by Daniel Gibbs
Through the neural interface, Amir watched as Arendse tagged him as the squadron commander and moved herself to the XO role. One of the few areas of technology in which the Terran Coalition allowed any kind of neurological interface outside of medicine, it allowed a pilot to effectively control many aspects of the fight with his or her mind and gave them a decided edge in combat. Fighter pilots still had to fly using a flight stick and affirmatively pull a trigger or press a button to fire weapons, but nearly everything else was done via the neural interface.
“Christus Vincits,” Amir said, the words foreign on his tongue. “It is an honor to lead you into combat. Form up, four pilots to a group in a finger four formation. I’m sending you designations now; we are three minutes out from maximum engagement range. All pilots lock a target with your onboard fire control system. We will fire LIDAR-guided missiles at max range minus one hundred kilometers. Ensure that your electronic countermeasures are active at all times, and may Allah be with you.”
Amir watched the HUD and noted with satisfaction that, while the sisters might not have flown this specific type of fighter before, they knew their business. Three tight finger four formations emerged within seconds, and Arendse lined up as his primary wingman. The targeting systems didn’t allow for friendly fighters to overlap targets, so Amir locked on to one of the lead Monrovian fighters; the distance between them closed rapidly.
“Allu Ackbah,” Amir said quietly, his mic muted. “Hasbunallaahu wa ni’amal-wakeel,” he continued, reciting in Arabic a prayer for protection against evil; it meant Allah is sufficient for us and the best on whom to depend. It was one of his favorite prayers, and something he said before every combat. He mentally flipped the microphone back on. “We are fifteen seconds away from maximum range. Stand by to launch missiles.”
The missile lock tone sounded in Amir’s cockpit, and he waited an extra second for the next one hundred kilometers to pass. “Christus Vincit One, Fox three!”
There was a chorus of other voices, all announcing the launch of their missiles; Amir watched the HUD overlay as a dozen missiles tracked toward their targets. Warning tones sounded, and as he continued to fly toward the enemy, they launched twenty-four missiles in return. “Christus Vincits, break and attack!” Amir called into the commlink, pulling his stick hard to the left to give the incoming missiles a target moving perpendicularly across space, a far harder thing to actively track and hit.
Then, the missiles they had launched began to hit. Amir’s was the first to erase its target from the universe, turning the Monrovian fighter into a small cloud of debris; over the next few seconds, eleven out of twelve launched missiles destroyed their intended targets. Then it was the enemy’s turn. Not a single weapon that was launched against them even came close; the ECM systems spoofed all missiles fired toward the Phantoms.
“Their missiles appear to be ineffective, Colonel,” Arendse said through a private channel.
“Our ECM is working even better than I had dared hope, Sister. Now we finish this.” Amir clicked the channel back to the entire squadron. “Sisters, continue to press the attack! The enemy will run before us!” Steering his fighter back toward the remaining enemy craft, he lined another one up in his sights and pulled the trigger the moment he heard the missile tone sound. “Christus Vincit, Fox three!”
Knowing that the only hope they had was to close to visual engagement range, the Monrovians pushed up to maximum speed and were able to get in close enough to trigger a furball—what fighter pilots referred to as a tight turning dogfight—but not before they lost five more planes.
“Sister, leave at least one more for me,” Amir said in a light tone to Arendse on the private channel as he lined up behind one of the last remaining opposing fighters. “Christus Vincit, guns, guns, guns!” Miniature neutron cannon fire stabbed out from his fighter; one volley connected and blew the wing off his target. The fighter spun around several times, and he saw the pilot eject right before the craft exploded. “Rahmatullahe alaihe,” he said into the open comm line.
“If I may, Colonel, what does that mean?” Arendse asked.
“It is an Arabic saying. It means, ‘May Allah have mercy on him.’”
“So true, Colonel.”
Rechecking the HUD to regain overall situational awareness, Amir noted that a single Monrovian fighter accelerated away at maximum speed. “We appear to be clear of hostiles, Sisters. Return to escort formation… good job.”
Amir flipped his craft around and lined up to intercept the Michael; on his way, he performed three barrel-rolls, a traditional custom of victory to celebrate his three hard “kills”; while it would take the gun camera and sensor feeds to confirm them, that put his personal score at two hundred and eighty-nine enemy craft destroyed in his career. Subhaan Allah, Alhamdo lillah, Allahu Akbar; another Arabic phrase that meant, “Glory to Allah, all praise belongs to Allah, Allah is the Greatest.”
14
Inside of the transport Pace, which was Latin for “peace,” Calvin found himself strapped into one of fifteen starboard assault pods. There were twenty armored nuns with him, led by an older woman who had leathery skin and looked as if she’d done this particular combat evolution countless times. Most of the younger nuns recited the rosary as the ship hurtled through the atmosphere, but he decided to strike up a conversation with the one who had been referred to as a nun commander by Mother Superior. “Sister Kaufman, I get the feeling this isn’t your first rodeo.”
“No, it isn’t, Colonel Demood,” Kaufman replied.
“Previous CDF experience?”
“Twenty-five years, Terran Coalition Marine Corps.”
“Hoorah, Master Guns?” Calvin asked.
“I prefer not to dwell on my rank or occupation in the TCMC, Colonel, but yes… I was a Master Gunnery Sergeant, 4th Battalion, 3rd Marine division.”
“You guys saw a lot of fighting,” Calvin observed.
“Yes, we did.”
“Forgive me for asking, but after twenty-five years, you’ve more than earned the retirement package. Why are you still fighting?”
Kaufman turned her head toward Calvin. “Because I needed to atone for my sins. Here, yes, I’m fighting, and to my shame, I’ve killed several people in service to the order. But I’ve saved far more. I’m trying to even the scale before I die.”
Calvin pursed his lips together. “Sister, I may be wrong here, but I thought the entire point was we couldn’t balance out the scales. I mean, that’s what my bible says anyway.”
“Are you seriously telling me you’ve never thought about it?”
“I have and haven’t. My job is to fight the Leaguers. I don’t feel too much in the way of remorse for killing the enemy.”
“And the innocent lives we’ve taken in the process of killing the enemy…what about them?”
“I try not to dwell on it, Sister,” Calvin said in his usual cocky Marine tone.
“I’m not sure if I envy you or pity you, Colonel. I can’t stop thinking about the things I did that were wrong… Mother Superior told me I have to let it go and forgive myself. Until I do, I can help the oppressed. That’s what we do, and we do it well.”
Calvin nodded. “Your training and abilities are quite impressive. I do have a question, though.”
“What’s that?”
Calvin gestured to the armored suits the nuns wore. “You guys are wearing white armored suits with red crosses on them. Your helmets have five red stones that reflect light. I get there’s some religious significance to the symbols, but you guys stick out like sore thumbs.”
Kaufman rolled her eyes in Calvin’s direction, and suddenly, her armor shifted color to a camouflage pattern. “Active camouflage pattern technology, Colonel. As for the rest, we want anyone to know who we are in a non-combat situation readily. Hence the white armor with the cross. The red stones symbolize the five wounds of Christ. They remind us of our burden to help others.”
“I see,” Calvin said. “I’m non-den
ominational myself. When I go to church, that is.”
Kaufman smirked slightly. “Given how you act, Colonel, I think you might need to go more often.”
Calvin rolled his eyes back at her. “Sister, I’m a Marine. Marines cuss. Period. I drink too.”
“We’re all sinners.”
“That we are,” he said with a laugh.
“Now hear this, now hear this. Drop separation in thirty seconds!” boomed a voice that Calvin didn’t recognize from the pod’s intercom.
“Sisters, confirm you’re properly strapped in and that your neighbor is strapped in. Colonel Demood, please ensure your weapon is loaded with stun rounds.”
“I’d prefer to have armor-piercing rounds, if it’s all the same to you, Sister.”
Kaufman gave him a dirty look. “It’s not. Stun rounds first, armor-piercing only if confronted by power-armored soldiers.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Calvin grated. I’m here to shoot bad guys, not stun them.
The light inside the cabin that denoted drop status suddenly switched from red to green, and a moment later, there was a split-second feeling of weightlessness as the pod entered freefall. Then, its thrusters kicked in, and he felt everything pressed into the floor at several Gs. Speaking during a drop was nearly impossible, and Calvin found himself watching the clock that indicated time to touchdown. They had detached relatively close to the ground, so there were only a few seconds to wait before the pod’s retro-rockets fired, and they gently set down. Then the doors to the pod snapped down, and the restraint systems automatically swung upward.
“Move out, platoon! Squad one, take starboard; squad two, take port! Move it!” Kaufman said, her Marine training showing through.
Calvin charged out behind her, his battle rifle at the ready, finger on the trigger guard. As he took in the Monrovian National Guard base, it shocked him at how rundown it looked. There were buildings in disrepair, vehicles parked that looked like they no longer ran, and a general lack of personnel. Not to say there were no enemy soldiers, however. A couple of sentries struggled to pull out sidearms and were quickly shot down with stun rounds before they could even get those weapons out of their holsters.
“Fan out, Sisters!” Kaufman shouted at the top of her lungs as other drop pods touched down around them; they were trying to use overwhelming force to quickly force the defenders back. Dozens more nuns flooded out of the drop pods, and Calvin scrambled to keep up with Kaufman’s pace as she and the first squad pushed forward. Coming out of a maze of buildings, they ran right into the middle of the central square, filled with Monrovian soldiers walking between buildings. Taken aback, he snapped up his battle rifle and started shooting the closest targets with stun rounds, as did the rest of the nuns.
An alarm sounded, and after momentarily freezing, the enemy began to react. Incoming fire kicked up dirt around Kaufman, and a couple of shots impacted her armor. Calvin took cover behind a helicar and reloaded his rifle. “Well, that was fun while it lasted.”
Kaufman slid down next to him and grunted. “Your idea of fun leaves much to be desired, Colonel,” she said before peering up over the helicar and firing on the approaching Monrovians. More and more enemy troops streamed out of what appeared to be the main administration building, many of whom were armed, to Calvin’s surprise. Additional nuns began to appear, and Kaufman directed them toward positions of cover. “Do we have drones on station yet?” she asked into her commlink.
Calvin didn’t hear the response but figured it was a positive one as she handed him a small tablet.
“Colonel, direct in drone strikes on the largest clumps of enemy resistance,” she ordered.
“What, you’ve got stun drones too?” Calvin asked in a snarky tone.
“As a matter of fact, yes, we do. They fire flash-bang grenades and will allow us to move forward.”
“Hoorah,” Calvin said, looking over the tablet; its controls were the same as many other drone systems he’d used over the years, and he quickly picked the largest concentrations of Monrovians and dropped munitions on them. A few seconds later, stun grenades went off, blinding the enemy. The nuns promptly jumped up and poured fire into the dazed defenders.
Most of the men in the square were cut down within ten seconds, and the sisters took up new positions, much closer to the doors of the large central building. Weapons fire gradually subsided, and the front door of the building swung open. A single woman walked out, holding a pole that had what looked like a white tablecloth on it. “Don’t shoot!” she shouted.
Kaufman stood, then she made a hand motion to the nuns to hold and advanced on the woman; Calvin jumped up and joined her.
“Who are you people?” the woman, who wore a military uniform, asked in a bewildered tone of voice.
“I am Sister Emma Kaufman, representing the Little Sisters of Divine Recompense. We’re here to free the people of faith of your planet that are held in detention centers, deprived of liberty, and executed for their beliefs. Surrender now, and I give you my word of honor that we won’t harm those inside. If you don’t surrender, we’ll storm all the buildings on this base, and there will be severe loss of life. We’d greatly prefer not to have that happen.”
“You’re nuns?” the woman replied, her eyes wide.
“Yes,” Kaufman said with a trace of a smirk.
“Let me go back inside and ask the facility commander if he will agree. Will you allow us to leave?”
“No. You will be stripped of all weapons and detained through the end of this conflict. Again, you will be treated with respect and no harm will come to anyone as long as you behave properly and do not offer resistance.”
“Okay… give me a few minutes,” she said as Kaufman nodded. The woman disappeared back into the building, leaving the two of them standing there.
“You know, Sister, we might think about going back to cover,” Calvin mused.
“They’ll surrender.”
“Why are you so sure of that? God tell you from on high?”
“No, Colonel. Because whoever’s in charge cares about those under their command. The flag of truce proves that. Because we have three thousand combat sisters on the ground right now. They have a surveillance system for this installation; they must be able to see our tanks rolling off the heavy armor pods. There’s no way out for them; the only decent course of action is to surrender.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve been in positions where I was outnumbered and outgunned, and I fought to the bitter end.”
“You weren’t fighting for a cause you knew was wrong either. At least some of these people know what they’re doing is wrong, and I think the installation commander is one of those people.”
“I hope you’re right, because I’m not interested in being lit up like a Christmas tree.”
Kaufman smirked but said nothing, waiting in silence until the door opened up again, and the same woman came back out holding the pole with its white tablecloth. “Sister?” she asked.
“Have you reached a decision?”
“Yes, Sister; we will surrender. What are your terms?”
“Come out one by one, hands in the air. Leave all weapons inside of the building and ensure that everyone is out before we sweep the building. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I do. I’ll inform the general.”
Kaufman glanced at Calvin as the woman walked back inside. “See, Colonel? Our first victory.”
“It gets harder from here, Sister.” He wasn’t convinced the assignment wouldn’t get out of control; seventy-five hundred nuns versus an entire planet weren’t odds that he cared for. But I can’t let David run off and get himself killed.
A few thousand lightyears away, General MacIntosh sat down at his desk in his office onboard Canaan’s primary military space station. Now leading an effort to create smaller, reproducible anti-matter reactors, his team had tripled in size. Glancing at the clock on the wall that read 0530 CMT, he reflected briefly on how the days got longer and the period to sleep got s
horter. The one thing that MacIntosh insisted on was obtaining his first cup of CDF coffee for the day before opening his email and video message logs for the previous six hours. Taking a sip, he pressed his finger into the sensor to confirm his identity and watched as the screen populated. A message marked as urgent from David jumped out at him, and he pressed a finger on it, pulling up the full text.
General MacIntosh,
I have decided to accompany the Little Sisters of Divine Recompense on their mission to Monrovia. I realize that I am disobeying a direct order and that there will likely be severe consequences for my actions. I also believe that as a Jew, a soldier in the CDF, and as a human being, I cannot turn aside. I have to try to help these people, no matter the cost. I have left Lt. Colonel Aibek in command, and he is proceeding at best speed to rendezvous with Admiral Kartal. Assuming the mission is successful, I hope to speak to you again soon. If it is not, I want you to know it was an honor to serve under your command. Good hunting and Godspeed.
– Colonel David Levi Cohen
MacIntosh had to read it twice to comprehend what David was saying fully; all the while, the anger inside of him continued to build. What in the hell does he think he’s doing? We can’t just run off half-cocked on what we want to do, when we want to do it, he fumed. Then again, Andrew, you’ve pulled some stunts yourself, like waylaying President Spencer and getting his buy-off on the reactor plans. As he thought, another message popped up, the sender information showing as Aibek’s. Oh great, what now? MacIntosh pulled that message up to read.
General MacIntosh,
I am writing you to inform you that several members of the crew have requested leaves of absence, and I have approved them. Lt. Colonel Calvin Demood, Lt. Colonel Hassan Amir, Lt. Colonel Izmet Tural, Rabbi Kravitz, and the embedded reporter, Angela Dinman, have joined the Sisters of Divine Recompense and their cause to free Monrovia. CDFPER has been provided with proper documentation. The Lion of Judah has rendezvoused with Admiral Kartal’s fleet, and we are preparing to attack the League battlegroup formation as ordered.
