“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
