“Replacement fighters, bombers, and pilots are on the way. Warships, we’re short on. You’ll have to make do until we finish integrating the nation-state military assets.”
“Understood, sir.” While it made sense that manufacturing new small craft was far easier and quicker than building additional escort ships, it still bothered Tehrani deeply. The League seemed to have near-limitless quantities of warships—and the Zvika Greengold wasn’t made for a straight-out slugging match. “Sir, I have to point out that given what we’ve seen of the enemy so far, our strike groups will need significant upgrades in ship-based firepower.”
“I’m well aware of that, Colonel,” Saurez replied, his tone going from friendly to sharp in a moment. “But I can’t give you ships I don’t have. As General Irvine put it… I expect all officers and enlisted personnel of the Coalition Defense Force to do their duty.”
“Yes, sir,” Tehrani replied, forcing her voice to remain completely neutral.
His expression relaxed. “The next few months will not be a walk in the park. I suspect we’ll be tested as we’ve never been tested before, going up against an enemy we know little about. And my suspicion is they’ve been watching us for years—maybe even decades. We’ll be fighting their war. Reacting to their tactics.” Saurez crossed his arms. “It’ll be up to every ship commander to find a way to win, even when the odds are stacked against us.”
“Semper tempus, sir.”
Saurez grinned. “Always in time. I’m certain you and your crew will continue to rise to the occasion.” He paused. “Good luck out there, Colonel.”
“You, too, sir.”
“Godspeed.”
The tablet’s screen blinked off, leaving Tehrani alone once more. She still wondered why the four-star had contacted her. Perhaps he was truly taking my measure. The bottom line was that the Zvika Greengold, and more importantly the soldiers under her command, were going to be at the sharp tip of the spear and by extension always in harm’s way. I’m going to have to force myself to get used to this. She found it difficult not to see herself as the head of their large extended family. She’d led her service to the CDF that way, and it had always worked. But not in a time of war.
Tehrani put her head down and opened another letter draft. She still had twenty-eight names to go.
After finishing with the crew chief, Justin had ended up back in the Red Tails ready room, even though they were off duty with the Zvika Greengold in space dock and stood down. As he mindlessly worked through after-action reports on his tablets, the hatch slamming shut startled him. He looked up to see Whatley, in his full dress uniform, drop into the front row of chairs a few seats down from him.
Justin sprang to his feet and came to attention. “Sir.”
“At ease, Lieutenant.” When Justin didn’t move, Whatley pointed at the chair behind him. “Sit.”
“Yes, sir.” Justin sat down gingerly.
“I looked over your gun-camera footage from the last battle,” Whatley said. He spread his hands out in front of him. “Four confirmed kills and who knows how many assists. Damn impressive flying, son.”
Justin stared straight ahead. “We still lost eleven good men and women the last two days.”
“It bothers you?”
“Of course it does, sir,” Justin replied, scrunching his face. He gritted his teeth. “There were so many of them. I swear it felt like I blew one Leaguer up and two more took his place.”
Whatley nodded. “That’s combat for you.”
“I’m glad you came by, sir. I want to put my name in to stay in the fight.” Justin swallowed. “I need to see this through.”
“You don’t get a say in it. CDF Command called the entire squadron to active duty an hour ago.” Whatley’s lips curled into a grin. “But I respect that you would’ve volunteered.” He reached out and put his hand on Justin’s arm. “You’re going to have to learn how to handle losing people, including your friends, on a nearly constant basis.”
“How, sir?” Justin didn’t want to think about the feeling he’d had seeing someone he knew die in a split-second explosion of orange flame, with not a damn thing he could do about it.
“Depends on the person. Some of us get hard, some turn to a bottle, and some find God. Others build a network of friends.” Whatley shrugged. “How you do it is up to you, but make no mistake, son. You have to sort that out. Trust me.”
“How do you deal with it, sir?”
“God mostly. Sometimes long talks with friends who serve. Every once in a while, a few drinks out of that bottle I mentioned.”
“I’ll try to remember that,” Justin replied. “I suppose I’m not much on God, so I’ll pick something else. Just, ah, not the bottle.”
“At least not while on duty.”
To Justin’s surprise, Whatley didn’t seem interested in judging his beliefs or lack thereof. With all I’ve heard about how old-school this guy is, I figured he’d rip me a new one for that too. The attitude change threw him for a loop.
“Why are you in the ready room?” Whatley asked, as if changing the subject.
Justin forced a smile. “I couldn’t think of anything else to do, and I didn’t want to be around other people. Going back to my cabin wasn’t appealing, either.”
“Let me give you some advice.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Get up, swallow any pride, hurt, or whatever else is bothering you, get down to the officers’ mess, and enjoy a meal with your fellow pilots. Talk to them about good times and bad. Remember the men and women who died today. Then get ready to get up tomorrow and kill some damn Leaguers.” Whatley finished the sentence with a big grin. “Remember… those bastards killed our friends. It’s not our job to judge them. That’s God’s job. Our job is to arrange a face-to-face meeting as soon as possible.”
Justin hadn’t heard the phrase in a
