by Daniel Gibbs
Ibrahim leaned over and kissed the top of her head again. “Fine.” He paused then said, “I’ve been considering leaving the university.”
“Don’t tell me you want to enlist,” she deadpanned.
“Not exactly. The government is looking for economists to help with ensuring the war effort buildup doesn’t destroy the free-market system.” He gazed into her eyes. “I could do my part. Not quite as sexy as flying through space, blasting Leaguers.”
Tehrani nearly spat out her drink laughing. “Combat is many things.” She rolled her eyes. “Sexy isn’t one of them.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do. And if it’s what you want, helping the Terran Coalition avoid messing up anything else would be a great way to support the war.”
“Well, we will see where it leads.” Ibrahim eased out of the booth and stood. “Now, we have a date with the hotel suite I reserved.”
“Oh?”
“It has a jacuzzi in it.”
Tehrani grinned as she got up. “Lead the way.”
LX Vasily Kanin
Deep Space—Unity Station
20 March 2434
Fleet Admiral Chang Yuen took a sip of his morning green tea, possibly the only luxury he allowed himself. A career League Space Navy officer, he’d seen the corrosive effects of senior officers and political commissars who seemed to think the rules didn’t apply to them—the ones who allowed individualist thinking to corrupt their brains. Far too many. Yuen had personally sent dozens of officers under his command who showed the beginnings of such behavior to the reeducation camps. He considered it his social duty and strove to lead by example to those who served under him.
The tablet on Yuen’s desk contained after-action reports, which he reviewed with almost religious fervor—if he’d had a religion. Continually looking for ship commanders who excelled, and likewise, those who didn’t, Yuen sought to build the strongest possible fleet. In his mind, superior tactics and training were the only ways to counter the Terran Coalition and the infernal Coalition Defense Force's technical advantages.
The voice of his flag lieutenant issued from the intercom system. “Admiral, I apologize for disturbing you, but Admiral Voronin has arrived for your meeting.”
Yuen pressed a button on the device. “Send him in along with coffee and refreshments.”
A few moments later, the hatch to Yuen’s private office swung open, and Yegor Voronin strode in. Also an admiral in the League Navy, he commanded Unity Station and was responsible for supplying the fleet. “Good day,” Voronin said. “I trust this is still a good time for our discussion?”
While Yuen had initially thought little of the man—after observing many individualist actions among the station’s crew—he’d grown to understand Voronin was extremely capable in his field and had been saddled with the worst of the worst from the military as crew on the installation. Some bureaucrat in the Orion arm probably decided the best way to get efficiency numbers up was to send the antisocial enlisted personnel to literally the middle of nowhere. He smiled. “Of course, Admiral. Please, join me. I have coffee and pastries on the way.” He gestured to the empty chair in front of the desk.
Voronin nodded politely and sat. “I always marvel when I visit your ship, comrade. For one, I’ve never seen a better-drilled or more diligent crew. And second, you have the sparest office I’ve seen from someone who reached flag rank.”
“It would be individualist to boast of my achievements, would it not?”
“Admiral Lambert might disagree with you,” Voronin replied with a snort. “I have seen his office in Geneva.”
Yuen shifted. “I do not suffer hypocrisy in my command, and therefore I must lead by example. How can the men and women respect me if I act like an individualist, even as I counsel them not to?”
“I respect your mindset.” Voronin twisted his neck, stretching. “A shame more of us didn’t see it the same way.” His eyes flicked back to the desk. “And your commissar? Is he still compliant?”
“He’ll always be, as you say, compliant.” Yuen smiled thinly. “That’s the other thing about hypocrites in power. They’re easy to blackmail.” He leaned back. “But you didn’t come here to discuss the finer points of our political situation.”
They had settled into a rhythm of weekly consultations on the war effort and, with them, mutual respect.
Before more could be said, the hatch swung open, and a young sailor stepped through, carrying a tray. “The refreshments you asked for, Admiral, sir.” He set them down on the desk and came to attention.
“Thank you. Dismissed,” Yuen replied. He reached for a scone as the hatch closed. “Coffee for you, Admiral.”
“Too kind.” Voronin poured the hot black liquid into a mug and cradled it in his hands. “My one vice. I must have a couple of cups in the morning. Otherwise, my brain doesn’t function as well as it should.”
Yuen chuckled. “Have you reviewed my strategic plans?”
“I have.” Voronin took a sip. “An interesting change in both strategy and tactics. I am curious as to why you’d abandon the slow taking of each border planet the Terrans have in favor of your new plan.”
“The recent reinforcements we received, coupled with your prodigious ability to repair damaged vessels, has allowed new avenues of advance.” As a student of military history, Yuen had spent years internalizing the lessons from wars on Earth as well as spaceborne conflicts the League of Sol had engaged in over the centuries. Rather than thinking of war fought in space as having a front line, he preferred to look at the benefits of striking the enemy in depth wherever possible. But only recently had he been able to convince the Social and Public Safety Committee to allow it.
“Operation Bagration. It sounds vaguely Russian.” Voronin’s lips curled into a grin. “Should I read anything into that?”
“Only that I took some of my cues from the concept of deep battle, which Russia invented.” Yuen spread his hands out in front of him on the desk. “I believe that we now have the forces to strike throughout the Terran Coalition. As we gain strength, the CDF loses it. Even though the rate of exchange is four League vessels for every enemy ship we destroy, the League has the numbers.”
“The Terrans don’t,” Voronin replied matter-of-factly. “They also lack the stomach for sustained warfare. My intelligence analysts routinely intercept communications in which the so-called free press continually ask if the war is winnable.”
Yuen nodded. “As do mine. Which leads to Operation Bagration—a sustained strike on worlds, including heavily defended core planets, throughout the Terran Coalition.”
“I suppose that explains the troop transports we’ve been receiving the last couple of weeks.” Voronin quirked his nose. “Trying to keep restless soldiers from getting into drunken fights with the spacers is… challenging.”
They both laughed.
“Yes, Army and Navy never mix well,” Yuen replied. Even though it annoyed him to the core, he’d accepted long ago that different service branches had a robust rivalry.
“What can Unity Station do to ensure your success, Admiral?” Voronin asked.
After another sip of green tea, Yuen reflected on the attitude shown by Voronin. If only more men like him were present in the ranks, it would make the ultimate job of ensuring the galaxy fell under the communist revolution so much simpler. “Make every ship in the repair docks ready and keep pushing your crews to complete tasks ahead of schedule. Even the smallest frigate may be decisive in the battles to come.”
“It shall be done.”
6
CSV Zvika Greengold
High Parking Orbit—New Washington
21 March 2434
The day after Tehrani spent what could easily be the last night with her husband felt bittersweet. She’d woken up at 0430 and stared at him while he slept for what seemed like an eternity but was about fifteen minutes. After a quick shower, they had tea together, and she set off for the orbital shuttle st
ation, pondering the next few months. Even with the hustle and bustle of people going about their daily lives, she felt alone. A couple with a newborn baby caught Tehrani’s eye. They pushed the anti-grav stroller before them and sat down in the waiting area for the shuttle. Both of them clearly had nothing but pure love for their child. Will I ever realize what it means to be a mother? Will I experience that joy for myself?
A year ago, children hadn’t been on her radar. Though they had on the roadmap post-retirement, Tehrani didn’t have a deep-seated desire to be a mother—at the time. But recently, she’d thought about it often, especially when confronted by parents with young children. Is it just because I know I might not survive the war and want to somehow pass something on to the next generation?
The military transport arrived at the station, announcing service to the orbital fleet landing facility, and Tehrani got on board. Being back around other soldiers in uniform helped her focus on the war and move away from thoughts of what could be later on.
It took another hour to get from the shuttle station to the airlock hatch of the Greengold. As Tehrani walked into her ship, an automated computer chime sounded, announcing her presence. “CSV Zvika Greengold, arriving.”
It brought a smile to her lips as she strode through the vessel, headed to the bridge. Fifteen minutes after coming aboard, Tehrani exited the gravlift onto deck one and exchanged salutes with the Marines guarding the bridge. They opened the bulkhead, and she entered the command center.
“Colonel on the bridge!” an eagle-eyed chief called.
“As you were,” Tehrani said quickly as those standing came to attention and saluted her.
She returned the salute and went over to the CO’s chair. Wright occupied it.
“XO, I have the conn.”
Wright sprang up with a grin. “Colonel Tehrani has the conn, aye.” He gave her a once-over. “Good night?”
Tehrani narrowed her eyes and stared at him. “Why?”
“Oh, you’ve got the ‘I didn’t think about the war for a few hours’ glow to you.”
Tehrani’s face grew warm. Probably redder than a beet too. “My husband surprised me with a lovely evening.” She cleared her throat. “Was your wife able to make it?”
Wright shook his head. “Unfortunately not. The cost of passage was too high to make sense on my salary.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Tehrani replied. “Absence truly does make the heart grow fonder, I think.”
“Oh, it does,” Wright said. “All systems ready, ma’am. We’re ready to depart on your order.”
“In that case”—Tehrani adjusted in the CO’s chair—“Navigation, best course, and speed to the Lawrence limit.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Mitzner replied.
The outbound trip took a couple of hours, which Tehrani used to review their final supply manifests and repair notices from the Greengold’s chief engineer, Major Carlyle Hodges. The Thane-class escort carrier was showing her age, but she was also built to last. Based on Hodges’s evaluation, she had quite a few years of active service left. The assessment put Tehrani’s mind somewhat at ease as they embarked on a journey that would put more than twelve thousand light-years on the ship.
“Conn, Navigation. Lawrence limit reached, ma’am.”
“Navigation, plot a jump to the coordinates I’m sending you now.” She sent a set of encrypted instructions to Mitzner’s console. CIS had insisted on keeping the rendezvous point for Battlegroup Z secret until the last possible moment.
“Aye, aye, ma’am.” It didn’t take long for Mitzner to input them. “We’re ready to engage on your command, Colonel.”
With a “here goes nothing” glance at Wright, Tehrani set her jaw. “Navigation, execute Lawrence drive.”
The bridge lights immediately dimmed as an artificial wormhole opened directly in front of the Zvika Greengold. It grew and formed a vortex with a dizzying array of colors ranging from blue to orange to purple. The ship accelerated, flew through in an instant, then popped out on the other side a few seconds later.
“Conn, TAO. Sensors online. Aspect change, five contacts detected,” Bryan announced. It typically took anywhere from four to nine seconds for sensors and shields to stabilize post-jump, and they were the most stressful moments of a soldier’s life. “IFF confirmed as CDF. Four Templar-class stealth raiders, CSV Astute, CSV Damyat, CSV Leviathan, and CSV Alvaro Alberto. Designated as Sierra One through Four. One Achomawi-class fleet support ship, CSV Salinan, designated as Sierra Five.”
Tightly clustered together, the five ships were roughly five thousand kilometers away, as far as Tehrani could tell from her tactical plot. She’d never seen a fleet support ship before, as they typically operated with larger carriers or battleship groups. “Communications, send my compliments to all five vessels.”
Before Lieutenant Gopinath Singh, the Greengold’s communications officer, could reply, Bryan cut in. “Conn, TAO. Aspect change, incoming wormhole.”
Alarm bells rang in Tehrani’s mind. What? We’re not expecting anyone else. “Classification, TAO?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. It’s faint. Stealth signature.” Bryan paused. “IFF confirmed, friendly.” He turned his head around. “It’s showing as a Coalition Intelligence Service vessel, name, and class classified at Gold level.”
“Okay, this is getting weird,” Wright interjected.
“You’re telling me,” Tehrani muttered. “Communications, ping our newly arrived friends, and let’s see what CIS wants today.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Singh replied. “Actually, ma’am, they’re requesting a vidlink with you.”
“Put it through to my viewer.”
An unsmiling man in a business suit appeared on the monitor above Tehrani’s head. “Colonel, I’ll make this brief. President Nolan will be docking in your shuttle bay with his security team in twenty minutes. Please make ready to receive him and have as many crewmembers in your hangar as possible. The president wants to address your crew before the battlegroup departs.”
“Um…” Tehrani’s mind swam. “We aren’t prepared for a presidential visit—”
“He’s not concerned with pomp and circumstance, Colonel. Do the best you can. Terran Coalition One out.”
The screen went blank, leaving Tehrani with more questions than answers. Before she could form an order with her lips, Singh spoke.
“Conn, Communications. I received an authenticated set of orders as the transmission ended, with General Saurez’s biometric signature.”
Wright leaned in and whispered into Tehrani’s ear, “We’d better get moving.”
“Concur,” Tehrani replied and stood. “XO, get an honor guard assembled and have the department heads and the master chief round up as many soldiers in khaki duty uniforms as possible. Lieutenant Bryan, you have the conn.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am.” Bryan stood at the same time as Wright did.
“I’m going to my day cabin to change. See you in the hangar in ten minutes, XO,” Tehrani said as she set off toward the hatch leading to the rest of deck one. Nolan sure knows how to make an entrance. She’d expected notice of the president arriving from General Saurez or someone in the chain of command. We’d best make the most of it.
Justin threw open the hatch to his quarters, barely breaking his stride. It crashed shut behind him, and he immediately stripped down to his boxers and a T-shirt. A last-minute VIP visit with the dog-and-pony show accompanying it was beyond out of the ordinary, and Justin was annoyed he had to play dress-up instead of focus on his squadron and the mission at hand. Secrecy was so tight that they hadn’t yet informed the crew at large or any officers below the senior staff. Of the pilots, only a few knew—Whatley and the three squadron commanders. Justin had told Alpha element of the plan, as they were conducting most of the SFS-4 Ghost tests.
I wonder who’s coming. Some four-star general up the chain of command? Staring at his closet, Justin was immensely grateful that the CAG’s message had specified
wearing the khaki duty uniform and not dress black or white. It didn’t take long to finish putting everything on and check his various pins and insignia along with the ribbon block. After a final look in the mirror to make sure he would pass basic inspection, Justin raced back into the passageway and tore through the ship as if his life depended on it.
The hangar deck had triple its usual crew complement, as hundreds of personnel milled about. The senior staff was gathered together, while the enlisted ratings congregated behind what looked to be a hastily erected crowd-control line. Justin scanned the area for other pilots, and after a couple of minutes of searching, he saw Feldstein standing by herself. He set off toward her.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” Mateus said as Justin trotted up, breathing hard from running the length of the Zvika Greengold.
He rolled his eyes at her and grinned. “So, any idea what the heck is going on?”
“We got a message from the CAG to be in the hangar, in our khakis,” Feldstein replied. “Beyond that, no clue. No G2 on your end?”
Justin shook his head. “None. Maybe someone from the Joint Chiefs is coming to tour the ship.”
“Attention on deck!” came a deep, raspy voice through the PA system. “VIP is three minutes out. Assume honor guard positions.”
“I’m glad I’m not an enlisted lifer,” Feldstein said. “Or I’d end up sounding like the master chief too.”
Her comment brought chuckles from the pilots around them as they lined up into neat rows. An honor guard of Marines formed two lines around a red carpet. At the end of it, Tehrani and the rest of the senior officers formed a row. Justin could barely make it out from his vantage point, but it appeared as if a lectern and a portable PA had been set up.
A shuttle flew through the force field protecting the hangar from the vacuum and expertly put down on the deck. The ramp immediately opened, lined up perfectly with the red carpet. Six men and women in sharp business suits came down and took up defensive positions around the craft.
