“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
