“That makes thirty more vessels this week, comrade Admiral,” Yegor Voronin observed. He was the commander of Unity Station and also an admiral in the League Navy. “We’re up eight total.”
“If the fools back home would send half of our Orion Arm–based assets, this war would be over in three months,” Yuen fumed.
Voronin gave him a sidelong glance. “Have you not considered whether perhaps the Social and Public Safety Committee is drawing out the conflict?”
While the idea had long ago crossed Yuen’s mind, it wasn’t the sort of thing one said aloud. Still, Voronin had the areas of the station they used scanned on a daily basis for listening devices and trackers. The only people more paranoid than the Internal Security Division were the people they spied on—namely everyone else. “It has been some time since we had a great patriotic war.”
“The last of the battleship refits will be completed this week.”
Yuen turned his head. “Good. I’ll send them to reinforce our position at Eire and guard supply convoys.”
Whatever their beliefs, the individualists in the Terran Coalition made good soldiers. After nearly a year of combat, many a League commander had paid the ultimate price for overconfidence. Cracks were starting to show in morale as the rank and file realized the quick victory promised by the political commissars wasn’t going to happen.
“I’ve heard whispers of a near mutiny on the LX Panfilov,” Voronin remarked casually.
“Yes.” Yuen barely suppressed an eruption of white-hot anger. The vessel’s crew had had enough of poor leadership from both its commanding officer and political commissar, and a young lieutenant tried to take command. The captain barely stopped the insurrection by shooting his underling dead on the bridge.
“We must take care such things do not spread.” Voronin tilted his head. “Many of the rank-and-file crewmen are getting the idea that we’re not fighting to win. The months without major fleet actions or invasions give those ideas merit.”
Yuen shook his head in disgust. “Are you suggesting I should stage an assault on a CDF asset I know will fail, costing ships and lives, to help morale?”
“Perhaps that is a course of action, comrade. I am only suggesting that you need to do something.” Voronin wrinkled his nose. “I meant to ask… did you see the requisition orders for spare parts, fighter equipment, food, and weapons?”
“To where?” Yuen narrowed his eyes. “Individual supply requests are a bit below my pay grade.”
A cloud passed over Voronin’s eyes. “I’m not sure to where. Only that one of my supply officers flagged the request, and it eventually made it to me. The equipment was routed to a freighter headed for Lusitania.”
“A neutral planet controlled by humans near the Terran Coalition border, yes?”
Voronin nodded. “Correct. The entire matter is highly irregular. When I started investigating where it was going, I received a call from a political officer who identified himself as working for External Security Services.”
Few things in the universe could make Yuen’s blood run cold. ESS was one of them. “And?”
“I was told to drop my inquiries or be branded as an individualist.”
“Then I strongly suggest you comply, comrade.” Yuen raised an eyebrow. “We both know the penalty for such a charge.” In League parlance, calling someone an individualist was among the worst things a human could say about another. Just the mere hint of it was enough to derail the career of even the most senior officer. If it got to a courtroom, the trial almost always resulted in conviction and reeducation. Or death—individualism carried the risk of capital punishment.
“But we need every bit of our supplies to fight the Terrans. Why would anyone in the League of Sol divert war materiel—”
Yuen held up his hand. “Yegor, drop it now. Someone somewhere thinks they know better than the navy, and if it involves External Security, I want nothing to do with it. Neither should you. Run away as fast as you can, and tell everyone in your chain of command to forget they ever saw the requisition.”
For a moment, Voronin appeared as if he would argue, but then his head dropped ever so slightly. “Da, comrade.”
As they continued their discussion of fleet readiness and war strategy, Yuen wondered what the spies were up to with their cloak-and-dagger antics. Perhaps a black market was forming, or they were arming revolutionaries in the neutral systems to encourage resistance to the capitalists. Whatever it is, I’d better push it out of my mind and never let the urge to dig in further win out. Or I’ll be tilling crops by hand for food, just like Seville.
3
Preparations to get underway were ongoing throughout the Zvika Greengold. For the embarked air wing, those preparations manifested as methodically reviewing the maintenance logs of every fighter and bomber parked on the hangar deck. Along with such lovely tasks were ensuring enough consumable stores were stocked, spare parts were stowed, and the most challenging task of all: making sure the rookie pilots, or “nuggets,” as they were called, were settled in.
Justin detested the task, not because getting new pilots was a bad thing but because each one represented a lost friend.
That’s not true anymore. He’d stopped getting close to the newbies because they weren’t as likely to last. Justin picked up his mug and took a sip of coffee. He’d taken over a few chairs in the Red Tails ready room, since his office was so small. Several tablets were strewn about.
“Hey.” Feldstein interrupted the paperwork session.
Justin jerked his head up to see her standing a few chairs away. The hatch leading to the hangar was open. “Hey yourself,” he answered uneasily.
“I get the distinct impression you’ve been avoiding me,” she replied, arms crossed. “We’re going back into combat soon. It’s got to end.”
Justin had been girding himself for
