by Daniel Gibbs
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?”
Te
hrani 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.
