Around the bridge, every eye was on her. Even the enlisted ratings, who should’ve been paying attention to the myriad of displays, gazed intently.
“CDF Command has set Defense Condition One. The Terran Coalition is now at war with an unidentified enemy, who has a fleet of over one thousand warships. And they’re headed to our homes. All CDF vessels are ordered to return at best speed to Canaan to assist in its defense. All I expect from each one of you is that you do your duty.” Tehrani clicked off the 1MC.
“A thousand ships?” Bryan asked. “Colonel, with respect, the CDF doesn’t have but… what? Two hundred?”
Fear is a powerful opponent. Tehrani could feel it coursing through the bridge. “Lieutenant,” she began, her voice quiet but firm. “The planetary nation-states have hundreds more ships at their disposal. I might add, our warships appear to be technologically superior to theirs. Whoever they are. We will prevail.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“XO, I want a complete readiness report. Stand down from condition one. Make sure our people get some rest, because I expect the next twenty-four hours will be among the worst of our lives.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am.”
Tehrani’s gaze swept the bridge once more. Everyone still stared, and fear was evident in most of their faces.
“Navigation,” she said as she set her jaw. “Plot a course back to Canaan and relay it to our escorts. I want to be underway in fifteen minutes.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am. Plotting jump waypoints.”
Tehrani and Wright left the bridge together, leaving Lieutenant Bryan on the conn. It had been several hours since the Zvika Greengold started her journey back to the heart of the Terran Coalition. Tehrani kept thinking she was caught in a vivid and detailed nightmare, and at any moment, her alarm would go off. Too bad that’s not reality. Their destination was the briefing room on deck one, directly aft of the bridge. Common to all CDF warships, it was considered the CO’s domain and used for command-level meetings.
“I asked Major Whatley to meet with us,” Tehrani explained as she pushed the hatch open to the conference room and strode in. “Frankly, I’m concerned about having a ship full of reservist pilots getting their flight time in as our front-line combatants.”
“You’re not the only one, Colonel.” Gabriel Whatley had already arrived. He sat at the end of the table, in a fresh khaki service uniform. An American flag patch rested on his left shoulder, and nothing was under it. After Tehrani cleared the threshold, he rose respectfully to attention.
“As you were, Major.”
Tehrani took a seat at the other end of the table, while Wright dropped into the next chair.
“Gentlemen, thank you for joining me.” She rested her hands on the hard surface. “Well, you know why I asked you here, Major. While acknowledging that the pilots we had in space today fought superbly, I want your opinion on whether we can handle sustained fighting. CDF combat doctrine calls for four sorties a day.”
Whatley scrunched his brow. “As long as I’m the CAG, Colonel, we’ll be ready for whatever the enemy throws at us. That said, I have concerns about the training of our current pilots, and I’d like to request we get our regular squadrons back as soon as possible.”
“Agreed, ma’am. I’ve already put in the request to command,” Wright added.
“With that out of the way,” Tehrani said as she steepled her hands together, “what do you propose for an on-deck combat space patrol and squadron readiness as we approach Canaan?”
“All pilots on ready thirty starting four hours out, with the Red Tails squadron on ready five,” Whatley began. “We don’t have enough anti-ship missiles to outfit all of our bombers, but I’ve ordered them distributed equally. So, we must make every shot count.” His mouth remained curled in a frown.
“I see.”
“One other thing, Colonel. I intend to suit up. If needed, I’ll launch with the combat wing. This is too important for me to sit on the sidelines.”
Tehrani stared intently at him. “Aren’t you afraid of losing operational control of the wing during combat?”
“I have to trust the squadron commanders to do their jobs. Yes, they’re reservists, but it has to be enough.”
“Your call, Major.” Tehrani shifted her gaze to Wright. “Damage control status?”
“Everything we can repair in space is done, ma’am. We recovered the bodies of both soldiers who were sucked out during the decompression event and our lost pilot. They’re all in the ship’s morgue.” Wright bit his lip. “Some of the crew are talking about a memorial. Lots of shocked soldiers.”
“It’ll have to wait until whatever is waiting for us at Canaan is dealt with,” Tehrani replied. “Allah help us, but I suspect those three aren’t the last.”
“Probably a given in war, Colonel,” Whatley interjected.
The hatch swung open. “Sorry ta interrupt, Colonel,” Major Carlyle Hodges said in his Cockney accent. “But do you have a moment?”
Tehrani glanced backward and nodded. “Of course. Have a seat.”
“Thank ya,” he replied as he pulled a chair out and sat in it. The chief engineer of the Greengold, Hodges wore a navy-blue jumpsuit that was covered in grease stains. His left shoulder was adorned with the flag of Great Britain. “I need to discuss these back-to-back Lawrence drive jumps, ma’am. The engines aren’t made for it.” His eyes bored into her. “And we’re risking exotic-particle release.”
“Our home is under
