With Irvine gone, Tehrani wondered who would lead them. Someone will step up. It’s the order of things. She turned and stared out the window at the front of the bridge. “TAO, how far away are we from the Victory?”
“A thousand kilometers, give or take, ma’am,” Bryan replied. He sounded tired and weary.
“Navigation, intercept course.” Tehrani glanced at the plot and zeroed in on the icon for the Victory. “Sierra One Hundred Eighteen. Bring us alongside.”
Wright turned his head. “Manning the sides?”
“Got it in one,” Tehrani replied. “It would serve us well to remember their sacrifice and our own.”
He nodded. “Completely agree, skipper. Just don’t make the aviation deck force break out crackerjacks.” Wright winked.
Tehrani laughed. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” She stared off into space. “Not today, at least. Someday, I could see ships rendering honors as they fly by. Perhaps when we’ve won the war.”
“Yeah.”
Minutes passed as the escort carrier turned around and headed back toward the destroyed hulk of the Victory. The atmosphere on the bridge was somber but hopeful. They’d been through hell and survived. Tehrani figured that counted for something. She realized they needed to fire something to render honors as the Zvika Greengold glided by. Does anything still work on this ship? “TAO, do we have any functional weapons?”
“Um, two point-defense turrets, ma’am. That’s about it.”
“That’ll have to do, then. Firing-point procedures on those turrets. Target a safe vector and stand by to fire a salute as we pass.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am.”
When they were about a hundred kilometers away and creeping along at the painfully slow speed of five hundred meters a second, Tehrani punched up the 1MC. “Attention, all hands. This is your commanding officer. We are passing the CSV Victory to port. Man the sides to render honors. I say again, man the sides.” She turned off the intercom and stood. “Attention on deck!”
Everyone on the bridge except for Bryan and Mitzner—Tactical and Navigation—leaped to their feet.
As the plot showed them coming alongside the Victory, Tehrani turned to Bryan. “TAO, shoot, twenty-one-gun salute.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Bryan replied.
Streams of tracers erupted from the point-defense weapons in an age-old tradition.
The moment passed, and the Greengold continued on her way, past the wreck.
“As you were,” Tehrani said and sat back in her chair. “Navigation, lay in a course for Canaan’s primary shipyard and request docking instructions.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Mitzner replied.
“Ma’am, I think you might want to see this,” Bryan said as he turned around. “Have a look at your monitor.”
Tehrani’s eyes moved to the monitor above her head. After a few seconds, what he was talking about became apparent.
Every ship in the fleet had taken a vector that put them on approach to the Victory, in a neat line abreast. As the vessels formed up, they fired off tracer rounds or neutron beams at low power, mimicking the salute the Zvika Greengold had already performed. It was a fitting send-off to the flagship of the fleet and the heroic general who’d delivered an unlikely victory. Though as Tehrani pondered it, she felt convinced that Allah had, at the least, smiled on their efforts.
It took another hour for the carrier to slide into its berth. Tehrani had never seen so many vessels docked before or so much visible battle damage. Most ships had, at minimum, scorched hulls with pockmarks of armor damage and missing weapons emplacements, all the way up to holes cut clear through the internal structure. To say the fleet was heavily damaged was a significant understatement. Still, they’d survived, as had most of the CDF. It would take some time to get combat ready once more, but when they did, the League was in for a galaxy of hurt.
As the umbilicals from the station locked into place, Wright leaned over. “We just got a request to organize the off-loading of our wounded and… deceased.” He bit his lip, and emotion crept onto his face. “I’ve never organized a coffin ceremony before. Have you?”
Tehrani shook her head. “No. There was never a need.”
“I’ll get it started by the book.”
“Thank you, Major.”
“I’d say I hope it’s the only time we’ll have to do this…”
“But that is wishful thinking,” Tehrani finished. She felt numb. “I’ll be in my day cabin.” She stood. “The XO has the conn.”
“This is Major Wright. I have the conn,” he intoned formally.
The hatch to the bridge closed behind Tehrani, and she trudged down the passageway. She decided to take a moment to review the names of those lost before getting a shower and changing into her white dress uniform. In the back of her mind, she noted it was about time for the afternoon prayer. Tehrani quickened her steps to avoid being late.
Justin stared in the mirror of his small, cramped bathroom aboard the Zvika Greengold. One perk of serving on a carrier was that even a junior officer had a private room with a shower. He adjusted his flight wings and the ribbon bar on his uniform. A ceremony such as the one he was about to attend—removing casualties from the ship—called for a dress uniform. But the closest thing he had was a khaki duty uniform, pressed and ready to wear. It took thirty minutes, but he spit-shined his black shoes to the point that they looked like a mirror. Though it was a small gesture, his shoes were the only part of the uniform he could get entirely to regulation. I owe them that much. To show honor in any way I can.
After a last glance in the mirror to ensure everything was set, Justin walked out of his cabin. The walk to the main hangar deck took some time. As he strode through the passageways of the vessel, the unmistakable pride of victory along with a somber feeling of loss emanated from every soldier he passed. It was so palpable that Justin could almost taste it.
He rounded the corner and ambled through the double hatch into the hangar. Before him, a scene
