Tehrani stepped into the room. “As you were, Major. I heard you were down here and wanted to make sure everything was okay.”
“Just peachy, ma’am.”
She took a seat on one of the observer chairs and stared at him. “Oh? Then why aren’t you in bed, where you ordered our pilots to be? Because we all need our rest.”
“Ah. You know me too well after eighteen months.” Whatley leaned his head back. “I was second-guessing myself. I’ve been coming down hard on Lieutenant Spencer. Frankly, I don’t think he’s CDF front-line material.”
“Oh, I’m well aware. I saw the transfer request you put in my queue. It’s brutal.” Tehrani raised an eyebrow. “Yet he’s got what? Twenty-three combat victories and assists? That doesn’t sound like a poor pilot to me.”
“Ma’am, I bleed CDF. Cut me open, and you’ll find a Terran Coalition flag holding me together.” He snickered. “I have little room for people who aren’t here for the right reasons.”
“And until two days ago, who exactly did we have for enemies? We’re the de facto regional superpower. No alien empire or human megacorp would dare fight the Terran Coalition.” Tehrani held his gaze. It wasn’t quite a stare-down, but her expression was fierce. “I’d submit for your consideration that you’re too hard on the kid.”
“Yeah. That’s what I was in here pondering.” He gestured to the simulator system. “Typically, people who only care about themselves won’t go the extra mile in combat. It takes a special person to lay down their life for another.”
“I thought Christ’s gospel was mostly about that concept.”
“Right, and most of us Christians are good at it?” Whatley snorted. “The Terran Coalition’s become lax, ma’am. We’re drifting away from our ideals and ethics. The new generation is soft. I’d even say weak.” He thought of the endless holovid-reality programs that were consumed in ever greater quantities and the difficulties the CDF had in even hitting its recruiting targets—so much so that they’d started lowering the requirements to get in. Or the often-quoted statistics that religious belief was on the decline, and every year, fewer people attended church, their mosque, or synagogue.
“We’re going to have to get better at it, Major.” Tehrani shook her head. “I’ve seen the news trying to spin this as a flash in the pan, and that once… if we defeat this enemy fleet, this League of Sol will want to talk peace.” She crossed her arms. “I don’t buy a word of it. We’re going to find ourselves in a war for survival.”
“I couldn’t agree more.” Whatley had already considered what was coming next. He figured they had a Saurian War–type situation in store, if not worse. The Saurians at least had honor. They told you they were coming, declared war, then fought it out. An enemy that skulked about in the night, hidden, to stab you in the back had no honor and could never be trusted. The only way they could safely end the war was with Earth’s unconditional surrender. Hopefully, our piece-of-crap politicians know that.
“Now, back to the young lieutenant. I heard you tore a bloody strip out of him after he landed.” While Tehrani’s facial expression was perfectly neutral, even friendly, Whatley knew her well. Her tone was one of mild reproach, but her leadership style was for you to see the error of your ways before she had to spell it out.
And Gabriel Whatley, above all things, hated admitting he was wrong. That made his next words especially difficult. “You’re right, Colonel. Whatever he may have had in his head when he joined, it’s clear the man is a superb pilot.” He sighed. “And we’re lucky to have him right now.”
“So you’re going to apologize, yes?”
Whatley’s face heated. “Ma’am…”
“Contriteness is good for the soul, Gabriel.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He figured she’d used his first name for emphasis.
“Don’t make a big deal out of it. But Spencer needs to know you’ve got his back. Especially when we go into this next battle.”
“You say that like it’s a foregone conclusion.” Whatley searched for the hidden meaning behind her facial expression. “I thought Irvine’s orders were that we stay in the emergency reserve.”
“Call it a woman’s intuition,” Tehrani replied with a shrug. “I don’t see any way we’re not needed. And I want this ship and our pilots ready when it happens.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Now, pack this in, go back to your stateroom, and get some shut-eye. At least four hours.”
“Well—”
“That is a direct order, Major.” Tehrani tilted her head as she spoke. “The last time I checked, the CAG reports to me, and I outrank you. So… carry out my orders.”
Whatley offered a sheepish grin. “Yes, ma’am.” He powered off the simulator and stood. “Ladies first.”
“Oh, no. I’m watching you leave. I know you flyboys far too well.”
“Touché.”
As they walked through the hatch, Tehrani pivoted and stared directly into his eyes. “Major, promise me one thing. When this next battle finally occurs, you bring as many of our pilots home as possible. We’ve already lost too many.”
“On that, you have my solemn word, ma’am.” Whatley meant it with every fiber of his being.
For the first time in nearly forty-eight hours, Tehrani crossed the threshold of her spacious stateroom below decks. Situated deep within the Greengold, the officers’ quarters were placed in a location unlikely to be hit by a surprise volley of weapons fire—a nod to the CDF’s concerns over losing too many leaders on a vessel in one strike.
Her quarters were more like an apartment than a cabin, with separate living and dining spaces and a bedroom. Once the hatch closed, she stretched, letting out a yawn, and took off her khaki service uniform, which had the green, white, and red bars of the Persian Republic above the Islamic Crescent and Star.
Ten minutes later, Tehrani had showered and changed into a pair of pajamas. She curled up in her bed and pulled a personal tablet out of the nightstand. Her finger hovered
