by Daniel Gibbs
“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 al
l 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.
