Weapons Free (Battlegroup Z Book 1) Page 8

  “Are we responding?”

  “Only if it’s critical infrastructure. The fleet can’t afford to be caught out of position or take losses. As it was, the CSV Conqueror was almost destroyed an hour ago. Luckily for us, a reserve escort carrier—the Zvika Greengold—responded in time, and she escaped.”

  Nolan put his hands on the table and stared into Irvine’s eyes—as much as he could through a screen. “General, in your professional opinion, what are our chances?”

  “Are you a religious man, Mr. President?”

  “I am.”

  “Then I’d pray hard to God. Because we will do our best, and I believe wholeheartedly that every man and woman in the CDF will do their duty and then some. But we need those reinforcements. Period.”

  In other words: not good. Nolan nodded. “Thank you, General. Is there anything else we can do for you right now?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I won’t keep you, then.”

  “Thank you, sir. Godspeed, sir.” Irvine stood from her chair and saluted.

  “Good luck, General.”

  The screen went black as the connection was severed.

  Karimi said, “Sir, I still recommend we get you to a safe location.”

  “We’re asking nearly every soldier in the Terran Coalition to come here and put their lives on the line to defend Canaan,” Nolan began quietly. “I will not be the coward that cuts and runs. Are we clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Have we completed the militia call-up?” Nolan rubbed his right eye. “If the fleet fails, that will be our last line of defense.”

  “The last time I checked with the Department of Home World Defense, every available member was mustering along with police and first-responder units planetwide,” Karimi replied. “There’s not much else to do now except wait for the inevitable attack. Unless those reinforcements arrive first… General Irvine plans to attack if that occurs.”

  Nolan stood. “All right. I’ll be in the Oval. See you in fifty minutes.”

  Karimi sprang to his feet along with the rest of those in the bunker. “Yes, sir.”

  A tradition since the naval sailing ships of ancient times was for the commanding officer of a vessel to have quarters near the bridge. CDF warships were no different—with a small day cabin comprising a part-time office directly aft of the command center and a pull-out rack for sleeping. While Tehrani had an expansive suite assigned to her in officers’ country, she’d spent every waking and sleeping moment in the last twenty-four hours either in the CO’s chair or in her day cabin.

  The hatch chime sounded.

  “Come in,” Tehrani called.

  Wright appeared as the hatch swung open. Major Whatley was close behind him. Both men came in and braced to attention.

  “Major Wright reports as ordered, ma’am.”

  “As you were, gentlemen. Please have a seat.” She gestured to the two chairs in front of her desk and a small plate of sandwiches on it. “I thought we could use some quick refreshments while we discuss operational readiness.”

  Both men sat, and Wright cleared his throat. “Thank you, skipper. Can’t remember the last time I ate.” He grabbed a sandwich and bit into it with gusto.

  Whatley shook his head. “I had a ration bar, ma’am. I’ve found over the years that trying to fly a space-superiority fighter on a full stomach isn’t a good idea.” He cracked a smile. “Especially since I threw up in my helmet once during a training run. That’s a lesson one never forgets.”

  “How are our repairs coming?” Tehrani asked.

  “Shield generators are back to one hundred percent. Flight-operation control is still reporting some issues with one catapult, but all in all, we’re in fighting shape. Engineering teams set up portable structural-reinforcement generators in areas with hull damage… but the old girl’s going to need yard time once this is over.”

  “The bigger problem is pilot fatigue and inexperience in our flight crews at generating sorties.” Whatley crossed his arms. “It’s been a long time since the Coalition Defense Force fought an actual war. Well, that’s coming back to bite us. These kids are used to refueling and rearming the small craft once in a day, maybe twice on a grueling training mission. Operational tempo now? I wouldn’t be surprised if we end up needing every fighter on the Greengold to run four sorties a day.”

  The concern raised by Whatley dovetailed into her fears regarding the Zvika Greengold’s readiness. We’ll push the raw youngsters, but we all have to be careful not to push them so hard that they fail. She set her jaw. “Options, CAG?”

  “We push our crew as far as possible without breaking them.” Whatley smirked. “Nothing like some on-the-job training. I already tuned up the senior crew chiefs. I told them I want every bird on this ship ready to fly within two hours.” He glanced at Wright. “If they can do it in four, I’ll be happy.”

  Both Wright and Tehrani laughed.

  “I’m glad I’m not in your space aviation division, Major,” Wright said between chuckles. His expression turned serious. “What about pilot fatigue? I’d think sending out tired men and women when lightning-fast reflexes are needed would cause… shall we say, additional casualties?”

  “True pilots feed off the energy of flying through the vacuum and searching for targets,” Whatley said matter-of-factly. “Anyone who doesn’t shouldn’t be in the cockpit.”

  Tehrani’s eyes flicked to Whatley. “That’s harsh, Major.”

  He shrugged. “Perhaps. But true, ma’am. My point is that we’re going to suffer losses. This is war. You should get ready for it.”

  For a moment, Tehrani considered arguing with him, but she decided against it. She saw little point in stoking a debate in which they disagreed on the eve of what would bring more battles. So she nodded instead. “I remain hopeful that there will be a diplomatic solution to this once the CDF prevails in its defense of Canaan.” Her eyes went down to her desk. “But I realize that’s unlikely. Far more likely that we’ll be engaged in a multiyear conflict, not unlike the last Saurian War.”

  “Is there anything the doctor can do for keeping pilots awake?” Wright asked.

  “No stims,” Whatley immediately countered, his voice slightly raised. “I will not have my people amped up on stims and zoned out of their minds. Clear?”

  Wright raised his palms. “No offense meant, CAG.”

  “Sorry, XO. I’ve seen too many pilots die because they were on something they shouldn’t have been. The human body needs its rest, and we must stagger our rotation schedules. If the conflict sustains, once we bring more pilots aboard, that’ll solve the problem. Until then, we have to make do.”

  “Which means we continue to use the least force possible.” Tehrani frowned. She hated not sending overwhelming force. “I’d like to remind you both of Lancaster’s Law.”

  Both men stared at her quizzically.

  “I don’t follow, ma’am,” Wright said finally.

  “Boiled down, the stronger the friendly force when compared to the enemy, the fewer losses taken. Allowing the League nearly equal numbers engagements flies in the face of military theory and strategy.”

  “Perhaps, but it allows us to continue to fight,” Whatley replied. “I don’t like it any more than you do, Colonel. Maybe once our deck crews learn how to generate sorties quicker, we can dispense with these tactics.”

  Tehrani inclined her head. “I hope so, CAG.”

  “We should talk stores and consumable munitions. Anti-ship and anti-fighter missiles, especially the LIDAR-tracking variety, are running low.”

  As Whatley spoke, Tehrani felt as if his eyes were boring into her. The CAG’s gaze was so piercing that she glanced away for a moment. That man only has one setting: intense. “XO, put in a request for resupply… but, Major, I wouldn’t expect to see it before our next battle. Try to conserve any way possible.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Whatley crossed his arms. He apparently didn’t like her answer.

  Befor
e anyone could speak further, the intercom went off. “Colonel, I’ve got flash traffic for you,” came the voice of Lieutenant Singh. “Straight from General Irvine.”

  “Put it through to my monitor.”

  A moment later, a text message appeared on her tablet device. Tehrani skimmed it, and her jaw dropped. “Gentlemen, I’m afraid we’ll have to continue this later. We just received orders to intercept a League squadron attacking Canaan’s primary shipyard installation at the moon Goshen.”

  Whatley let out a sigh as he stood. “Any reinforcements?”

  “No. Just our battlegroup.”

  “God help us all.”

  Tehrani couldn’t disagree with that sentiment. While she wanted to make the trip down to the ship’s chapel to pray, instead, she stood and led the way back to the bridge. A portion of her still struggled with the situation. Thoughts of missing her husband coupled with fear for her extended family raced through her mind. Still, duty was duty. My job as a soldier is to protect the Terran Coalition. If I do my job as well as everyone else, we’ll all be fine. The idea kept her going.

  “Would you pass the salt?”

  Justin opened his eyes to see Feldstein gazing at him. Alpha element had gone as a group to the nearest officers’ mess for some food while the hangar teams refueled and rearmed their craft. He shook his head as if that would clear the exhaustion in every facet of his being. “Uh, sure.” He closed his hand around the shaker and passed it to her.

  “Are you okay?” Mateus asked. She set her fork down. “Kind of looked like you were a million light-years away, Lieutenant.”

  Everything within Justin wanted to scream. No, I’m not okay! The concept of fighting a real shooting war was something he still couldn’t wrap his brain around. Service for him was a vehicle to a better life. But that’s the deal I made. Guilt clawed at the recesses of his mind. But that doesn’t mean I’m not good at this and not doing my duty. He forced the emotion down, covering it instead with what he hoped passed for a calm, cool, and collected expression. “Yeah. Just tired.” He chuckled. “How many flight hours have we logged in the last two days?”

  “Enough to keep our certifications up for the next two years,” Adeoye deadpanned. “This should mean we don’t have to do our two weeks next year.”

  The four of them laughed.

  “I think you qualified as a double ace,” Mateus continued, a hint of deviousness in her voice. “Keep this up, and they’ll make you go active duty and teach cadets how to fly.”

  “I don’t think we’re going home anytime soon.” Justin’s plate contained the remnants of a Salisbury steak along with a serving of mashed potatoes and green beans. He took a bite of the nearly cold potatoes. “I mean, let’s get real.”

  Feldstein dumped salt onto her Salisbury steak. “I haven’t been able to reach Robert.”

  Mateus tilted her head quizzically. “You said you were divorcing him when we trained together last year.”

  “We got counseling instead.”

  “Ah.” Mateus smirked. “I’m too passionate to be tied down to a man right now. I want to see the galaxy first. Then maybe settle down.” She took a sip of water. “Maybe. I’ve never felt more alive than I do when we’re out there flying our fighters and riding the tip of the spear into the throat of the enemy.”

  “Are you sure you passed the psych evals required to join the CDF?” Justin asked. His lips curled up in a smile despite his attempt to deliver the barb entirely straight-faced.

  “Ha-ha.” Her eyes narrowed. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

  “At least she’s on our side,” Adeoye interjected.

  “Any idea what’s next, sir?” Feldstein asked. “I heard some scuttlebutt that we’d join the main fleet shortly.”

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” Justin said as he shrugged, then he put his hands on either side of his face and rubbed it, letting out a yawn. “I’d do just about anything for a few hours of sleep.”

  “We sleep when we’re dead,” Mateus replied. “Did you guys catch President Nolan’s speech?”

  “All I heard was blah blah blah, defeat the League of Sol, blah blah blah.” Feldstein took another bite of her food. “I didn’t vote for him, before anyone asks.”

  “No politics,” Justin warned. “Not now.”

  The four of them exchanged glances.

  Adeoye set his fork down. “Politics will be set aside. I am confident of this,” he stated. “This event will be the defining moment of our lives. We’ll all remember how the four of us rose to the occasion.”

  Justin couldn’t argue with that. He briefly ruminated on the idea that every generation seemed to have something that set it apart from the others—the Saurian Wars, the Exodus from Earth, and the Diaspora, in which the various nation-states had set out to colonize their own planets in the local sector. This is our challenge. My challenge. “Agreed.” He took a sip of his iced tea. “You should all get as much rest as possible. God only knows when we’ll be going back out to fight.”

  Feldstein set her fork down on the table and the napkin in her lap. “I’m going to head down to the shul.” The Zvika Greengold had several worship areas, including a Jewish shul, a Christian church, and a mosque for the Muslims aboard.

  “Why?” Mateus asked.

  “To pray.”

  “Ah.”

  “It seems like a good time to ask God for help.” Feldstein shrugged. “I’ll confess I’m usually lax about going to the shul. But…”

  “You don’t have to explain yourself,” Justin interjected. “Can’t hurt.” He flashed a grin. “I’m going to head back to my stateroom and lie down. Hoping to get an hour of shuteye.”

  As they all stood, the alarm klaxon sounded, and a voice boomed through the ship’s intercom. “Attention all hands. This is Colonel Tehrani. General quarters! General quarters! Man your battle stations. This is not a drill. I say again, man your battle stations. This is not a drill.”

  “So much for the best-laid plans.” Mateus wiggled her eyebrows. “I suppose we’ll be heading down to the ready room now?”

  Justin closed his eyes briefly and forced himself to focus. “Yup. Let’s go get suited up.”

  “No rest for the weary,” Adeoye said.

  The group walked out and made its way down the passageways of the Zvika Greengold. All the while, Justin thought about the last twenty-four hours, including the loss of three of their people and the enemy craft he’d destroyed. And those I’ve killed. There was no escaping it. He longed to hear his wife’s voice and see his daughter. He took solace in hoping that if he survived, he would see them after the battle.

  8

  Justin and his pilots donned their flight suits in record time—less than five minutes for the entire group to get their softsuits on and complete a pressure check with helmets attached. In the event of decompression, the suit kept its wearer alive until rescue and had a built-in homing beacon to aid recovery.

  When they strode into the Red Tails squadron ready room, Major Whatley was waiting. The group stood at attention as one.

  “As you were,” Whatley said in his gravelly voice. “I’ll make this brief.” He touched a button on the controller tablet, and the holoprojector morphed into an image of a large shipyard complex. “Our communist-bastard friends are attacking an installation that has twenty percent of our drydock space. We have one objective: stop them at any cost.”

  “Sir, do we have projections for what we’ll be facing?” Justin asked.

  Whatley turned and glowered at him. “Multiple destroyers with a space-superiority fighter escort. We should expect more. Capital ships, bombers… you name it. This is a priority target for them.”

  “If it’s such a priority target, why not send a fleet?” Feldstein asked from one row behind Justin. “It seems silly to send in just a few destroyers.”

  “Would you like me to contact the League fleet commander and ask him for you, Lieutenant?” Whatley asked mockingly. “Maybe I could get him
on a vidlink so you could talk to him. How about that?”

  Feldstein turned bright red. “I’m sorry sir. It just makes little sense—”

  “Lieutenant, it doesn’t matter whether the enemy makes sense to us or not. They simply are. We don’t ask why. We show up and kill them. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” Feldstein replied crisply.

  “Good. Moving on. A flight of four Mauler bombers will launch with you—Epsilon element. Alpha will engage targets of opportunity, provide close escort, and eradicate the enemy presence. Questions?”

  “When do we launch?” Justin asked.

  “The Greengold is spinning up her Lawrence drive now. You launch the moment we clear the wormhole. Man your craft!”

  Pilots sprang up from their chairs and headed quickly toward the exit. Justin, however, stayed behind. He marched up to Whatley. “Major, permission to speak freely.”

  “Oh, this oughta be good. Did I offend you, Spencer? Care for a hurt-feelings form to fill out?” Whatley’s lips curled into a smirk.

  Justin’s heart beat faster, and his face grew warm. He’s just pushing my buttons. Determined not to give the man the pleasure of an emotional response, Justin set his jaw instead. “Major, with all due respect, I am the commanding officer of Alpha element and the Red Tails squadron. You will not discipline one of my pilots outside of the chain of command or shame them publicly. If you have an issue with one of my pilots, it goes through me.” He gulped. “Sir.”

  Silence descended across the ready room. Whatley stared at him, his brow furrowed as if he were deep in thought or perhaps surprise. “That sounded suspiciously like the beginnings of a backbone, Lieutenant.” He pursed his lips. “Okay. Done, dobber. I’ll just come down on you twice as hard.”

  “If you’ll excuse me, sir, I have a war to fight.” Justin turned on his heel and marched off. That felt good. Really good.