“I sense another but in there.” After two years of working together, Tehrani had come to know her senior officers well. In a sense, they were less her subordinates and more of an extended family.
Wright let out a sigh. “Colonel, our replacement personnel… they’re green. Beyond green. The new pilots for the Red Tails squadron are two months out of flight school. They’re straight-up nuggets. The Golden Aces squadron was so badly damaged that CDF command withdrew it from active duty, and we got a squadron of SF-79 Boar fighters in its place.”
“Boars? That’s four-decades-old technology.”
“Yeah, well, apparently, these particular Boars have shields on ’em.” He shrugged. “I won’t say this out loud anywhere but in here, ma’am, but it seems to me the Greengold is getting the dregs of possible reinforcements.”
Probably because that’s all there is. The thought was unwelcome and scary. Tehrani wondered how bad the situation really was. Because one thing was for sure—CDF command wouldn’t tell a lowly colonel commanding an escort carrier if the war was already lost and they hadn’t realized it yet. She forced her mind back on task. “Why do you say that?”
He quirked his nose. “Ma’am, I read over some of the service jackets. They sent us people that a month ago would’ve been discharged for poor performance.”
“We’ll have to make do.”
“I know, but I wanted to bring it to your attention.”
Tehrani put her hands on the desk. “Have you ever trained for convoy escort duty?”
After a pause, Wright laughed. “Beyond some command-scenario sims? No, ma’am. Nothing real world, not even an exercise.”
She turned her tablet around to face him. It showed a map with several jump points flashing red. “We’ll be providing escort for thirty-three merchant ships forming up at New Washington. Eight jumps to the outer colonies.”
“That’s a lot of ground to cover and a fair number of vessels to protect. How many warships?”
“Twelve. Our depleted battle group along with another one built around the CSV Conqueror,” Tehrani replied with a smile.
Wright nodded thoughtfully. “An older battlewagon and hopefully some decent escorts… not a bad force.”
“I wish our own group were stronger. Command still hasn’t assigned us replacement ships. So it’ll be us, a repaired CSV Marcus Luttrell, and the CSV Glasgow—another Argyle-class frigate.”
“Well, then. Hopefully it’s a milk run.”
Tehrani’s stomach twisted into knots. She had no delusions about the size of the task before them. “Our orders impressed on me how vital it is for supplies to get to the mining colonies and the shipments of rare earth metals such as neodymium, promethium, and lithium in return. Without them, our shipyards will grind to a halt.”
“No new ships… League wins. Got it, Colonel.” Wright sighed. “I’ll do my best to get us whipped into shape. Permission to schedule random battle drills, zero-G firefighting, and other ship casualty scenarios?”
Tehrani grinned wolfishly. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. Between you and the master chief, we’ll jell these raw recruits into soldiers.”
“Amen to that, ma’am.”
2
Presidential Center
Lawrence City—Canaan
26 October 2433
Over the previous month, Jason Nolan had transitioned from a peacetime president of the Terran Coalition—with an agenda mostly set around expanding government support for the poor and dealing with what he saw as trade inequality with the aliens that surrounded the Coalition—to a wartime leader. Gone were the boisterous policy discussions with groups of young aides who had outsized ideas on how to make the economy better. Grim assessments of casualties had replaced them along with endless war planning sessions.
At 0700, Nolan walked through a door held open for him by a member of his protective detail and into the state-of-the-art command-and-control bunker at the base of the White House in Lawrence City. The act felt as natural as his first cup of coffee. There’s probably something wrong with that, he reflected.
“Attention on deck!” one of the junior officers called.
For the briefing, the room was lined with CDF personnel along with numerous civilians in business suits.
“As you were,” Nolan said. He made a beeline for the seat at the head of the table.
His chief of staff, Abdul Karimi, sat down next to him. An older man with prominent streaks of gray hair—where he wasn’t already bald—Karimi had been with him for almost a decade, during the time Jason had worked his way up from the Assembly to the Senate and finally the Presidency. “We’re ready if you are, sir.”
“By all means,” Nolan replied. He sat back in the chair as everyone else took their respective seats.
Another man, not quite Karimi’s age but still clearly over fifty, stood. General Antonio Saurez, Commander, Space Fleet, was the overall flag officer for the CDF’s spaceborne forces. His voice carried a vague Spanish accent. “Mr. President, not much has changed at the front from yesterday.” He gestured toward a holoprojected map of Terran Coalition space. “Except we lost another mining colony. Newbottle.”
“Lithium, right?”
“Yes, sir.” Saurez crossed his arms. “Sir, I cannot overstate to you how important it is for us to reinforce our outer planets and hold them at all costs. Whoever’s running the campaign against us now is smart, Mr. President.”
“As opposed to whoever showed up at our doorstep with a thousand ships and almost captured Canaan?” Nolan snapped. “Am I to believe that individual was dumb, General?”
“As a matter of fact, yes, sir. Our ability to project power and wage war is governed by the number of warships we have in service. Right now, across the Terran Coalition, we’re ramping up ship production. In five years, we’ll effectively double our fleet and be ready to stage offensive actions. Undoubtedly, our enemy has developed intelligence to that effect and is attempting to deny us the raw materials to do so.”
Nolan set his jaw. “General, I’ve made it clear that I respect your opinion as a professional military officer. Call me what you will… a layman, a politician,
