by Daniel Gibbs
“Nice shooting, Epsilon.”
“Yeah, that’ll teach those wankers not to mess with us. Care to join us for another pass, Alpha?”
“You got it, Lieutenant.” It seemed as if they might pull it off after all.
“Spencer! Quit hotdogging and pay attention to your HUD.” Whatley’s harsh rebuke came through the commlink loud and clear.
“Sir—”
“Another flight of enemy fighters is inbound. Break and engage.”
“Roger. Wilco,” Justin ground out. “Alpha, form on me.” He adjusted his HUD’s sensor radius outward and realized Whatley was right. As usual. Red icons representing six of the League space-superiority fighters raced toward the friendly bomber formation. How many fighters do they have to fling at us, anyway? Justin deftly adjusted his flight stick, pointing the Sabre in the enemy’s direction.
“Conn, TAO. Master Three shields have failed on their port quarter.”
Tehrani sucked in a breath. Localized shield failures had resulted in several hull breaches and damage across the Zvika Greengold’s superstructure. The old girl’s hanging in there, regardless. She gripped her chair’s hand rests. “TAO, direct all bombers to Master Three’s port quarter.”
The tactical plot was a jumbled mess. Groups of red and blue icons denoting small craft were layered on top of one another. That led to a loss of situational awareness and made it increasingly difficult to issue orders beyond generic requests to attack a specific target. Blue light from the overhead bathed Tehrani’s monitor as she pondered what to do next. The bridge shook as more plasma-cannon fire from the enemy smacked into them.
“Navigation, come about to heading zero-three-eight, mark positive five. All ahead flank.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am.”
“TAO, firing-point procedures, Master Three, forward neutron beams.”
“Firing solutions set, ma’am.”
Seconds turned into a minute as the carrier adjusted its heading and brought its forward arc into range of the League heavy cruiser’s port quarter. The moment Tehrani saw they’d made it, she grinned fiercely. “TAO, match bearings, shoot, forward neutron beams.”
Bright-blue beams of energy erupted out of the Zvika Greengold, slashing at her foe. The thermal heat of the weapon burned and melted the outer armor of the League vessel. While the display was impressive, the enemy’s armor held. Another wave of red plasma balls raced toward the Greengold, splashing red energy on the already-weak shields.
“Conn, TAO. Aspect change… inbound wormhole.” Bryan’s voice held a note of fear.
Tehrani felt it too. The addition of any more enemy warships would probably tilt the battle out of their reach. “Report, Lieutenant.”
“CDF signature, ma’am.” Bryan exhaled quietly. “CSV Marcus Luttrell on station. Designated as Sierra Two.”
Tehrani felt some of the fear abate. “Communications, send my compliments to Colonel Arrington. TAO, designate Master Three as the priority target for the battle group.” Please, Allah, let the rest of our ships get here soon.
“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Singh replied quickly.
Almost immediately, the Marcus Luttrell turned, and her weapons suite lashed out at the large League cruiser. Magnetic cannon turrets, neutron beams, and missile cells all unleashed their fury at the enemy. While in a head-to-head fight, the destroyer would be outmatched. With the other vessel’s shields down, it evened out.
Faced with three targets, the cruiser split its fire between the Luttrell and the Greengold while seeming to forget the Conqueror existed.
Friendly bombers and fighters added streams of miniature neutron-cannon fire along with antiship missiles. The concentrated effect of the various munitions’ slamming into the heavy cruiser at the same time was pronounced. Pieces of armor blasted off, followed by significant secondary explosions that blew chunks of hull into the depths of the void. Finally, something vital was hit—either a reactor, a warhead magazine, or a shuttle bay—and the League vessel exploded into two-foot pieces.
Spontaneous, wild cheering broke out on the bridge as younger soldiers and a few officers clapped. It only took a few seconds for a grizzled senior chief to yell, “As you were! Maintain proper bridge protocol!”
Tehrani suppressed a smile. I suppose the youngsters have earned it. She turned her attention back to the tactical plot. A frigate and a destroyer remained. They maneuvered about and continued to fire on the Conqueror. They’re persistent, if nothing else.
“Conn, TAO,” Bryan called. “Sierra One is powering up its weapons.”
While the volume of fire from the Zvika Greengold’s small craft and the Marcus Luttrell was impressive, it was nothing compared to what the Conqueror could hurl into the fight. Helicar-sized shells weighing over a thousand kilograms raced out of her magnetic cannons, while half a dozen blue neutron beams raked the enemy warships. The frigate exploded outright under the barrage, barely leaving enough debris to scan. The remaining League destroyer merely suffered its engine housings being sheared off by the powerful Terran Coalition energy weapons. Its running lights dimmed, and the crippled wreck tumbled in space.
“Wow.” Wright let out a short whistle. “That’s some serious firepower.”
Tehrani nodded. “I’ve never seen a battleship fire its primary armament before. Glad they’re on our side.”
“Conn, Communications. I have General Rubin for you, ma’am,” Singh interjected.
“Put him on my monitor, Lieutenant.”
The familiar face of Rubin appeared on the monitor above Tehrani’s head. He wore a fierce warrior’s grin. “Colonel, please pass on my gratitude to your pilots and crew. We wouldn’t have survived without their courage and sacrifice.”
Two pilots lost to save a battleship. Briefly, Tehrani considered the cost. Logically, losing two souls to save thousands was a win. But it was still two families who wouldn’t see their loved ones again. She’d never had to write a letter of condolence to someone who died under her command. That makes three in the last twenty-four hours, and Allah only knows how many more. While sadness crept into her mind, she pushed all emotion down. There will be time to grieve after the battle. “Thank you, General. Likewise, your ship ended the battle with an exclamation point. I’m in your debt.”
Rubin shook his head. “Just wait till we get the Conqueror fully operational again.” He narrowed his eyes. “She’ll blast every League warship between here and Canaan to bits.” Something off screen distracted him for a moment, then he turned back to the camera. “Our Lawrence drive is charged. Good hunting and Godspeed, Colonel. Rubin out.”
The screen went black, and a few moments later, the massive battleship opened a wormhole through the stars. The physical manifestation of the tunnel was a kaleidoscope of colors, seeming to erupt from space. As the event horizon opened, the Conqueror engaged her sublight engines and glided through. In the space of just a few seconds, the vessel disappeared from normal space with no trace of its existence remaining.
“Conn, TAO. All hostile fighters are down. No enemy contacts remain.” Bryan turned around in his chair, grinning from ear to ear. “Shall I order search and rescue deployed, ma’am?”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Lieutenant,” Tehrani replied. “Deploy S and R, but maintain combat space patrol.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am.”
“XO, compile a complete damage report in the next ten minutes,” Tehrani said as she stared out of the windows.
“You’ll have it in five,” Wright replied, glancing up from his tablet. “Mercifully light.”
Tehrani pursed her lips and tried to calm her brain, which seemed to be running at a few thousand kilometers per hour. She reflected on their performance. The Zvika Greengold had been named after an Israeli soldier from twentieth-century Earth. He’d taken on an entire enemy armored division with a single tank—and won. God must’ve stood with him. As He did with us today. It crossed her mind that she’d better honor the adhan—the call to prayer—this
day, above all days. The thought passed as damage reports came in, and the business of running the ship continued.
About an hour later, Bryan interrupted her mental reverie. “Conn, TAO. Aspect change… inbound wormholes, ma’am.” He paused for a moment. “CDF signature. It’s the rest of our escorts. Two Argyle-class frigates designated Sierra Three and Four.” The CSV Glasgow and the CSV Sheffield rounded out their battlegroup. Mostly geared toward point defense, Argyle-class frigates carried missile cells and neutron beam emitters but lacked magnetic cannon turrets.
“Is search and rescue done yet, Lieutenant?” Tehrani asked.
“Yes, ma’am. They’re pulling back now,” Bryan replied.
“Pull in our bombers and all but four fighters for CSP. I want everything we’ve got ready to get back into space as soon as possible.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Wright said as he went back to work.
Through the windows, Tehrani watched as the dozen small craft they had in space came in for landings on the flight deck. The sight always inspired and awed her. She waited for what the day had in store for them next.
7
The flight deck seemed to rush to meet the landing gear of Justin’s Sabre as he brought the craft into the expansive hangar. He settled directly on top of the massive CVE-73 stenciled into the flight deck, one perk associated with commanding the lead element in the Red Tails. Probably the only one. After toggling off the engines, flatlining his craft’s miniature fusion reactor, and triple-checking the safeties on the remaining weapons in his fighter’s munitions bay, Justin popped the cockpit canopy.
An automated ladder rolled up and locked itself onto the canopy lip, and Justin climbed down quickly.
“More hull damage, I see,” a crew chief wearing a brown helmet called as she walked over. “Would you quit getting my planes shot up, Lieutenant?”
“Hey, tell that to the bad guys. They won’t leave me alone,” Justin replied with a snicker.
“How many did you bag this time?”
“Several. A few were assists.” He shrugged. “I’m not really keeping score.”
“Why not? You need to paint kill marks on your fuselage. Ace status is well-earned and something to be proud of.”
Justin shrugged. “Just doing my job.”
A commotion across the flight deck interrupted the conversation. Whatley’s voice carried as he stood screaming at a man who also had a brown helmet. “Senior Chief, I don’t care what your excuse is. I want these birds refueled, rearmed, and ready for combat in one hour. Do you get me?”
The older man stood stoically with his arms crossed. “Major, there’s what you want, then there’s reality. We’re on a training cruise. Most of my flight-operations personnel are brand new. We’re going as fast as we can.”
“Then get the rest of your crew complement in here and double up on maintenance operations!” Whatley thundered.
Groups of pilots and enlisted personnel stopped to watch the spectacle. Getting to see a senior NCO and the air group commander rip each other a new one in public wasn’t an everyday occurrence.
“They’ll fall over each other trying to move equipment, Major. The last thing we want is someone to drop a live warhead on the deck.”
“Stop. Making. Excuses. Get the off-duty personnel up here and get to work.” When the NCO didn’t move, he bellowed, “That’s an order!”
Justin stared in amazement at the display from Whatley. I suppose he’s an equal-opportunity ass kicker. Practically everyone on the flight deck had dropped whatever task they were doing.
“Yes, sir,” the senior chief ground out before turning on his heel and walking off.
“What the hell are you staring at, Spencer?” Whatley shouted as Justin entered his line of sight. “Don’t just stand there. Get your ass in gear and make ready to fly again!”
Without thinking, Justin snapped off a jaunty salute. “Anything you say, sir!”
“Oh, hell no.” Whatley tore across the flight deck like a man possessed. “Drop down and give me twenty-five pushups, Lieutenant.”
“This isn’t boot camp, sir.” Justin crossed his arms in front of his chest. Anger surged through him as he gritted his teeth. I’m through taking guff off this guy.
“Get down on my deck and give me twenty-five pushups, or I’ll have you confined to the brig, dobber.”
Justin bristled at the use of the derogatory term. Wow, this guy has some gall. I’ve probably got the highest kill count in the entire CDF right now. For a second or two, he thought about punching Whatley in the jaw. But he brought that emotion quickly under control and dropped to the alloy deck. “One, two, three, four,” he called. “I love the Coalition Defense Force!” The cadence from boot camp was an old memory. After twenty-five pushups that got progressively more painful, he stood.
“Well, look at that. Dobber still remembers basic PT. Now, get cleaned up and return to your ready room. That goes for everyone here! Move it!” Whatley screamed.
As Justin made his way off the flight deck, Feldstein came up behind him. “You don’t have to take that crap from him,” she whispered. “Put in a report with Major Wright.”
“No. I won’t be that guy. Whatley thinks I can’t cut it, fine. I’ll show him I can.”
Feldstein nodded. “I respect that, but if it gets out of hand…”
“If it gets out of hand, I’ll challenge him to a one-on-one and kick his ass in a simulator.”
“I’ll pay real credits to see that,” Feldstein replied. She squeezed Justin’s shoulder. “How about some food? I’m famished.”
“Deal. Shower first, though. I think my suit’s cooling unit gave out. I sweated out practically my entire water supply during the last thirty minutes in space.”
“Roger that, sir. See you in a few.”
Justin stalked off, trying to clear the jumble of emotions in his head. Surprised he was still alive on the one hand and pissed off that his commanding officer couldn’t accept that he was doing his best on the other, he forced himself to calm down. Calm, cool, and collected, Dad always said. He was convinced it was the only thing that would see him through the next battle.
Presidential Center
Canaan
28 September 2433
The Presidential Center, home of the executive branch of government for the Terran Coalition and known commonly as the White House, was a beehive of activity. Only twenty-four hours earlier, President Jason Nolan had been a year into his first term in office, dealing with seemingly mundane tasks like sorting through the domestic budget while fighting with the Senate and Assembly. He felt like he’d aged ten years in those twenty-four hours. They all say the job ages you. How true it is.
Six hours ago, the League of Sol fleet had entered Canaan system proper. No response to any of our communication attempts. Random attacks throughout the solar system. Nolan was still numb, trying to process a sneak attack from Earth. I would never have thought other humans would be the greatest threat the Terran Coalition had ever seen.
Every hour, another briefing from the military came. He steeled himself as a member of his protective-service detail pushed the door open to the state-of-the-art command-and-control bunker at the base of the building, fifteen floors down.
“Mr. President, welcome, sir,” Abdul Karimi called. An older man, he had streaks of gray hair, at least where his scalp wasn’t bald. Dressed in a sharp gray suit, Karimi was Nolan’s handpicked Chief of Staff. They had known each other for decades.
Everyone in uniform stopped what they were doing and came to attention, while the civilians stood respectfully.
“Please, return to your duties,” Nolan said. He took a few steps and dropped into his seat at the head of the conference table, which was surrounded by holoprojectors and gigantic screens. “Any major updates?”
“We’ve got General Irvine ready to join, sir. She has some insights on the enemy’s tactical operations,” Karimi answered. He gestured at a corporal who was manning a computer
station.
A few moments later, a screen came to life with a vidlink, which was clearly being transmitted from a CDF capital ship. An expansive bridge and a CIC area were in full view, but in the center of the screen was General Gabrielle Irvine. She wore a khaki service uniform with an array of campaign ribbons, and the four stars of her rank insignia denoted her as a top-ranking general. “Mr. President,” she began as the camera captured her glancing between different people with her piercing green eyes. “I have a brief update, sir.”
“By all means, General.” We pin our hopes on whatever genius strategy this woman can bring forth. He was thankful that Irvine’s strategic acumen was revered. She’d been the architect of several anti-piracy campaigns and stared down the Jalm’tar Confederation during several cross-border raids.
“Mostly, the League forces haven’t engaged. They’re sitting there.”
Nolan furrowed his brow. “I’m not a military man, General… but that seems odd, doesn’t it?”
“It’s not what I’d be doing. That’s for sure, sir.” Irvine cleared her throat. “But whatever the reason, it’s giving us time to get our reserve fleet in formation, and every hour we get is one more for our nation-state militaries to arrive.”
As it was a supranational entity, the Terran Coalition’s constituent planets had their own military forces for self-defense. After decades of peace, many of the large nations, including the United States and Great Britain, had retaken control of their vessels a little over eight years prior. It seemed to Nolan that the decision had been in error. Hindsight—always twenty-twenty.
“I’m assured that everything, aside from token forces for home defense, is on its way to Canaan.” He paused for a moment, thinking over what she’d said. “I take it from your turn of phrase that there has been combat in Canaan system proper?”
“Yes, Mr. President. Small actions. They’ve hit a couple of fuel refineries in orbit around our gas giant. I would categorize those attacks as probes. They’re attempting to gain information on our capabilities while inflicting damage.”
