The permits for having military neutron beams on a civilian ship don’t exist. Tell them thanks for the assist, and we won’t be entering their capabilities into our log.”

“Five minutes until the Rand is in range,” Wright said.

His comment instantly deflated the bridge crew. Tehrani could almost feel their morale drop.

“And still forty minutes, give or take, until we can jump safely?”

Wright nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

“What’s the highest probability of exotic particle release if we jump now?”

“One moment, Colonel.” Wright bent over his screen, pulling up engineering details from several ships, thanks to their interlinked tactical network. “Hmmm. Fifty percent on roughly half the ships in the convoy.” He stared at her. “If we went off pure statistics, we’d lose at least ten ships. More, if they had bad luck.”

Tehrani made a face. The cost was too high for her to justify an emergency jump. “Estimation to when we could make a jump and lose one to two vessels?”

“Uh…” Wright’s expression turned grim. “Twenty-five minutes, give or take, ma’am.”

“Then we hang on for at least twenty-five minutes.”

Before Tehrani could open her mouth to issue new orders, Bryan cut in. “Conn, TAO. Inbound wormhole, League signature.” He scanned a different screen. “Cobra-class destroyer, designated as Master Five. It emerged within firing range, ma’am.” As if to underscore his point, the ship shook from a barrage of weapons fire.

When it rains, it pours. Tehrani set her jaw. “Navigation, intercept course for Master Five. TAO, designate Master Five as the primary target for our battlegroup.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Bryan replied.

Staring at the plot, Tehrani despaired. She was nearly out of tricks, and time was against them. The only thing left to do was fight as long and as hard as possible. And hope for a miracle. The thought of jumping with as many freighters as possible was never far from the front of her mind, but it seemed like the coward’s way out. Still, I may be forced to abandon some of them to save the rest. But she didn’t want to face that eventuality.

9

“This is Beta Three declaring an emergency. Master alarm is lit, reactor fai—”

Justin winced. He glanced at the squadron-readiness view on his HUD and saw a bright-red dot next to Lieutenant Felder’s name. No transponder came from his suit, and the system rated the Sabre as a total loss. Another dead pilot.

Around Justin, the battle raged. Feldstein was engaged in a tail chase with a League fighter, while he’d sent Mateus and Adeoye to screen the bombers from another enemy force. All in all, it was barely controlled chaos.

Red plasma balls streaked by Justin’s cockpit canopy, and he tracked down their source quickly. A single League craft had settled into his six o’clock while he was distracted by the at-large combat picture. Justin yanked his flight stick back, pulling what would’ve amounted to fourteen Gs if his Sabre’s inertial damping systems weren’t functioning at peak capacity. In a matter of seconds, he’d looped around and passed the enemy fighter. Whoever was flying the League craft wasn’t an exceptionally well-trained pilot, because they failed to alter course, and Justin finished the tight loop and ended up on the Leaguer’s tail.

“Alpha One, fox two,” he called while simultaneously launching two heat-seeking missiles.

Both warheads raced away from Justin’s Sabre and accelerated to full attack speed. The League fighter did little to evade, and both hit home, blowing the enemy craft apart in a cloud of super-fine dust.

“Alpha One, splash one.” The “hard kill” call was something Justin had become used to making. His mind flashed back to sixty days ago when he’d never engaged a hostile target, much less snuffed out another human being’s life.

But he had no time to ponder such things, as the next wave of League fighters launched out of Master Four’s launch bay. How many of these damn things do they have, anyway? It seemed to him as if they were facing a never-ending wave of enemies. While the Leaguers lacked quality, they made up for it in sheer quantity.

Justin was close enough to the heavy cruiser that its point-defense systems took long-range potshots at him. He made several juking turns as he checked Feldstein’s status. She was still tangled up in a furball, and the rest of Alpha was providing close support to the Boar element, which in turn was attacking Master Five, the last destroyer that had jumped in.

Blue neutron beams slashed through the blackness of the void, crisscrossing with red beams and superheated plasma balls. Both the Zvika Greengold and the Marcus Luttrell were closely engaging the League destroyer that had successfully jumped into the middle of the freighter convoy. While both ships gamely engaged the enemy, the Leaguers weaved through and around civilian vessels, peppering them with weapons fire.

As much as Justin wanted to peel away and join the fight against the capital ship, his task was to keep knocking down the incoming fighters. Maybe one of these days, I’ll transfer to a bomber squadron. It’d be interesting to be the one delivering heavy ordnance. The missile lock-on buzzed, making Justin focus on the LIDAR display in his HUD. Three enemy warheads were heading straight for him. He briefly pondered the wildly differing skill levels of the pilots they faced. Whoever the latest group was seemed to know their business.

Justin triggered his chaff dispenser and sent a wave of sensor-obscuring decoys into the void while choosing an enemy fighter to engage. Because of the extreme quantity differential, he avoided a head-on engagement and instead loosed a Vulture at the craft outside the League formation.

“Alpha One, watch your location. You’re too close to Master Four,” Whatley said.

“Roger, Major,” Justin replied tightly. A glance at the master overlay in his HUD showed the danger. This is going to be close. With his right hand steady on the flight stick, Justin angled his craft around, deftly avoiding the cruiser’s point-defense kill zone and sliding into the enemy fighter’s six o’clock position. He loosed a flurry of neutron cannon bolts into its aft shields, severely weakening them and scoring several hits on its hull.

The League craft weren’t content to sit still and let Justin finish them off one by one. The formation shifted as a unit, protecting the damaged fighter as much as possible. They turned back to his Sabre and executed a high-speed firing pass that left Justin’s forward shields greatly diminished and approaching failure.

I need to change this up. Justin reached deep into his bag of tricks and decided to try a trick he’d seen Major Whatley perform. He decoupled the thrusters from the inertial damping system and waited for the right moment, allowing all three fighters chasing him to settle into a stable pursuit course. With a grin, Justin pivoted his Sabre around and fired a long stream of blue neutron energy. His first target was caught entirely unaware and exploded after a multitude of shots hit its hull.

The other two enemy fighters attempted to veer off. Justin sent two Eagle heat-seeking missiles after the closest craft and turned his attention to the third with another fusillade of neutron-cannon bolts. The Leaguer’s shields quickly failed, and four hits to its hull later, it blew apart in a brief orange explosion. Feeling good about his use of a precision tactic he’d only seen employed once before, Justin resynched his thrusters and enabled the inertial damping system.

But Justin forgot the other threat: the Rand-class heavy cruiser off the starboard side of his Sabre. In combat, a person tended to narrow their focus onto a specific danger or set of hazards closest to them—and that tendency typically led to disaster. As powerful point-defense fire erupted around his craft, Justin immediately focused on the threat the cruiser posed. The shield arc facing the enemy collapsed with one hit. He tightened his grip on the flight stick and wrenched it to one side, going into a series of maneuvers known as guns-D. They were a last-ditch effort to avoid overwhelming fire with wild and random course changes.

“Spencer, I told you to watch out. Break to a minimum distance of two kilometers from that cruiser now,” Whatley barked.

“I’m trying, Major,” Justin replied through gritted teeth. Even with the outstanding protection of his Sabre’s inertial damping systems, by whipping through the twists and turns, he was generating significant g-forces and stress on his body.

“Try harder.”

Justin grumbled, “If it’s so damn easy, why aren’t you out here doing it?”

He started to breathe a sigh of relief as he cleared one kilometer from the enemy vessel. But that relief turned to fear as his fighter rocked to one side. Another hit. While the plasma ball caught him on a different shield arc, it did far more damage than the last one. Red lights lit up across his HUD, indicating internal system damage. The flight stick suddenly became untethered from the movement of his craft. He wrenched it to one side, but the Sabre rocketed onward in a straight line. “This is Alpha One declaring an emergency. I have total loss of flight-surface control.”

“Detach maneuvering thruster control and fly manually,” Whatley said.

The master alarm blared, making Justin’s ears ring. He pulled up the HUD interface and attempted to follow the wing commander’s instructions, to no avail. Red lights spread across every system in his craft. I’ve got to eject before the reactor goes critical. As the thought raced through his mind, point-defense fire filled the void around him. “Negative, Major. My master alarm is lit, and reactor temp is rising. Initiating ejection sequence.”

Justin double-checked his suit pressure, confirmed it was one hundred percent, and pulled the bright-yellow Eject lever under the seat. It triggered a series of explosive bolts that blew the canopy off, and a rocket motor ignited, sending him flying out of the doomed Sabre. His emergency beacon kicked in automatically, and he hoped against hope that the onboard fuel wouldn’t give out before he was out of the blast radius of his former ride.

* * *

The tension on the bridge of the Zvika Greengold was so thick that Tehrani could’ve cut it with a knife. Around her, watchstanders performed their duties, and the battle played out. The old Holden-Nagata Mk II freighter had stayed in the thick of the fighting, assisting the Marcus Luttrell and the Zvika Greengold as they fought Master Five, the League Cobra-class destroyer, which was the only enemy left in the battlespace. Except, of course, for the thousand-kilogram elephant, the heavy cruiser that can wipe the floor with every vessel here.

“Another Sabre is down,” Wright said quietly.

Tehrani was the only one who could hear him above the din of soldiers calling information to one another. She turned her head. “Who?”

“Alpha One. Lieutenant Spencer.”

“That’s three.”

Wright nodded. “Felder, Jenkins, and Spencer. Two Sabres and a Boar.”

“Recovery beacons?”

“Only on Spencer. The other two were total loss of craft with no ejection triggered.” Wright furrowed his brow. “I already looked at search and rescue. It’s far too hot out there to send the SAR bird out.”

“I know.” Tehrani shook her head. “We can’t just leave him out there.”

“We might have to leave all of them.”

While Tehrani knew Wright was doing his job as the XO, something about it all bothered her to her core. The concept of the CDF not having enough ships to handle the required missions and sorties was something she’d never considered until the last few weeks. I remember seeing the massive fleet formations at Valient Shield. A part of her wanted to hate the politicians that let it get so bad, but they couldn’t have envisioned a surprise attack from an enemy as powerful as the League.

“Conn, TAO. Aspect change, Master Five. Contact is reversing course and coming back around. Sierra contacts in her path have extensive shield damage.”

Without their protective screens, the freighters in the convoy had almost no armor. They would be shredded in moments by military firepower.

Tehrani set her jaw. “Navigation, intercept course, Master Five. Put us between them and Sierra Fifteen, Sixteen, and Nineteen.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Mitzner replied.

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

“Firing solutions set, ma’am,” Bryan said. “Coordinating our attack pattern with Sierra One.”

Pleased she didn’t have to tell her tactical action officer to make sure they struck simultaneously with the Marcus Luttrell, Tehrani smiled. “Wait for point-blank range. I want this bastard.”

Bryan turned and grinned at her. “Aye, aye, ma’am.”

The League destroyer raced onward. It filled the blackness of the void with an array of red beams, plasma balls, and point-defense fire, much of which struck home against the civilian freighters. An ore carrier suffered a complete loss of its two aft holds, sending a dense cloud of metal-alloy fragments into space.

On the screen above Tehrani’s head, Master Five finally entered optimal weapons range. She double-checked to ensure the Marcus Luttrell was in arc. “TAO, match bearings, shoot, forward neutron beams in conjunction with an alpha strike from Sierra One.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

Magnetic-cannon shells raced away from the Marcus Luttrell along with a barrage of missiles and the vessel’s neutron-beam compliment. Added to the fray were the Greengold’s twin neutron beams, which struck home in the same shield quadrant. The Cobra’s shields glowed bright red under repeated hits then failed, allowing missile strikes and neutron beams to slam into its brittle armor and hull. One of the blue beams bored through the entirety of the ship and out the other side. Explosions blossomed from the molten hole and spread across the vessel until it blew apart from within.

“Conn, TAO. Master Five destroyed, ma’am.”

“Nice job, skipper,” Wright said under his breath. “Got any more rabbits to pull out of your cover?”

Tehrani stared at him. “Eh?”

“American idiom. Magicians used to pull animals, usually rabbits, out of hats for tricks.” Wright smiled. “I grew up watching those old shows. Loved ’em.”

“Interesting,” she replied. “I’m not sure. We’re about to find out how good our bombers and those Boar assault crafts are.” Tehrani touched the Rand’s icon. “TAO, designate Master Four as the priority target for the fleet. Send everything.”

“Should I have the air boss warm up more bombers?”

“Good idea, XO,” Tehrani said. She narrowed her eyes as she stared at the screen. “Heavy cruiser is entering firing range… now.”

As if right on cue, the Rand opened up with everything it had. Dozens of the ubiquitous red plasma balls issued from its turrets along with anti-ship missiles and red energy beams. Thanks to the extreme range, it took a few moments for its target to become apparent—the ore carrier that had already sustained severe damage.

“Order Sierra Fifteen to abandon ship immediately,” Tehrani said, alarmed.

“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Wright replied.

The assault on the massive ore carrier continued. Because of the vessel’s modular design, most of the League shots, while causing extensive hull damage, hit the cargo bays and not the ship’s critical parts, such as its reactor and the engine housings.

As plasma balls blasted into the superstructure of the freighter, the Glasgow came up alongside it. The Argyle-class frigate extended her shields around the civilian vessel, temporarily stopping the barrage.

“Way to go,” Wright said with a grin. “Sierra Fifteen reports thirty seconds to last escape pod launch.”

Tehrani nodded tightly, her eyes transfixed on the tactical plot. “Communications, order the Glasgow to break off the moment Sierra Fifteen is evacuated.”

Her concern was well-founded. While the ore carrier could absorb a lot of punishment, the same couldn’t be said for the small frigate. The Rand lashed at its shields with a wave of plasma balls, successfully hammering them down. It followed up much like the Terran ships would, with a volley of anti-ship missiles and red neutron beams. One speared the vessel from end to end and must’ve hit a fuel bunkerage or the reactor. The Glasgow blew apart in ten seconds, leaving nothing but fine dust particles in its wake.

Whatever feeling of victory or relief had been present on the bridge of the Zvika Greengold evaporated like water poured out on a molten planet. Wright stared at the tactical plot with his mouth open. It seemed as if he was trying to get sound out, but none would come.

“At least they accomplished saving the civilian crew,” Tehrani said finally. “They did their duty, and so will we. Navigation, intercept course, Master Four.” Her heart ached for the loss of life. Likely none of the more than two hundred soldiers who’d called the Glasgow home had escaped.

“You sure about this, skipper?” Wright asked quietly.

“If you’ve got a better idea, now’s the time.”

Silence was the only reply.

10

The void of space was unlike anything Justin had ever experienced. In some ways, it was stunning. In others, it was downright terrifying. He’d read accounts of men and women being stuck in the void for extended periods, losing their minds and being unable to set foot on a spacecraft again. That only happened after multiple hours of exposure, though.

The short-range communication system in his flight suit linked itself to the search-and-rescue network carried by all CDF vessels and provided his HUD a near-real-time display of the battle, which wasn’t going well. Another bomber had been lost while attempting to destroy the heavy cruiser, and two more freighters were heavily damaged. One was a total write-off, whose crew had abandoned it, but the other one still limped along.

There’s no way they can put a SAR bird out here to rescue me. That realization went through Justin like a knife, quickly followed by the fear of either dying or, worse, being captured by the League. No one knew what they did to prisoners of war, but if it was anything like how the World Society back on Earth had treated allied POWs during the Third World War, it would be a hellacious experience.

Paralyzed by fear, Justin floated through space. Blue neutron beams glowed against the faceplate of his helmet, matched by blobs of red plasma. His hands shook as he tried to rotate in the zero-G environment. The sensation was almost like swimming deep underwater. He thought of Michelle and Maggie and how much he would like to hold them both one last time.

Justin hadn’t mentally prepared for floating in space. Like every other CDF pilot, he’d taken basic escape, evasion, and survival training. But tumbling through the void with little hope of rescue in a doomed battle wasn’t part of it. He tried to stay positive. A voice in the back of his head suggested prayer. To what? The imaginary man in the sky?

Staring death in the face was one way to force questions about one’s beliefs. What do you have to lose? If there’s no one up there, it doesn’t matter. If there is, maybe He’ll help you.

Now I’m debating myself. Great. I suppose void sickness is setting in sooner than expected.

Justin stared at the beauty of the stars and far-off nebula. Its vivid colors provided a striking backdrop to the battle. What do I have to lose? Nothing, I suppose. He tried to remember his childhood, when his mother would make him pray on his knees before bedtime. “Um, God, if you’re up there,” he began, “I’m in a terrible fix here. I just want to get back to my wife and daughter. So if you can help, I’d, uh, appreciate it. Please. Uh, amen.”

Justin felt somewhat silly, pondering his prayer. Because if God is up there, why would He give me the time of day when I’ve ignored Him most of my life?

Then Justin noticed he was headed straight toward the League heavy cruiser. His first thought was that maybe it had seen him and was coming to capture an enemy pilot before the CDF could rescue him. No, that’s preposterous. But it got the wheels of his mind moving. If I time it just right, I could use my suit's integrated thrusters to latch on to that vessel’s hull. Or even better, maybe I could get inside its hangar bay.

Closer and closer, the Rand-class heavy cruiser came. It seemed massive—larger than anything he’d seen in his life. He used short bursts from the survival suit’s integrated thrusters to nudge his course up relative to the beast of a ship. The hull was nearly entirely painted black. The only deviations were glowing red strips and light emanating from what Justin assumed were windows. Squinting, he tried to make out the launch bay. A force field covering a portion of the middle hull seemed like the best bet.

I only get one shot at this. For a moment, Justin almost backtracked and veered off, because if he failed, death was the probable outcome. Or imprisonment for life. Or I die, if the CDF blows the ship up. In the end, he had no good options, and the only one that had any possibility of him seeing his family again was the harebrained idea to steal an enemy fighter and fly back to the Zvika Greengold.

The force field and the launch bay behind it rushed toward Justin. Pure fear infected every cell in his body, and he almost peed in his suit. The collision alarm blared in his helmet, and the suit automatically applied maximum thrust out of its limited maneuvering jets. His speed slowed, but still, he expected to splatter against the force field as he made contact with it. Please let this thing work like a Terran Coalition ship.

“Justin, can you hear me?”

Elation filled him at the sound of Feldstein’s voice. It was like a lifeline thrown to a drowning man. “I read you loud and clear.” Justin cracked a grin, especially at the use of his first name.

“We’ve been monitoring your signal. You’re way too close to that League cruiser. What are you doing?” She sounded worried.

“I’ve got an idea.”

“What?”

“Look, if you see one of those fighters of theirs behaving erratically or maybe being shot at, don’t let them shoot me down, okay?”

A pregnant pause came over the commlink. “Justin Spencer, are you seriously telling me you plan to steal a League fighter? Have you gone insane?”

“It’s the best play I’ve got. I’ve no interest in being a POW for the rest of my life.”

Feldstein choked out, “Be careful. Please.”

The intensity of emotion from her surprised Justin. They were friends, but he hadn’t realized he was that important to her. “I will. Maybe say a prayer for me.”

“You got it. Godspeed, Justin.”

Before Justin could reply, his commlink screeched with static. Maybe it’s a side effect of being so close to a Leaguer ship. The massive force field loomed ahead of him, and suddenly, he was through it. He’d tried to gauge the distance to be as close to the flight deck as possible and was only about a meter off it. Artificial gravity kicked in, and Justin collapsed onto the alloy plating with a thud. Alarm klaxons pealed, and loud shouts in a language he couldn’t understand echoed throughout the bay while crewmembers rushed about. Shocked to still be alive and that no one had seen him so far, he dragged himself behind a crate and tried to get his bearings. Okay, so far, so good.

* * *

Tehrani held on to the armrests of the CO’s chair as the bridge of the Zvika Greengold rocked. The League heavy cruiser had seemingly forgotten every other possible target within ten thousand kilometers and focused solely on the carrier. She wiped a bead of sweat from her face. This doesn’t look good. “TAO, ETA to energy-capacitor recharge?”

“Ninety seconds, ma’am,” Bryan replied.

Wright leaned in. “I ran some additional numbers. If we jump now, two-thirds of our freighters will realistically make it.”

“Not yet,” Tehrani replied.

“Conn, TAO. Forward shields buckling, ma’am,” Bryan said as the ship shook violently. “They’re under fifteen percent.”

“Navigation, come to heading zero-eight-zero, flank speed.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Mitzner replied. She turned back toward the CO and XO chairs. “Ma’am, with our reduced structural integrity from recent battles, a full power turn may not—”

“Execute my orders, Lieutenant,” Tehrani barked.

Chastened, the young woman turned around. “Yes, ma’am.”

Another wave of plasma balls slammed into the Greengold’s weakened deflectors, sending the protection values plummeting toward zero. Tehrani despaired. She had few options, and while the Marcus Luttrell was fighting hard, a single destroyer and an escort carrier probably wouldn’t take out a heavy cruiser by themselves. That was to say nothing about the lost pilots. After the loss of two hundred soldiers on the Glasgow, the thought of leaving behind her people was something she could barely stomach, even if bugging out was the best choice.

“Skipper, I’ve got an idea,” Wright whispered. “We might be able to coax another fifteen to twenty percent directed-energy power out of the neutron beams.”

“How?” Tehrani asked. It might be enough to get through their shields, especially if the bombers can land a good missile run.

“Thanes are overengineered. I did a tour as an engineering assistant on one when I was going through my midshipman years. There’s enough throughput in the energy conduits for it, but we’ll have to ignore the safety alerts.” Wright grinned. “Since we’re at our wits’ end here…”

“Why the heck not?” Tehrani replied with a smile. “Get engineering on it.” She turned toward Bryan. “TAO, coordinate an alpha strike with Sierra One and any freighter in range willing to close and attack Master Four.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

* * *

Much like the flight deck on the Zvika Greengold, the atmosphere in the hangar bay of the League heavy cruiser was pure pandemonium. From his perch behind a crate of God only knew what, Justin watched as men and women in dark-gray uniforms busied themselves servicing a group of fighters. He recognized them as the front-line League of Sol space-superiority fighters he’d been blowing out of space for the last six weeks. What’d intel start calling them? Shrikes?

Justin had never felt more scared. His heart pounded as he fought to get his fear under control. Okay. Breathe. You can do this. A group of men carrying a hose rushed up the side of one of the craft and attached it to an intake valve. After more shouting, the hose went rigid. I bet they’re fueling it. Perhaps they were defueling the fighter instead. I’m going to have to count on my luck holding.

The first indication otherwise was the feeling of a hand on his shoulder. Justin jerked back, reacting without much thought going into it. As he turned, the owner of the hand came into view. An absolute bear of a man stood less than a meter from him. Judging by the grease streaks on his uniform, Justin assumed the man was a crew chief or enlisted rating.

“Mamoy klyanus, ya tebya sokrushit!”

Though Justin couldn’t comprehend what was being said, the raised wrench and guttural roar from the Leaguer told him everything he needed to know: the man planned to kill him or, at the very least, detain him for security. His brain tripped for a moment before his right hand went for the small sidearm built into his flight suit’s leg. Justin’s hand closed around it, and he felt momentary relief.

The wrench swung in an arc, mere centimeters from Justin’s eyes. He flung himself backward, narrowly avoiding the alloy tool smashing his skull in. The pistol cleared its holster, and he brought it up in what seemed like slow motion. His training kicked in as he squeezed the trigger once, twice, three times. Bright-red stains slowly spread out across the chest of the Leaguer.

Oh my God. Oh my God. Justin stared, almost in a stupor, as the enemy soldier collapsed to the deck. Angry shouts rose, and half the Leaguers on the deck were staring straight at him and the man on the floor. As a gurgling noise came from the fallen enemy’s mouth, two crew chiefs rushed forward.

Justin snapped out of it and raised his sidearm. He fired again, hitting one of the men in the shoulder. The impact of the bullet spun the Leaguer around, and he collapsed, bleeding profusely and crying in pain. The other man with him paused, standing his ground with a large wrench held over his head as if it were a sword.

It’ll only take a few minutes for whatever passes for the master-at-arms on this ship to get here. He was only twenty meters from what he hoped was the fully fueled fighter, which was the only possible way out because when armed combatants arrived, he was as good as dead or worse—captured.

Sprinting as fast as his legs would go, Justin closed the distance quickly. A woman appeared from behind a bomber and scrambled away as he pointed the pistol at her. More shouting came from behind him, but he didn’t dare turn his head to see what was happening.

The Shrike fighter that was his goal had a portable ladder pushed up to the cockpit, which Justin ran up two steps at a time. He jumped into the pilot’s seat and pushed the ladder away. Much like CDF craft, there were numerous dials, panels, and knobs along with a flight stick. It wasn’t the same as his Sabre, but the basic idea seemed to be there. How do I close the canopy? He scanned the area, looking for something that screamed, “Press me! I close the canopy so you can escape!” When nothing was in evidence, he started pressing buttons at random. Various panels lit up, and at least one alarm blared, but the canopy finally slid shut.

The sharp report of weapons fire rang out so loudly that Justin could hear them even within the cockpit. Armed figures in black uniforms rushed up to the side of the fighter and banged the stocks of their rifles on the transparent alloy that made up the canopy. Oh shit. One of the soldiers fired point-blank, sending a red energy bolt directly at his head. The material stopped the shot, but it left a burn mark. If I don’t get moving, I’m dead.

One of the plastic handles reminded him of a throttle, and it had a series of numbers on it. Justin gambled and slowly moved it forward. He was rewarded with the craft jerking forward. Okay, now I’m cooking with gas. Justin pushed the handle down, and the fighter gathered speed. The two soldiers fell over as the portable ladder careened backward. He wrapped his fingers tightly around the flight stick and found a trigger on the front.

When Justin squeezed the trigger, bright-red plasma balls erupted from the fuselage of the League fighter. They slammed into the far wall of the flight deck, and at the impact points, the bulkhead melted into the passageway beyond. If I could only hit something vital.

He kept tentatively trying to maneuver the craft. A slight movement of the stick almost ended his flight prematurely, as the wing clipped another fighter, but aside from the sickening sound of grinding metal, there seemed to be no ill effects.

Justin stared at the flight panel for several seconds. This looks like weapons control. Justin tapped a series of buttons. Several beeps greeted him, but when he pressed one of the buttons, the screen changed to show what appeared to be a missile.

The fear that had gripped Justin only a few minutes before evaporated as he focused on the situation. Hoping his next course of action would result in the launch of a live missile, he turned the fighter slightly, aiming for what looked like a group of hoses coming out of the bulkhead at the far end of the hangar bay. “Alpha, Mike, Foxtrot.” With a grin, he pressed the button again.

A League anti-fighter missile dropped out of the bottom of the fighter. It hit the deck in a shower of sparks before its rocket motor ignited. Flames shot out of the exhaust nozzle, and the warhead skipped across the alloy surface then slammed into the general area Justin had targeted and blew up. Shit. As a wall of fire headed toward him, time seemed to stop. Vaguely aware of his surroundings as muscle memory took over, Justin rammed the throttle as far forward as possible, with the craft pointed toward the force field leading to the void.

The Shrike fighter accelerated rapidly, throwing him backward. A few seconds later, he exited the hangar bay with a ball of fire on his tail. The flames dissipated immediately in the void, as there was no oxygen to fuel them.

As he flew away from the League heavy cruiser, Justin finally caught his breath. How am I still alive?

11

Tehrani wiped a stray hair from between her eyes and squinted at the tactical plot. The word desperate rolled around in her mind as she searched for any possible advantage. Around her, the bridge crew did its duty as best they could, while the hopelessness of the battle produced an almost visible weight. So far, nothing had worked, and they hadn’t been able to try Wright’s neutron-beam trick because the Greengold’s forward shields hadn’t yet recharged.

“Conn, TAO.” Bryan turned in his seat. “Ma’am, something exploded in Master Four’s primary launch bay.”

“Explain, Lieutenant.” Tehrani’s heart skipped a beat. Allah, please, help us.

“Thirty seconds ago, there was an explosion in Master Four’s shuttle bay, during which a fighter exited into space. Since then, nothing else has emerged, and my scans show severe internal damage in the area around their flight deck.” Bryan paused and checked something on his console. “If you take a look, the volume of weapons fire coming from that vessel is significantly reduced from what it was a few minutes ago.”

“Maybe whoever launched accidentally set off a fuel line or something,” Wright mused. “I say we file this one under divine intervention and press our attack. Lieutenant, what’s the shield status on Master Four?”

“It’s fluctuating, sir.”

Wright cocked his head. “Might be time to hit hard, Colonel.”

“I completely concur,” Tehrani replied. “TAO, status of forward shield recharge?”

“Eighty percent, ma’am.”

“That’ll do. Raise forward shields.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

Tehrani turned her attention to Mitzner. “Navigation, intercept course on Master Four. All ahead flank.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

“You know, skipper, this is kind of weird.” Wright pointed at a single red dot on the tactical plot. “The fighter that launched from the Rand—it’s not engaging anyone. It’s trying to avoid our fighters and isn’t going near the freighters.”

“A defector?” Tehrani asked with a raised eyebrow. “That seems unlikely.”

“Yeah. You’re right.”

Tehrani stared straight ahead, through the window. Hope built within her. They might yet save the convoy and escape to fight another day. “Communications, ensure all ships are ready for an alpha strike on my command.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Singh replied. Even the Communications officer sounded far more buoyant than he had mere minutes before.

* * *

Justin had done the only sensible thing he could think of: avoid combat and direct contact with any other fighters while he tried to figure out the controls of the utterly foreign craft. Most of the knobs, levers, and buttons had lettering underneath them, but the language was some combination of what Justin thought was French and Russian. It’s got to be Russian, because I recognize some of the Cyrillic symbols. But none of that helped him understand how to fly the craft. He settled for testing each thing and seeing what it did. He’d located the flare launchers and the energy-weapon trigger but not communications. Undeterred, Justin pressed on.

A cracking sound came from his helmet’s integrated short-range commlink. Several bursts of static later, Justin caught half a word. “Ease.”

“This is Lieutenant Justin Spencer, Coalition Defense Force. Can anyone hear me?”

More static and ear-piercing screeches answered him.

Justin turned his attention back to the control panel. He moved on to a group of knobs and pressed a button in their center. Immediately, the sound of people speaking in Russian filled his ears. It’s coming from speakers inside the cockpit. While it was enemy communications, at least he’d made progress.

A bright flash erupted outside of the canopy, coupled with an immediate increase in comms-traffic volume. Even though Justin couldn’t understand a word, the tone was unmistakable: panic. He turned his head to see the Rand in serious trouble. Explosions blossomed out of its port side, around the area of the hangar bay. While its hull integrity held, the mighty warship was crippled. The rate of fire from her plasma-cannon turrets dropped precipitously.

With a smile, Justin went back to trying to contact the rest of his element and the Zvika Greengold. Maybe I’ll get out of this alive just yet.

* * *

“Conn, TAO. Aspect change, Master Four. Contact has slowed to ten-meters-per-second thrust. She’s almost dead in space.”

Tehrani leaned forward. Between the reduction in speed and rapidly decreasing volume of fire, it seemed as if the heavy cruiser was finally down for the count. “TAO, firing point procedures, forward neutron beams, Master Four.”

“Firing solutions set, ma’am. Energy-discharge modification is complete.” Bryan glanced back at Wright. “I’ve got lunch down on it frying the neutron emitter.”

“Oh ye of little faith,” Wright replied with a grin.

“Match bearings, shoot, forward neutron beams.”

Twin spears of blue energy shot out from the bow of the Zvika Greengold. Moving at the speed of light, they connected almost immediately with the depleted deflectors on the League heavy cruiser. Simultaneously, the Marcus Luttrell and a few civilian vessels opened up with everything they had—including the Holden-Nagata MkII freighter with its enhanced weaponry. Had the Rand’s shields been at more than ten percent power, or if it hadn’t been crippled from the series of internal explosions, it probably would’ve been able to shrug off the combined attack.

The powerful deflectors held for a few moments then failed. Magnetic-cannon shells, neutron beams, missiles, plasma cannons, and xaser fire hit the monster of a warship from all sides. The blue spears from the Greengold, enhanced by the extra power throughput, proved particularly lethal. They punched through the heavy cruiser’s hull and out the other side, turning entire sections of the vessel’s exterior molten. Chunks blew off as secondary explosions spread, then in the blink of an eye, the whole ship blew apart in a spectacular display of pyrotechnics.

Wild cheers broke out throughout the bridge. Officers and enlisted personnel all joined in, and dropping decorum for a few moments, Tehrani clapped loudly and pumped her fist into the air in triumph. She allowed the tumult to continue a good fifteen seconds before clearing her throat. “Okay, people, back to work. We’ve still got hostile fast movers to deal with.”

The victory lap ended immediately, and a hush descended across the bridge of the Zvika Greengold.

Bryan turned around. “Three enemy fighters and one bomber left, ma’am.”

Tehrani nodded. She glanced at the XO’s chair. “Land the bombers and Boars. Have our remaining fighter elements clear the board and get SAR birds prepped for launch.”

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

The sudden turn of events shocked Tehrani to her core. The Leaguers had them dead to rights. Sometimes in battle, an unexpected stroke of luck changed the result. At least, the military history books said so. Perhaps a miracle? Regardless of the why, she felt an enormous wave of relief. I think I owe the mosque a visit as soon as we jump. Tehrani suddenly realized she had spent more time in prayer and attending services in the last six weeks than in the previous six years.

“Conn, Communications,” Singh said excitedly. “Colonel, it’s Lieutenant Spencer. He’s flying a League fighter! He stole one from their hangar deck.”

“What?” Wright exclaimed. “Do his security codes check out?”

“Yes, sir,” Singh replied. “Along with the biometrics from his flight suit.”

Tehrani let out a chuckle. “You realize that, however he pulled it off, it’ll be a story for the ages, right?” What are the odds of Spencer stealing a League fighter out of a cruiser’s hangar bay during combat? Her amazement grew the longer she pondered it. Allah fought at his side today.

“Oh, yes, ma’am.” Wright laughed. “There might even be a medal in there somewhere.”

“TAO, ensure the Lieutenant’s fighter is redesignated as friendly.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Bryan replied.

“Now, let’s finish this. Twenty minutes until we jump.” Tehrani sat back and finally relaxed. The pent-up stress flowed out of her as she watched the last few enemy contacts disappear—chased down by her pilots.

* * *

The blinding flash from the destruction of the League capital ship had barely faded when red plasma balls narrowly missed Justin’s fighter. He’d tried to avoid contact, but one of the few enemy craft left seemed to have figured out that, at the least, he was a traitor. I wonder if whoever’s flying the other bird knows I’m a CDF pilot. Justin didn’t know why, but the thought amused him. I’m on borrowed time here. Try as he might, he couldn’t get over being alive. I think I’m going to show up at Mateus’s poker game. With luck like this, I oughta win some credits.

Another burst of red energy zoomed past Justin’s craft, jarring him fully back into the present. He pulled back hard on the flight stick, still exploring the limits of the League fighter. To his surprise, it seemed as if it was more nimble than a Sabre but not as technologically advanced. Without his HUD integrated into the onboard sensor system, he was forced to rely on an old-school method of finding the enemy: the mark one human eyeball. It took Justin several seconds to locate his quarry, a familiar black fighter with red markings.

Trading interlocking scissors maneuvers, Justin used his superior piloting skill to close to a guns solution on the enemy craft over the course of several turns. He squeezed the integrated firing trigger on the flight stick, stabbing at the Leaguer with a flurry of plasma bolts.

“Alpha Two to Alpha One. Come in.” Feldstein’s voice crackled, barely audible on the short-range communications gear built into his suit. “Can you hear me?”

“This is Alpha One. I’m in the League fighter that’s shooting at the other Leaguer. Good to hear your voice, Lieutenant,” Justin replied as he weaved and bobbed, matching the enemy turn for turn. “I could use a little bit of help here.”

“I’ve got you marked as a friendly,” Feldstein said. “Hold on.”

Justin continued his deadly dance with the enemy. While he landed a few shots, the opposing pilot went into guns-D, turning wildly to throw off Justin’s aim. In turn, most of the red plasma balls missed.

“Alpha Two, fox three.”

The biggest problem with the so-called guns-D defensive maneuver was that, as a pilot, you rapidly lost situational awareness. The Leaguer didn’t see the LIDAR-tracking missile launched from Feldstein’s Sabre until it was far too late. The warhead exploded against the enemy craft’s already-weakened shields, shredding its hull and causing a catastrophic reactor explosion. After a brief orange flash, nothing was left of the fighter except dust.

“Alpha Two, splash one.”

“If you keep this up, you’ll make a habit out of rescuing me,” Justin commented with a laugh. “I think that’s the last one.”

“Affirmative. The scope is clear. Zvika Greengold Actual asked me to relay her compliments. I’ll escort you in, sir,” Feldstein replied. “I don’t know how you pulled that off, sir, but there’s a lot of civilian merchant spacers that owe you their lives.”

“I was just doing my job.”

But Justin’s words rang hollow. Do I believe that? Or am I taking insane risks for some reason I can’t put my finger on? His emotions were a jumble. Caught between joy for the victory and a feeling of giddiness for the spectacular stunt of stealing a League fighter, he also felt remorse and sadness. Too many people died today for me to feel good about it.

“Well, you’re headed toward regular-hero territory in my book.” Feldstein chuckled. “I’m coming up on your wing, sir.”

Her Sabre was only a few dozen meters away.

“I see you, Lieutenant. I’m still figuring out how to fly this thing, so we’ll be going slowly.”

“No worries. We’ve got all day. The Leaguers seem to have given up after their cruiser exploded.”

The rest of the flight back to the Zvika Greengold was uneventful. While foreign in the extreme, Justin had gotten enough feel for the Shrike fighter to avoid crashing into the carrier and getting himself killed in the process. Feldstein stayed close, relaying communications from the air boss to him, and he executed a nearly picture-perfect landing on the flight deck. As the stolen craft set down, Justin popped the canopy open and peered over the side.

A platoon of Marines greeted him, their battle rifles at the ready. “Halt! Hands in the air and identify yourself!” the sergeant in charge shouted.

Justin quickly put his hands up. “First Lieutenant Justin Spencer, CDF. Easy there, Marine.”

“That’s him. Lower those weapons,” Whatley barked, his voice as gruff as ever. “Get down here, Lieutenant.”

As he breathed a sigh of relief, Justin swung over the side and climbed down the ladder that appeared next to the fighter. Even though his legs shook, he brought himself to attention. “Sir.”

Whatley’s face broke into a grin. “Damn good show, Lieutenant. Damn good show. At ease.”

Justin relaxed. “Sorry about losing my Sabre, sir. But I brought a replacement.”

Laughter rippled across the flight deck, and a chant broke out. “Spen-cer! Spen-cer! Spen-cer!” Crew chiefs and enlisted ratings in different-colored jackets—brown, blue, purple, white, and green—mobbed the captured fighter and Justin. They cheered wildly, and a group started to pick him up, ostensibly so that he could crowd surf the flight deck.

“Colonel on deck!” The sharp voice of a senior chief carried across the flight deck, even above the tumult. Immediately, everyone ceased their activities. The chant stopped, and all came to attention.

Tehrani cut a path through the masses of soldiers and space-aviation ratings. A rarity on the flight deck outside of inspections, her presence surprised Justin.

She came to a halt in front of the captured League fighter. “Lieutenant Spencer,” Tehrani said with a smile. “I’m glad to see you again.”

“Likewise, ma’am.” Justin stood ramrod straight, like he’d learned all the way back in boot camp.

“As you were, everyone,” Tehrani called loudly.

The assembled company relaxed into parade rest.

“The convoy is spinning up for a Lawrence jump to our deep-space way station for resupply and rearmament, but I wanted to shake the hand of the man who saved a lot of lives today,” Tehrani continued and extended her hand.

Justin took it and squeezed warmly. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“Please join me tonight, with the rest of your flight element, in the senior officers’ mess on deck two. Let my chef know of any dietary requirements.” With a wry grin, Tehrani turned her head toward the rest of the flight deck. “Now, I think you were in the middle of a celebration. Don’t stop on my account.”

Regardless of what the ship’s commanding officer said, you didn’t do certain things in front of her, at least until someone else did it first. A few seconds passed before someone—Justin couldn’t tell who—started up the chant.

“Spen-cer! Spen-cer!” Each repeat of the name added more voices until, once more, the deck plates vibrated.

Someone grabbed Justin’s shoulders from behind, and he was thrust upward suddenly, into a sea of waiting hands. The chant continued as he was passed around the hangar bay by the throng of cheering crew members. Out of the corner of his eye, Justin could have sworn he saw Whatley joining in. He allowed himself to relax and enjoy the moment, temporarily banishing any other thoughts from his mind. I’m sure this is something you only get once in a career.

12

Unlike the pilots’ mess, the colonel’s table in the senior officers’ mess was a far more formal affair. He’d received a notification from her steward earlier in the evening to wear a khaki service uniform along with another request for dietary restrictions. While Justin briefly considered pranking them by citing an obscure set of religious guidelines, he decided it wasn’t a good idea to punk the commanding officer.

Justin grinned at the thought as he fit the ribbon bar onto his freshly pressed uniform and checked the spacing one more time in the mirror. Pilot wings, check. Name tag, check. Rank insignia, check. Memories of preparing for uniform inspection in flight school flooded into his mind. It had been virtually impossible to pass that particular inspection, and half the day afterward was spent doing hardcore physical training. I suppose that was the point. They wanted to see if we were tough enough to endure.

With everything set, he checked himself a final time and headed out into the passageway for a roughly ten-minute walk.

Arriving at his destination a few minutes early, Justin stared at the hatch. It looked like practically every other hatch on the ship, but the nameplate read Senior Officers Mess, CSV Zvika Greengold.

He cleared his throat. Oh, come on. They all put their pants on the same way I do. One leg at a time. No reason to be nervous. Forcing the butterflies in his stomach down, he pushed the hatch open and walked through.

“Lieutenant Spencer?” someone immediately to his right asked.

“The one and only.”

The voice belonged to a mess steward who wore a black dress uniform. “Colonel Tehrani has not yet arrived. Your seat at her table is marked.”

“Thank you.”

For a moment, Justin took in the room, which was considerably more ostentatious than he was used to. Plaques celebrating the Zvika Greengold lined the walls along with shadowbox displays of famous officers who’d served on her. One was dedicated to Captain Zvika Greengold himself. He looked at the exhibition’s first few lines, which related the history of Captain Greengold’s brave stand in an old war back on Earth. One tank versus hundreds of others. That’s bravery right there. The exhibit was similar to those in the Red Tails ready room, detailing the storied history of the squadron and General Benjamin Davis, Jr.

A small printed white sign was marked 1LT Justin Spencer along the side of the table, and he sat in the corresponding chair.

Being the first person there had its advantages—namely avoiding the spotlight for as long as possible. The second person in the door was of average height but had exceptionally broad shoulders and was wearing a Terran Coalition Marine Corps dress uniform.

I have to admit Marines look sharp. Justin grinned. He’d never had a desire to be a Marine. Noticing the new arrival’s rank insignia was that of a major, he stood.

“Lieutenant Spencer,” the Marine said, “good to meet you.” A grin spread across his face. “We’ve heard about your exploits all the way down in TCMC country.” He extended his hand. “Major Kosuke Nishimura.” The officer’s country flag was a red circle on a white background—Japan.

“The pleasure’s mine, Major Nishimura.” Justin took the outstretched hand and shook it warmly.

“First time to the wardroom?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The grub’s better.” He winked. “But it’s got nothing on the chief’s mess. That goes for CDF or TCMC. Our gunnery sergeants have the best food in the corps.”

“You know, I keep hearing that. I don’t get why,” Justin replied with a grin.

“Oh, simple. Senior enlisted personnel make the military go round. And you can bet your bottom credit they make sure the best stuff goes to them first.”

“So true,” someone interrupted.

Justin turned to see Colonel Tehrani and the XO of the Greengold, Major Wright. He stiffened and came to attention. “Ma’am.”

“At ease, Lieutenant.” Tehrani flashed a smile. “No customs or courtesies in the mess. Please, sit.”

She took her spot at the head of the table, and Wright slid down next to her.

Idle chitchat took up the next few minutes as others arrived—the rest of the bridge officers and the pilots, led by Whatley. He had Feldstein, Mateus, and Adeoye with him.

“What’s this? You got here early for once, Spencer?” Whatley asked with a chuckle. “We were hanging around, waiting for you outside, but I figured you were late.” He sat in the seat marked for him. “I guess our esteemed lieutenant here was working the boss for the next stripe.”

“Uh…” Justin’s face heated. “I’m always early, sir.”

“Just busting your chops, Spencer,” Whatley replied. “These young kids today. So easy to mess with.”

Nishimura laughed loudly. “You get ’em running around the hangar bay, looking for a bucket of thruster wash yet?”

Justin groaned inwardly. He’d fallen for that prank on his first day on the Zvika Greengold. “Don’t forget the infamous cable stretcher.”

Tehrani peered down the table. “Please tell me you did not fall for the cable stretcher.”

“I did, ma’am.” Justin’s cheeks couldn’t get any warmer.

She chuckled. “I remember being tricked into reporting to the medical bay for my space inoculation when I reported for duty here.”

“I don’t think I’ve heard that one before,” Whatley interjected. “Dr. Horvitz came up with that all by his lonesome?”

Tehrani shrugged. “I’m not sure, but he played it well.”

Polite laughter echoed across the table. Justin almost felt like he had at family dinners on Sundays as a child. The general rule of thumb: don’t speak unless spoken to.

“Do you have a family, Lieutenant?” Tehrani asked.

So much for flying under the LIDAR. “Yes, ma’am. My wife, Michelle, and our daughter, Maggie. She’s four.”

“It must be hard, being away from them.”

Justin nodded. “Very hard, ma’am. I don’t think any of us saw this coming.”

“You’re almost done with your service commitment, are you not?”

“Yes, ma’am, but… I don’t think the CDF will be letting anyone out anytime soon.” Justin forced a smile. “It seems to me as if we’re in a fight for survival.”

“Most astute.” Tehrani leaned back in her chair and took a sip of water. “Will you sign up for another stint?”

Justin suddenly felt every eye at the table boring into him—from Tehrani to Whatley and even his fellow pilots. While he’d given it some thought, he hadn’t reached a decision. Sitting there, as much as he wanted to be back with his wife and daughter, something stirred within him, saying that the war was his fight for the duration. “I, uh, haven’t decided, ma’am.” Realizing how lame he sounded, Justin continued, “But as long it appears the war will continue, I’m here for the long haul.” Desperate to change the subject, he tried a different tactic. “Do you have a family, ma’am?”

“I do. My husband is an economics professor. He moved with me to Canaan. That’s our home base until I retire.” Tehrani put her hands on the table. “We were going to start a family when I retired next year. Much like you, I now feel I have to stay in as long as the war continues. My entire career has trained me for combat, and there are precious few starship commanders with actual combat experience beyond sims.” She shrugged. “Perhaps this is Allah’s path for me. Besides, it’s not like I can’t put a family on hold for another ten years.”

Justin considered her words. Medical science did allow for children to be born naturally until the early sixties. With the average human life span of roughly one hundred twenty and access to high-tech medicine and treatments, it was indeed a reasonable choice. That said, he wouldn’t trade anything in the galaxy for his daughter. Between her and Michelle, they were the lights of his life. “I suppose I shouldn’t rag on the doctors too much.” Justin flashed a smile.

Further discussion of the topic was avoided thanks to a small group of mess stewards appearing with dozens of plates of food. With military precision, they put a plate in front of each person and removed the lid. The aroma of the freshly cooked food hit Justin’s nostrils. It smelled so much better than the combat rations he’d been living on because of the constant ready-five status the Red Tails endured.

Most of the conversation during dinner was the polite, light variety. Only after another round of mess stewards cleared the plates did the deeper discussions continue.

“So, Lieutenant Spencer. What’re your thoughts on the prospect of a long war with the League?” Tehrani asked between sips of after-dinner coffee.

Justin got the distinct impression he was being evaluated on every answer, though he couldn’t figure out why. “I hope it will be over soon, ma’am. So little information is out there beyond the ridiculous propaganda broadcasts the League keeps piping into the holonets.” Ever since the Battle of Canaan, holoprograms abounded from rogue channels claiming the League was undertaking a “police action” to return the Terran Coalition to the loving embrace of its human brethren. Virtually no one took them seriously.

“You don’t live for combat?”

“No, ma’am. Don’t get me wrong—it’s incredible in the cockpit, and I have no qualms about engaging and defeating the enemy.” Justin carefully avoided the word killing.

Tehrani’s eyes flicked to Whatley. “Unlike you.”

“I remember the words of a long-since dead general,” Whatley said. “It is well that war is so terrible. Otherwise, we should grow too fond of it.” His mouth curled in a grin. “I am quite fond of seeing the enemy destroyed.”

“Especially this so-called League of Sol,” Wright interjected. “How did communism even survive on Earth?” He shook his head. “I don’t think you could find five communists in the entire Terran Coalition, and we’ve got what? A hundred billion citizens?”

“Well, when the engineers build an idiot-proof device, the universe seems to build better idiots,” Nishimura said in his raspy voice.

Justin laughed loudly, as did many others at the table. “History wasn’t my strong suit in school, I’m afraid.”

“Most communist countries on Earth didn’t last that long,” Tehrani said after the chuckles died down. “But a few did, with mixed economic systems.” She flashed a smile. “My husband loves to discuss these subjects. I think the bottom line is when you combine a surveillance state with advanced artificial intelligence like the World Society did, dissent becomes nearly impossible. Add in the government providing for your needs somehow, and many people accept the system, just trying to survive.”

Silence descended over the table, and Justin pondered the colonel’s words. He was thankful he hadn’t yet had to confront such a situation. And it’s my job to keep it from happening here.

“The question that’s really on my mind, though, Lieutenant,” Tehrani said, again directing her piercing gaze at Justin, “is how did you manage to steal a fighter from that heavy cruiser?”

Justin shrugged. “I don’t know, ma’am. I tried to rely on my training and work each problem as it came up, and I think I was very fortunate.”

“I don’t believe in luck,” Tehrani replied. “Either muscle memory kicks in, or perhaps in a rare case, Allah intercedes for us.”

Inwardly, Justin groaned yet again. I’m not getting into a religious debate with the commanding officer of my carrier. “I’ve no opinion on such matters, ma’am.”

Tehrani raised an eyebrow. “Even after something like that?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Whatley came to the rescue. “Nothing wrong with questioning what’s up there,” he said gruffly. “All I care about is that you keep clipping Leaguers at the same pace you’ve been doing up until now.”

“Amen,” Wright interjected.

“I think it’s time I take my leave from you all,” Tehrani said after a few moments of silence. “Lieutenant Spencer, thank you for joining me tonight. I am genuinely impressed with your abilities.” She stood. “Good evening, everyone. Get some rest. Tomorrow will be a repair-and-supply day before we move on for the rest of the convoy run.”

Major Nishimura patted Justin’s shoulder. “I had my quartermaster send a couple of cases of the best beer we had down to the Red Tails’ ready room. Dole it out as you see fit.” He leaned in and whispered, “And keep killing those commie sons of bitches for us. I can’t wait till I get my turn, but I’ll live vicariously through you until that happens.”

Justin managed a grin. “Thank you, sir… ma’am. Everyone.” With little else to say, he stood and started walking out of the mess.

A table set for one on the side of the room captured his attention. He quickly realized it was the prisoner of war-missing in action remembrance display. Every mess had one, and so did every veterans’ organization building. Pausing at it, Justin considered the symbolism of every item, from a single place setting that represented the frailty of one prisoner to the slice of lemon, which served as a reminder of the bitter fate of those missing and never returned home. This particular display had a Bible, Torah, and Quran laid on the table’s side, which made sense, considering their status as the three largest religions in the Terran Coalition.

“Are you okay?” Feldstein asked quietly.

Justin nearly jumped out of his skin and whirled around. “Uh, yeah.”

“Jumpy much?”

He felt as if a lump were caught in his throat. “Honestly, yeah. I’m still halfway freaked out by what happened.” Justin gestured to the table. “And how close I came to being another person remembered by a small memorial. I keep vacillating between this kind of giddy sense of victory…” He turned toward her. “And seeing Felder’s Sabre explode. He was one of mine. I couldn’t help him, but I’m a hero?”

Feldstein put a hand on top of his and squeezed it. “I get it, Justin. Even Mateus, for all her talk, will quietly admit to nightmares. Why do you think I’m at the shul so much?”

Justin shrugged. “You got religion?” He managed a small grin.

“I suppose, in some sense. For me, though, it’s more that I need to have some comfort that what I’m doing is right, and if I die, my soul won’t be cast out. The thought terrifies me.”

“Dvora, you know I’m not much on God.”

“Then turn to your friends. Stop hiding out in your cabin after battles and join us. Mateus has a poker game going practically every night.”

He snorted. “And get cleaned out?”

Feldstein rolled her eyes. “We don’t play for real money. Well, except after everyone’s had too much to drink, but you get the point. You’re a part of something bigger than yourself. Act like it.”

Her words stung. Anger started to build, but Justin had to admit she was right. And when someone else is right, admit it. Or I’ll be as bad as Whatley can be at times. He nodded. “Okay. I’ll start coming but not tonight.” Justin grinned. “I feel like the doc gave me a complete workup and ran me through a shrink to boot after that.”

“Yeah, no kidding. You’ll be pinning on captain’s stripes before too long, I bet.”

Justin smirked and raised his eyebrows. “No way. I’m a year out from O-3, at best.”

“Trust me.” Feldstein winked. “Have a good night. Remember what I said.”

“I will.” Justin watched her go, and after a final glance at the POW-MIA table, he turned and walked out.

* * *

After leaving the senior officers’ mess, Justin didn’t feel like returning to his cabin. The walls of it were oppressive, closing in on him after weeks in space. Instead, he walked the passageways of the ship. The tale of his exploits had spread like wildfire through the carrier. Everyone seemed to recognize him, from the officers to the lowest-grade enlisted private on the vessel. It made a stroll he hoped would clear his mind turn into a slog that did nothing but. Feldstein’s words were front and center, forcing him to account for his behavior and deal with the pain of war.

Walking aft of the hangar decks, Justin came to the same section as the religious and worship spaces. A ship the size of the Greengold, as small as it was for a carrier, still had a relatively large crew for a space-going military vessel. Accordingly, the ship had different chapels for the Terran Coalition’s various major religions along with a multipurpose space for belief systems with fewer followers. The shul was located here, its blue Star of David prominently displayed. A few meters down the passageway sat the Christian church, used by all denominations of the faith. For a moment, he paused outside of its doors.

It’s nothing short of a miracle that I’m still alive. Justin stared at the double hatch. No. It was just luck. How did my statistics professor put it in college? Low-probability events do occur. Justin set his jaw. What happened today was simply proof of random chance. I got lucky.

He turned on his heel and walked back to the gravlift that would take him to the right deck for his cabin.

Ten minutes later, Justin stepped into the lift. “Deck eight,” he announced.

Before the pod could move, another soldier ducked through the door. A young man, he looked to be a teenager still. The youngster came to attention. “Sir!”

Justin peered at him. “At ease, Private…” He searched for the soldier’s nameplate. “Waters.”

“If I may ask, sir, what was it like out there?” Waters asked as the gravlift started to move.

“Pandemonium. Pure chaos.” Justin shook his head. “But we won.”

“We’re all so proud of you, escaping that League cruiser like you did, sir.” Waters beamed. “That’s holovid-hero stuff right there.”

“Just lucky, I guess.” Justin didn’t feel like talking, and after an evening spent with the spotlight firmly focused on him, he was done.

“I would’ve been doing some real praying, if it had been me.”

Justin chuckled. “For what it’s worth, I did offer up a prayer. Not sure if anyone was listening, though.”

“If I might ask, sir, what did you pray about?”

“I asked God, or whatever force controls the universe, to help me get home to my wife and daughter,” Justin replied. He felt a bit annoyed at the line of questioning and didn’t appreciate having his beliefs questioned.

Waters tilted his head. “Sounds like your prayer was answered.” He grinned. “I always figured if something was too improbable, maybe God was looking out for us.”

Justin shrugged. “I suppose. I’m not much on religion, Private.” He glanced at the young man’s uniform and saw the religious flag of Christianity under the country patch. “No disrespect intended. My take is we’re alone, and well…” Justin forced a grin. “Not supposed to talk about religion and politics, right?”

Waters laughed. “That’s what my mother used to say, sir.” The gravlift stopped, and the doors swung open. “Well, this is my stop. Again, congratulations on some crazy flying.” With one foot out of the lift, he turned back toward Justin. “One thing, if I may, sir. A good man is never alone. No matter how much it feels like we are, God is always beside us.”

“Thank you, Private.” Justin couldn’t think of anything else to say.

The young man brought himself to attention once more. “Good evening, sir.”

“Carry on, Private.” As Waters walked away, the doors closed, and the gravlift moved on. Justin retreated into his thoughts. I envy people who believe in something else, because they don’t have to face reality alone. Part of him felt guilty for forming a prayer when all seemed lost, even though he didn’t believe.

A few minutes later, he entered his cabin, stripped off his clothes, and climbed into bed. He repeatedly awoke in the middle of a recurring nightmare throughout the night: the destruction of his Sabre and an added sensation of burning to death. Rest was fleeting.

13

The difference a day makes, Tehrani reflected as she walked through the hatch to her day cabin. Taking on food and resupplying our munitions magazines under the watchful eye of a CDF space station is far better duty than counting the minutes to a jump and hoping the League doesn’t show up. The Zvika Greengold had gotten banged up pretty good in the last engagement, but it was doing far better than after the Battle of Canaan.

Tehrani had scheduled a private meeting with her XO and the CAG for first thing in the morning, and she only managed to get through seventeen administrative paperwork actions before the buzzer chimed.

She looked up. “Come in.”

The hatch swung open, and Wright strode in. He came to attention before the desk. “Major Wright reports as ordered, ma’am.”

“At ease,” Tehrani replied. “Please, sit.”

Wright swung himself into the chair. “How’d you sleep?”

“Better than the night before. What about you?”

“I got to talk to my wife last night, and between that and knowing there’s a small fleet protecting us… I slept like a baby.” He broke into a broad grin. “The crew’s starting to talk about this being a lucky ship.”

“Oh?” Tehrani stared at him with a raised eyebrow.

“I know you don’t like hearing the luck word. But they view our string of victories as you having something a little extra going in your favor.”

Tehrani leaned back. “The something extra is Allah,” she said quietly. “At least, it’s what I’ve retreated into.”

“You know, before about six weeks ago, I heard you talk about your religion maybe five times in two years. Now? Every day. What happened?”

He had a point. Tehrani turned her palms up and shrugged. “Confronting death daily makes one turn to faith?” She let out a sigh. “It comforts me. What can I say? I haven’t offended you, have I?”

“Not at all.” Wright pursed his lips. “The truth is, I’ve been doing a lot of praying myself. Cracked my Bible open and actually read some of it.” He smiled. “I found that perhaps I’ve done an excellent job of labeling myself a Christian but not living it.”

“I came to the same conclusion.”

“Well, thankfully, it’s something we can both work on.”

“Unless our time is up,” Tehrani replied. “I’ve found myself thinking about what comes after this life, especially after our close calls recently.”

“Skipper, that’s everyone on this ship.” Wright cracked a grin. “Even our CAG, who ain’t afraid of anything.”

Tehrani laughed loudly.

Before she could speak, the intercom on her desk went off. “Colonel, this is Lieutenant Singh. We have a small situation here, ma’am.”

“What is it, Lieutenant?” What possible situation could we have in orbit of a space station? By Allah, please let us have one day of rest.

“I’ve got a gentleman from the Coalition Intelligence Service in the conference room. He’s asked for you and Major Whatley to meet him. His security credentials check out at the highest level, and he says it’s extremely urgent.”

Tehrani exchanged glances with Wright. “Spooks. The only thing worse than civilians.”

“You got that right, skipper.” Wright made a face. “Shall we?”

Before either one of them could move, the hatch swung open again. “Sorry I’m late,” Whatley said as he walked in. “I got caught up chewing out the aviation-deck force again.”

“We were just going to the conference room, Major,” Tehrani replied. She stood and stretched. “We have a visitor from CIS.”

Whatley’s expression darkened. “Spooks. Ugh. Anything but spooks.”

“Amen,” Wright said with a grin as he stood as well.

“Shall we, gentlemen?” Tehrani asked.

Both men stood aside, and she strode past them into the corridor. The conference room was only a few steps away. She opened the hatch and pushed it inward to find one person already there. He was a nondescript human male, in every sense of the word—average height, average hair, not too handsome, and didn’t stick out except for his perfectly pressed business suit. The perfect spy.

The newcomer sprang from his chair as the three officers walked in. “Colonel Tehrani, so good to meet you. I’m Thomas Grant, with the Coalition Intelligence Service.” He flashed a smile. “Special-activities division.” He glanced between Wright and Whatley. “I requested your CAG but not Major Wright. I’m afraid this is strictly need-to-know information we’re about to discuss.”

“In that case, you can get off my ship, Agent Grant.” Tehrani’s smiled. “On the Zvika Greengold, I give the orders.”

“Colonel—”

Tehrani held up her hand, palm out, as she spoke.“Mr. Grant, whatever you want us to do, my executive officer has to help me implement it. He will be present for this meeting, or you can find someone else.”

Grant blinked. His body language had been that of someone in complete control of the situation, but his shoulders sagged after her statement, and a frown crossed his face. He opened his mouth, shut it, then opened it again. “Okay. Major Wright can stay.” He locked eyes with her. “If a leak comes out of this ship, I’ll have you all charged with treason. Do I make myself clear?”

“You do.” Tehrani crossed her arms. What in the galaxy is this man up to, and what does he want with my ship? Every alarm bell in her mind rang at the same time.

“With that out of the way, I wanted to thank you for capturing the League fighter down in your hangar bay.” Grant smiled toothily in an almost-creepy way. “We’ve been waiting for a break like this. My analysts have been reviewing the onboard navigation data all night.”

“You’ve had people on my ship?” Tehrani interjected.

“Yes.”

She balled her fist under the table. “And I wasn’t notified?”

“Colonel, we’re at war, and loose lips sink ships. Besides, I’m telling you now.” Grant flashed the creepy grin again. “CIS has, for the past few weeks, worked around the clock to determine how the League was able to attack us in such overwhelming numbers with no indication of anything amiss. What we found on the captured craft is a piece of the puzzle. Our Leaguer friends seem to have portable deep-space supply depots scattered across our territory.”

“What?” Whatley exclaimed. “That’s illogical. If nothing else, civilian police patrols would’ve spotted them.”

“Not if they’re outside of solar system boundaries and in interstellar space.”

They all stared at the spy.

Wright shook his head. “Our sensor networks don’t cover that?”

Grant laughed. “The Terran Coalition is exceedingly good at preparing for the last war, Major. The Saurians wanted territory in our conflicts with them. They moved from system to system, engaging in pitched battles for resource-heavy planets. As a result, the CDF is set up to defend planetary solar systems. Our vessels counter theirs. We’re lucky that our technology is better than the League’s. Otherwise, they’d have already conquered us. This enemy brings new tactics to the fight. One of them is hiding out in the vastness of the void.”

“That tracks,” Whatley said. “The reason we have escort carriers for convoy escort is the Saurians never really bothered attacking civilian shipping. They considered it to be dishonorable.”

Tehrani snorted. “The League has no honor. Attacking our capital by surprise. From what I’ve read and heard from veterans about the Saurians, I could respect them in combat. The League—never.” She stared at the spy once more. “What do you want us to do?”

“I want you to help me capture a League facility intact so that we can mine its databases for actionable intelligence.”

Silence filled the conference room.

Tehrani was taken aback and, for once, rendered speechless for several seconds. “I’m not sure I heard you right.”

Grant flashed what appeared to be his trademark grin. “I’ve inventoried your available force assets, Colonel. I’m assured you have the tools at your disposal to accomplish my objective.”

Something about the man’s self-assured tone, as he so dispassionately discussed the soldiers under Tehrani’s command and what seemed like a long-shot plan, rubbed her the wrong way. I get blowing this installation of theirs to hell, but capture it? With just the Greengold? She forced the pique down. “Okay, Agent Grant. Lay it out.”

Grant leaned back in his chair. “You have a larger than normal force of Marines aboard, yes?”

Tehrani nodded. “Yes. I requested additional assets in case we had issues with boarders on the civilian freighters.”

“Which means you’re more than prepared for VBSS actions.”

She tossed his words around in her mind. “In what way would visit, board, search, and seizure actions be useful, Agent?”

“I thought you’d never ask. The Greengold picked up a critical piece of the puzzle. With the captured fighter, we have the element of surprise. We load it into the shuttle hangar of a stealth raider that coincidentally happens to be taking on a load of Starbolt missiles as we speak, jump that vessel into the area of the enemy… and get the League craft close enough that it can deploy an EMP weapon.” Grant spread his hands out on the table. “That’ll neutralize any onboard self-destruct and defensive weaponry. The Zvika Greengold jumps in, deals with any remaining ships or small craft, and deploys the Marines, and we go home with intelligence and prisoners of war.”

“That’s insane!” Wright thundered. “Ops like this require months of planning, tier-one operators, and a lot more force than the Greengold.”

Wright’s complaint was on point. But this is all-out war—a war for survival that we’ve taken horrendous losses in already. Though that didn’t mean Tehrani wasn’t afraid of losing her ship and crew in a futile effort. “I have serious misgivings about what you propose, Agent.” She set her jaw and turned to Whatley. “Your opinion, CAG?”

“We’re not going to win this war with half measures and without taking extreme risks. I say we do it, and I’ll volunteer to fly the League fighter.” Whatley’s expression hardened. “If you’ve given us bad intel, I’ll personally come back from the afterlife and haunt you until the day you die, Grant,” he finished, staring at the spy. “Are we clear?”

The one-hundred-watt smile never faded. “Completely.” Grant turned back to Tehrani. “While I don’t need your agreement, Colonel, I would much rather we do this action as partners, with the Zvika Greengold’s senior officers buying into the plan.”

Bile rose in Tehrani’s throat. How the operative assumed her ship was his to do with as he pleased offended her to the core. She clenched her jaw. “I obey lawful orders from my chain of command.”

Grant pulled a tablet out of his jacket and passed it over to her. “You’ll see those are counter-signed by all the proper authorities.”

Tehrani examined the orders. As Grant had indicated, they ordered her to attack the League staging depot and capture it if at all possible. “This gives me broad latitude once the battle is joined, Agent.” She smirked. “Let’s get something straight. If I think the operation is going south at any time, I’ll destroy the depot rather than waste the lives of my pilots, Marines, and soldiers. Do you understand?”

“Of course, Colonel.” Again, Grant flashed the creepy smile.

This guy gives me the shivers. Tehrani looked for any hint of deception in his face. “What CDF forces will be available besides the stealth raider and the Greengold?”

“None. The rest of your battlegroup will continue with several ships from the station’s defense fleet to the next series of jumps. This entire operation hinges on the League not knowing we’re coming. If command were to bring in a larger force, I believe it would blow our chance at a major intelligence coup.” Grant steepled his fingers. “Look, I get it. I’m a dirty civilian telling the military what to do. You don’t trust spooks. I probably wouldn’t, either, if I were in your shoes. But I want the same thing you do—the Terran Coalition winning this war. We’re not going to win by brute force. It’s going to take guile and bold strokes. Help me pull this off.”

Even though the warning bell that Grant couldn’t be trusted was still ringing, his words seemed sincere, which reassured Tehrani enough to proceed. “Okay. You’ve got yourself a carrier.” She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t make me regret this, Agent.”

“I won’t, Colonel. Thank you all, and Godspeed.” He stood. “I’ll see myself out.”

The moment the hatch closed, Wright brought his hand down on the table. “Please, tell me we’re not considering this bullshit.”

“Major, orders are orders,” Tehrani replied.

“Skipper, that guy isn’t the one putting his rear end on the line. Come on. What happens if we jump in there and find twenty Leaguer capital ships waiting for us?”

“Then we either jump out immediately or take as many of the bastards out with us as we can,” Whatley stated in his raspy tone. “This is going to be a risky op. But if we can pull it off, it’ll pay off in spades.”

Wright looked between the two of them. “Okay. I’m outnumbered.” He grinned. “I’m going to reserve the right to tell you ‘I told you so’ when this goes to hell in a handbasket.”

“I’ll deserve it if it does,” Tehrani replied. She turned toward Whatley. “Brief your pilots. But, Major, I want volunteers. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, ma’am. Don’t worry. This ship’s full of heroes.” Whatley grumbled good-naturedly, “To the point that it’s annoying.”

All three of them laughed.

“You’ve got that right,” Wright said while shaking his head. “Your orders, ma’am?”

“Get us ready to fight.” Tehrani stood. “I’m going to head down to noon prayers. Let’s meet back here in three hours to discuss status.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Whatley replied crisply as he jumped out of his chair.

Wright was right behind him.

“Dismissed, gentlemen.” Tehrani turned on her heel and strode out of the conference room.

The trip through the ship took some time and gave her the mental space to think. While she had a vague sense of misgiving about the ad-hoc nature of the upcoming mission, she felt more focused on the chance to strike back. We’re on constant defense. This is one opportunity to strike a blow against the League on our terms. The prospect brought a smile to her face.

* * *

When the call came in for a briefing for the entire air wing, Justin almost missed it. He had busied himself with additional simulator training, practicing advanced space-combat maneuvers based on the behavior observed so far from the Leaguer pilots. His handcomm buzzed enough that he eventually paid attention and received the message. As a result, Justin walked into the ready room with only a few minutes to spare.

“Ah, good of you to join us, Lieutenant,” Whatley called as he cleared the hatch.

Almost all the pilots were already assembled, and Justin felt his cheeks warm ever so slightly. Rookie mistake. I’d better turn up the volume on my shipnet alerts. Chastened and mildly annoyed by the rebuke, he nodded at the CAG and took one of the remaining open seats.

“Now that we’re all here, I can get down to business,” Whatley said. “Thanks to some fancy flying and more holovid heroics from Spencer here—”

Hoots, hollers, and cheers cut in. A few pilots—all from the Black Hogs squadron, as they were the closest—slapped Justin on the back.

“You guys want to hear what’s coming?” Whatley interjected. “Or we can go back to boosting Lieutenant Spencer’s ego to unsafe levels.” The barb was delivered with a smile, and it hit Justin as being good-natured.

Once they’d all settled down, he continued, “As I was saying, since Wonder Boy here brought home a League fighter, the eggheads took it apart and discovered something.” He touched a button on the holovid control built into the briefing lectern. “The enemy has set up shop inside our borders.”

The projection came alive with a 3-D-rendered view of a small space installation with numerous deep-space cargo pods and defense platforms around it. Helpful tags labeled each structure, while patrol routes and projections of enemy fighter locations were overlaid on the display.

“As you can see, we’ve got our work cut out for us.” Whatley scanned the room. “The plan is to capture the central structure intact.”

“Why, Major? Better to blow it apart,” a Boar pilot interjected. He followed up with the brrrrrrt. “Give us the go. We’ll send every Leaguer in there to hell.”

Whatley turned his head toward the man. “Is that your answer to everything?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Would you like to stop fighting on the defensive and start hitting the damn Leaguers before they hit us?”

“Uh, of course, sir.”

“Then. Pay. Attention.” Whatley cleared his throat. “As I was saying, we’re going to capture the central structure. Intelligence analysis suggests their central computer should have detailed information on deployments throughout the sector.”

Feldstein raised her hand.

“Yes, Lieutenant?”

“Sir, wouldn’t they destroy the data or self-destruct the station the moment we jumped in, if they thought we could pull off capturing the thing?”

“Well, would ya look at that? A fighter pilot with a brain beyond blasting targets.” Whatley turned toward the group from the Black Hogs squadron. “Take notes. She’s way ahead of you.”

Assorted snickers broke out, while the Boar pilots looked sheepish. A few rolled their eyes, and one again made the brrrrrrt sound that had become famous throughout the Greengold.

“The key is our captured League fighter. I’m going to fly it out of the shuttle bay of a stealth raider and drop an EMP warhead on them that’ll scramble their electronics for hours. As soon as I’ve accomplished that portion of the mission, the Greengold will drop in and blow everything else apart while ensuring the Marines make it safe and sound.”

Whatley’s announcement that he would fly the captured enemy craft took Justin by surprise. Why’s the CAG doing that? I’m the one with the most seat time in it.

“Any questions?”

“What if there’s an overwhelming enemy force or you can’t detonate the EMP?” Justin asked.

“Well, then someone else in this room will have to step up and lead,” Whatley replied. His eyes seemed to bore into Justin’s soul. “Colonel Tehrani has taken steps to ensure we can perform back-to-back Lawrence jumps if required. So regardless, the ship will be safe.”

Easy to say that. I know there’s a four- to six-second period after a jump when any vessel using a Lawrence drive has almost no power. Still, that the CO was taking such planning into account assuaged some of Justin’s fears.

“Anyone else?” After several seconds without reply, Whatley continued, “Good. You’ll receive detailed mission-briefing packages by the end of the day. Study them. Practice in the simulators. We jump out first thing tomorrow morning. Oh, and one other thing. The ship is, as of now, on a complete EMCON Alpha communications blackout. No transmission off the Greengold. Period. All leave on the station is canceled.”

Groans echoed across the ready room.

“Loose lips sink ships and get fighters blown up,” Whatley growled in return. “And you knuckleheads, with a few glasses of beer in you, will spill everything to the first attractive woman or handsome guy that walks up.”

A few of the pilots at least had the good sense to look sheepish. Justin felt a momentary emotional tug. He’d hoped to talk to his wife and daughter that night for his turn on the comm rotation.

“Okay. That’s all I’ve got. Study, practice, and get some rest, and we’re going to do what we do best tomorrow—blow those Leaguer sons of bitches out of space. Fight the good fight, no matter the odds!”

Justin and everyone else belted the familiar refrain, “No matter the odds!” Cheers and applause swept across the room.

“Dismissed!”

Hanging back as the rest of the pilots streamed out the hatch, Justin waved at Feldstein, Mateus, and Adeoye. Mateus motioned as if to ask if he was leaving, to which he waved. They continued, and the hatch closed behind the last person, leaving Justin and Whatley alone.

“What’s on your mind, son?”

“I think I should be the one flying the League fighter, sir.” The words rushed out of Justin’s mouth like a flood.

Whatley raised an eyebrow. “This hero stuff going to your head?”

Justin swallowed. “No, sir. I’m the only one who’s flown it, though.” He paused. What the heck has gotten into me? “And the rest of the air wing will need your guidance if it all hits the fan when the Greengold jumps in.”

“You know, you keep surprising me, Spencer.” Whatley smirked then laughed. “You keep this up, and you’ll win the Medal of Honor.” He turned serious. “Just remember something—it’s generally awarded posthumously.”

“I’m not looking to die in a blaze of glory, sir,” Justin replied. Whatley’s got a point, though. He kept taking extreme risks in the cockpit. Those risks had paid off, but at some point, his luck had to run out. Doesn’t it? Or perhaps Colonel Tehrani was right. Maybe there isn’t any luck, and it’s all training along with some sort of divine intervention. That he’d even had the thought bothered him. Justin didn’t believe in anything he couldn’t put his hands on, and any daylight in that belief was significant.

Whatley nodded. “I doubt you are, but that’s precisely what’ll happen if you volunteer for every half-baked mission that comes up.” He pursed his lips. “Are you confident you can fly the thing?”

“I got an assist in it, sir.” Justin flashed a grin.

“So you did. Okay. I’ll sell the colonel on this, but hear me loud and clear. You’d better not pull any John Wayne shit out there. You get me, Spencer?”

Justin didn’t quite understand the fascination some of the older officers had with an actor from old Earth videos. They weren’t even holographic but projected on a screen or a wall, requiring technology so old that the GalNet had instructions on how to create players for the videos out of children’s supplies. “Got it, sir.”

Whatley sighed. “Now get out of here before I change my mind.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Justin replied with a grin and took off for the hatch before anything else could be said. I hope my ego didn’t just write a credit slip it can’t cash. Beneath the bravado, his mind churned, questioning why he kept volunteering again and again. Maybe subconsciously, I do want to go out in a blaze of glory. One of these days, I need to see a shrink.

14

Tehrani felt pressed to the limit, between catching up on the Greengold’s after-action reports, battle planning for the next day, and writing condolence letters to families of lost crewmembers and pilots. She hadn’t bothered with going to the mess or wardroom for dinner. Instead, her steward had dropped off a plate of food. It sat cold on her desk as she nibbled on a piece of bread between tasks.

The vessel's battle rhythm—or really the entire CDF’s—was functioning at a level that brought sheer mental and physical exhaustion to the forefront. Tehrani recalled days in her youth, longing for combat against a pirate group or one of the more hostile aliens, such as the Jalm’tar Confederation. Probably because we all knew we’d wipe the floor with those enemies. A fight against a peer opponent or possibly a superior opponent was a terrifying prospect that she along with every other member of the military was living.

She set her tablet down and took another bite of the cold food—a piece of rubbery chicken. When she was halfway through chewing it, the hatch buzzer sounded.

Tehrani quickly swallowed. “Come in.”

The alloy door swung open, revealing Whatley and Justin. The major came to attention before the desk. “Do you have a moment, ma’am? The lieutenant and I have a proposal for you.”

Tehrani gestured to the chairs. “By all means, gentlemen. What’d you have in mind?”

Spencer glanced at Whatley and, receiving a small nod, turned toward her. “Colonel, I’d like to be the one flying the captured League fighter tomorrow.”

“Oh.” Tehrani stared at him. I wasn’t expecting that. In truth, she saw the flight as a suicide mission and figured Whatley had volunteered to spare his pilots. “Are you aware of the risks, Lieutenant Spencer?”

“I am, ma’am. As I’ve told the CAG, I have the most hands-on flight time with the craft. I should be the one going.”

She sat back and studied the young officer. “Do you have a hero complex, Lieutenant?”

“I don’t think so, ma’am,” Justin replied with a grimace. “I just want to do my part to help.”

“You ejected from your Sabre, somehow got into the hangar bay of a League cruiser, stole another fighter, and helped blow up the enemy ship on your way out.” Tehrani smiled dryly. “You’ve done your part.”

“I can do more.”

The confident yet somewhat humble way Justin pronounced the words almost led Tehrani to do a double-take. He matured fast. They all did. “Major, do you concur?”

“Against my better judgment, I do, ma’am. I think Spencer’s the right man for the job.”

“Then it’s an aviation-division decision. You’re free to proceed.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Whatley replied. “Permission to depart?”

“Of course.”

Whatley sprang from the chair, as did Justin.

Before they could leave, Tehrani felt a thought tugging at her mind. “Lieutenant, I wish you Godspeed. May Allah walk with you in the dark place you must go tomorrow.” She offered a rueful smile. “I only wish we could go with you.”

Justin nodded and pursed his lips. “Thank you, ma’am. I’ll do my best.” He grinned. “I’ll put my skills up against the Leaguers any day.”

As they walked out, Tehrani pondered Spencer’s statement. She would never look down on another for lack of faith and was herself an individual who, only a few weeks before, wouldn’t be counted among the devout. But recently, the belief in something beyond this life was one of the few things that sustained her. If I didn’t have faith, I don’t think I could do this job. Whatever Justin’s motivations and beliefs, she truly hoped God would favor him.

Tehrani peered at the tablet on her desk. Paperwork calls again.

* * *

A few hours later, after a hearty dinner consisting of fresh chicken and vegetables, bread, and dessert, Justin walked down the passageway leading to Mateus’s quarters. He pressed the buzzer on the keypad next to the hatch. A moment later, the hatch swung open. Justin stuck his head in to see Feldstein and Adeoye already present, in addition to Mateus. “Hey guys,” he called.

“Come on in, Spencer!” Mateus replied. “What are you drinking? The bar is open.” She pointed at a small assortment of alcohol on the table next to her couch. The quarters were laid out almost exactly like Justin’s but seemed less sterile and more lived-in than his.

Justin took a bottle of beer—a Canaan-brewed brand that had a good reputation—and popped the top. “I’ll keep it simple.” He peered at a bowl with strips of something that appeared to be fried next to the drinks. “What’s that?”

“Fried plantains. A delicacy from Brazil.” Mateus winked. “They’re sweeter than bananas. Try one. You’ll like it.”

“We’ve got a chair for you, all set up,” Feldstein said. She patted the seat next to her. “The Brazilian Bomber here already halfway cleaned me out.”

Mateus snickered. “I’ll clean all of you before the night’s done.”

Why haven’t I been coming to these again? Justin felt less stressed almost immediately as he sat down and took a swig from the bottle. “I’ve never played a hand of poker in my life.”

“What’s your game, then?” Mateus asked, eyeing him.

“I’m not exactly a card-game guy, but I’ve played some blackjack in my time.”

An exaggerated evil grin came to Mateus’s face. “In that case, any objections to us switching to blackjack for a while?” She glanced between Feldstein and Adeoye.

Both shook their heads.

“Excellent. I’ll deal.” With expert precision, she cleared the existing cards off the table and shuffled the deck repeatedly. “Dealer stays at seventeen. Splits allowed.” She flipped two cards faceup to each of them and two to herself, one facedown and one right side up.

She’s got a queen showing. Justin looked at his cards: a ten and an eight. Oh, what the heck. “Hit me.”

“I’ll stay,” Feldstein said after she’d turned over her cards. She had a queen and a seven.

“What about you, Adeoye?”

“I’ll hit as well.”

Mateus set another card down on Justin’s and Adeoye’s blocks. “Twenty-one for Spencer, and you’re busted, Adeoye.” She swept up the cards and set them in a separate pile while scooping up most of the money chits except Justin’s. His bank doubled instantly. “I thought you said you’d only played a few hands.”

“I said some, not a few,” Justin replied, grinning.

“You sly dog,” Feldstein said as she elbowed him in the ribs.

The rest of them laughed.

Justin sat back with a smug smile and took a sip of the ice-cold beer. “Deal the cards.”

They played several more hands, and Justin won most of them, as his old strategies came back to him.

After her third bust in a row, Mateus rolled her eyes. “I think we need to take him to a casino. Maybe the ones on Gilead. They allow high-credit betting. With his luck, we could all retire.”

“I hope it holds for tomorrow,” Justin said, absentmindedly.

Feldstein cocked her head. “What do you mean?”

“I volunteered to fly the League fighter. In place of the CAG.”

“What?” Feldstein practically screamed. “Are you insane? That’s the highest-risk op in the history of high-risk ops. You’ve got a family at home, Justin!”

Justin’s jaw dropped. “I’m the logical choice. I flew the thing back to the Greengold.”

“You barely made it back. You ought to find an altar to thank God in front of, and now you want to tempt fate again?”

“Hey, Spencer’s high-speed, low drag. If he’s got the stones to fly that League piece of crap into a stealth raider, I say we let him.” Mateus shrugged. “If anyone can pull it off, he can.”

“Don’t feed the hero complex,” Feldstein shot back. “He gets enough of it from everyone else on this ship.”

“Guys, come on. I’m the best man for the job. How many times do I have to say I’m not a hero, and all I’m doing here is my duty?” Justin crossed his arms and sighed. “Why don’t we focus on having some fun instead?”

Silence followed for a few moments.

Feldstein finally spoke. “Look, you have nothing to prove.” She made eye contact with him. “Not to this squadron, not to Whatley, or to anyone else. Don’t waste your life out there.”

“I won’t.” Justin took another sip from the beer bottle. “Mateus, deal the cards.”

After another couple of hands in which Justin ran the table, Adeoye got hot. His cards came up with a blackjack—an ace and a face card—twice in a row. The pile of credit chips in front of him grew considerably, while Justin’s diminished. Even though it wasn’t really a player-against-player game, Justin’s competitive spirit still made him want to come out on top.

The next hand had two tens for him. “I’ll split,” he announced while placing sizable bets against each. If I’ve got the count right, I ought to see some face cards come up soon.

Mateus deftly dealt two more cards to him. One was an ace, the other a nine. “Blackjack,” she announced. “Dealer hits.” She flipped up her facedown card, revealing a queen, and tossed another card right side up next to it. The new card was a nine. Combined with the queen and the three of hearts she’d already revealed, that brought her total to twenty-two.

“Oooh. So close.” Justin grinned.

“You’re counting cards,” Mateus said, her eyes boring into him.

“Only mentally.”

“I don’t understand,” Adeoye interjected. “How does counting the number of cards help Spencer?”

Justin grinned. “I keep track of how many face cards and tens have been played. If the count is above plus five, I start making bigger bets. It just so happened that the split came at a perfect time. I don’t believe in luck either. I make my own.”

“Some people consider that cheating,” Feldstein said darkly.

“Only if you use an electronic or neural device. I can only do it on single or double decks. Anything else is too much for me.”

“You can’t cheat against the League.”

“Au contraire, Dvora.” Justin leaned back. “I’m cheating right out of the gate by flying a ship they’ll think is theirs. Those commies won’t know what hit them.”

Despite his bluster, Justin had severe misgivings about the battle plan. For one, it was rushed, and for another, it seemed a bit half-baked. Still, something in the back of his head insisted it was his job to fly the fighter and not Whatley’s.

“I’ve never flown escort for Marines before,” Mateus interjected. “Did any of you train for such an evolution?”

Blank stares met her statement.

“No. That was never on the simulated mission list or in actual combat exercises,” Adeoye replied.

“We should get up early then and run some sims. I can program in a basic shuttle-escort mission with opposing force provided by a few elements of those League Shrike fighters,” Justin said while trying to suppress a yawn. “Whatcha think?”

“Sounds good, boss,” Feldstein replied. “Getting tired?”

“Honestly, yeah. Maybe we should get some rack time.”

The rest of them nodded.

“Okay. This was fun.” Justin grinned. “How often do you put this on, Mateus?”

“Every other night.” She smirked at him. “But next time, we’re playing poker. And I’m going to kick your butt from here to Earth.”

“Challenge accepted.” Kicking back and relaxing with the rest of Alpha brought out a type of camaraderie he hadn’t had since his time as an active-duty pilot right out of college. “One hand for the road?”

Mateus shuffled the deck. “Why not?”

Laughter echoed in the small cabin as they continued to play.

* * *

Halfway across the ship, in the senior officer’s mess, Tehrani wrapped her fingers around a mug of hot tea. Steam curled off the top, and she took a sip after blowing on it. The liquid felt good going down her throat as she stared through the window. With a sigh, Tehrani set the mug down and picked up a small qottab pastry. Filled with almonds and walnuts, they had been a staple in her youth and something that always helped her sleep.

“Couldn’t sleep, skipper?”

Tehrani whirled around, startled that someone besides her steward was in the mess at such a late hour. Wright stood there with a mug, wearing workout clothes.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you come in.” She gestured to the empty seat on the other side of the table. “Would you care to join me?”

“Don’t mind if I do, ma’am.” Wright flashed a grin and dropped into the unoccupied chair. “You’re up late.”

“So are you.”

Wright chuckled. “I thought some of that good ol’ decaf CDF battery acid they call coffee might help me nod off.” He winked. “The thought of adding something a touch stronger to it came to mind.”

“A couple of months ago, I wouldn’t have thought twice about having a glass of wine to help me go to sleep.” Tehrani took another sip of tea.

“I take it that’s changed?”

“Yes.” She set the mug down. “I think I’d be tempting God to ask for His help in our fight while ignoring His word.” At his expression of bafflement, she continued, “Alcohol is haram in Islam. Forbidden.”

“Ah, I see. Not so much for us Christians.” Wright grinned. “Well, at least not my denomination.” He took a sip of coffee and made a face. “Ick. I don’t know why ever I expect it to taste better.” Setting the mug down, he continued, “I think I get what you’re saying, though, skipper. The League attack was a massive shock to my system. It’s made me reevaluate a lot of things in my life—my behavior and my relationships, and one of those is my relationship with God.”

“I struggle with feeling like a hypocrite,” Tehrani replied. She’d been wrestling with her feelings more and more. Being a Muslim was a cultural identity for her people—ninety percent of the Persian Republic shared the same religion—yet she’d never been devout.

“Would you mind sharing how?” Wright asked. “That is, as long as we’re talking as friends. Because if this is an official conversation, I don’t even know where to begin.”

Tehrani failed to stifle a laugh. It’s nice to have friends to rely on out here. I take Benjamin for granted sometimes. “Oh, no. This is so not official.” The mirth faded from her face. “I suppose the best way to explain it is I’ve felt like I have gone through life with a set of beliefs that were never tested. Allah was always an abstract concept. Like, yeah, the universe didn’t make itself. Serving out here in space has reinforced my belief that something made all of this…”

“But unlike those folks that say they have a two-way conversation with the Almighty, you feel as if you’re going through life alone, with only your brain and wits to aid you?”

She locked eyes with him. “Yes, exactly. I couldn’t have said it better myself.”

“I get you, skipper. Because that’s how I always felt too.”

“And now?”

Wright swallowed. “Now I cling to the hope that God is involved in our daily lives, because after watching our pilots and soldiers be here one second and gone the next, I don’t think I’ll see my family again without His help. Not to mention the Terran Coalition surviving and all that. You’ve seen the same briefings I have. Hell, I bet yours have even more dire predictions.”

Her XO wasn’t wrong. The fleet commanding officer’s briefing Tehrani had attended a week after the initial attack on Canaan projected a minimum of five years on the defensive before an attack across the galactic arm into League space could be mounted. She had also been sworn to secrecy on the matter, as it had been revealed during a Top Secret/Special Compartmentalized Information codeword briefing.

“We’ve stood strong against aggressive enemies before,” Tehrani replied, choosing her words carefully. “And the CDF will do so again.” She paused. “You know it’ll get worse, right? There’s no sugarcoating that. At least I hope it gets worse. I fear the day I feel no emotion when I write a condolence letter to a soldier’s family. Even now, some seem almost generic.” Tears pricked her eyes.

“You must remember it’s not your fault,” Wright said, almost whispering. “I do too. We didn’t ask for this war, but we’ll fight it.” A fierce grin came to his face. “And those commies won’t know what hit ’em when we do get back to Earth. What I’m trying to say, skipper, is I think most of the people on this ship now cling to the things that matter. Family, friends, and for a lot of us, God. That doesn’t make you a hypocrite. I read the history books on the Saurian Wars. That’s how it was back then too.”

“I’m worried about tomorrow.”

“Me too.” Wright shook his head. “I don’t know what to make of Spencer volunteering to fly what’s probably a suicide mission.”

Why indeed? Several hours after Whatley had gotten her buy-in on the move, Tehrani still didn’t understand. “Hopefully, he’s not a glory hound.”

“Nah. I don’t see any hint of that in the man.”

“Let’s hope you’re right.” Tehrani took another sip from her mug. “Hmmm. I’ve about exhausted my tea.”

“Yeah, probably about time to hit our racks.” Wright grinned and finished his coffee in one last gulp. “Get some rest, skipper. We’re all going to need you at the top of your game tomorrow.”

“The same can be said for you.” Tehrani narrowed her eyes. “So go back to your stateroom and go to bed too.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Wright stood and turned to go. “Good night, ma’am,” he called over his shoulder. “Godspeed.”

“Godspeed to you, too, XO. Sleep well.” Tehrani watched him leave before standing. She put the empty container in the secured bin for eating utensils and plates.

The walk back to her stateroom wasn’t that far, but it felt like a kilometer. Around and around, her mind went, as she wondered if she’d make the right choice in accepting the intelligence agent’s plan. Who am I kidding? Orders are orders. Try as she might, she couldn’t set aside the realization that without something big, the Terran Coalition might not survive. If it takes the ultimate sacrifice from my soldiers and me, then that’s what we’ll do. The thought was sobering, but in some way, it also set her mind at ease. The next day, the die would be cast, one way or another.

* * *

The Terran Coalition Marine Corps unit embarked on the Zvika Greengold wasn’t primarily set up for Visit, Board, Search and Seizure operations. They’d been a last-minute addition to beef up the carrier’s ability to defend the merchant marine vessels in case of enemy boarding actions. Major Kosuke Nishimura sorely wished he had a tier-one special operations team or even a few platoons of Force Recon Marines. But he didn’t, and in true TCMC fashion, they would pull out the mission by any means necessary.

All one has to do is assign a squad of Marines to a problem, and they’ll sort it out. The thing was, you wouldn’t know until it was done how they’d sort it out. Nishimura grinned as he checked the seals on the power armor suit he’d just donned.

“I had an opportunity to take advanced zero-G combat training last year. Idiot me didn’t take it,” Master Gunnery Sergeant Malcolm O’Connor groused. He snorted. “I ended up taking a wimpy electronics tech course instead.” O’Connor had a slight Irish brogue. Since he hailed from Eire, a green, white, and orange flag adorned his sleeve, and an emblem with an abstract design of two dice rested underneath it.

“A year ago, no one expected a war,” Nishimura replied. Satisfied that his armor was fully operational, he began a series of katas. A practitioner of Wadō-ryū karate, he always sought to balance himself before knowingly entering combat.

“I never understood your fascination with martial arts, sir. The objective is to shoot the enemy, not make them fly around like loose paint.”

Nishimura chuckled. “As I have told you every time you’ve brought it up the last year, Master Guns, I enjoy balance in every facet of my life. Karate helps me achieve it.” He executed another series of moves in a different kata. “And if the enemy disarms me, I should have superior fighting abilities compared to them.”

“I’ll stick with good ol’ Marine Fu.”

“And I think we need to stage a pugil stick match with the men after this is over.” Nishimura grinned. “It’ll help morale and teach you the importance of superior martial arts training.”

“Aye, I’d enjoy kicking your rear—respectfully, of course, sir.” O’Connor winked. “Ready to inspect the boarding teams?”

“I am.” Nishimura pulled his helmet down and disengaged the faceplate. “Let’s do this.”

The Marine preparation area was only a few steps away. To his surprise, almost everyone was in their full power armor and appeared to be locked and loaded with battle rifles. Nishimura suppressed a smile as the one hundred sixty Marines he’d selected for the operation came to attention. “As you were.”

“Prepare ranks for inspection,” O’Connor barked. The neat rows expanded, allowing him to stroll between them. “Hawkings! This power armor isn’t properly fitted. Check it now and reengage the leg seals.” A few more paces down the row, he stopped again. “Private, where are your stun grenades?”

“Uh, I couldn’t find them, sir.”

“You couldn’t find them?” O’Connor thundered. He got an inch away from the youngster’s face. “What are you planning to do? Ask the Leaguers to wait while you look? Get your kit squared away, or I’ll PT your ass until your feet bleed!”

And he continued, chewing out anyone who wasn’t in compliance with regulations.

The dressing down was all part of the mental training that went into being a Marine. Nishimura firmly believed that if one had the fortitude to survive TCMC boot camp and allowed what was taught to become second nature, they could overcome any enemy. Of course, individual Marines perished in combat. But the unit, unless massively outnumbered and outgunned, would fight on. And we’ll still win. He waited until the master gunnery sergeant was finished then cleared his throat.

“Gentlemen, we’re about to do something no other Marine or soldier in the Terran Coalition has yet to have the honor of doing. We’re going to put boots on the ground and invade a hostile enemy space station inside our territory. Make no mistake—the Leaguers are going down hard. Now, you’ve all been briefed, and you have your orders. But this, I want you to hear from me. It’s vital we gather intelligence. So place your shots carefully. Preserve electronics and computer systems as much as possible, especially when we finally take their control areas. Stand firm, stand together, and give these communist sons of bitches a warm welcome they’ll never forget!” By the end of the impromptu speech, Nishimura’s volume rose to a shout. “Now move out, Marines!”

With a roar that shook the deck plates, they rushed toward the waiting transport shuttles.

15

While preparations continued throughout the ship, Tehrani had already stood watch on the bridge for the last three hours. She was on her second mug of CDF coffee—the fully caffeinated version. They would rendezvous with the CSV Astute in deep space, beyond the boundary of any solar system. Agent Grant had insisted on it to avoid prying eyes. While his reasoning was sound, the idea that the League of Sol had signals intelligence-gathering equipment hidden among their planets and installations was sobering.

“Skipper,” Wright began, cutting into her thoughts, “the CAG reports Spencer and his League fighter are stationed inside the shuttle bay on the Astute. We’re clear to begin on your orders.”

As a full-bird colonel, Tehrani outranked the stealth raider’s commanding officer and had full operational and tactical command. “All systems go?”

“Everything’s good, ma’am.” Wright grinned. “We even got the scorch marks repainted. Something about a senior chief down on the flight deck making some ratings take care of it in space suits as an initiation to the Order of Jupiter.”

“I don’t want to know,” Tehrani replied with a chuckle. Of course, she was well acquainted with the traditions of breaking in new spacers who hadn’t jumped out of a solar system before, but it wasn’t a topic for the bridge. “Navigation, status of our Lawrence drive?”

“Course computed and locked in, ma’am,” Mitzner replied.

Tehrani glanced at the mission clock. Forty-five seconds were remaining before showtime—enough time for prayer. She closed her eyes and whispered in Arabic, “Allah, Revealer of the Book, swift to account for transgressions, help us to defeat the League of Sol. O Allah, defeat them and shake them so they flee our lands.”

“I don’t know exactly what you said just now, but I think I got the gist. Allow me to add an amen,” Wright interjected softly. “Now, let’s give ’em hell.”

“That’s something I can wholeheartedly say amen to myself,” Tehrani replied. She let out a breath as time ran out on the clock. “Navigation, activate Lawrence drive.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

The lights dimmed as the massive Lawrence drive generators sucked in every available scrap of power. Visible through the windows on the bridge, a vortex formed off the bow. It contained a rich kaleidoscope of colors ranging from red to purple to blue to orange.

“Conn, Navigation. Lawrence drive wormhole stable.”

“Navigation, all ahead flank. Take us in,” Tehrani said as she leaned forward.

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

The Zvika Greengold shuddered and lurched forward under the thrust of its sublight ion engines. The maw of the vortex beckoned them closer, and suddenly, they were inside. Moments later, the stars twinkling in the void returned front and center as they exited the wormhole.

“Conn, Navigation. Transmit complete, ma’am. We’re within five thousand kilometers of our intended destination.”

After a few seconds, Bryan offered his report. “Conn, TAO. LIDAR shows no contacts.”

“So far, so good,” Wright interjected.

“Don’t jinx us now, XO.” Tehrani grinned. “Reset the mission timer for two hours, and ensure engineering is ready for a double jump. We’ll go to battle stations at H minus thirty minutes. Oh, and, Major, remind all crew chiefs we remain at EMCON Alpha.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

As Wright busied himself carrying out her orders, Tehrani gazed out the bridge window. She could do nothing except wait for the Astute to signal a successful detonation of the EMP weapon Spencer’s fighter carried. And hope we don’t get jumped by a League battlegroup.

* * *

The shuttle bay of the Astute was so small that Justin couldn’t risk opening the canopy of the captured League craft. So he sat in the cramped cockpit, his knees in an unnatural position. The intelligence analysts had taped translations of the French and Russian letterings under each of the major controls. Some weren’t marked, and Justin wondered what those knobs and dials did. Well, at least I know where the throttle, missile launch, whatever passes for chaff and flares on this thing, and flight controls are. He glanced down at a lever under the pilot’s seat. Don’t forget the ejection release. Not that I’m interested in ever ejecting into the void again.

After an hour and forty-five minutes of staring at the space doors leading to the void, Justin was ready to get on with it. While he was on edge, over the months, he’d learned how to focus his anxiety into something positive by preparing for the mission. To that end, Justin spent the time studying an ever-expanding sensor image of the League deep space installation. Slowly but surely, the Astute stealthily probed its outer edges and ascertained the locations of most defensive weaponry. The enemy had multiple defense satellites and two fighter patrols. Most of the time had been spent tracking the routes of those patrols. The more detail we get, the higher the odds I come home.

Justin superimposed the confirmed route of the enemy over the Astute’s current path. They intersected at the farthest point from the station.

The commlink in his helmet crackled. “Can you hear me, Lieutenant?” The voice belonged to Lieutenant Colonel Fielding, the commanding officer of the Astute. He pronounced the word lieutenant as leftenant.

“I can, sir.”

“We’re closing in on our intercept point. I again apologize for not letting you out to stretch your legs, old chap.”

“Would rather not risk it, sir.” Justin gripped the flight stick as he spoke.

“So, we’re going to light up those two buggers and, once they’re down, let you loose to do your job. How’s that sound?”

“Best idea I’ve heard all day, sir.” Justin grinned. He wanted to get on with it.

“In that case, sit back and relax for a few more minutes. You might find yourself jostled about a bit. The old girl tends to buck when we start using our primary missile armament.”

“Understood, sir.”

“Right. Well, cheerio, Lieutenant, and do make a mess of those Leaguers for us.”

“You got it, sir.”

Justin switched the commlink mic off and yawned as he stretched—or more accurately, tried to stretch without hitting anything. On the HUD, the Astute was well inside weapons range. I guess the colonel wants to be close enough that they won’t have time to react. While the strategy made sense, it also produced nail-biting tension. He was well aware that stealth raiders had limited defenses. Their shields were paper-thin, and the sensor-deadening tiles that lined the outer hull of the boats protected them from sight. And that’s how they survive. No one sees them until it’s too late.

One moment, he was staring at his helmet-integrated HUD. Then all hell broke loose. The hangar deck seemed to pitch up, and Justin was thrown backward. Multiple blue icons separated from the Astute and seconds later merged with the red representing the League patrol fighters—which immediately disappeared.

“Alpha One, both contacts destroyed. We’re opening the bay doors now,” Fielding announced. “Good hunting and good luck out there. Oh, and when you get back to the Greengold, assuming we survive this, you’ll find yourself a nice bottle of scotch waiting, because you might just be the bravest man I’ve ever met.”

Justin keyed the throat mic. “Thanks, Colonel. You golden nebula guys are pretty badass yourselves.” Directly in front of his fighter, the shuttle bay doors slid open, revealing the blackness of the void. “Astute Actual, launching now. See you at the after-party.”

He eased the throttle open with his left hand, and the League craft shot forward. So far, so good. Justin rolled the fighter toward the enemy space station and increased his engine power to maximum. He glanced at a small picture of his wife and daughter—a new one to replace the last printed photo destroyed with his old Sabre. I’m getting home. Somehow. It gave him strength.

The Astute rapidly faded behind Justin. He poured on the speed, having already rehearsed his plan. If challenged, he would claim that the other fighter had been destroyed by engine failure, and his took damage in the explosion. A thousand kilometers turned into five hundred then two fifty.

Beads of sweat formed on Justin’s forehead. Okay, calm down. He took several deep breaths as the range continued to close. His heart raced, pounding so loudly that he thought it might explode. Something felt different about the situation, and it took him a minute to put his finger on it: he was alone. No backup, no one to help. Only Justin Spencer, in a captured fighter he could barely fly, against the entire League garrison. Maybe stuff like this is why people turn to God.

A red light started blinking on the League comm panel, and a rough voice speaking a language Justin didn’t understand filled the cockpit. His HUD’s integrated translation unit—a thoughtful upgrade from one of the CIS spooks—said the words in English. “You’re moving fast, comrade. Where is comrade Tikhomirov’s Yakovlev?”

I guess Tikhomirov is whoever commands the patrol. Justin took a deep breath. “His fighter malfunctioned, comrade. He ejected before it exploded.”

“Nonsense,” the Russian man replied. “Both craft you’re flying are brand new. Are you playing games? Another test the political officer put you up to?”

Okay. Maybe the pilots the Astute took out were pranksters. I can work with that. And what’s a political officer? It would’ve helped to have that piece of knowledge. “Uh, negative, not the political officer.”

“Ah, so it is a game. Who, then? Panov? Korolyov?”

Man, these guys have some weird names. Justin grinned, despite it all. He was less than thirty kilometers from the station proper, and it was just barely visible through the cockpit canopy. The speck grew with every passing moment. I hope this translator makes me sound Russian. “It wouldn’t be fun if you knew.”

A new person cut into the conversation. “Yakovlev Eight-Nine, this is Colonel Hsu. As the political officer for this command, I demand both of you cease these childish games and act as proper sailors of the League of Sol.”

Oh shit. Maybe that’s it. Perhaps he’s done now after putting the fear of whatever they fear the most in us. His heart skipped several beats.

But Justin had no such luck. Hsu returned to the commlink. “I will take both of your names for an official reeducation report.”

“Lieutenant Ibragimov, comrade Colonel,” the officer from the station control replied.

Justin froze momentarily. While he’d agreed on a Russian name to use in case of challenge, it took a second for it to come to his mind. “Lieutenant Evanoff, comrade Colonel.”

The period of silence on the commlink was oppressive.

“Yakovlev Eight-Nine, no such pilot is assigned to this outpost. Cease forward movement or be destroyed.”

I guess the cat is out of the bag. Justin tried one last gambit. “Couldn’t make out your last transmission, Control. The communication system shows damage. Please repeat.”

“Yakovlev Eight-Nine, cease forward thrust. You will be towed back to base for interrogation.”

As the political officer spoke, a new group of contacts appeared on the League fighter’s LIDAR display. They showed friendly IFFs, while the overview in Justin’s HUD designated them as the enemy. Four more craft out here brings me to a total of six hostiles, not counting the frigate. The station was less than fifteen kilometers away, but to ensure the EMP weapon hit, he would have to close to point-blank range. Less than a kilometer. Why’d I sign up for this again?

“Yakovlev Eight-Nine, if you do not cease thrust immediately, you will be destroyed. This is your final warning.”

Justin sucked in a breath and gripped the flight stick tightly. Okay, this is it. He double-checked to make sure the fighter was pointed directly toward the station and kicked on its afterburners. The League craft shot forward, doubling its speed nearly instantly. G-forces, as suppressed as they were by the onboard inertial dampening system, pressed him into the seat and made movement difficult.

The Leaguers reacted immediately, shifting their courses for a quicker intercept while painting with target-acquisition LIDAR. An alarm blared, which Justin assumed had the same function as the Sabre’s missile-lock-on warning. A few moments later, six new icons appeared on his HUD—inbound active LIDAR-tracked warheads.

It took Justin a second to remember where the chaff-dispenser control was located. He put his left hand on it while juking the craft with his right hand. The g-forces were brutal because of the turns combined with max thrust and the afterburner being at its highest setting. He used each turn to gain some distance from the missiles while keeping the station in his forward cone of movement.

“Yakovlev Eight-Nine, what are you doing?” the station controller nearly shrieked.

At the last possible moment, as four warheads closed within half a kilometer of Justin’s fighter, he triggered the chaff dispenser and pulled up hard on the flight stick. The series of explosions as the missiles took the bait nearly shook his teeth out of his skull. Justin let out a breath as he whipped the craft around and glanced at the range to the station. Three kilometers.

Red balls of plasma flashed by the cockpit’s canopy, and two enemies settled into Justin’s six o’clock position. Dammit, they’re so close to a guns solution on me. He jinked his craft to one side, attempting to throw the pair off. Two kilometers. Justin felt calmness come over him. Nothing else mattered except dropping the EMP on the station and sending the burst transmission to alert the Astute.

Justin selected the EMP warhead in his HUD and toggled the manual-launch option. As he threw off his pursuers with random course changes, he toggled the commlink to active. “Hey, Leaguers. The Terran Coalition sends its regards.” The next moment, he pressed the launch button.

The EMP warhead, encased in a standard CDF Starbolt anti-ship missile, dropped away from Justin’s fighter, and its gel-fuel motor came to life. It accelerated away as he turned directly toward the closest enemy craft and opened up with the fore-mounted plasma cannons.

Perhaps the League pilots were shocked or startled by his transmission or the sudden tactic change. Whatever the reason, they froze, which was all the opening Justin needed. He poured on the fire, shredding the shields of the fighter and blasting apart its hull. After a brief flash of orange, no trace remained of the craft.

The rest of the five Leaguers all loosed missiles at Justin, a mixture of LIDAR-tracking and heat-seeking variants. They closed in from all sides, leaving Justin with little avenue for escape or evasion. I guess this is it. I just have to hang on long enough to get a message out once the EMP goes off. Determined to go down fighting until the bitter end, he dropped chaff and flares then pushed his flight stick down relative to the Z-axis. A couple of the inbound warheads took the decoys, but two pressed on.

Out of nowhere, a blinding flash of light came. The EMP! The shockwave raced across the void, and while it didn’t harm the shielded fighters, the missiles in flight weren’t so lucky. They all shut down, with their electronic circuitry fried.

Justin hadn’t expected that stroke of luck. He quickly triggered the burst transmission then turned his craft toward the nearest Leaguer. Perhaps I can take one down and even the odds before they realize what happened. Justin gripped the flight stick tightly. He would try with everything he had.

16

On the bridge of the Zvika Greengold, Tehrani sat in the CO’s chair, eyes locked onto her tactical readout. Battle stations were manned and ready, and the area was bathed in the blue light of condition one. She’d configured the display to show a raw sensor readout along with their shield- and hull-integrity status. So far, the readout was completely blank. Precisely what I would expect and hope for. They were more than thirty minutes overdue for a check-in by the Astute. Dread gripped her chest as she pondered what to do next. Spencer’s the best pilot aboard, except for the CAG. If anyone can pull it off, he can. With some help from Allah, that is. The infusion of such overtly religious thoughts was still a shock.

“Conn, Communications,” Singh said, interrupting her ruminations. “We’ve got flash traffic from CSV Astute. Lieutenant Spencer successfully deployed the EMP.”

A few scattered shouts and cheers went up from the enlisted ratings, and Tehrani shared knowing smiles with Wright.

“Navigation, reconfirm Lawrence drive jump coordinates.”

“Triple-checked, ma’am. We’re good,” Mitzner replied.

Tehrani looked at Singh. “Communications, tie 1MC into my intercom link.”

“You’re live for 1MC, ma’am.”

“Attention, all hands. This is your commanding officer,” Tehrani said into her chair-mounted microphone. “We’ve been at war for the last six weeks, and I couldn’t be happier with the performance of every soldier on the Zvika Greengold.” She smiled as pride welled within her. “Today, we’re doing something that all of you have wanted from the first day of the war, once that initial shock faded. We’re taking the fight to the League of Sol. Thanks to incredible heroism from our pilots and the hand of God, the Greengold will momentarily jump for what I believe is the first offensive action of the war. The fight will be fierce, and it will be hard, and we will take losses. But I know the League will be defeated today. Man your posts, and do your duty, and no matter the odds, we will prevail.” Her volume had increased to nearly a shout by the end of the impromptu speech.

Enlisted ratings and officers alike applauded and cheered as the 1MC clicked off.

In the back of the bridge, someone shouted, “No matter the odds!”

The chant was immediately taken up by the rest of the crewmembers present and quickly grew to a roar.

Tehrani held up her right hand and made a fist. “Let’s make the Leaguers hear us. Focus on your stations, ladies and gentlemen.” The tumult immediately ceased. “Navigation, engage Lawrence drive. All ahead flank.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Mitzner replied.

Outside of the windows at the front of the bridge, space started rippling. The lights dimmed as the powerful FTL drive opened a hole through the void between two points light-years away from each other. The ripple turned into a kaleidoscope of colors, and the wormhole came into being. The Greengold accelerated toward it and flew through. Transmit was momentary, but the walls of the artificial construct made for an eerie display of color and light, bending in ways that were beautiful and mesmerizing at the same time.

Then they were out. The ship emerged into normal space, and the wormhole disappeared in a flash. Tehrani gripped the sides of her chair. Are we in the right place? The next few seconds were nail-biters as the Greengold’s systems came back online.

“Conn, Navigation. Emergence location confirmed. We’re exactly where we’re supposed to be.”

“Conn, TAO. Shields and point defense active. Sensors coming up. One space installation designated Master One, consistent with League of Sol energy signature. One Lancer-class frigate, designated Master Two. I show five League fighters, four of which are attacking the fifth.” Bryan turned around. “Master One is disabled, ma’am.”

“Son of a… Spencer pulled it off, and he’s still alive,” Wright interjected.

Tehrani felt amazed, then she jolted back into reality. “XO, signal the air boss to launch the Red Tails squadron along with one element of Maulers and Boars each.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.” Wright turned his attention to his display and tapped away furiously at it.

“Navigation, intercept course on Master Two.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Mitzner called. The stars immediately began to move.

“TAO, firing point procedures, neutron beams, Master Two.” Tehrani tugged her uniform sweater down nervously. I expected more ships here. “Stand by to coordinate your attack with elements Gamma and Epsilon.”

“Firing solutions set, ma’am.”

They were still out of range, but Tehrani wanted everything lined up. Numerous dots appeared next to the Zvika Greengold on the tactical display, representing the small craft being launched. They sorted into flight elements and roared away from the carrier. She noticed that one of the Sabres bore the designation of CAG. I don’t recall giving Major Whatley approval to join the fight. Tehrani grinned. Who am I kidding? I’d have to confine him to the brig to keep him out of space in an all-squadron scramble situation like this.

“Conn, TAO. Almost to maximum range of our forward neutron cannon, ma’am. Master Two is accelerating to intercept. Inbound missiles,” Bryan reported.

“TAO, set point defense to automatic mode.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

The second the enemy frigate closed within range of its primary armament, it began a withering bombardment of plasma balls coupled with blasts from forward-mounted neutron beams. While the League tech wasn’t as advanced or as powerful as the Coalition’s weaponry, it still packed quite a wallop. The shield-charge indicator for the Greengold’s forward arc dropped like a stone.

“Steady as she goes,” Tehrani murmured, more for the bridge crew’s benefit than her own. Closer and closer, the frigate came, until it was at point-blank range. “TAO, match bearings, shoot, forward neutron beams. Signal Gamma and Epsilon elements to break and attack.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Bryan replied.

Two beams of blue death erupted from the neutron-beam emitters on the Greengold’s bow. Moving at the speed of light, they connected with the shields of the League frigate. While the enemy’s protective screens held, they were severely weakened by the assault. Each Mauler bomber let loose with a Javelin anti-ship missile, while the Boars added their projectile cannons to the fray. It didn’t take much to collapse what was left of the energy barrier. Two Javelins impacted the brittle hull of the enemy vessel, causing massive explosions. A moment later, a chain reaction began a series of secondary detonations. They ended with the frigate blowing apart. No life pods were launched.

“Conn, TAO. Master Two neutralized,” Bryan said with disbelief.

“Good shooting, Lieutenant. Get our Marines into the vacuum and task the Red Tails for close escort.” Tehrani turned to Singh. “Communications, ensure Major Whatley knows I’ll hold him personally accountable for the shuttle’s safety.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

Tehrani returned her attention to the tactical plot on her display. Allah, watch over us. I do not believe that is the last the enemy will throw our way. Although she reasoned that it would be nice to catch the League with its pants down, just once.

* * *

With his Marines strapped into their harnesses aboard four combat transport shuttles, Major Kosuke Nishimura took his place in the jump seat of the lead craft’s cockpit. The warrant officer pilots worked through a series of preflight checks and paused at the final liftoff command.

With going on twelve years in uniform, today would be Nishimura’s first actual combat experience. Something tells me the sims still don’t touch the real thing. Limited purely to boarding actions against pirates or a few vague “police actions” in which the Terran Coalition had involved itself in a conflict between neutral planets, the TCMC hadn’t seen sustained fighting since the Saurian Wars, just like the rest of the CDF.

Nishimura pushed it all out of his mind, allowing peace and balance to flow through him. He whispered a prayer in Japanese to Hachiman, the patron deity of warriors in the Shinto religion.

“Marine units, you are cleared to engage,” Wright announced, his voice crackling through the commlink in the shuttle. “Good hunting, good luck, and Godspeed.”

Nishimura sat ramrod straight and opened his eyes. “Take us out,” he said to the pilot.

“Aye, aye, sir. ETA is five minutes.”

Typically, a shuttle ride was smooth and relatively slow, thanks to numerous peacetime safety regulations. Not so when executing a combat insertion. Nishimura gripped the handhold next to him as the craft shot out of the Zvika Greengold’s hangar bay, pulling several Gs. I think the warrant is enjoying this.

The first couple of minutes were uneventful, precisely what one wanted when hurtling through space to attack an enemy installation. Then out of nowhere, the missile-lock-on warning buzzed in the cockpit.

“Hang on,” the pilot called over his shoulder. “It’s going to get bumpy.”

As it turned out, the warrant officer was selling his maneuvers a bit short. The shuttle bobbed and weaved like a raft going down a steep mountain stream, and at times, Nishimura felt like his stomach was going to erupt through his chest. The view of the stars through the window at the front of the cockpit spun with enough force that he got dizzy from the simple act of looking at it.

“Shuttle Four is down,” someone called over the commlink.

Nishimura cued the commlink integrated into his helmet. “This is Marine Command Actual to any friendly fighters. We are under attack. Our force can’t sustain further losses and retain the ability to win.” With the request delivered, he took a moment to whisper a prayer for the souls of the dead in Japanese.

“Hang on, Major,” Justin replied. “Red Tails are almost there.”

Two League fighters made a firing run on the lead shuttle, but unlike the last time when they only had to worry about shooting at unarmed—at least for space combat—shuttles, a group of four Sabres roared in. Nishimura took a few seconds to figure it out, but a fifth craft, another League fighter, had joined them. That must be Spencer. It got behind one of the attackers and blew the offending enemy apart with sustained plasma-cannon fire. The other enemy was bracketed by two friendly craft and destroyed with three missile hits.

“Major, you’ve got a lane to put down. Strongly advise you to take it. Another wave is already inbound.”

“Understood, and thanks for the assist, Spencer.” Nishimura turned toward the pilot. “You heard the man. Put us down at the closest ingress point.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

The next thirty seconds were the most terrifying Nishimura had experienced. No fewer than three enemy LIDAR-tracked missiles were dodged at the last second, thanks to chaff and erratic maneuvers of the pilot. As they came in for docking on a flat portion of the squat, torus-shaped station, Nishimura was sure they were going so fast that the shuttle would crash into it like a bug on a windshield. At the last possible moment, the pilot reversed thrust and stuck the landing perfectly.

“Got a hard seal, sir. Shuttles Two and Three are ready to breach on your command.”

“Do it,” Nishimura replied as he disengaged the harness. “I’ll see you when we’re done.”

“Good luck, sir.”

“Nice flying, Warrant.” Nishimura slapped the pilot on the shoulder as he climbed into the cargo hold. The Marine boarding team was already out of their harnesses and itching to fight. Everything about them screamed ready, from body language to how they held their battle rifles. “Okay, gentlemen. In a second or two, the ramp will drop, and we will charge into the first offensive ground action to be had by the Terran Coalition. Who’s with me to send these commie bastards packing back to Earth?”

Their shouting shook the shuttle.

“Semper fi!” someone yelled above the din.

“The only good Leaguer is a dead Leaguer!” another screamed.

Nishimura grinned. Now that’s a TCMC war cry. “Hit it,” he called into the commlink.

A moment later, the ramp dropped, revealing a neat hole cut into the station’s hull and a passageway beyond. Unlike Terran Coalition space stations and vessels, it had shiny gray walls, and what appeared to be propaganda posters were festooned every few feet. The text was in different languages, none of which Nishimura could read, though he recognized Mandarin Chinese script in a few.

The Marines charged forward, sweeping out of the shuttle, half of the platoon securing the left side and the rest moving to the right.

Nishimura pulled up a partial map of the station on his HUD. It had the locations of all landed shuttles and the Marines attached to them and would fill in automatically as they moved throughout the area. “Second platoon has our left flank,” he announced. “We’ll proceed right, looking for the control center. Move out!”

Progress was easy for some time. The area was nearly deserted, and only token resistance came up in the form of a few League security troops here and there. None had power armor, and most used low-energy-pulse pistols. They would’ve seriously harmed unarmored targets, but the Marines shrugged off the hits and quickly silenced any defenders. Each encounter quieted his nerves, and Nishimura felt the performance of his platoon was solid.

As the platoon made its way around the station’s exterior corridors, he ordered them farther into the interior. They don’t appear to put the important stuff in the outer hull. Of course, that made sense from a military perspective.

The point man rounded a corner of a corridor leading to a four-way junction that again had foreign writing on the walls—and all hell broke loose. A flurry of energy- and ballistic-weapons fire hit the team from three sides, and dozens of Leaguers erupted from hiding places and hatches all around them.

We just walked into an ambush. Not allowing shock to set in, Nishimura worked the problem, ordering his men back as the entire platoon gamely returned fire. Numerous enemies went down, dead or mortally wounded from battle-rifle rounds shredding their light armor. But they had the numbers to absorb the hits and keep on coming. A Marine dropped to Nishimura’s left, and another behind him screamed in pain as multiple bullets pierced his faceplate.

Just when Nishimura thought they might have weathered the worst of it, two Marines went down to sustained enemy fire as the air came alive with the yellow and red pulses of automatic energy weapons. Anger came to the surface, but Nishimura had no time to ponder their losses. He cursed under his breath as one of the bolts hit his armor, causing little damage but delivering a bruising blow. “Get the SAW up here. Armor-piercing rounds,” he barked into the commlink.

It didn’t take long for the platoon corporal to arrive, cradling the squad’s automatic weapon. “AP locked and loaded, sir.”

“Fire for effect and suppress the enemy,” Nishimura replied. “Light those bastards up.”

The young Marine didn’t need to be told twice. He dropped to the deck in a prone position, aimed the weapon, and squeezed the trigger. The gun was rated for a thousand rounds a minute, and each second it sent sixteen bullets at the enemy. Almost instantly, incoming League energy pulses decreased, and with each passing moment, more of them dropped dead or dove for whatever cover they could find.

“Pulse, over!” Nishimura shouted as he tossed a grenade toward the massed League security troops.

Others followed his example, and a shower of the devices descended on the cowered enemy. They detonated with a series of muted explosions, as the pulse grenade was more of a disorientation weapon than a death dealer, such as the fragmentation or plasma varieties.

“Charge!”

The entire platoon swept forward, like a human wave encased in power armor. Any lone Leaguer who tried to stand against them was cut down in seconds, while most threw down their rifles and ran. Nishimura noted with satisfaction that his men showed proper fire discipline and avoided shooting unarmed combatants in the back as they fled.

While they’d taken the junction, it wasn’t without a high cost. Five Marines lay dead or dying, and several others took enough hits that they couldn’t continue. However, given the station’s size, Nishimura believed they’d eliminated a significant amount, if not most of the League’s security team. “Okay, people. We’ve got them on the run. This is not the time to let our foot off the gas. We press forward and finish it. Are you with me?”

A rousing cheer went up from the Marines.

“Move out!”

* * *

After Justin confirmed that the Marines were safely aboard the League installation, he looped back around and skimmed the surface of the oddly shaped torus, which was larger than he’d expected. How many years did it take them to build this thing? He grinned. It’ll only take us an hour to destroy it.

The overall battle remained in flux. Waves of League small craft launched from the station, though so far, the Greengold and its aviation wing were holding the line.

The Boars had acquitted themselves quite well. They’d taken out most of the automated defense satellites and performed exceptionally against the League’s bombers. That left Justin to focus on the fighters. A couple zoomed into space close by and made the most logical next target.

Feldstein’s voice filled his helmet. “Spencer, how’s that Leaguer piece of crap holding up?”

“It still flies,” Justin replied with a chuckle. “How about Alpha?”

“We’re all in one piece. I’ve got more pockmarks for the chief to fix, but I’ll take it.”

“Be careful.”

“Back at you, Flyboy.”

Justin grinned as he tightened his fingers around the flight stick. Through the canopy, he watched the fight ongoing. Dots of red plasma-cannon fire were everywhere, coupled with blue bolts from the friendlies. Explosions blossomed every so often, either from small craft blowing up after a hard kill or impacts on capital-class vessels from anti-ship missiles by either side.

Settling behind one of the Leaguers who’d just launched, Justin squeezed his firing trigger. Plasma balls raced away and battered the enemy’s shields before the craft disintegrated.

“You think you good, capitalist dog,” someone said with a Slavic-sounding accent. “Make ruse with fake fighter. Come fight like real pilot.”

“Like you guys did by attacking us out of the blue with no declaration of war?” Justin replied.

“I kill you before battle over,” the same person spat.

“Better pilots than you have tried.” Justin quickly searched his targeting scanners for the nearest Leaguer. “And I’m still here. They aren’t, by the way.”

After a string of what Justin assumed were Russian curses, the other pilot went silent. The inbound-missile alarm sounded, and he determined two warheads were tracking him. So he’s backing up his threat. It took a moment for him to figure out the type of threat he faced—heat-seekers—and adjust his tactics accordingly. Justin triggered the flare launcher and pulled up hard on the flight stick, moving off at a different vector in hopes of confusing the weapons.

Justin kept his eyes on the threat display, expecting the heat-seeking warheads to veer off. They didn’t. Instead, both pressed on, heading directly toward his fighter. What the hell? Again, he pressed the flare-release button, and nothing happened. A kernel of fear crept up. Work the problem. He kicked the afterburner up, typically counterintuitive, since it only helped improve tracking for the enemy, but the tactic gave him a precious few seconds to dodge. With a series of violent maneuvers, Justin made one missile miss. The other dogged him turn for turn. He smiled as a solution hit him.

Meanwhile, the League fighter flung hundreds of plasma balls at Justin as he methodically followed his quarry. All of it combined to put him on the defensive.

I’ve got to regain the initiative. Justin rotated his captured fighter toward the Leaguer and poured on the speed. He reset every engine override and pushed the craft far past what its designers had intended as safe. Justin filled space with the deceptively small red balls of death. He killed all engine power at the last possible moment and let his velocity carry him past the enemy, who continued at full speed.

The heat-seeking missile that was tracking him homed in on the target putting out the highest energy signature—the other League craft—and blew it apart.

Justin let out a sigh of relief. That was too damn close. As he caught his breath, his HUD came alive with new contacts. A few seconds later, as the CDF tactical network updated, the unknown vessels were classified as League of Sol Cobra-class destroyers. The kernel of fear returned. We’re barely holding our own. How can we possibly survive until the Marines finish the job?

* * *

Sparks showered from the overhead above a bank of subsystem terminals in the back of the Zvika Greengold’s bridge, sending a couple of enlisted ratings scrambling. The deck shook, testing the chairs’ safety harnesses.

Tehrani gripped the sides of the CO’s chair tightly and turned to Wright. “XO, get more damage control parties up here. And a medic.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

Another wave of enemy fire slammed into the Greengold, shaking them up yet again. Tehrani gritted her teeth in frustration. “TAO, time to energy-weapon-capacitor recharge?”

“Thirty seconds, ma’am,” Bryan replied, his tone clipped.

Tehrani grimaced. Ten seconds less than it was ten seconds ago. “TAO, designate Master Four as the priority target for our bombers.” The Maulers had disengaged from attacking station defenses to engage the League warships, while the Boars pressed the attack against the remaining hardpoints around the station—especially the defense satellites.

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

On Tehrani’s tactical plot, the bombers shifted formation and accelerated, gaining distance from the destroyer they were instructed to attack. Good. This should come together nicely. “TAO, firing point procedures, forward neutron beams, Master Four.”

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

In what had become an almost-signature tactic for her, Tehrani waited until the bombers loosed their anti-ship missiles, then continued to close in to their energy weapon range. “Match bearings, shoot, forward neutron beams.”

Blue spears of concentrated neutrons raced out of their mounts on the bow of the Greengold and instantly connected with the shields of the enemy destroyer. They created a red skid effect on much of the port side of the ship. Unlike the frigate in the battle’s opening minutes, the Cobra seemed to have a more competent crew. It accelerated as the blue beams lashed away and opened up on the approaching warheads and bombers with every point-defense weapon available. While the tactics employed resembled what a Marine would refer to as “spray and pray,” they were effective. Half of the Javelin missiles were destroyed, and two Maulers took damage. The bombers scattered, going into guns-D maneuvering to avoid further point-defense fire.

“Gamma Three is declaring an emergency and ejecting, Colonel,” Wright interjected. His statement corresponded with one of the blue icons disappearing from the tactical plot.

“Damn,” Tehrani muttered and bit her lip.

“Conn, TAO. Moderate shield damage to Master Four,” Bryan began as yet another wave of plasma balls and missiles raked the Greengold. “We’re losing deflector-generator cohesion in the forward and starboard quarters, ma’am.”

Tehrani stared at the tactical plot, running different scenarios through her head. If we turn aside and recharge the shields, our most potent weapon is off the table. She wished whoever had designed the Greengold in the first place had put more anti-ship weaponry on her. But I must make do with what I have at my disposal. As she opened her mouth to give an order, Bryan interrupted.

“Conn, TAO. Aspect change. I’ve got a sensor ghost coming in fast, on a direct-intercept bearing with Master Two.” He turned to face her. “It sure looks like artifacts I’ve seen before during stealth-raider hunting exercises.” Bryan turned back to the console. “Way to go, Astute!”

Before Tehrani could chide her tactical action officer on his unprofessional turn of phrase, a new blue icon appeared on her plot. Its IFF synched up as the Astute, and almost immediately, six new blue dots erupted from it. Starbolt missiles. They raced toward Master Four, bracketing it and forcing the League destroyer to divide its point-defense fire between several arcs simultaneously. Through the bridge windows, Tehrani watched in satisfaction as five miniature suns burst into being on the shields and hull of the enemy vessel. Several seconds later, it exploded into meter-sized chunks.

“Conn, TAO. Master Four destroyed, ma’am.” Bryan barely suppressed his excitement. “CSV Astute now designated as Sierra One. She’s moving off at flank speed.”

“Communications, send the Astute my compliments, and ask them to reengage Master Three as soon as possible.” Tehrani leaned forward and turned to Wright. “Thoughts, XO?”

“Rotate away from the last destroyer, recharge our forward deflector generators, and finish them off once our Marines are off that station,” Wright said. He furrowed his brow. “I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop, though.”

“Oh?”

Wright frowned and crossed his arms. “Come on, skipper. They’re sending everything they’ve got here right now.”

He’s right. It’s only a matter of time until whoever’s in charge drops a battle group on top of us—heavy cruisers or worse. Tehrani set her jaw. It wouldn’t do for anyone on the bridge to remotely suspect she had any doubt in the outcome. “Then let them come,” she replied and flashed a grin at him. “We’ll take all comers.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Tehrani turned to Mitzner. “Navigation, come about to heading zero-six-five. Maintain even Z-axis flight. All ahead two thirds.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

“TAO, stand by to lower our forward shields once we’re clear of Master Three’s weapons.” Tehrani stared out the window as the station swung by its view. Hurry up, Major Nishimura. We don’t have all day.

17

Grigory Bogdanov was almost always the man who imposed fear on others rather than the other way around, but he felt overwhelming terror at that moment. The political commissar for League of Sol Forward Outpost Seventeen, he was feared and hated by every member of the League Navy on the station. Tasked with enforcing compliance with orders, Bogdanov made sure they followed the protocols of society and weren’t sliding toward individualism—the bane of the communist party’s existence. He stamped out any evidence of such activity immediately.

“There are too many, Colonel,” a young rating blurted out. “They’re cutting through our security force with ease.”

“Steady,” Bogdanov replied. He forced iron into his voice. “The individualist thugs of the Terran Coalition cannot defeat the champions of society. All we must do is hold fast until the fleet arrives.” Though Bogdanov shared the young man’s outlook on their prospects, all his life, he had been a man who got by. He had few real skills, aside from shifting blame to others. Somehow, he’d always prospered by worming his way out of the consequences for failures while taking credit for whatever successes happened to occur around him. In short, he was the consummate political officer.

“Colonel, we’re down to one platoon. They’re falling back to directly outside of the control room.”

Bogdanov had no experience with combat. Having never fired a shot in anger or at a real, live target, he was at a complete loss about what to do next. I suppose I’d better improvise and make it sound good. “Lieutenant,” he began, glancing at the tactical officer, one of the few who’d made it to the control room before the Terrans overran most of the station. “Open the emergency small-arms cache.”

Enlisted ratings stared at one another.

“Colonel, there’s eight of us.”

The words had been spoken as if they were all that was needed to be said. Bogdanov felt like a cornered animal. Part of him yearned to surrender and try his hand at slithering out of another messy situation. But fear that a true believer would shoot him if he didn’t resist until the end pushed Bogdanov on. “And in the name of Lenin, eight must be enough to hold.” When no one moved, he marched over to the locker built into the bulkhead near the back of the room. A palm print scan later, the locker popped open. He removed a sidearm. “Come, comrades. Arm yourselves.”

Bogdanov’s words seemingly inspired the others to draw upon a well of courage. Each drew a sidearm and took up positions in cover, with a clear view of the hatch out of the control room. The sounds of battle grew closer—high-pitched whines of League energy rifles along with the reports of a ballistic weapon.

Probably whatever these religious fanatics are using for guns. Bogdanov crouched behind a console, pointing the small pulse-laser pistol toward the opening. “Steady now,” he intoned.

The staccato sound of the Terran weapons was suddenly front and center. The screams and cries in the various languages of the League—mostly Russian, Chinese, and French—rose in volume through the hatch. Then they were gone.

By Lenin, they’re all dead. Bogdanov quaked in his combat boots.

“What do we do, Colonel?” a scared teenaged conscript asked.

“Our social duty,” Bogdanov forced out. “For the glory of our socialist republic!”

As if on cue, the hatch blew inward with a deafening roar. People in suits of power armor rushed in, firing their projectile rifles. Several enlisted Leaguers who’d taken Bogdanov’s exhortations to heart popped out of cover and opened up with their energy weapons. The Terran Coalition Marines cut them down without so much as a singe on their armor. One of the braver League sailors sprang up and charged the enemy formation, discharging his pistol into the faceplate of the closest Marine. It held for a moment then shattered into a thousand pieces. The laser beam cut through the unlucky man’s skull, killing him instantly. Return fire from the rest of the Marines shredded the sailor where he stood.

Throughout it all, Bogdanov sat transfixed. His fight-or-flight instinct was caught in a logic loop in which he couldn’t decide, so he sat mute while the battle raged around him. Aware that the shooting had stopped, Bogdanov let his pistol drop to the floor with an audible thud. Multiple rifle barrels appeared in his face.

“On your feet, Leaguer!” one of the Terrans shouted in Russian, though the accent was so bad that it was almost unbearable.

“I speak some English,” Bogdanov replied. “I surrender. No fight.”

Another power-armored Marine strode through the hatch. Even though they all looked alike, the new arrival carried himself differently. His faceplate popped open, and he surveyed the control room. Bogdanov immediately assumed the new arrival was in charge. The supposition was confirmed when he spoke. “Who the hell are you?”

“Colonel Grigory Bogdanov, League of Sol political commissar.”

“Is that supposed to mean something?”

“I ensure all maintain social duty,” Bogdanov replied. His heart skipped beats while sweat trickled down his forehead.

The other man glanced around the room. “Did he fire his weapon at you?”

“No, sir, Colonel,” the Marine who’d initially captured Bogdanov replied. “We found him crouched there, about to pee his pants.”

All the power-armored Marines laughed loudly, and Bogdanov’s face heated. Shame swept over him. “You kill me now?”

“No, Leaguer,” the Marine in charge stated as he stared Bogdanov down. “I’m Major Kosuke Nishimura, Terran Coalition Marine Corps. We don’t execute POWs. But you might make things a bit easier on yourself if you log my comms specialist into your computer system.”

Bogdanov got enough of what Nishimura said to realize they wanted him to help them take information from the station’s databanks. As he mentally grappled with the situation, part of him wanted to stay true to the League’s ideals. The other part argued that all he’d ever done in life was stab people in the back to get ahead. Why should this be any different? After a life of moral compromises and tortured justifications, one more was easy. “I give full access.”

“No tricks,” Nishimura replied. “Or it won’t go well for you.”

“No tricks.”

Nishimura gestured to the nearest console. “Have a seat, Mr. Bogdanov.” The Terrans stood at the ready, fingers on their projectile rifles.

With his heart still skipping a beat every ten seconds, Bogdanov sat down at the indicated terminal. A few keystrokes later, the computer core was unlocked. He turned back to Nishimura. “You have access all commands now.”

“Very good. Corporal, secure the prisoner,” Nishimura ordered. “Now, get the comms geek in here, and let’s get what we came for.”

As he was trundled off to the side of the control room and his hands zip cuffed behind him, Bogdanov pondered the choices he’d made over the last few minutes. His family back in the League would be ruined if word of his surrender—and worse, assistance to the Terrans—was ever discovered. They promised they would treat me better, though. His safety was the only thing that mattered. Of course, not even that mattered if their reinforcements arrived before the Terrans left the station. Bogdanov was certain the incoming battlegroup would destroy the station in a heartbeat rather than have it fall into enemy hands.

* * *

Red plasma balls whipped through space, barely missing Justin’s fighter as he weaved and dodged through the League station’s superstructure. Miniature explosions dotted its hull as the plasma charges struck it with their superheated fury. Justin waited until the exact right moment, when he had enough distance from his pursuer to flip positions. He pulled up hard on his flight stick, sending the craft into a one-hundred-eighty-degree Immelmann. The sudden reversal put him on a direct flight path toward his attacker, and he loosed a LIDAR-tracking missile before veering off.

The warhead flew straight at the League fighter, whose pilot seemed to have only one focus: killing Justin. Thanks to the craft’s shield depletion, most of the energy bled into the hull when the Vulture slammed into the fore shield. The Shrike didn’t have a chance. It exploded into dust as the onboard reactor failed.

“Theta One, splash one,” Justin called. He let out a small sigh of relief. Staying alive in the damaged fighter was a challenging task.

“Attention, all pilots,” Whatley cut across the entire command network. “Our Marines are undocking momentarily and have taken prisoners along with a great deal of actionable intelligence. Defend those shuttles at all costs. They must make it back to the Zvika Greengold. Godspeed. CAG out.”

Justin paused to take stock of the battlefield at large. The remaining League destroyer was engaged in a slugging match with the Greengold, while half a dozen fighters brawled in individual combats. All in all, the situation was reasonably well in hand. At least for a quickly planned offensive operation where stealth was the watchword. His HUD came alive with several more red dots. More fighters? From where? That destroyer can’t have too many more on it. Then he realized they were launching from the station.

Three dots grew to six then ten then fifteen. Justin felt the blood drain from his face. They must have overridden the hangar doors and got them open manually.

He cued the commlink to Whatley’s one-on-one channel. “CAG, orders, sir? They’ve got us outnumbered three to one.”

“Close escort, Spencer. Get your ass over here and protect the shuttles. Don’t try to be a hero. I don’t care how good you are—fifteen to one ain’t survivable odds.”

“Understood, sir,” Justin replied. The commlink cut off, and he rotated his fighter toward the group of three slow-moving shuttles. Beta element had already taken up position around them, while Alpha and Delta elements continued to persecute the previously launched Leaguers.

“Alpha Two, splash one,” Feldstein called.

Justin glanced at his HUD and realized only three enemy craft were remaining in the furball. As he watched, the red dots representing them blinked out. Simultaneously, more dots appeared outside of the station’s hangar. Twenty-eight hostiles? Shit. The Greengold only had eleven Sabres plus his captured—and damaged—fighter on the field. “This is Spencer,” Justin said. “Red Tails, re-form into finger-four formations and tighten up around our Marines.” He forced steel into his voice. “These bastards want at ’em, they’ll have to get through us.”

“You heard your squadron commander,” Whatley rasped.

Typically, a Sabre going full tilt with afterburner would outrun the fastest League craft. But not when they were tethered to fully loaded shuttles. The enemy fighters kept coming. Justin toggled his commlink to Whatley’s private channel. “CAG, I think we should break two elements off and send a full spread of Vultures at our pursuers.”

“Leaving the rest of us to deal with whatever gets through?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I might have to upgrade you from dobber,” Whatley replied with a touch of mirth. “Do it. Take Alpha and Delta.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Justin switched to the Red Tails frequency. “Alpha, Delta elements, break and attack bandits at one-eight-zero, mark positive eight. Follow me in.”

“Affirmative, sir,” Mateus said.

“Wilco, sir,” Feldstein replied.

Other voices sounded off as green lights across Justin’s HUD lit up, indicating the pilots had received and acknowledged his orders. He gripped his flight stick firmly and rotated his craft toward the onrushing blob of enemy fighters. Only three Vultures left. Still thankful for the miracle-working crew chiefs that had jury-rigged CDF munitions for use in the current combat, Justin watched the targeting reticule on the HUD. It turned red, indicating a stable lock. “Theta One, Fox three.”

“Alpha Two, Fox three.”

“Delta One, Fox three.”

All seven Sabres loosed a Vulture each along with a flurry of neutron cannon bolts. The Leaguers responded with a couple dozen of their anti-fighter missiles and massed plasma-cannon fire. Warheads passed each other in the void, while the energy weapons made for an eerie glow in the cockpit canopies on both sides.

Several League fighters ceased to exist as missiles connected. While the superior CDF electronic-warfare systems spoofed many enemy warheads, they didn’t get them all. One Sabre disappeared, and a second took significant damage. It veered out of the fight while automated repair systems went to work.

Justin and the rest of the friendly craft made a high-speed firing pass with their energy weapons, taking out another couple of enemies. Moving at an angle that allowed him to slide behind a Leaguer headed toward the shuttles, he took advantage of their seemingly myopic focus on stopping the captured intelligence from getting back to the Terran Coalition. Justin squeezed the trigger, and dozens of red plasma balls shot away from his fighter. They impacted dead center on his quarry, which exploded in a small orange fireball. “Theta One, splash one. Watch out, Red Tails. They’re trying to punch through us.”

His words were prophetic. As the furball continued, with the superior delta-V and weaponry of the Terrans providing a four-to-one kill ratio, the League forces’ considerable numerical superiority allowed several fighters to squirt through the remaining friendlies. Justin counted at least six that accelerated toward the shuttle group.

“CAG, you’ve got incoming,” he practically shouted.

“I’ve got eyes, Spencer,” Whatley ground out.

All six enemies loosed a wave of missiles that swept through the void ahead of them. While a few were spoofed with chaff deployed by the shuttles, three struck home on the lead transport. On Justin’s HUD, the friendly contact blinked, and the display indicated it had lost shields. Beta element gamely engaged the enemies, but they were down two fighters. Still, another Leaguer bought the farm as his craft exploded. Then another wave of warheads roared away from the League flight.

“This is Sierra Four, declaring an emergency. We won’t survive another missile hit out here. Any friendly fighters, get these bandits off our six!”

Justin didn’t recognize the voice but assumed it belonged to the warrant officer flying the lead Marine shuttle.

“Sierra Four, this is Beta One. I’ve got your back. Turn to heading two-seven-zero, pitch down relative,” Lieutenant Orhan Yavuz said. One of the better pilots in the squadron not assigned to Alpha element, he’d been on the Greengold since the beginning of the war. His Sabre raced on full afterburner, into the path of several of the incoming warheads.

“Yavuz, what the hell are you doing?” Justin demanded. “Jettison your chaff and break off.”

“Negative, sir. The intelligence is too valuable.”

Justin watched his HUD in mute horror as Yavuz’s craft went head-on into two missiles then a third and finally a fourth. The Sabre disintegrated in a short-lived explosion. The pilot didn’t eject, and Justin had precious little time to even consider Yavuz’s death.

Like a machine, he pressed on and obtained a LIDAR lock on the closest League fighter. Justin toggled his missile launchers to double fire. “Theta One, fox three.” Two Vultures—his last two—raced away and slammed into the enemy, destroying the Leaguer. One more down.

“To whoever saved our asses, thanks, and Godspeed, brother,” the unfamiliar shuttle pilot said. “Sierra Four on final approach.”

Red plasma balls filled the void as the remaining Leaguers tried to eliminate the intelligence-carrying transports, but they were mostly using “pray and spray” tactics. Individual dogfights broke out and quickly turned into tail chases in which, again, the superior CDF technology won the day. Feldstein, Mateus, and Adeoye took out an enemy each, while Beta element handled the remaining two fighters.

“Listen up, pilots. Now’s our chance. The shuttles are headed for the hangar. I want every small craft from the Greengold on the deck in sixty seconds. Move like your lives depend on it, because they do,” Whatley said, his voice simultaneously gruff and full of pride.

“I don’t need to hear that twice,” Martin interjected. “Gamma element heading for home plate.”

Justin cued a private commlink channel to Whatley. “Major, there’s still a good ten League fighters out here.”

“Watch and learn, young man.”

“But—”

“Spencer, for once, trust I know what I’m doing,” Whatley growled. “Can you do that, son?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now, land that piece-of-shit League bird somewhere I can’t see it on the flight deck, would you?”

Justin tightened his hand around the stick and pushed the afterburner up. The first shuttle had just touched down, and the next one was coming in. I wonder what crazy plan Whatley has up his sleeve. He grinned, thinking the Leaguers had no chance at all.

* * *

“All shuttles and bombers landed, skipper,” Wright began. “We’ve got a few Sabres still out there, including the CAG.”

“How close?” The bridge remained bathed in blue light. The soft hue cast long shadows across the consoles while the damage-control teams worked on broken equipment.

“Thirty seconds to landing, ma’am.” Wright double-checked his screen. “Port side is clear. Everyone else is coming in on the starboard quarter.”

“TAO, target incoming enemy craft bearing zero-nine-zero relative, activate point defense.” Tehrani grinned fiercely. “That should even it up a bit.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am. Point defense in automatic mode,” Bryan called.

All four CIWS mounts capable of sweeping the port quarter synchronized their actions, assisted by the Zvika Greengold’s targeting systems’ vast computing power. A sustained cascade of energy bolts and projectiles, alternating between the weapons systems, sprayed into the path of the onrushing League fighters. The first couple were caught entirely unaware and ceased to exist after dozens of impacts, while the pilots toward the rear had enough time to veer off and attempt escape. Only a few made it. Whatley’s gambit had worked, though Tehrani was still amazed he’d pulled it off.

“Conn, TAO. Aspect change. Enemy fighters are pulling back. Master Three has reentered weapons range.” As if to underscore Bryan’s report, the bridge rocked from numerous energy-weapon impacts on the Greengold’s forward deflector array.

Tehrani leaned forward. “TAO, status of the energy-weapons capacitor?”

“Fully charged, ma’am.”

Might as well do a little more damage. After all, every ship they neutralized was one fewer to fight later. “In that case, TAO, firing point procedures, forward neutron beams, Master Three.”

“Firing solutions set, ma’am.”

“Match bearings, shoot, forward neutron beams.”

As they had so many times before, twin blue spears of death erupted from the bow of the Zvika Greengold. Moving at the speed of light, they connected with the depleted shields on the enemy destroyer and burned through them after only moments of contact. The League ship’s light armor and brittle hull were no match for the beams’ tightly focused power. They bored a hole from one side of the vessel to the other, turning the area around the contact point molten.

“Conn, TAO. Access Master Three is disabled. She’s ceased forward movement and is drifting, ma’am. I show life pod launches across all decks.”

Before Tehrani could reply, Singh spoke. “Conn, Communications. CSV Astute is asking us to confirm all personnel are off the League station, ma’am.”

“Everyone’s off, skipper,” Wright replied quickly. “No worries there. The Marines triple-checked.”

Tehrani turned and nodded in Singh’s direction. “Let them know we’re clear, Lieutenant.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

A few moments later, the reason the stealth raider had asked became apparent. Six miniature suns showed through the window at the front of the bridge. They bracketed the station perfectly, causing maximum damage and erasing most of the structure from the universe. What was left would only be useful as scrap.

“Conn, TAO. Master One destroyed,” Bryan reported. “The board is clear except for a few enemy fast movers.”

“Search-and-rescue status?” Tehrani asked.

“SAR bird is out along with a couple of Sabres as an escort, ma’am. We’re not finding any trace of our people, though. The Boars are about to land. We could launch our other SAR craft,” Wright said. He furrowed his brow. “The lack of transponders is hampering their efforts, though.”

Tehrani pondered her options. The Greengold only had two of the specialized search-and-rescue craft. They could relaunch some fighters to assist, but the Sabres’ LIDAR arrays were optimized for warfare, not locating needles in the large haystack of space.

Bryan interrupted her thoughts. “Conn, TAO. Aspect change, inbound wormholes.”

“How many wormholes?”

“At least eight, ma’am.”

Seconds ticked by with a growing sense of apprehension. Tehrani stared at the tactical plot, waiting for Bryan's report.

“Conn, TAO. League signature confirmed, one Alexander-class battleship and sixteen escorts.”

Tehrani’s mouth went dry. They were out of time, and she could do nothing more. Even so, the thought of leaving missing pilots—men and women under her command—behind was heartbreaking.

“Skipper, it’s time,” Wright whispered insistently.

“I know,” Tehrani replied, her tone tinged with pain. “XO, give a sixty-second count for all remaining friendlies to dock.”

“Conn, TAO. Dozens of enemy fast movers launching, ma’am,” Bryan interjected.

“ETA to intercept, Lieutenant?” Tehrani asked, her eyes fixed on his back.

“Five minutes, ma’am. Master Five and her battlegroup are moving at flank speed.”

“Communications, signal the Astute to jump out immediately,” Tehrani began. Without even waiting for a reply, she pressed on. “Navigation, plot an emergency Lawrence drive jump back to our staging area.”

Acknowledgments rang out from both of them.

Bitter recriminations flowed in Tehrani’s mind, but she had no other options. The same pain was clearly evident on the faces of everyone else on the bridge. “No one left behind” had been a rallying cry of the CDF for generations. Slogans tend to fail in real combat situations. Being unable to live up to the ideal cut her to the bone.

She pushed the thoughts down and decided to try to comfort her people. “We got what we came for, ladies and gentlemen—an offensive victory over the League of Sol. Don’t lose sight of it.”

“Conn, Navigation. Lawrence drive is fully charged and coordinates locked in.”

Tehrani peered at Wright. “All our small craft back onboard?”

“Thirty seconds, ma’am,” he replied.

“Conn, TAO. Sierra One has jumped out.”

Blue dots on Tehrani’s screen representing the last of the Boars and the SAR bird raced toward the Zvika Greengold. The last icon was the one marked CAG. Of course the major would wait until his people were safe. “Time to get scarce,” she said as the CAG’s dot merged with theirs. That’s everybody. Except our missing pilots. “Navigation, activate Lawrence drive.”

The often-repeated sequence of events commenced with the lights dimming on the bridge. Directly fore of the carrier, an artificial wormhole came into being, ripping a hole in the continuum of spacetime amid a kaleidoscope of color. The Greengold glided through the opening, and Tehrani felt thankful they’d escaped with their lives.

* * *

Justin felt the hangar deck through his flight suit’s boots and glanced around the bay, which was a jumble of landed Sabres, Maulers, and Boars along with a few Marine shuttles. Aviation ratings milled about, assisting pilots out of their craft, while medics tended to wounded Marines before moving them toward the medical bay. It didn’t take long for his compatriots in Alpha element to make their way over.

Feldstein wrapped her arms around him in a tight embrace. “Glad you’re still in one piece.”

Okay, that’s different. Justin took a step back when she released her grip. “I had some great teammates watching out for me.” He glanced between Adeoye and Mateus. “Crackerjack flying from all of you.”

“Lieutenant Spencer,” someone called. It took Justin a few seconds to realize it was Major Nishimura.

The major, still clad in his power armor, trudged across the hangar with a group of Marines.

Justin brought himself to attention and saluted. “Sir.”

Nishimura returned the salute with a smile. “On behalf of all my Marines, thank you. To you and all the pilots who covered us out there. We wouldn’t be alive without your efforts.”

“Just doing our jobs, sir,” Justin replied. He relaxed to a parade rest position almost instinctively and grasped his hands behind his back. “Did you get the intel?”

“Oh yeah,” Nishimura replied, his smile growing into a grin. “We also captured a couple of high-value POWs. One of them, I think he’s the kind that likes to talk, if you know what I mean.” The grin faded. “Who was the pilot that sacrificed himself for us?” The Marine’s expression turned somber. “I’d like to remember him.”

“His name was Orhan Yavuz,” Justin replied. Emotion welled up in him. He’d known the Turkish lieutenant but not well. He’d only been in the squadron for a short time but distinguished himself as a natural aviator. Is this how it’s going to be? We won’t have time to make friends because all of us die too quickly?

The rest of the Marines had come in behind Nishimura, while the medics finished their jobs removing the wounded.

“Did he have a family?” Nishimura asked.

“Yes, sir. A wife and two small sons. Twins, I believe,” Justin replied.

Nishimura glanced behind him then toward the assembled mass of pilots. “Let us give thanks for the bravery and dedication of Orhan Yavuz. Let us give thanks for the freedoms we enjoy every day. Let us remember the price paid for those freedoms and for our lives as we stand here.” His voice broke as he continued, “Orhan Yavuz fell in the line of duty, serving his country. Men and women like him answer the call from throughout the Terran Coalition. Let us never forget our fallen comrades, for they have earned our respect and admiration with their lives.”

The hangar bay went silent, as anyone within earshot of the major had stopped what they were doing and listened. Justin recognized his words as a variation of the Toast to the Fallen.

“We knew Orhan Yavuz. We’ll remember him, and he won’t be forgotten. To our fallen!”

“To our fallen!” was echoed by everyone, including Justin. A loud round of somber applause followed it.

Justin pursed his lips. “Thank you, Major. It means something that we remember the sacrifices made.” Someone has to remember. It has to count.

“We’ll be heading off to Marine country shortly. Any pilot is welcome.” Nishimura smiled. “And we’ve got the good beer.”

A wave of laughter swept through those around them. “Thanks, sir.” Combat humor. It helps keep us sane.

“You getting a new Sabre?”

“I suppose,” Justin replied. “They just have to pull it out of storage.”

“And paint the kill marks on the side, right?”

Justin shook his head. “No, I don’t do that.”

Nishimura stared, a dumbfounded expression on his face. “A fighter pilot who doesn’t mark his kills? Seriously, Spencer, what’s wrong with you? Are you one of those guys that only eats kale?”

“Uh, no.” Justin paused, not entirely sure how to respond. “I decided after the Battle of Canaan that instead of painting kills on my bird, I’d have patches painted for everyone my squadron lost, and I’ve kept that going.”

For a moment, Nishimura didn’t speak. He bit his lip and took a step forward. “Whatever anyone else says, you’re a decent guy, Spencer.” He slapped Justin on the shoulder. “Carry on, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir.” Justin flashed a smile and watched the group of Marines walk past, their armored boots clanking on the flight deck. He stared as they disappeared from view, pondering the lives snuffed out in an instant. We’re here, then just like that, we’re not. He found it very sobering.

“So, when are we going to get the free booze?” Mateus asked, breaking Justin out of his mental revelry.

“How about we get out of these flight suits first,” Feldstein cut in. “I smell like an outhouse.”

Adeoye sniffed the air. “No, you don’t.”

“And you know what an outhouse smells like?”

Justin took a step forward. “Let’s go get changed.”

They fell in line behind him. The animated conversation about outhouses continued while he focused on Nishimura’s words. I wonder how long it will be before someone raises a toast to me. Or someone in Alpha. One thing that rang true with him was he needed to make every day count. No regrets.

18

After the Zvika Greengold returned to the CDF station that marked their halfway point on the convoy escort mission, Tehrani had expected to see Agent Grant standing at the airlock door when they extended the transfer tube. Numerous CIS SIGINT—Signals Intelligence—technicians had been waiting for them but no Grant. After the past week, she couldn’t have cared less. Overseeing the removal of the captured data and transfer of remains for transport back to Canaan had left Tehrani drained. If I let myself stop for a minute and think about what’s happened, I’m not sure what the emotional toll would look like. Perhaps, she mused, that was why there was always something else to do.

Later that afternoon, Tehrani was back in her day cabin, crunching away on paperwork, when her door buzzer went off. “Come in.”

The hatch swung open, and Agent Grant’s smiling face was before her. He wore a CDF khaki service uniform, though it lacked rank insignia. “Good day, Colonel. May I have a few minutes of your time?” Grant asked in a perfectly reasonable tone, like he had no other care in the galaxy.

Tehrani’s jaw dropped, and for a moment, she couldn’t think of anything to say. “How did you get in here?”

Grant walked in and sat in one of the chairs in front of her desk. “Well, it’s quite simple to blend in. For a spy, anyway. Especially when I’m in the right uniform.” He steepled his fingers. “I must confess… we were blown away by how your ship pulled off the mission. I had less than thirty percent odds on the Zvika Greengold making it back.”

The spook’s nonchalant manner when talking about her ship and, more importantly, its crew, infuriated Tehrani. She stared directly into the man’s eyes. “Do you need something, Agent? Otherwise, I have no interest in listening to your predictions.”

“I see I hit a nerve. Forgive me. That was my way of giving you and your crew my compliments. I thought you might want to know we recovered some extremely actionable intelligence out of the caper. The station you took out wasn’t the only one out there.”

Tehrani shifted. “I figured as much.”

Grant grinned. “What you did will change the face of the war.” He paused. “I really do hope we work together again.”

Something about his tone bothered Tehrani. His entire demeanor was off. “And why is that?”

“It’s nice dealing with fellow professionals,” Grant replied. “Allow me to answer the question you want to ask but are just too polite to.” His mouth grew into a large smile. “I’m not like you or the rest of your crew or the Marines, for that matter. I’m a high-functioning sociopath.” He held up his hand. “Don’t worry. It’s well-known and in my file. There’s a code of ethics I follow rigorously. It keeps me on the straight and narrow, if you will. Still, I enjoy fieldwork far more than I ought to.”

Tehrani just stared, dumbfounded. How is this guy working for us?

“It has certain benefits. Specifically, I’m able to get over setbacks and losses… quickly.” He glanced around the day cabin. “You, I suspect, not so much. For what it’s worth, I’m glad you made it.” Grant stood. “I’ve taken up enough of your time, Colonel, and I can see myself out.” He grinned again. “As I said, I look forward to the next time.”

“Good day, Mr. Grant,” Tehrani replied, staring at him as he walked through the opening and the hatch clanged shut behind him.

For a long time after he left, she pondered the conversation and had the feeling a bath was in order. A stark reminder that while I’m firmly convinced we’re the good guys, it doesn’t mean everyone in the Terran Coalition has pure motivations. Though she tried to focus on her work, the unpleasant emotions wouldn’t go away.

* * *

Another day in the books, another mug of spiced tea—such was the nature of the small rewards Banu Tehrani allowed herself. She’d stayed in her day office, working on the after-action report for their battle at the League station, until almost 2100 hours CMT, stopping only to have dinner brought in. Utter exhaustion had set in. Curled up on the couch in her quarters belowdecks, she took another sip of the hot tea.

The tablet resting on the coffee table repeatedly buzzed, the vibration causing it to rattle on the transparent alloy—warships had very little actual glass because of safety concerns in battle. Tehrani picked it up, to find the vidlink application open with an incoming call from her husband, Ibrahim. She excitedly pressed the button to answer.

A few moments later, his smiling face appeared on the device. “Banu, can you hear me?”

“Yes,” she replied. “How did you manage to get through? The commlink lines are jammed.”

Ibrahim’s eyes twinkled. “You’re not the only person with friends in high places. Consider it a gift from a friend.” He beamed. “How are you?”

“Alive.” Tehrani forced a smile, but it morphed into a frown. A tear slid down her face. “Better than the alternative, I suppose.”

“More death?”

She closed her eyes. “Yes. Even in victory, we lose good people.” More tears came along with a choking cough. “So many conflicting emotions. Part of me wants to be glad, even happy that the enemy was vanquished.” Tehrani furrowed her brow. “And that we killed enough of them to make a difference.”

Ibrahim raised an eyebrow. “Maybe you’d better read your Quran some more, dear. If you’re still tending more toward being devout.”

“Are you mocking me?” Tehrani demanded.

“No… no. Not at all.” He pursed his lips. “I’ve been attending the mosque near our home every few days.”

Tehrani stared at the tablet in amazement, the flash of anger abating. “Who are you, and what did you do with my husband?” As long as she’d known Ibrahim, he’d been a skeptic of religion. Arabia was a pretty conservative place—religiously speaking—so it wasn’t like he’d flashed it around to everyone they knew, but it was one of his core beliefs.

He spread his hands out in a shrug. “I’ve been praying for your safety.” Ibrahim paused, choking up. “You’re the love of my life, Banu. I’m not complete without you, and I can’t protect you where you are. So instead, I ask Allah to protect and guide you. If such a being exists. The way I’m looking at it, it can’t hurt to try.”

The way he made the statement, and the sheer honesty of it, made her love him all the more. “Thank you,” Tehrani replied softly. “I would point out to you, though, that I’m a military officer with nineteen years of experience.” She grinned.

“And I’m an economics professor.”

“Exactly.”

“Those facts do not change my desire to protect my wife.”

Tehrani touched her finger to the tablet’s screen. “And that, my dear husband, is one of the reasons I married you.”

He beamed. “Any word on some downtime? Shore leave? Maybe a planet-based duty station?”

“I’m hopeful we’ll rotate home in a month or two, if nothing else, for an extended combat refit.” How do I tell him that our life will consist of battle after battle for the foreseeable future?

Ibrahim shook his head. “Oh, dearest, I know what that means. Don’t get my hopes up.”

“I’m sorry.” The two little words didn’t seem enough.

“Nonsense. There’s nothing to be sorry for. I’m angry that some communist thugs decided to invade our little slice of space. I wish they’d just tried to debate me. As economics is my area of expertise, I could’ve explained to them why communism is a dead-end system.” He smiled. “Just… if you get a few days’ downtime, let me know? I’ll take a transport liner.”

“Ibrahim, we don’t have that kind of money,” Tehrani exclaimed.

“Again, don’t worry about it. I’ve got it covered.” He sighed. “The most annoying ‘You are out of commlink credits’ notice just appeared on my end. I suppose we’ll have to cut this short.”

“I love you,” Tehrani blurted out. She blushed. “And when we see each other again, I promise you I’ll make whatever trip you had to take worth your while.”

“Oh really?” Ibrahim winked. “I’ll hold you to that. I love you too. Take care of yourself.”

“I’ll try. Walk with Allah, husband.”

The screen went blank, leaving Tehrani alone in the quiet of her stateroom. She set the tablet down and put her legs back up on the couch then sipped her still-warm tea with a smile and thought of better days with her family. If God wills it, I will see them again.

* * *

Presidential Center

Lawrence City—Canaan

5 December 2433

The doors to the White House situation room swung open, and Jason Nolan entered behind his protective detail. Various military officers and civilians lined the conference table and the chairs abutting the wall behind it. Many, he recognized on a first-name basis, a side effect of more than two months of daily military briefings. As he strode in, everyone stood.

“As you were,” Nolan said, simultaneously taking his seat at the head of the table. He made eye contact with General Antonio Saurez, Commander, Space Fleet—the overall commander for all CDF spaceborne assets. “How’s it look today, General?”

For once, Saurez smiled. Over the last month, there hadn’t been many calls for a smile or happiness period, for that matter. “I’m happy to report that CDF intelligence analysts, working hand in hand with our civilian brethren at CIS, have decrypted a large data cache captured recently from a League deep-space outpost inside Terran Coalition space.”

“Did I hear you right? That you captured a League space installation erected inside our space?” Abdul Karimi interjected. He was Nolan’s chief of staff and long-time aide.

“That’s correct, sir.”

Nolan considered the implication of the statement for a few moments. His mind spun. How long has the League been planning this? It seemed the Terran Coalition was the subject of a multiyear, perhaps decades-long war effort designed to wipe them out. He let out a breath. “Okay. Continue.”

“Based on the intelligence recovered, we’ve destroyed half a dozen similar installations and are taking steps to up our scanning activity to find any others that might’ve been missed,” Saurez replied. “We’ve enlisted several scientific vessels to assist us. But, sir, the best news is that since we carried out the operation to remove the League stations, attacks on our civilian convoys are down by almost seventy percent.”

Nolan grinned. I don’t need to be a career military officer to understand those implications. “That, General, is the best news I’ve heard since we won the Battle of Canaan.” He turned somber again. “And what of the front?”

“We’re holding our own, sir. But as you well know, we’re playing defense.”

“Any progress on a plan to attack the League of Sol?” Nolan swept the room with his eyes and focused on Saurez. “You’ve had more than a month, General.”

“We do, sir.” Saurez leaned back and motioned to an officer on the back row. “Lieutenant MacIntosh has a proposal for you, Mr. President.”

The carpet rustled as MacIntosh pushed off his chair and stood next to the conference table. “Um, yes, sir.” He looked anything but relaxed. “We examined the possibility of using SFS-4 Ghost stealth recon fighters, and—” MacIntosh glanced at Saurez before he resumed. “I believe we can refit them to carry missile armament in addition to beefier energy weapons.”

“In English, Lieutenant,” Nolan said with a smile. “I’m afraid I have little understanding of military terminology, so you’ll have to dumb it down for me.” Maybe that’ll put the kid a bit more at ease.

MacIntosh cleared his throat and took the lifeline thrown at him. “Of course, Mr. President. The overall problem with attacking the League directly is, first, we don’t know what’s waiting for us. Second, we don’t have enough ships to send a battleship force. That leaves our carriers, which present the same problem. To have an effect, the fleet would need to number in the hundreds of vessels.”

Nolan let out a sigh. “Yes, I’ve seen those reports, Lieutenant.”

“Well, sir, one of our stealth raider commanders had an idea. We have limited numbers of stealth recon fighters, the one I referenced a few minutes ago. It’s fast and has a Lawrence drive. A small group of ships outfitted with this craft could get close, staying outside of solar systems to remain undetected, and use stealth to stage a raid on Earth.”

The idea of hitting Earth itself immediately captured Nolan’s attention. He sat straighter and narrowed his eyes. “Can we pull it off? Also, why don’t all of our fighters have Lawrence drives, if these do? I would assume that the strategic advance would be massive.”

Saurez leaned forward. “Sir, I want to stress the limited nature of this sort of strike. We’ve got less than one hundred Ghosts in our inventory. They’re incredibly expensive, and it costs as much money for one squadron of them as two destroyers. Perhaps someday in the future, when technology advances to make it feasible, we’ll have a space aviation corps outfitted with FTL capabilities, but for now, it’s limited to recon. What Lieutenant MacIntosh is proposing is taking a few squadrons and equipping those fighters for combat. They’ll be less effective because they’re not designed for a direct-engagement role.”

“I fail to see how a few squadrons of these things can do much damage, then.” Nolan closed his eyes for a moment. He opened them to find MacIntosh smiling broadly.

“Sir, if we send a couple of stealth raiders out with them, we should be able to find ample targets of opportunity. It stands to reason the League would never expect us to show up on their side of the arm. The element of surprise would be a formidable advantage. At any rate, we’d make sure to take out a few installations, cargo ships… stuff that makes a splash. You want a morale win, and you’ll get it.”

Nolan turned toward Saurez. “Are the Joint Chiefs on board?”

“Sir, I will again state that I believe any offensive action at this juncture is foolhardy. However, the plan Lieutenant MacIntosh outlined is the least risky. The worst thing that happens is we lose an escort carrier and a few stealth raiders. Since you’ve made it clear to me you’re dead set on striking at the League, it’s my duty to obey the commander-in-chief.”

“Ah, so it does register sometimes,” Nolan replied. “A question. Why an escort carrier and not a fleet carrier—one of the Saratoga-class ships?”

Saurez pursed his lips. “Simple, sir. We can’t afford to lose a fleet carrier.”

The cold reality of war and the calculation before Nolan made him flinch. Still, it didn’t alter his belief. “Have you selected the vessels to send on this mission yet?”

“I have some in mind, sir. The Zvika Greengold has distinguished herself repeatedly. I think there’s some heroes on that ship—and if anyone can pull this op off, it’s probably Colonel Tehrani and her merry band of pilots.”

“They have to understand the risks, General,” Nolan replied forcefully. He narrowed his eyes and stared at Saurez. “Do you hear me?”

Saurez met his gaze. “Sir, with respect, I give orders, not options, in the Coalition Defense Force.”

“You just got through telling me we can only send a force that’s… what’s the military term? Expendable?” Nolan snapped.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then they get to know the odds and what they’re up against. Do I make myself clear?”

Saurez pulled himself up ramrod straight. “Sir, yes, sir.” He ground the words out.

“Anything else today, ladies and gentlemen?”

Silence was the only response.

Nolan stood. “Thank you, all. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.” The moment he cleared the chair, everyone else leaped from their seats. Nolan smiled, nodded toward his chief of staff, and walked out of the situation room. I’m going to have to look those brave soldiers on the Zvika Greengold in the eye and ask them to do this. Anything else would be wrong.

19

CSV Zvika Greengold

Low Orbit—Canaan—Terran Coalition

6 December 2433

A promotion ceremony was usually something with a great deal of pomp and circumstance, especially for an officer. By comparison, the day’s festivities were decidedly low-key. Justin felt perfectly fine with how it was going so far, though he wished Michelle and Maggie could’ve been there to see him. A secondary cargo bay had been cleared for the occasion, filled with rows of chairs and a small lectern. From his position just outside the giant double doors leading inside, Justin could make out Colonel Tehrani and Major Whatley standing next to each other at the front along with the ship’s chaplain, as denoted by the cross on his uniform.

After checking his dress uniform one last time and tugging on his cover, Justin strode into the bay and made his way down the walkway between the rows of chairs. He absentmindedly wiped the sweat from his forehead as he walked, then came to a stop before the lectern. “First Lieutenant Justin Spencer reports as ordered.” As he spoke, he saluted. While technically inside, the cargo bay was considered outdoors for formal activities—and required cover along with salutes.

“At ease, Lieutenant,” Tehrani replied as she returned the salute. She smiled at him and took a few steps toward the stand. “Thank you for joining us today, officers and crewmembers of the CSV Zvika Greengold. We’re gathered to recognize one of our own, First Lieutenant Justin Spencer, on the occasion of his promotion to captain. Major Whatley, Commander, Air Group, CSV Zvika Greengold, will officiate today’s ceremony. Ladies and gentlemen, Major Whatley.”

Tehrani immediately stepped back, and Whatley took her place.

“Spencer, get up here,” he said in his ordinarily gruff voice.

A wave of laughter swept through the cargo bay, and Justin grinned as he took a few steps onto the raised stage. He stood to the rear and left of the major, as he’d been instructed the night before.

“I wasn’t sure about this guy when he first joined our aviation wing,” Whatley began. “But I’ve found Justin Spencer to be the kind of officer we need. A brave man who will fight like hell for victory and, most importantly, a warrior his brothers and sisters in arms can depend on in battle. As such, I was pleased to recommend promotion for Lieutenant Spencer, and I welcome his continued service on the Zvika Greengold.” He stepped back from the lectern and nodded toward the chaplain. “Father, would you please lead us in an invocation.”

With his white hair seemingly befitting his position as a Roman Catholic priest and chaplain, the older man spoke into the microphone. “Eternal Father, strong to save, bless our proceedings today. Bless the men and women who serve on this ship. Bless their purpose and our struggle against the evil of the League of Sol. Help our soldiers and the rest of us be more committed to the cause of freedom in the Terran Coalition and throughout the galaxy. Thank you, Father, for all you have done for us in harm’s way. Keep each of these soldiers safe and allow us to keep rejoicing in the freedom that is your gift to us. In your precious name, we pray, Amen.”

During the prayer, Justin had bowed his head respectfully along with everyone else in the cargo bay. Even if I don’t believe, most do, and I owe them some respect. He opened his eyes to see Whatley standing back at the lectern.

“Attention to orders. The president of the Terran Coalition, acting upon the recommendation of the secretary of the Coalition Defense Force, has placed special trust and confidence in the integrity, patriotism, and abilities of First Lieutenant Justin Spencer. Given his special qualities and demonstrated potential to serve his country, First Lieutenant Justin Spencer is hereby promoted to the grade of captain in the Coalition Defense Force, effective the sixth day of December, 2433, by order of the secretary of the Coalition Defense Force.” Whatley cleared his throat.

Justin turned smartly and faced the major.

“Raise your right hand, Captain.” Whatley waited for Justin’s hand to go up. “Please repeat after me.”

Justin grinned and recited the oath. “I, Justin Spencer, having been appointed a captain in the Coalition Defense Force, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the Terran Coalition against all enemies, foreign and domestic, that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same, that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion, and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office which I am about to enter. So help me God.”

Whatley turned back to the lectern and spoke into the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Captain Justin Spencer.” He clapped vigorously, as did everyone else. As the applause died down, he took a step back and retrieved a small velvet-covered case from behind the lectern. He snapped it open, revealing a medal consisting of a silver star and matching ribbon. “One last thing, Captain Spencer.” Whatley handed the case to Tehrani.

She smiled and stepped forward. “We were going to do a separate ceremony, but headquarters pushed through the paperwork in record time for this award.”

Justin stared. He recognized it as the Silver Star, one of the highest medals for combat heroism. He gulped. I only did my duty. Trying to wipe the expression of shock off his face, he returned her grin. “I had no idea, ma’am.” All the while, a feeling he was somehow benefiting from those who’d died plagued him. They should be honored, not me.

Tehrani turned toward the crowd of assembled soldiers on the hangar deck. “I will now read the citation for Captain Spencer’s Silver Star.” She cleared her throat. “For conspicuous gallantry and heroism while serving as the temporary commander of the Red Tails space-superiority squadron, in action against enemy League of Sol forces at the Battle of Canaan on Twenty-Two September, 2433. When numerous enemy fighters, bombers, and warships attacked the carrier CSV Zvika Greengold, First Lieutenant Justin Spencer courageously turned his craft toward the enemy and single-handedly engaged six hostiles at once. He destroyed three enemy fighters as well as two bombers and shot down close to a dozen anti-ship missiles intended to destroy the Zvika Greengold. By his quick and heroic actions, Spencer saved countless lives aboard his ship and ensured her continued presence on the battlefield. His initiative and aggressive fighting spirit were in keeping with the highest traditions of the Coalition Defense Force and reflect great credit upon him, his squadron, and the entire aviation wing of the CSV Zvika Greengold.” She stepped back and raised her hand in salute. “Congratulations, Captain.”

For a moment, Justin stood there, transfixed. Then he returned the salute. “Thank you, ma’am.” Struggling with his emotions, he turned away from her and stared at the sea of faces. “Remember the fallen and the pilots who didn’t make it back.” At the end of the statement, Justin’s voice broke.

Sustained applause again broke out, sweeping through the hangar like a rumble of mighty thunder.

Whatley appeared at Justin’s side and squeezed his shoulder. “Good job, son,” he whispered.

Justin nodded and stood to the side while Tehrani dismissed the crew. As everyone filed out, Mateus, Feldstein, and Adeoye joined Justin.

“We’re taking over the pilot’s mess to wet down your new stripe,” Mateus announced. “I convinced one of the senior chiefs to send the good stuff over too.”

“How’d you manage that?” Justin asked.

“Feminine charm.”

“What feminine charm?” Feldstein replied deadpan. “More like you threatened to shoot down their next supply shuttle.”

Mateus shrugged. “Who cares, as long as it works?”

The four of them laughed and slowly walked out of the cargo bay.

Justin felt conflicted. He was enormously grateful for and proud of his promotion, not to mention the award for heroism. At the same time, grief was mixed in. Two more comrades had been lost to the Leaguers in the last week. At the rate they were going, the Zvika Greengold’s space-combat wing was looking at fifty percent losses within a month. All I can do is put one foot in front of the other and keep fighting the good fight. No matter the odds. The thought brought a smile to his face, and he resolved to enjoy the rest of the evening with his friends and comrades in arms.

* * *

Unity Station

Deep Space—Between the Orion and Sagittarius Arms

10 December 2433

The past month hadn’t gone quite as Fleet Admiral Chang Yuen had expected or hoped. First, the Terrans reacted faster than the League of Sol External Security directorate had projected in unifying their various nation-state fleets under the banner of the Coalition Defense Force. They’d assumed the individualists would have trouble working together, but so far, that didn’t appear to be the case. Yuen nursed a small glass of brandy from a private reserve his political officer, Colonel Baptiste Dumont, had placed aboard.

The liquid burned as it went down his throat, much like the sting of defeat. Yuen’s frowned as he turned to Yegor Voronin, the league admiral in command of Unity Station. “This business of the Terrans locating our forward operations posts so early in the campaign unnerves me, comrade.”

“Lenin curse them all,” Voronin replied darkly. “I’ve heard ripples of an undercurrent from the sailors that our mission is doomed and we should get out of Sagittarius before the League suffers a great defeat.” He glared at Yuen. “Did you hear what happened to Seville?”

Yuen shook his head. “No. I don’t keep up with the fleet-wide RUMINT.”

“I suppose it is individualistic in some way to focus on what happened to our… competitor.” Voronin gave a thin smile. “Seville was moved to an agricultural world. Where apparently he’ll have to eke out an existence as a farmer.” He chuckled. “Serves the pompous bastard right.”

“He’ll be back, one of these days,” Yuen observed. “You forget the admiral in charge of military operations is French. Give it time—Seville will be rehabilitated.”

Silence followed for a good thirty seconds as they both pondered Yuen’s words.

Finally, Voronin cleared his throat. “Perhaps. I don’t want to join him. We need some success to point to, besides taking a couple of border planets. Do you have any plans?”

“Of course I have plans.” Yuen allowed himself to smile. “We were picking off their outlying resource colonies quite effectively until the Terrans created a mobile reserve behind the battle lines. It has made things considerably difficult. To combat this, I’ve requested more ships from the Orion arm.”

“A pity we couldn’t deploy the home-defense fleet.”

If only. Yuen had argued until he was blue in the face that sending the standing home-defense fleet—something of a misnomer since it wasn’t based at Earth—would end the war in a matter of weeks. The Social and Public Safety Committee, which was the League’s de facto leadership, refused on the grounds that it would leave them defenseless.

“We must stick to the realm of the possible. When the new ships arrive, I plan to invade and take over a core system. One of their highly industrialized, built-up planets with more than a billion inhabitants.” Yuen gave an evil grin. “In one stroke, the entire Terran Coalition will be convinced we can invade and conquer them, at any time, on any planet they hide on.”

Voronin raised his glass. “I’ll drink to that. Then we can go home.”

Yuen pondered the sentiment. I have no desire to go home. He would rather stay on the Sagittarius side of the Milky Way and build something in the new frontier. Let the old men of the Social and Public Safety Committee and its ilk rule Orion. Here, we could be something more. “We shall see, comrade. We shall see.”

* * *

Justin paused outside of Mateus’s quarters. He held a bottle of whiskey, a gift from one of the senior chiefs on the flight deck. Since I don’t drink the stuff, might as well contribute to the host’s liquor supply. A day after his promotion and impromptu award ceremony, life had mostly returned to normal. The Zvika Greengold was stood down for a week, awaiting new pilots and a shipment of replacement small craft. That left plenty of paperwork, after-action reports, and evaluations of the Red Tails squadron pilots. Justin wasn’t sure which was worse: CDF paperwork or being shot at in space.

The hatch swung open a moment after Justin hit the buzzer. Mateus, Feldstein, and Adeoye were already seated at the poker table.

“I brought some more to drink,” he said, holding up the bottle. “Same spot?”

“Sim!” Mateus replied. She pronounced the word as “seem.”

Justin dropped the bottle onto the table and grabbed a cold beer in exchange. “Saved me a spot, I see.”

“Oh, we’re looking for revenge.” Feldstein smiled and wrinkled her nose. “No blackjack tonight. The game is seven-card stud.”

“Huh?” Justin raised an eyebrow. “I don’t follow.”

“Poker,” Mateus replied as if the single word explained everything.

“Uh, right.”

Adeoye took a sip from a glass containing a dark-brown liquid. “Play the people, not the cards.” He stared at Mateus. “Specifically her.”

Mateus let out a laugh that bordered on a giggle. “Just wait until I convince you to play for real money,” she purred.

“Thankfully, that’s against regulations,” Feldstein replied. “If it weren’t, we’d all be broke and running around the ship in our underwear.”

The table rocked with laughter from all four of them.

“I don’t care how badly I lose tonight,” Justin said somberly. “I’m just thankful to be here and still alive.” He made eye contact with each person. “And thank you for having my back.”

Feldstein smiled. “Your example is inspiring.” She gestured to Mateus and Adeoye. “To all of us.”

“I don’t want to take the risk of getting a new squadron commander that might beat me at cards,” Mateus said, a lopsided grin on her face. “But seriously, quit running up the score on me.”

Again, Justin laughed. “Hey, it’s a target-rich environment out there.”

“I got to talk to Richard tonight,” Feldstein blurted out. She brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. “He’s seen as much action as we are. The battlegroup his ship is a part of halted the invasion of one of our border planets.” She smiled proudly.

“Which one? Do you know?”

Feldstein frowned. “Loose lips… Have you seen the posters up everywhere?” She rolled her eyes at Mateus.

“Hey, I was just asking. Don’t be so touchy-touchy.”

Justin reflected for a moment on the propaganda posters up everywhere, mostly on rotating digital displays. Some encouraged everyone not to waste food or energy, and others reminded soldiers not to discuss operational details. A few were pointedly directed at the League of Sol. An instant classic was a stylized drawing of Canaan with the debris of dozens of warships in front of it. The headline blared, Avenge Canaan! He wholeheartedly approved of the sentiment.

“Ladies, should we not deal the cards?” Adeoye asked.

“Harrumph,” Mateus replied and started tossing cards to each person. “Ante up.”

Chips landed in the middle of the table as each pilot put in a wager. Justin felt the stress melt away as they laughed and made fun of one another.

After several rounds of bets and additional cards dealt, Mateus cleared her throat. “And now, show your cards.” She grinned wickedly.

Feldstein dropped five cards in a row. “Straight.”

“Impressive,” Adeoye began. He revealed his cards. “But I’m afraid a flush beats a straight.”

Mateus cackled. “Oh, it’s so much fun playing against you boys.” With a flourish, she put down one card after another. “Straight flush.” Her eyes moved over to Justin. “Show ’em, cowboy.”

“Well, tell me how these look.” Justin laid his cards on the table. They consisted of three queens and two jokers.

“Oh, hell no.” Mateus stared, her eyes blazing. “Did you cheat? Did you bring extra cards?” Her voice rose, and the slight accent she had grew deeper.

“Uh, no. What are you so charged up about?”

“That’s five of a kind! It beats everything!” Mateus fumed. “Impossible.”

“Beginner’s luck?” Justin grinned. Everything’s going my way lately. The thought was immediately tempered by how close he’d come to death and the deaths of three more of the Greengold’s pilots. This is when Michelle would tell me not to tempt God. They’d spoken earlier in the evening, with Maggie at her side. He’d been able to say truthfully he was off the firing line, at least for a little while. It was amazing how much that small reprieve meant to both of them.

“Maybe Spencer here is a card shark in his spare time.” Feldstein pushed her chips toward him and made eye contact. “Is that it?”

“No, seriously. I’ve played all of three hands of poker in my life, including this one.” Justin shrugged. “Blackjack is my game.”

He sat back and frowned. “You know, I worry about when my luck finally runs out.” The words just fell out of his mouth without much thought.

Feldstein bit her lip. “We all do.” She glanced around at the rest of them. “Every time we strap in, there’s a pretty decent chance we’re not coming back. For me, it makes me consider every action and every word. I climb into that cockpit, having tried my best to treat everyone around me as well as I can and stay right with God.”

Even Mateus nodded.

“Until the day our number’s up, we’ve got each other.” Justin pursed his lips. “There’s no one else I’d rather fly with or have watching my six.” He put one of his palms down on the center of the table.

Mateus quickly put her hand on top of his. “No better friend.”

“No worse enemy,” Feldstein echoed and placed her palm on top of Mateus’s.

“No matter the odds,” Adeoye finished and set his hand at the top of the pile, completing the gesture.

All of them smiled warmly.

Mateus withdrew first, and a wicked grin came across her face. “Now, enough of that sappy stuff. Ante up!”

They all broke into laughter, and Justin pushed a small group of chips forward. The game continued into the wee hours of the morning.

Tomorrow? That will be another day. While the war would continue, so would their friendship—and that meant everything.

THE END

Battlegroup Z: Book 3 – Sol Strike: The Terran Coalition is down, but not out. Tasked with a daring plan to bring the war to the League, Justin Spencer and the CSV Zvika Greengold face their toughest trial yet: Attacking Earth itself.

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Battlegroup Z

Book 1 - Weapons Free

Book 2 - Hostile Spike

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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

Acknowledgments

As Hostile Spike represents my fifteenth published novel/novella, I am again left in awe that so many people I’ve never met would buy them. To begin these acknowledgments – thank you to all the readers who have done so, so far, and who (hopefully) will in the future.

I’d again like to thank my editor, Susie, for helping get this book over the finish line.

To everyone who helped bring these stories to life – thank you. The list remains too numerous to count, but you all know who you are.

As readers are used to by now I’m sure, I like to close with two points.

First is a thank you to the brave men and women of the US military whom I’ve had the pleasure of working with for so many years. Thank you for your continued 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