She held her breath.
“CDF signature! It’s the Conqueror, ma’am!” Bryan’s tone drifted toward unprofessional.
Tehrani had no problem forgiving the momentary lapse. “Communications, send General Rubin my compliments and request his immediate assistance.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am.”
“Conn, TAO. Conqueror has extended her shields to include us and Sierra One,” Bryan called.
As he spoke, the rumbling ceased. The massive battleship swept forward, and its magnetic cannons spoke as one. Helicar-sized shells erupted from the triple-barreled turrets, sending a wave of death toward the League heavy cruisers. Simultaneously, Starbolt anti-ship missiles and neutron beams lashed out and impacted their hulls as the protective deflector screens collapsed. One ship exploded outright as a neutron beam found a fuel bunkerage or warhead magazine, while the other hung on, firing back with everything it had.
A ragged cheer lasting a few seconds went up from the enlisted soldiers on the bridge and quickly died down as it became apparent the fight was still on. The battered League heavy cruiser swung around. As it did, a fresh wave of plasma balls crashed against the overextended shields of the Conqueror.
“Conn, TAO. Sierra Two can’t take too much of this,” Bryan called. “She’s already lost more than half of her shield cohesion.”
Tehrani stared at her tactical plot momentarily. Of course they did. The farther out a deflector generator tries to project from the hull, the worse the problem gets. “Navigation, intercept course, Sierra Two. TAO, send our fast movers back at Master Six.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am.”
A series of orders and responses followed as the bridge team worked to get the ship closer to the Conqueror and finish off the last two League vessels. On Tehrani’s display, the icons representing Alpha and Epsilon rushed toward the enemy. Additional symbols showing anti-ship missiles separated from the blue dots marking the bombers and dashed away.
“Conn, TAO. Master Five disabled.”
Again, the Conqueror’s entire weapons suite lashed in the void. Magnetic cannon shells flew out of their barrels, while blue neutron beams raked the remaining League vessel. In the grand scheme of things, it wasn’t fair. Cruisers weren’t designed to stand up to line battleships. But Tehrani felt no remorse as she watched the enemy ship explode into one-meter chunks.
“Conn, TAO. Master Six destroyed. All enemy contacts are down.”
Tehrani allowed herself a momentary smile. “Thank you, Lieutenant. Order our fighters to clean up the remaining enemy small craft.” She checked the tactical plot—only one was left. “Then get our people back aboard.”
“How’d you know?” Wright asked quietly.
“I didn’t,” Tehrani replied. “I was about to order a withdrawal.”
He nodded. “Well, a miss is as good as a mile, as my grandmother used to say.”
She thought of a famous general from the Ottoman empire—Osman Nuri. He’d held the line against Russian forces during a brief war between the two countries in the late nineteenth century on Earth. The fighting they were currently engaged in—brutal defensive actions and what seemed like a last stand—was what had made the pasha a hero. Will I go down in history the same way? Losing my command but inspiring others to fight? Tehrani forced the thoughts from her mind and focused on the task at hand. “Do we have a damage report yet?”
“Working on it, ma’am.”
“Work faster,” Tehrani replied with a smile. “I fear we have little time before we’re thrust into the next battle.” And may Allah have mercy on our souls.
* * *
“How’s it going, sir?”
“Peachy,” Justin replied.
Feldstein was still only twenty meters away from him, flying close escort. While the enemy threat was gone, his fighter was still nearly unflyable. The autorepair system was attempting to repair the flight-control surfaces, but with so much damage, it was a herculean task.
“Any improvement in controlling your bird, sir?”
“Negative. I can steer, but it’s very sluggish.”
An unfamiliar voice broke into the conversation. “Alpha One, this is Zvika Greengold flight deck control. I show you coming in at two hundred meters per second. Slow to fifty and stand by to call the ball.”
Justin cued his mic. “Negative, Control. I don’t have enough positive control over my fighter to land. Request permission to eject and be retrieved by S and R.”
“Negative, Alpha One,” Whatley interjected. “We don’t have time for that evolution. Who knows when the next wave will show up… the Greengold needs to get scarce. I’ve ordered the flight deck to prepare for a hazard landing and clear off section three.”
“Sir, it’s too much of a risk to the ship,” Justin protested. “If my craft were to explode, it would cause secondary explosions. Leave me behind and come back later when it’s safe.”
“Stow it, Spencer. I give the orders around here, and no one, not even your sorry ass, gets left behind. Follow instructions for once in your life.”
The commlink clicked off with a noticeable sound, leaving Justin in silence. The hangar bay of the carrier grew larger in front of him. Soon, he would be able to make out the deck crew running around and other fighters taxiing around the area. Fear gnawed at him. “Feldstein, am I still trailing vapor?”
“Yes, sir.”
Justin closed his eyes. If I believed in God, now would be a good time to pray. It wasn’t so much that he didn’t think a higher being existed or even that it had created the universe. He’d long ago decided that whatever people had in life was the product of their own work, luck, and nothing more. God, if He existed, didn’t interact with lower life forms. Still, it would’ve been comforting to believe in something more. Justin tried with all his might to keep the Sabre straight and level. Beads of sweat dripped down his forehead. “Slowing to twenty-five meters per second, Control.”
“Acknowledged, Alpha One. I show you at three-quarters of a kilometer. Call the ball.”
“Alpha One, ball, one point five.” Justin’s reply indicated he could see the optical landing system lights and was nearly aligned for a landing in the forward portion of the bay. Gravimetric arrestor control would snag the Sabre as he flew it in, but with his controls so sluggish, it would be nearly impossible to course correct.
“Roger, Alpha One. Ball at five hundred meters per second. Adjust axial course as necessary.”
Justin tried to control his breathing, heart rate, and stress level. He would have to adjust course to avoid slamming into the bulkhead. Usually, it would have been child’s play. “Confirmed. I see the lights.”
At the last second, the carrier pitched up slightly. “Oh shit,” Justin said as he tried to match the movement. His hard maneuver on the flight stick generated an overcorrection.
“Abort! Abort!” the landing officer screamed. “Full-power abort!”
“Negative,” Justin replied as he forced the fighter down centimeter by centimeter. “I can’t turn fast enough to abort. Deploy emergency arrestor barrier.” He flipped the commlink to the private channel with Feldstein. “Lieutenant, if it looks like I’m going into another craft or something flammable, shoot me down.”
“Sir?”
“That was a direct order, Lieutenant. I will not cause the deaths of everyone on this ship. Are we clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
Every ounce of concentration Justin had went into trying to effect slight changes in his course to line up with the gravfield that would catch his fighter and stop its forward momentum. Every attempt resulted in immediate overcorrection. He couldn’t slow down because the Greengold was moving too fast. He suddenly wondered if he was going to die.
“Alpha One, adjust five degrees to your left.”
Justin grunted. “Acknowledged.” Yeah, file that under ‘No shit, Sherlock.’
The last seconds ticked down, and not a moment too soon, he reduced thrust to three meters per second a
s his Sabre entered the flight deck. He was too high and fast. Red lights flashed, showing he was off target, before the gravfield tried to grab his craft. It shot through the first and second arrestor fields, leading Justin to determine he was probably about to buy the farm.
Suddenly, Justin’s entire body pitched forward, and his helmet collided with the lip of the cockpit HUD screen. As his vision blurred, he saw stars. I’m not dead. A glance out of the canopy confirmed that the last and strongest emergency arrestor field had grabbed his fighter. It gently lowered the Sabre to the deck. He popped the canopy-release button and turned to see a ladder pushed up against the side.
“LT, you okay in there?” a crew chief called up. “Let us know if you need a medic.”
“No, no. I can climb down,” Justin replied. He felt determined to exit the fighter the same way he’d entered it—on his own two feet. One rung at a time, he made it down to the deck. As soon as Justin did, his knees gave out, and he grabbed the ladder to steady himself.
A small crowd had already gathered around and gave a cheer.
He held up a hand. “Thanks, guys. Nothing to be excited about… I was just doing my job.”
Mateus pushed out in front of the group of pilots and flight crew. “You were like a hero from the holovids, shooting down enemies left and right and evading fire.” Her eyes held admiration. “I wish I could fly that well.”
“Did she just admit someone else is a better pilot?” a Turkish bomber pilot by the name of Orhan Yavuz asked. “Someone get a recording!”
Laughter coursed through them all, and the sound echoed throughout the expansive flight deck. Feldstein appeared at Justin’s side, holding her helmet and wearing a broad grin. “Nice to see you in one piece, sir.”
“It’s nice to be in one piece,” he replied.
The crew chief that had provided the ladder climbed out from underneath the Sabre. “Well, I’ve got some good news, Lieutenant.”
“What’s that?”
“Everything’s repairable, and we’ve got the parts. You’ll be ready to fight in six hours.”
“Really?” Justin felt surprised at the pronouncement, considering how the onboard repair system couldn’t restore full flight control.
“Yeah, these birds have a flaw in the internal hydraulic system. If they get hit just right, well, the entire system craps out. You got unlucky enough to suffer the flaw.”
“That’s what we get for always going with the lowest bidder,” Feldstein replied. “Damn politicians. Always shorting the military.”
“So, let's go wet down our newest quadruple ace,” Mateus interjected, earning a rousing cheer.
“Spen-cer! Spen-cer! Spen-cer!” the group chanted.
Justin’s face turned bloodred, and he wasn’t sure what to do. He only knew he wasn’t interested in being celebrated—not with the loss of another pilot and the ship heavily damaged.
“Attention!”
Justin didn’t recognize the voice, but everyone immediately went rigid, with their arms at their sides.
“Clear the flight deck, pilots!” Whatley screamed, his voice raspy and hoarse. He came to a halt directly in front of Justin and stared him down. “Soaking up the glory, Lieutenant?”
“No, sir.”
“Uh-huh. I heard the reference about wetting down your kills,” Whatley said as he turned and swept the flight bay with his piercing gaze. “There will be no consumption of alcohol by any pilot at any point today. If you violate my order, I’ll have you thrown into the brig. Do I make myself clear?”
“Sir, yes, sir!” Justin shouted along with everyone else.
“Good. Glad to hear you’re capable of following an order, Spencer.” Whatley got two inches from Justin’s face. “If you ever violate another direct order from Colonel Tehrani, me, or any other officer appointed over you, I will bust you back to private and put you on latrine-cleaning duty for the rest of your CDF career. Dismissed!”
Fury shot through Justin at the speed of light. For a moment, he balled his fists and thought about punching Whatley in the nose. But he forced it down, turned on his heel, and stalked off with the rest of the pilots.
Feldstein caught up to him and put her hand on his shoulder. “Hey, look… don’t listen to him. You’re a damn hero for what you did out there.”
Justin wrenched away and kept walking. “Whatever. I’ll be in my cabin.”
11
While the crew had worked feverishly to repair battle damage, Tehrani had camped out in her day cabin, going through paperwork and writing condolence letters to the families of those killed in action. She’d never had to do that before. In fact, she’d lost no one under her at any posting until the previous day. Such is the reality of war. Tears fell down her face as she wrote a letter to the mother of a young soldier lost in the engineering spaces. Once she had finished, she sat quietly until the next meeting was scheduled to begin, trying to clear her mind and soul.
Tehrani felt trapped in a nightmare that wouldn’t end. Only I know it’s not. This is my reality now. She thought back to her husband and family, wondering if she’d ever see them again. Will he get a note from the fleet commander, thanking him for my sacrifice?
A few hours later, the senior staff gathered in the conference room on deck one. Tehrani strode through the hatch to find Wright, Whatley, Hodges, and Bryan already present.
They sprang up from the table as she entered.
“As you were,” she said, gesturing at the chairs. “Please take a seat.” I wonder if my nose is still red and my cheeks puffy. It wouldn’t do for those under her command to see her emotions. She steeled herself against any display as she sat. “Where are we at, gentlemen?”
Hodges went first. “Colonel, we have partial power restored to our engines and can maneuver at twenty-five percent of maximum thrust. Both reactors are back online, and hull patches are proceeding.”
Tehrani glanced between the men. “When can we be ready to fight?”
“Technically, we could fight now,” Wright began. “If we had to. But our survival chances will go up a lot once they repair the shields. Call it six hours.” He spread his hands out on the table and bit his lip. “Colonel, I think we have to consider the possibility that the Zvika Greengold is out of the fight, unless there’s literally nothing else left in the cupboard. We’re in terrible shape. Major Hodges gave me a schedule that has repairs ongoing for a week to regain full power to all systems.”
“The pilots are ready to fly on thirty minutes’ notice,” Whatley stated. He crossed his arms. “All you have to do is get us there, and we’ll take out as many of the bastards as we can.”
“You’re talking about a last stand,” Wright interjected.
“That’s exactly what I’m talking about, XO.”
“Gentlemen, I’m not ready to order such an undertaking and will not unless the fleet needs us. Our orders are to repair and rearm,” Tehrani said, leaning forward to retake control of the discussion. “That said, we must be ready to fight at a moment’s notice.”
“While we could fight now, Colonel, my pilots need rest.” Whatley leaned back. “I can have stims prescribed for them, but I’ll tell you in no uncertain terms—hopped-up pilots are dead pilots. Give us a few hours of sleep, a good meal, and a shower. After that, I’ll have them back in top shape for you.”
“I should put out there that half our point-defense emplacements are nonfunctional. If we have to engage, our port side will be susceptible to enemy missiles,” Bryan said. “We’re probably a day away from fixing the damage. I’ve got armory crews working nonstop.”
It added up to a picture that Tehrani didn’t want to acknowledge, let alone accept. Yet her duty still called. The desire to reenter the fight, help defeat the League, and save the billions of civilians on Canaan raged just under the surface of her soul. It competed with another desire—to inflict pain on the enemy and make them pay for the death and destruction they’d spread. Her mouth curled into a snarl as she thought of t
he judgment that awaited the so-called League of Sol.
Wright’s voice brought Tehrani out of her thoughts. “Colonel, we need to stay on stand-down.”
“Very well,” she agreed reluctantly. “Focus your efforts on propulsion and the hangar. Shields are secondary, while the weapons are a tertiary concern.”
They stared at her quizzically.
“Getting to the battle and launching our fighters is the primary objective if the fleet needs us. In that situation, nothing else matters.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Wright replied.
Some of the others appeared as if they wanted to argue, but the XO’s words carried finality.
“Thank you all,” Tehrani said. “You’re dismissed.”
As the group filed out, silence descended over the conference room. She stared at the ship’s seal on the wall along with the flag of the Terran Coalition. The Latin words of their motto Semper tempus meant “Always in Time.” I hope if the call comes, we’re able to answer.
* * *
The mess hall was busy with dozens of officers, many of them pilots. Justin just wanted to be alone. He waved at a few friendly faces, including Martin. The big Australian had a group of bomber drivers at his table, all bragging loudly about the capital ships they’d polished off.
Justin felt deep within himself that the battles weren’t over. Officially, the ship was on a damage-control hold, with repair crews laboring to repair holes in the outer hull and patch critical systems. Something in his soul kept repeating, “This isn’t over.”
So he ordered dinner and waited for the call to return to his Sabre. He replayed the previous engagements repeatedly, including Feldstein’s expert save. Without her, I’d be dead now. Still, he pondered what had caused him to go all holovid hero. The action was completely outside of his normal personality.
Whatley appeared at the side of Justin’s table. He seemed to have a stealth mode, able to mask his approach at will. “I’ve reviewed the sensor records of the battle, Lieutenant Spencer,” he began without preamble.
Coalition Defense Force Boxed Set: First to Fight Page 12
