Intervention

The Iron Fleet Book Two

Daniel Gibbs

Intervention by Daniel Gibbs

Copyright © 2025 by Daniel Gibbs

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Also Available from Daniel Gibbs

Battlegroup Z

Book 1 - Weapons Free

Book 2 - Hostile Spike

Book 3 - Sol Strike

Book 4 - Bandits Engaged

Book 5 - Iron Hand

Book 6 - Final Flight

Echoes of War

Book 1 - Fight the Good Fight

Book 2 - Strong and Courageous

Book 3 - So Fight I

Book 4 - Gates of Hell

Book 5 - Keep the Faith

Book 6 - Run the Gauntlet

Book 7 - Finish the Fight

The Lost Warship

Book 1 - Adrift

Book 2 - Mercy

Book 3 - Valor

Book 4 - Justice

Book 5 - Resolve

Book 6 - Faith

The Iron Fleet

Book 1 - Battlestations

Book 2 - Intervention

Book 3 - Counterstrike

Book 4 - Danger Close (COMING IN 2025)

Book 5 - Check Fire (COMING IN 2025)

Book 6 - Decision Point (COMING IN 2025)

Galaxy Bridge

(With Steve Rzasa)

Book 1 - Forward Command

Book 2 - Forward Hunt

Book 3 - Forward Pact

Book 4 - Forward Crisis

Book 5 - Forward Raid

Book 6 - Forward Shield

Book 7 - Reality Break

Book 8 - Reality Clash

Book 9 - Reality Restored

Breach of Faith

(With Gary T. Stevens)

Book 1 - Breach of Peace

Book 2 - Breach of Faith

Book 3 - Breach of Duty

Book 4 - Breach of Trust

Book 5 - Spacer’s Luck

Book 6 - Fortune’s Favor

Book 7 - The Iron Dice

Deception Fleet

(With Steve Rzasa)

Book 1 - Victory’s Wake

Book 2 - Cold Conflict

Book 3 - Hazards Near

Book 4 - Liberty’s Price

Book 5 - Ecliptic Flight

Book 6 - Collision Vector

Courage, Commitment, Faith: Tales from the Coalition Defense Force

(Anthology Series)

Volume One

Volume Two

Volume Three

1

CSV Margaret Thatcher

Deep Space—Orion Spur

6 April 2474

Lieutenant Colonel Arthur Hanson wiped the sweat off his brow while simultaneously blowing out a breath. To the Thatcher’s aft, three Halcyon-class freighters aggressively pursued them, spewing plasma-based weaponry.

Blue light bathed the face of newly promoted Major Abigail Miller, seated to his left. “I really don’t like them shooting up our freshly repaired aft,” she grumbled.

“Occupational hazard, XO.” Arthur leaned forward in his harness as the bridge shook. “TAO, where’s my mag-cannon reload?”

“Just done, sir. Double EMP shells, dorsal aft.”

“Firing point procedures, Master Two, all available mag-cannons and neutron beams.”

“Aye, aye, sir. Firing solutions set,” Second Lieutenant Nadia Yasin replied. She’d been the second-watch tactical officer until the sneak attack by the Popular Front for the Liberation of the Orion Spur had claimed the lives of Colonel Savchenko and many others. The flag of New Arabia sat underneath the emblem of the Terran Coalition on her left shoulder.

Next man up. Arthur had always embraced that ethos in the Coalition Defense Force, but the last week had put it to the test like no other time in recent memory. “Match bearings, shoot, all in-arc mag-cannons and neutron beams.”

Two barrels loaded with twin rounds each erupted from the turret underneath the Thatcher’s primary hull. The four shells were magnetically accelerated in the space of a quarter second to ten percent of the speed of light. In the blink of an eye, all four had slammed into the deflectors on the targeted enemy, creating a dazzling display of blue energy crackles. Moments later, neutron beams hit the weakened shielding, which held despite the firepower thrown against them.

Not to be outdone, the enemies continued their pummeling. Arthur watched with one eye on the tactical display and the other on his central ship-status screen as their protective shields dropped further with every impact.

“Master Two forward shields above fifty percent cohesion, sir,” Yasin called out.

Miller pursed her lips. “And aft screens are buckling.” She put her finger on the display.

“Wait for it,” Arthur replied.

“How long? This has gone on for ten minutes.”

Arthur steepled his fingers. “Any time now.”

On the tactical plot, a new dot appeared a moment later as if he had spoken it into existence.

“Conn, TAO. Aspect change, new contact designated Sierra Two bearing one-eight-three, range, eight thousand kilometers.”

Seconds later, the dot turned blue and morphed into the icon for a Growler-class stealth raider.

“Told you,” Arthur said with a barely suppressed grin. “TAO, make tubes one through twelve ready in all respects, and open outer doors. Plot firing solutions for Master One, Two, and Three. Four Hunters each.”

“Firing solutions set, sir. Outer doors open. All tubes ready in all respects.”

“Match bearings, shoot, tubes one through twelve.”

One by one, every half a second, a Hunter missile blasted out of the dorsal VRLS—Vertical Rail Launch System—amidships and into the void. The bright flash of ion engines was a sight to behold, especially when they all went at once.

Arthur held on as the deck rumbled, jostling him and the rest of the bridge crew in their harnesses. The tactical plot updated with twelve new blue dots rapidly separating from the Thatcher while another dozen came into being around the other friendly contact.

Caught between twenty-four incoming warheads, the PFLOS commanders panicked—exactly as Arthur had hoped. Nice to see their OODA loop disrupted instead of ours for once. The observe, orient, decide, and act sequence was the cornerstone of CDF military operations. And having the initiative means we react faster. While the concept was simple on its face, proper implementation, much like everything else in life, was far more complex.

“Conn, TAO. Units from tubes one through twelve running hot, straight, and normal, sir. They’ve acquired their targets and are in terminal homing.”

Arthur glanced at Miller with a grin. “Told you it’d work.”

“Don’t count those chickens before they hatch,” she replied with a smirk of her own. “Or enemies before they explode, in this case.”

Miller, as usual, had a point. After thirty seconds of indecision, the PFLOS ships seemingly had a joint epiphany to flee. They turned at right angles to one another and accelerated into the void, using fusion thrusters to great effect. One such plume was visible through the Thatcher’s bridge windows. While CDF ships had similar systems and could turn on a dime, it was highly unusual to see freighters sporting the technology.

Then again, very little was usual about the vessels PFLOS used. Virtually all of them were standard civilian models yet reengineered in ways that impressed Arthur from a technical perspective. He wondered where they found shipyards that would perform the work, seeing as half the modifications were patently illegal in Terran Coalition space.

“All hostile contacts spinning up FTL, sir,” Yasin interjected.

Arthur bit his lip as he willed the effort to fail, as if that would do much good. Big risk on their part because those Lawrence drives can’t have properly cooled down yet. His next consideration was that they probably had access to military-grade FTL too.

“Master Three has jumped.”

The notification felt like ashes in Arthur’s mouth. We can still get two of them. Moments later, another red icon disappeared, leaving Master Two, a Halcyon-class freighter, the only remaining hostile.

Hunter missiles closed in from every direction as all twenty-four made the enemy vessel their only objective. Each second brought the swarm of angry blue dots closer to the ship, which still hadn’t jumped out. Maybe we did more damage than we thought. Finally, it got an artificial wormhole open, but before the PFLOS freighter could make it through, three warheads slammed into the port arc deflectors.

A split second later, two more hit its fore, and a moment after that, enough rained through the depleted shields and exploded in fusion fury that nothing was left beyond tiny specks of debris.

Arthur exhaled heavily as the light filters snapped into place on the windows at the front of the bridge, dimming the view of a couple dozen miniature fusion suns to a tolerable level.

“Master Two destroyed, sir,” Yasin said a second later.

“One out of three.” Miller crossed her arms. “If the Tucson had showed up on time—”

“Senior Chief,” Arthur interjected. “Any injuries reported belowdecks?”

“None, sir. No damage beyond some scorching of our aft armor.”

Arthur turned to his XO. “We got one of them and lost none of ours. That’s a win, Major.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Conn, Communications. I’ve got Major Godat for you, sir, with his compliments.”

Arthur instinctively straightened his black space sweater, ensuring the bright ship patch bearing the Margaret Thatcher’s logo was smooth. Like many space-warfare officers, he preferred it to wearing the full khaki service uniform with its myriad of campaign ribbons, pins, and other insignia. “On my viewer.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

The screen above the CO’s head swung down and came to life with an image of the Tucson’s control center. It had many elements in common with an Ajax-class bridge yet lacked an exterior view of the void. The golden nebulas… a different breed altogether.

“Scratch one of those infernal freighters and its crew,” Major Patrick Godat said without preamble. “Though I wish we’d gotten more.”

“We would’ve if you hadn’t been late,” Miller said. “You know you really shouldn’t keep a lady waiting.”

Godat raised an eyebrow. “Coordinating attacks across light-years with poor comms isn’t exactly simple, Captain. Though… I’ll concede the number of Hunters we used for the effect obtained is worrisome.”

The last thing Arthur wanted to engage in was defeatist talk on the bridge. Morale was precarious at best, with the nearest reinforcements still being at least two weeks away. “I’ll take the win. One fewer of those damned PFLOS freighters killing civilians is worth almost any price. Now, let’s reload our tubes and see if we can troll another terrorist into attacking. XO, any thoughts on a target system?”

“There’s a Helium-3 mining operation around a few gas giants six light-years from here. Topping off our fuel reserves would be nice, and trying to attract attention would be a bonus.”

Arthur set his jaw. “Sounds like a plan to me. Navigation, plot a Lawrence jump. Major, resume your patrol.”

“Understood, sir. Tucson out.”

As the screen went blank and rotated back up into the overhead, Arthur turned to Miller. “Penny for your thoughts, XO?”

Miller crossed her arms. “I want more results. I know you do, too, sir. It’s getting to me. These bas… people came into our space, have killed countless civilians, thousands of our brothers- and sisters-in-arms, and…”

An uneasy silence filled the bridge. Arthur knew what she wanted to say next: condemnation of the politicians back in the Sagittarius Arm who, for reasons he couldn’t comprehend, weren’t willing to risk a direct confrontation with the League. It was obvious to him and everyone else that the League had to be behind PFLOS. Nothing else made sense.

A line from a poem that General Cohen often quoted came to his mind. Theirs is not to reason why, theirs but to do and die. Dark thoughts were never more than a few moments away since the fragile peace had been shattered. Arthur had known war almost his entire life. He’d grown up in a family where his father had served, and his sister and two brothers had joined the CDF, selecting their preferred career paths well before the draft roll came for them.

The past few years without a defined, sustained conflict had taken adjustment. In a war for survival, you could focus everything on the goal of victory. All other concerns were secondary. Suddenly, they weren’t, and normal life mattered once more.

It had taken Arthur some time to sort it out in his mind. But he’d served for so many years that being a soldier was what he knew. And I’m good at it too. While getting out and becoming a civilian engineer was always in the cards, there’d been no impetus to do so. Objects in motion stay so unless acted upon by an object of equal or greater force.

Now, though, everything was shaken and upside down. Some romanticized combat, but Arthur never had. Peace seemed like a dream that had been taken in the middle of the night and replaced with a horrific nightmare that wouldn’t end.

“Sir?”

Arthur blinked as he heard Miller’s voice. “Uh, sorry. Say again, XO?”

“Lieutenant Faulkner has some intel for us, sir. He’s requesting a meeting in the conference room as soon as possible.”

Well, hmm. I guess we can delay our hunting for a while. “Nav, belay my previous orders. Plot a jump to the interstellar void. No systems within a light-year.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” First Lieutenant Esther Savitz replied. “Jump plotted.”

“Spin up our Lawrence drive.”

Throughout jump evolution, until they were on the other side of the multihued wormhole, Arthur pondered why, after tasting peace, anyone would willingly start another war. The League has more planets that it knows what to do with, as do we. If they need more minerals, they could mine uninhabited worlds or asteroids.

But even as he thought the words, Arthur knew the real reason behind the terrorists’ actions. In a communist system of government, there was no room for dissent. And when you had a rival system sitting on your proverbial doorstep, showing higher standards of living and more freedom on the most tightly controlled Terran world than any Leaguer had experienced in hundreds of years… it was a threat to the continued existence of the regime.

“Conn, TAO. Sensors back online, sir. No contacts. Clear board.”

As it should be in the vast recesses of the void. “XO, get Faulkner up here on the double. Senior Chief, you’re with the XO and me.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Senior Chief Petty Officer Ezekiel Cooper replied. He was the senior enlisted soldier aboard the Thatcher, after Master Chief Leon Palmer’s death during the initial PFLOS assault. A fellow American from New Virginia, he and Arthur had a lot in common.

Arthur stood from the CO’s chair and ever so slightly stretched his legs gingerly on the deck. “Lieutenant Yasin, you have the conn. Summon your relief to watch the board.”

She swiveled around in her chair and stood. “Aye, aye, sir. This is Lieutenant Yasin. I have the conn.”

“After you, Major.” Arthur gestured toward the hatch leading to the rest of deck one. Really hoping Faulkner has something for us. Like the location of their HQ. That’d be a great place to start.

PSB Chen Quingzhi

Popular Front for the Liberation of the Orion Spur HQ

6 April 2474

Yevgeny Kovalev was not a happy man. While the first stage of his assault on the Terran Coalition had gone according to plan, since then had been anything but. The accursed CDF still had a handful of ships operating in the Orion Spur, and they’d played havoc with his up-gunned freighters. For reasons he couldn’t explain, it chapped his rear the most that a ship named after a famous anticommunist from Earth led them. He’d researched Margaret Thatcher and found her to be an odious individualist who should’ve been purged from the planet rather than allowed to help derail the glorious revolution of Lenin.

Still, with their worst defeat in decades inflicted upon the accursed capitalists, at least they had something to celebrate. From the fortified station he’d had painstakingly constructed in a gas giant, Kovalev plotted the next move.

Hai Gao cleared his throat. “Comrade?”

“What?” Kovalev snapped. He stood at a holoprojector that displayed the Orion Spur with icons representing what remained of the Terran Coalition’s space-based infrastructure.

“How do you wish to respond?”

Kovalev flexed his hand before slamming it onto the top of the projector. The device blinked off before resuming its steady image. “What I wish is to understand how we haven’t destroyed these four ships.”

“They are highly capable warriors, comrade. It is no fault of the men. They have laid down their lives for the revolution without question.”

“I do not care about giving our lives for the cause. We must make the capitalists give theirs instead.” Kovalev sighed. “The next phase cannot commence until this objective is completed.”

The benefactor had made clear long ago that once all the CDF assets were gone, he had resources within the League that would engage. How and exactly what that entailed had never been explained.

“I have a suggestion,” Gao said after taking a few moments to take in the rest of the crew on the command deck.

Kovalev turned his hand palm outward. “What is it? You know I respect your counsel and that of all comrades in the struggle.”

“Right now, we are reacting to the Coalition Defense Force. Instead, we must seize the initiative.”

Which is great advice except for the how. Kovalev crossed his arms. “Go on.”

“Announce we will kill ten hostages each time the CDF engages one of our ships.”

Kovalev blinked. It was ingenious. Use the enemy’s individualism against them. “Even more… a hundred executed. On a live holonetwork, for the galaxy to see. Their fractured political leaders will bow to public pressure and stop fighting.”

“While we figure out a better method to track the remaining ships and destroy them at a time and place of our choosing.”

“Yes. Yes.” Kovalev nodded while allowing his lips to curl into a grin. “An excellent suggestion, comrade. One that we will implement immediately. Contact the Galactic News Network. I believe we have a story they will want to broadcast live.”

Of all the things in the war, Kovalev loved using the Coalition’s own media organs against it while he reveled in how weak they were. This infection they call freedom will be their downfall. And I will be the one to ensure the Terrans no longer threaten the galaxy.

2

The White House

Lawrence City—Canaan

7 April 2474

It had only been a little more than a week since the start of the PFLOS assault. David felt as if each day had been a year. He averaged three hours of sleep a night, even though there was precious little he could do from an office five thousand light-years away from the battlefield. Salena, his wife, repeatedly reminded him how worthless his efforts would be if his body wasn’t allowed adequate rest. I know she’s right, but I can’t turn off my brain.

The latest broadside from the terrorists hadn’t helped matters.

As civilian aides to the president and members of the Interstellar Security Council filed in, he took note of the wall-mounted chronometer showing the time on each of the major worlds of the Coalition along with Sauria and Joint Base Sagittarius Arch. Every tick, another second we won’t get back.

Thoughts of leading the Lion of Judah along with a massive battlegroup to eradicate the terrorists and their League of Sol masters were never far from his mind, especially when surrounded by so many whom he considered poor leaders.

President Rachel Robbins strode in with her chief of staff, Jackson Harding, following in her wake.

David was the first on his feet, then everyone else rose. He braced to attention, as did the rest of the military personnel present.

“Please, be seated,” Robbins said as she took her traditional spot at the head of the table.

The rustle of chairs filled the room as they complied.

Robbins turned to David. “Have you seen the latest, General Cohen?”

“PFLOS is threatening to kill one hundred hostages every time we engage their forces.” David crossed his arms.

“Not quite. They executed a middle-aged kindergarten teacher on a live holobroadcast ten minutes ago.”

David’s face heated as he bit his lip. “Barbarians.”

President Robbins threw her hands into the air. “They have over five thousand of our people, General. We cannot allow them to be killed.”

“The best way to stop that is to flood the Orion Spur with overwhelming force and eliminate the terrorists, Madame President.”

“General, that’s not productive,” Harding interjected.

David gestured toward the nearest holoprojector. “It’s the most logical solution.”

“I won’t have yet another war on my hands, General,” Robbins hissed. “Do you know where they’re holding the hostages?”

“Not yet. Our remaining forces in the spur are working on it around the clock. Breaking terrorists isn’t exactly an easy business.”

Robbins made eye contact with Harding before turning back to David. “In that case, I want you to stand down all offensive activity in the Orion Spur until we find our people and rescue them.”

It took every ounce of self-control and restraint in David’s soul not to erupt. “From a military perspective, that is the worst possible thing we could do, Madame President. We cannot allow butchers to dictate policy.”

“And what, precisely, do you think will happen to our government if we preside over the murders of five thousand Coalition citizens live on the six o’clock news?”

At least Rhodes isn’t here to amplify this crap. David set his jaw. “I’d like to believe our citizens are astute enough to recognize evil when they see it and overwhelmingly back our government in a time of crisis. We still do that, right? We’re all Terrans at the end of the day.”

“What media are you watching, General?” Harding offered a derisive chuckle. “The talking heads never stop braying.”

Mindful of his constitutional limits and the rules under which military officers couldn’t interfere with the political process, David held his tongue. Instead, he focused on a different point. “Madame President, if we stop hunting PFLOS, they will simply kill more of our people. At the very least, we must continue to respond to distress calls.”

“Actually, General Cohen, our analysis is that there’re just not enough merchant ships left plying their trade in the Orion Spur for the insurgents to get meaningful kill numbers.”

David snapped his head around. “Who exactly are you?”

“William Lorenz, CIS threat analysis team, sir.”

For a moment, David’s vision went red. Blood pumping through his body thundered so loudly that it seemed as if his heart might explode. The sheer stupidity on display here is astounding. He forced himself to remember that HaShem raised up leaders. It was by His will, as Judaism taught, that those in command had their positions.

David counted to three. “Lorenz, if they can’t kill people in the void, they’ll do it on the ground. I’m surprised they haven’t tried planetary bombardment before now. They certainly have the weapons to do so. Try to imagine a few fusion-warhead-tipped missiles hitting New Rostov’s capital.”

“We don’t believe they intend to use weapons of mass destruction, sir.”

“Oh, you don’t? Did you know they existed before they attacked?”

Lorenz’s face turned bloodred. “There were indicat—”

“Yes or no.” David’s gaze bored into the younger man.

“No, sir.”

He pointed at the analyst. “Then don’t tell me what these maniacs will or won’t do. Because you don’t know. The only thing we do know is that they make every human faction and alien species we’ve encountered, with the exception of the Sextan B nanites and the Kin, look like Boy Scouts.”

“None of this changes that we cannot allow our citizens to be mass-murdered,” Robbins interjected. “I’m firm on this, General. The solution is obvious: find where the hostages are being held, rescue them, and continue military operations.”

“They could easily be dispersed across dozens of locations—”

Robbins crossed her arms. “That’s your problem to figure out, General.”

“What of the matter of responding to distress calls?”

“Restrict that to passenger liners only, General.”

David tried to keep his face neutral. “Yes, ma’am,” he finally ground out.

“I think that’s all we need you for today, unless you have a major update not in this morning’s daily military brief?” Harding interjected.

“Nothing further to add,” David said as he rose. He braced to attention then walked out. Getting dismissed by a political flunky like a first-year cadet. I should never have accepted the fourth star or this posting. Even as he walked between civilian staffers, David knew he was looking at it the wrong way. Just as HaShem raises up leaders, He numbers our steps. I am where I am supposed to be, even if I don’t like it.

How has the universe turned so upside down? David knew that despair wouldn’t get him anywhere, but it was almost impossible to set aside. Nothing he was experiencing entirely made sense. Not being able to affect the situation bothers me the most.

Four ships plus some special help. Finding and rescuing five thousand people is going to be a challenge, to put it mildly. David considered that the operation might have to wait until the reinforcements arrived, but that wasn’t really in the realm of possibility.

Somehow, some way—they had to find one more miracle.

The fatigue and weariness no longer seemed to matter. David slid into his helicar and punched up the central military annex before sending a message to Salena that he’d be late for dinner. I’ve got to stop doing that. Being there for my family is important too. He hoped to be home in time to tuck Shoshanna and Levi into bed.

Arthur had a spring in his step as he strode into the deck-one conference room to find it already populated with Miller, Lieutenant Avery Faulkner and a female enlisted Marine he didn’t recognize. Though the room was much like virtually every other Ajax-class destroyer’s deck one, the small details were what made it home. In their case, a propaganda poster of Second Saurian War–era vintage plastered above the coffee dispenser proclaimed, “If we build enough of these, we won’t need these,” showcasing the difference between ship production and civilian protection bunkers.

“Colonel on deck!” Faulkner barked as he came to rigid attention.

Everyone else rose as well.

“As you were.” Arthur slid into the chair at the head of the table. A brief pang of sadness hit him as he remembered Colonel Savchenko doing the same thing countless times. “So, you’ve got my attention, Lieutenant. What’s going on?”

Faulkner stood. His hair was still high and tight in a traditional Marine cut. His entire demeanor, while professional, reminded Arthur of a freshly minted officer feeling out how to do things “for real” as opposed to what the classroom taught.

“Sir, we’ve broken the first layer of encryption on the recovered storage devices.”

Arthur licked his lips. “Outstanding. What have you found?”

Faulkner exchanged glances with the enlisted Marine next to him. “Corporal McClane discovered that there is a secondary lockout. Biometric verification and a spoken pass phrase are required to unlock the data.”

Arthur’s hope was suddenly dashed against the harshness of the void, and he fought the desire to put his head in his hands. Instead, he forced a chuckle. “Leave it for us to find the one group of Leaguers in the universe that understands communications security. Okay, what’s next, then?”

Faulkner nodded toward McClane.

She cleared her throat. “We considered brute forcing our way in, but there’s a five-try lockout. In short, we have to convince one of the prisoners to cooperate.”

“And not just any of them… the commander or executive officer,” Faulkner interjected.

“In other words, the most committed fanatics.” Arthur crossed his arms. It seemed like an impossible task because of how the interrogations had gone so far. His people would do their best, but sometimes, that wasn’t enough.

“PASCORE intercepts of the PFLOS jumps would help the process, sir. As would access to real-time intelligence feeds,” McClane said.

“Fresh out of those, Corporal. Do we have any other ideas here?” Arthur briefly considered trying to get Dr. Hayworth involved, as his computer skills were invaluable. What about that guy we rescued from the Mifreen? He’s joined to the doc’s hip.

Before anyone else could speak, Second Lieutenant Kaveh’s voice came over the intercom. “Colonel, apologies, but you’re receiving flash traffic from CDF Command. Text only.”

“Route it to my tablet, Lieutenant.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

A moment later, the message appeared on Arthur’s device. He pressed his right thumb to the screen to identify himself and stared as the words came into focus. Such was his shock, he didn’t realize he’d dropped the tablet until the loud thud on the table snapped him back to reality.

“Sir, are you okay?”

Arthur blinked a few times. “Yes, Lieutenant. We… and all other CDF assets in the Orion Spur were just ordered to cease any confrontations with PFLOS unless they’re attacking worlds via orbital bombardment or shooting at passenger liners.”

“What?” Faulkner thundered. “That’s insanity. Are those fake orders, sir?”

“No. Fully authenticated. Apparently, our terrorist buddies have threatened to kill a hundred hostages every time we engage a PFLOS ship.”

“What the actual hell is going on here?” Miller asked. “This is insanity. You don’t stand down in the face of our people being slaughtered. Sir, you cannot accept these orders. Please.”

The concept of the chain of command and nearly automatic obedience to lawful orders was something that was drilled into every CDF soldier, enlisted, or officer. Not that there wasn’t room for innovation or pointing out a better way during the decision-making process. But once a command was issued, you carried it out, period, end of story.

“Our orders from General Cohen himself are to find and rescue the hostages.”

“That will not help the people PFLOS is killing now.”

Arthur put his fingers to his temples. “Lieutenant, prepare the senior-most prisoner for interrogation.”

“Sir, I don’t think there’s anything more I—”

“I’ll be conducting the questioning personally, Lieutenant. One hour.”

“Yes, sir.” Faulkner appeared to want to say something else, but he refrained, glancing at McClane.

“Dismissed, Lieutenant. Corporal.”

Both Marines stood and came to attention before swiftly departing.

Arthur turned to Miller. “Abigail, I don’t like this any more than you do.” He hoped the use of her first name would hammer home the situation.

“Sir, we can’t stay out of the fight.”

Arthur bit his lip. “The CDF is never out of the fight.”

“We are if we follow those orders.”

“Not if we figure out where they’re holding our people.” Arthur narrowed his eyes. “Then we can bring them home and score a win over these terrorist asshats.”

“Until then, sir? Do we really stand down?”

I wonder… Is this how a trapped animal feels when it’s finally cornered? The orders were clear. But they’re immoral. General Cohen himself violated orders on several occasions. He’d been there and supported the actions. Now, the shoe was on his foot. “I believe we’re having communications difficulties, XO. How long do you think it will take to resolve them so that we could pass this back to the rest of the task force?”

Miller’s mouth curled up in a grin. “I’m not sure, sir. But probably a few days at least.”

“We keep ourselves restricted to defensive actions. No hunting PFLOS. Just enough to keep them honest and hopefully keep them guessing on hitting our civilian population centers.”

Miller nodded. “Yes, sir.” She folded her arms on the table.

“Something else on your mind?”

“With respect, sir, how do you plan to have any further success with the terrorist interrogations?”

“I haven’t decided that yet exactly.”

“Sir, these people don’t deserve the protections of the Canaan Convention on Human and Alien Rights. They’re—”

“Less than us?”

Miller pursed her lips. “You said it, sir.”

Yes, I did. And the sensation from the words was ugly. A dark road lay in front of him. He recalled the RUMINT around the Lion of Judah when Colonel Demood had shot a League POW. But that was a uniformed combatant. These enemies are different. They’re terrorists. It wasn’t a big jump to morally justify the use of harsh tactics to extract information. Besides, there’s a line I won’t cross. I simply have to make them think I will.

“Sir?”

Arthur set his jaw. “Whatever it takes, Major. I’ll get the information, and we will save our people. Period.”

Miller slowly nodded. “I understand, sir. And I support you completely.”

“Very well. Dismissed, XO. I’m going to head down to the brig.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll be on the bridge if you need me.”

She stood and exited the room, leaving Arthur alone with nothing but the soft sound of air blowing through the overhead ventilation shafts and the electronic hum of the holoprojector system. The road to perdition is paved with good intentions. My mother used to tell me that. He suspected that before the war was over, he’d have a good understanding of what the saying meant.

3

CSV Oxford

Orion Spur—Deep Space

7 April 2474

Brigadier General Robert Sinclair made his way through the bowels of the CSV Oxford. Crewmen melted away to either side of the passageway, bracing to attention on the way.

On paper, she was a technical-assistance-and-research vessel. In reality, the ship was one of several that collected signals intelligence with a vast array of devices designed to peek in on any communication type.

“Carry on, chaps. Carry on,” he said in his clipped British accent a few steps before his destination: the Oxford’s Special Compartmentalized Information Facility.

A palm and iris scan later, the doors swished open. Sinclair stepped through, and they closed behind him. Another biometric reader stood off to the side, in front of the second set of doors that made up the “man trap.” Once the light turned green, he spoke. “Robert Sinclair confirms security authorization for entrance.”

Nothing happened for a moment as the computer did its work, matching his voice to the model on file, then the light above the hatch turned green. A second later, the doors opened, revealing the SCIF within.

Sinclair quickly walked through the outer vestibule, past the small analysis suites, and into one of the most secure conference rooms in the CDF.

“General on deck!” Major Alon Tamir said as he jumped to his feet along with the others present. His khaki service uniform was parade-ground ready, complete with spit-shined black shoes.

“Oh, don’t be stuffy,” Sinclair remarked with a grin. “Just because they finally made me take a promotion doesn’t mean I need a brass band every time I walk into the room.”

Polite chuckles followed as they returned to their seats.

“Sir, have you seen the order?” Tamir asked.

Sinclair’s face clouded. “Yes, I have, Butter Bars. Rubbish, the entire thing.”

He’d been calling Tamir Butter Bars for more than twelve years, ever since he’d first been assigned to the Oxford. A natural at intelligence analysis and personnel management, Tamir was his most trusted advisor. And if he keeps working hard, he might succeed me someday, if I have anything to do with it. The younger man was a native of New Israel and wore its flag with pride.

A few of the more junior personnel exchanged nervous glances before Chief Warrant Officer Miranda Eldred spoke. “Orders remain orders, do they not, sir?”

“Quite. Which is why our foremost goal is to find the CSV Margaret Thatcher and coordinate a rescue of our hostages so that proper military activity can resume.” Sinclair finally sat. “Major, kindly tell me that our state-of-the-art twenty-fifth-century SIGINT suite has found the enemy’s lair.”

Tamir’s eyes went to the deck for a split second. “No, sir. Nothing so far. They’re avoiding seemingly any transmissions, open, coded, or otherwise. Nothing on any known League spectrum.”

“Ah, couldn’t be stupid terrorists, could they?” Sinclair was mildly impressed by the operational security shown by the Popular Front for the Liberation of the Orion Spur so far, even if he still cracked up at what their acronym spelled out.

“Whoever’s leading or backing them knows their business,” Eldred said. She put her hands on the table. “Do we really think that Kovalev is the one in charge?”

Tamir shrugged. “He’s certainly the public face, and our records show he did lose two in the war. In effect, he’s got motive and opportunity. The question, of course, is the means. This kind of operation takes billions of credits.”

Sinclair snorted. “The bloody League is behind all of it. But the politicians back home won’t do anything until we have ironclad proof… if they’ll even do something then. I’m hoping we can analyze whatever the Thatcher has recovered so far and use it to get a lead.”

“They also have prisoners,” Tamir said. “Perhaps we can gain something from interrogating them.”

“If the reports we received from Colonel Hanson and his team are accurate, those people won’t be giving up anything,” Eldred replied. “Zealots like that… We should go ahead and convene a military tribunal then execute them.”

“Once we obtain the intelligence we need,” Sinclair said, his lips curled into a nasty grin. “What of our forward-positioned Growlers?”

The Growler-class stealth raider was the latest and greatest covert vessel in the CDF’s inventory. Outfitted with low-profile engines, LIDAR-deadening titles, magnetic-resonance restrictors that virtually eliminated the ship’s magnetic field and prevented detection by such sensors, and a stealthy Lawrence drive that barely registered in power output, the ships were highly effective in hit-and-run operations.

“All have reported in and will meet up with us in a couple of jumps.”

Sinclair nodded. “Outstanding, Butter Bars. Now, have those chaps and especially our space special-warfare operators ready to do their jobs.”

“Yes, sir.”

“If I may?” Eldred interjected. “How about pulling in some Covert Action Units? I realize we’d have to get them transited out on an antimatter-equipped ship, but having assets that can easily blend into the population would help us ferret out these terrorists.”

“Already on it. CAU 171 is en route. Though I fear they won’t arrive in time to help with the situation we’re facing now. In the future, I expect their assistance to be quite valuable.”

Eldred nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“I want everyone pulling double shifts on the operations floor until we find where these rats are holed up. Is that clear, Major?”

Tamir pulled himself up a little straighter. “Crystal, General. I’ve seen to it myself.”

“Splendid. How long until we reach the Thatcher?”

“Another day, if that, with the back-to-back jumps.”

Sinclair pursed his lips. It was dangerous to use a Lawrence drive without adequate cool-down times between each jump. Every time, the risk of exotic-particle release went up. And the more they did it, the worse the risk got on an exponential curve. Yet they had no other option. Tens of thousands of people, perhaps more, were already dead. We are in a unique position to assist. “Tell Colonel Siddiq to push the old girl as far as she’ll go. Anything else, people?”

Only a few headshakes followed.

“Carry on, then. Dismissed.”

As the officers and enlisted personnel filed out, Sinclair hoped that for all his years playing the great game, he hadn’t finally met a better opponent. That would be unfortunate for all of us.

The Margaret Thatcher’s brig had more people in it than Chief Hospital Corpsman Jeremiah Duprey had ever seen. The numbers of masters-at-arms was double the ordinary, and each cell was crowded with multiple PFLOS detainees. He’d drawn medical checkup duties mainly because no one else wanted to do it, so he had volunteered.

Four enlisted ratings aimed pulse pistols at the first force field as it dropped.

“Make any moves, and we’ll drop you where you stand!” the corporal in charge of the guard yelled.

Two Marines with battle rifles stood farther back.

Jeremiah waved his medical scanner over the first man, who still had bandaged wounds on his face and arm. Mild improvement from yesterday. “Are you in pain?”

Sullen silence was the only response as the terrorist glared at him.

If an expression could kill, Jeremiah would’ve been ground hamburger on the deck. He ignored the man and moved to the next. “Your lacerations have improved, as have your vitals.”

The man spit in Jeremiah’s face and let loose a stream of profanity. “When we get out of here, we’ll kill all of you, Terran. I’ll take my time and make you watch as I slit the others’ throats.”

It wasn’t so much what the terrorist said as how he said it—cool, calm, and collected, like one would explain how to take out the trash. The effect sent a shiver down Jeremiah’s spine. What kind of people are these? How is it possible to have this little regard for life? It was virtually impossible for him to compute.

In the face of barbarity, Jeremiah did what he did best: his job. Without a word, he wiped his face and moved to the next man, who’d been shot in the knee by a Marine’s battle rifle. The joint was destroyed, and Dr. Wildstein had replaced it with synthetic hardware. In time, the device would fully integrate itself into the body. “Healing is proceeding along the lines we’d expect. Have you performed the exercises I gave you yesterday?”

After screaming a string of oaths, the detainee tried to punch him in the face. As he deftly evaded the detainee’s feeble swing, Jeremiah couldn’t help but notice the veins protruding from the man’s forehead throbbing with each furious outburst. The man’s face contorted with rage, his eyes burning with an intensity that sent chills down Jeremiah’s spine.

In a blur to Jeremiah’s left, a Marine slammed the butt of his battle rifle into the man’s nose. Blood sprayed out of it as he doubled over in pain.

Before the Marine could strike again, Jeremiah grabbed him by the shoulder and put enough pressure into it to spin the man. “Stand down, Private. Get back to your position now.”

Jeremiah turned and examined the terrorist, who’d fallen to the deck. He had a broken nose, which would probably require further treatment in the medical bay. To stem the pain, Jeremiah gave him a shot, then he held out a strip of bandage material. “Press that against your nose, and lean forward. Give it five minutes, and the bleeding should stop.”

“Why?” the terrorist spat after a moment. “Why would you help me? If I thought I had half a chance, I’d kill you even if it took my life. The Coalition… All of you individualists, you’re disgusting garbage that should be eradicated from the universe.”

The sheer force behind the detainee’s words coupled with his cold and calculating demeanor took Jeremiah by surprise. He couldn’t comprehend how someone could harbor such disregard for human life, how they could speak of inflicting pain and death with such nonchalance.

Jeremiah touched the red cross on his military-occupational-specialty badge on his left shoulder. “Because I’m a corpsman. It’s my job to heal. Regardless of who you are or what you’ve done. Or even if you tried to kill me. That it is my calling and how I honor God.”

“You are weak,” he replied with a loud scoff. “All of you are weak. You cling to belief in a fairy-tale man in the sky that’s never existed, and none of you have the balls to do what needs to be done. If I was in your place, I’d kill all of us right now. Because we’ll never stop trying to eradicate you.”

“Hey, asshole, try to fight us. I’ll happily send you on to kingdom—”

Jeremiah whirled around. “Stow that crap, Private. You will conduct yourself as a member of the Terran Coalition Marine Corps, or I’ll bring you up in front of the XO’s mast myself.”

“Yes, Chief,” the young man replied, immediately going to rigid attention.

“We’re not weak,” Jeremiah said as he turned back to the terrorists. “We demonstrate our strength by showing compassion to those who do not deserve it, just as Jesus once did. PFLOS, the League of Sol… Both use barbarism to hide the underlying weakness of what you believe in. And your ideology will come to rest in the dustbin of history, where it belongs.”

The force field snapped back on, and without another word, Jeremiah moved to the next cell without incident. Once he’d finished checking them out, he started to go, but the young Marine private stopped him. “Chief, why are you helping these… things?”

Jeremiah pursed his lips. “Just like I told them, it’s my job. This is how we ensure we don’t become them, Private. It’s not about anger, hate, or revenge. Try not to forget that.”

“Did you see what they did? They don’t deserve to live.”

“God set you up to decide that, yes?”

“Well—”

“They will get their just reward both in this universe and in the next life. I don’t think you have anything to worry about there, Private. Focus on your duty. Leave their punishment to God.”

The young man didn’t reply for a few moments then finally nodded. “I’ll try, Chief.”

“Good. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Words such as compassion, forgiveness, grace, and mercy rang through Jeremiah’s mind as he left the brig and went down the passageways toward the medical bay. It took every ounce of self-control he possessed to keep them there. I must remind myself that in God’s eyes, I am as bad as any Leaguer or terrorist because I have sinned, and all sin is equal before the Lord. That didn’t quite seem fair considering the heinous activities of PFLOS, but it was what he’d believed his entire life. I will place my trust in God and His Son, Jesus Christ. From there, I will do my duty.

It was all he could do.

4

Arthur had never had much of a reason to visit the Margaret Thatcher’s brig. While he had done many XO’s masts, those were held in the main galley to allow any crewman who wished to watch the proceedings. The brig was crammed with terrorist detainees, and there was an ugly sensation that seemed to waft through the air all around him.

The prisoner sitting before him was chained with alloy restraints around his chest that connected to leg shackles and wrist cuffs, which were, in turn, secured to the table in the interrogation room they all occupied.

Present were Faulkner and another enlisted Marine, both in lightweight combat armor and carrying pulse pistols. Arthur had made it clear he was doing the talking. Though it would help if I knew who this guy was. So far, none of those captured had uttered a word.

“I am Colonel Arthur Hanson, commanding officer of this vessel. You are a terrorist, captured during the commission of numerous acts that place you under military jurisdiction.”

A slight uptick in the corners of the man’s mouth seemed like a grin, though his matted black hair, blood-smeared face, and disheveled appearance didn’t look like anything to be happy about.

“Your crimes carry the death penalty,” Arthur continued. “We know you’re a senior officer. There might be room for leniency, should you cooperate.”

The man laughed before setting his arms on the table with a clank of the chains. “Captain Claude Vannier, commanding officer, PSS Lei Feng. No serial number. Member, Popular Front for the Liberation of the Orion Spur.”

Well, he spoke. That’s an improvement. Arthur steepled his fingers. “You must know as the CO, you’re directly responsible for the actions of the men and women under your command.”

“Under the terms of the Canaan Convention on Human and Alien Rights, I am only required to provide you with my name, rank, and serial number,” Vannier replied with a smirk the size of a fleet carrier.

“You think this is funny?” Faulkner interjected. “You’re looking at death by a firing squad, you sick piece of shit.”

Vannier shrugged. “I do not care,” he replied with a trace of an accent. “You Terrans… You’re weak, for all your bluster. Your laws prevent you from taking decisive action. This is one of the many reasons why the League will eventually prevail.”

“So you admit you’re a League of Sol operative?” Arthur shot back.

“Nice try, Colonel. We operate independently from our government because it, too, is struggling with subversive elements.”

Couldn’t be that easy to trip him up. “Tell us where the hostages are being kept.”

“No.”

“You do that, and I’ll see to it the death penalty is off the table.”

Vannier leaned forward and took a few moments to answer. “You would do this for me, Colonel?”

Attempting to fake sincerity was daunting. Arthur forced his facial muscles to comply as best as he could. “I would if you help us. We’ll get in, get our people, and get out. You have my word.”

He leaned back and brought his shackled hand up to stroke his chin. “I… think not, Colonel. Though I must give you praise for a halfway-convincing performance. Do you believe I would rather mine lithium for your precious CDF in an asteroid prison colony for the rest of my days? Kill me and get it over with. That is what I prefer.”

“That can be arranged,” Arthur replied, injecting as much anger into his voice as possible, which wasn’t that hard.

Vannier snickered. “Really, Colonel? If your government does execute me, I’ll go to sleep and never wake up. The Coalition can’t even get that right.”

Arthur pursed his lips. It’s not like he’s wrong. Our method of capital punishment is usually nitrogen gas or lethal injection. A prisoner could opt for another approved method, such as a firing squad or hanging, but rarely did. “You’re not a prisoner of war, Mr. Vannier. You’re a terrorist. I can haul you down to the airlock right now, throw you in, and space your ass.”

“Oh, am I supposed to be scared?” Vannier shook his head. “Really, Colonel. You must work on your delivery.”

I’m not getting anywhere with this guy, and I’m not going to. The realization hit Arthur in the face like the shell from a 150mm magnetic cannon. They’re using our system against us. The odds of getting information out of any of the PFLOS prisoners seemed remote, as they’d all refused to give even basic information such as a name. Why did I think I could do any better?

Even as the thought went through Arthur’s mind, he pondered what was next. These butchers think they’re untouchable. Rules and regulations raced through his brain, as the number of things he could legally do was relatively small.

The sadistic smirk on Vannier’s face drew Arthur’s attention once more. He knows we can’t do a damn thing to him. Over the years of fighting the League of Sol, there had been plenty of atrocities. But Arthur couldn’t remember sitting across from someone who oozed evil in the way that man did.

If I do nothing, thousands or perhaps millions of people will die. But what can I do? If Arthur thought he could get the information by pounding the terrorist’s face to a pulp, he would’ve tried it, but the man screamed true believer in every sense of the phrase.

Even the most hardened person still has some fear of mortality. And even if they don’t, certain deaths are quite painful. Vannier claims he doesn’t care if he dies. Let’s test that.

“Lieutenant, get him up.”

“Sir?”

Arthur narrowed his eyes. “Escort our guest to the nearest rescue airlock. I think we’ve all heard enough. If he’s not willing to help, I don’t think wasting our food, water, and oxygen on him is warranted.”

Vannier snickered and stood. “Wouldn’t mind going for a stroll myself. My legs hurt from being cramped up in a cell. Do you perhaps have a glass of cabernet to go along with it?”

Faulkner took a few steps forward, disengaged the wrist-restraint magnetic lock from the table, and roughly hauled the man to his feet. “Let’s go, asshole.” He pushed Vannier forward and out the hatch into the corridor beyond.

“I want a team of six with us at all times,” Arthur said as he stepped out of the interrogation room.

“Yes, sir,” Faulkner replied before barking at the security unit standing watch over the brig. A combined force of masters-at-arms and Marines took charge of the prisoner and marched him forward.

“Where are we going, sir?” one of the Marines asked.

“Rescue airlock seven, port side,” Arthur replied. It was the access port to the void closest to the brig.

Several people exchanged glances, but no one said anything.

Faulkner and Arthur took up the rear, a couple of meters behind. He whispered into Arthur’s ear, “Sir, what are you planning to do? Mock executions are not permitted under the UCMJ or the Canaan Convention on Human and Aliens Rights.”

“I plan to crack this nut and get the intel we need, Lieutenant.”

“Sir, I understand the frustration and anger. Trust me—I feel it too. I wish they’d continued to resist, and we could have killed them all. But that doesn’t change the law, sir.”

Arthur stopped and turned on his heel to face Faulkner. “Lieutenant, there are times when circumstances demand that we think a little outside the box. This is one of them. Now, you can step aside, and I’ll handle it alone, or you can continue to execute your duty. Which one will it be?”

Faulkner furrowed his brow. “Sir, my first word as a Marine is duty. I’m just making sure you’re aware of the rules. That’s part of my job.”

Anger welled up within Arthur, though he recognized that directing it at Faulkner was misplaced at best. “Noted, Lieutenant. Now, fall in.” He imbued his voice with as much hardness as he could muster.

“Yes, sir,” Faulkner replied before marching forward.

Little more was said during the five-minute walk to the gravlift and the ride up two decks before they arrived at one of a dozen rescue trucks built into the destroyer’s hull. Designed for SAR craft to latch on to during an emergency, the airlock was large enough to hold ten burly men at a time.

The security detail stacked up around the lockout hatch, with Vannier in their midst.

Arthur got a few centimeters away from his face. “Captain Vannier, you have been found guilty of aggravated murder, rape, piracy, and terrorism under the Terran Coalition penal code. As an irregular enemy combatant, you have no rights afforded by the Canaan Convention on Human and Alien Rights and are hereby sentenced to death. Do you have any last words?”

“By whom? I didn’t see a courtroom here, Colonel.” Despite the blasé nature of Vannier’s comment, his accent became slightly more pronounced.

“Me.” Arthur gestured to the surrounding bulkheads. “You see, Captain, you and your friends killed the entire CDF chain of command in the Orion Spur. I’m the highest-ranking officer, and we’re mostly cut off from the rest of the Coalition. That makes me judge, jury, and executioner.”

“You almost had me going there for a moment, Colonel. I must commend you on selling it well.” The smugness returned along with the dung-eating smirk.

Arthur turned to the Marine closest to the hatch. “Open it up, Private.”

“Aye, sir.”

Moments later, the circular hatch rolled to one side on a track, revealing the chamber within.

“Make our guest at home, gentlemen,” Arthur ordered. He crossed his arms and watched as the Marines shoved the prisoner inside. “All right, seal it up.”

Faulkner put his hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “This is too far, sir. You can’t conduct a mock execution.” While he kept his voice low, there was no mistaking the urgency in his tone.

“As you were, Lieutenant.” Arthur took a few steps so that he was directly in front of the transparent-alloy window that allowed viewing of the airlock’s interior. “So, ready to talk yet, Vannier?”

The man sneered. “I commend you for pushing this as far as you have, Colonel. But seriously, we both know you’re not going to kill me. You’re certainly not going to torture me.”

“Willing to bet your life on that?”

“I am.” The chains clanked as he crossed his arms and the big smirk returned.

Time slowed as Arthur stared into Vannier’s eyes. They seemed to hold nothing except a deep blackness from which the evil of the universe flowed out. As he stood there, Arthur knew that yet again, his attempt had failed. I could go all the way. Forget the rules… is it acceptable to torture this man?

Arthur blew out a breath. Right and wrong went back and forth in his mind. The bottom line is that if I don’t unlock the database we recovered, many more will die. When he put it in those terms, what was required was easy to justify. He turned to the Marine who’d opened the door and still stood next to the control panel. “Cycle the airlock and evacuate the atmosphere inside the rescue chamber, Private.”

“Belay that order!” Faulkner barked. “Sir, the Uniform Code of Military Justice outlaws summary executions. This is an illegal order. I will not comply, nor will I allow my Marines to do so.”

“The last time I checked, this is my ship, Second Lieutenant Faulkner. I also have about fifteen more years in uniform and four steps in rank on you. So you will carry out my orders.” Arthur’s face heated. Whatever he’d expected from the Marine, this wasn’t it. Aren’t they supposed to be gung-ho for killing every Leaguer? Colonel Demood would give me a medal for doing this.

“Negative, sir. It is the duty of every soldier and Marine to recognize and refuse to execute illegal directives.” Faulkner pulled himself up to every centimeter of his nearly two-meter height. “TCMC personnel will disregard.”

Around them, the enlisted personnel didn’t seem to know what to do. Arthur felt the confusion and tension and decided that making some kid decide between two officers wasn’t fair to them. Instead, it was a job for him to do himself. He stepped forward and put his hands on the controls. “Vannier, last chance.”

“You’ve taken this a bit farther than I expected, Colonel. Alas, your performance is for naught. I have nothing further to say.”

Arthur stared down at the airlock controls with his hands on the button to start the cycle. If I do this, there’s no going back. He wasn’t a vengeful man and, despite being a career military officer, had preferred the reactor control room over combat until Colonel Savchenko’s intervention. And if I don’t, I’ve got more innocent blood on my hands than I’ll ever be able to live with.

“Sir, you don’t have to do this. There’s a better way,” Faulkner interjected. He’d moved to by Arthur’s side and spoke quietly.

“I wish you were right, Lieutenant, but there isn’t.” With a click that ran through the corridor, Arthur toggled the airlock to depressurize.

No one was more shocked than Vannier. His expression went from a smirk the size of a Marine assault shuttle to utter shock, and finally, his eyelids widened as he realized the air was rapidly vacating the chamber.

The sound of his panicked pounding on the window grew fainter as the cycle completed, and the vacuum replaced the atmosphere.

“Get a medical team down here on the double,” Arthur said in a normal tone of voice as he stared at Vannier’s movements. While there was shouting in the background, he wasn’t paying attention. Instead, his focus was on the terrorist. Combat was a given in the CDF when fighting an interstellar war, and he’d killed his fair share of Leaguers through either direct action or the weapons on the various ships he’d served on. But standing there watching another human die horribly was entirely different.

Arthur set his jaw and tried to project strength even as inner turmoil raged. Something told him he’d never be the same after this. The frantic yell of a medic pulled him out of his thoughts.

“Sir, we need to get the airlock repressurized immediately!”

“Not yet,” Arthur replied without looking at the corpsman. He counted out another thirty-four seconds, which ended with Vannier’s eyes rolling to the back of his head as he collapsed.

Arthur punched the button to repressurize. “Revive him if you can.”

Pronounced silence broke out, making the hissing of atmosphere back into the lockout chamber sound like an out-of-control freight train hurtling through the night. The heavy alloy hatch finally creaked out, and the medic rushed in. She knelt next to Vannier and felt his neck. “Pulse thready.”

The enlisted personnel seemed stuck in a stupor as they all watched her efforts. After a few moments, she pulled out a device to force air into the terrorist’s lungs.

After what felt like an eternity to Arthur, Vannier’s chest heaved as he began breathing on his own once more. A coughing fit later, the terrorist stared up at Arthur. “Why… bring… me back?”

“Because I want information,” Arthur replied as he took a step forward and squatted. “You’re going to unlock the database from your ship. And if you don’t, we’ll do this again… and again. Until you break or die… at which point, I’ll try your XO.”

Vannier ran his tongue over his lips. “If I give this to you, there’s no reason to keep me alive.”

Arthur shrugged. “There’s also no reason to kill you. I’m happy to let you mine lithium on Lambert’s Lament for the rest of your miserable existence. Now, what’s it going to be? Unlock, or I lock you in here and start over?”

One could almost hear the gears turning in Vannier’s mind as he glanced at Arthur, the medic, the enlisted personnel, then Faulkner.

I can’t imagine what it’s like to pass out like that, knowing you’re going to die. He’s evaluating whether he wants to go through that again. “All you have to do is unlock that database.”

Finally, Vannier nodded almost imperceptibly. Gone was the haughty smirk and smug superiority. In their place were furtive glances between those watching him and downcast eyes as he stared at the deck plates. There might’ve even been moisture welling up in the corners of his eyes. “I’ll do it,” he ground out.

Arthur jerked his thumb backward. “Get him back to interrogation. Secure a retina scan and the password.”

“He could give us the wrong pass phrase,” Faulkner interjected.

“Yeah, that’d be a bad move on his part.” Arthur made eye contact with Vannier. “Because if he does, I’ll subject him to this at least another half a dozen times before he dies. Now move his ass.”

Several Marines pitched in to lift the terrorist back to his feet, and the entire detail, including the medic, trundled off down the passageway, leaving Arthur and Faulkner alone. Everyone avoided looking at either man, staying excruciatingly focused on their task.

After the last master-at-arms rounded a corner, Faulkner said, “You crossed the line, sir.”

“That’s why I get paid the big bucks, Lieutenant. We got our intelligence. Now we can do something with it.”

Faulkner clenched his jaw. “Sir, I regret to inform you this will go in my full report along with a recommendation for the Judge Advocate General Corps to investigate fully.”

Arthur shrugged. “Do what you feel is right. Dismissed, Lieutenant Faulkner.” Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and marched down the corridor toward the brig.

As confident as he’d come across, inside, Arthur felt a yearning chasm open in his stomach and threaten to swallow him whole. I just watched a man nearly die in front of me. Immediately, he chastised himself. No, I tortured a man for information and nearly killed him in the process. But why should I care? They murdered and raped untold innocents. Whatever happens to these people, they deserve it and the retribution that is to come in the next life. Anger, erupting into a white-hot rage, soothed his conscience.

Suddenly, Arthur felt dirty, as if he’d betrayed his uniform, the oath he’d sworn, and the tenets of his faith. He pushed the emotion down because he had to bear it. There was no other way to defeat the enemy, and failure wasn’t an option.

5

What a difference a day and more information made. With the voiceprint authenticated along with Vannier’s biometrics, unlocking the data cores pulled from the captured PFLOS vessel had been simple. Parsing through it all, while painstaking, had injected a spring into the step of virtually every soldier on the Margaret Thatcher. Arthur chalked the effect up to knowing they had more pieces of the puzzle and could affect the overall situation. At least, that’s the hope.

He settled into his seat at the head of the deck-one conference room. “Tell me we have some good news, ladies and gentlemen.”

While Lieutenant Faulkner brooded, Kaveh and a couple of enlisted specialists were far more energetic.

Corporal Loranne McClane, who’d briefed him before, was especially chipper. “Full control of the PFLOS data, sir. We ran it through several intelligence-analysis algorithms and picked up some very interesting patterns.”

Arthur steepled his fingers. “You know where they took our people?”

She exchanged glances with Kaveh. “We have a lead to show you, sir.”

At his nod, McClane used the projector remote to toggle the lights off. A moment later, a holographic solar system popped up from the center of the table. Its core was a G-type main-sequence star. Several gas giants orbited. “OR-124616 is where the PFLOS ships were supposed to end up. Each had orders for roundabout transits, likely to confuse what’s left of PASCORE.”

Arthur tilted his head. “No rocky planets?”

“None, sir. Nor asteroid belts.”

“Which means no mining operations,” Miller interjected. “Even for the League of Sol, harvesting helium-3 from the atmosphere of a gas giant isn’t profitable without mineral exploitation too.”

“So we’ve got a pristine and otherwise-useless star system in the middle of nowhere.” Arthur spread his hands on the table and grinned. “That seems like more than a coincidence to me, people.”

“Did Vannier have anything else to say?” Miller asked.

Faulkner made a face. “No. He refuses to answer any further questions. Perhaps you should put him in the airlock again to loosen his tongue.”

“Hey, that sounds like a—”

Arthur held up his hand to cut off Miller’s retort. “That’ll be enough of that.” Different officers had their own opinions of his actions the day before. I’m not likely to escape that anytime soon either. It didn’t take a tactical genius to figure out that Miller wholeheartedly approved.

“Sir, aside from transfer requests and some requisition forms, there’s little else that mentions whatever PFLOS uses for an HQ,” McClane said after a moment’s silence.

“Are you telling me that even terrorists have to fill out forms in triplicate?” Arthur asked.

She blushed. “It seems that way, sir.”

“Well, at least they must endure the same nonsense red tape we do. Proof that there really is a God in this universe.”

Polite chuckles swept through the conference room though pointedly not from Faulkner, who didn’t move a muscle or alter his facial expression.

“Okay. The next logical move is to send in the Tucson to recon the system, unless someone has a better idea?” Arthur’s eyes settled on Yasin.

“PASCORE’s ineffective at this point, sir. Too many sensor nodes have been destroyed. The only recommendation I have is to send them in,” the younger woman replied.

“Then that’s what we do. Lieutenant Kaveh, get me a vidlink to Major Godat, and I’ll get him spun up within the hour. Meanwhile, let’s start planning for rescue contingencies if this intel pans out.”

Miller licked her lips. “We’ve got what? A hundred Marines between our task force, sir?”

“It’ll have to be enough.” Arthur forced steel into his voice. I know it’s not, but perhaps we can get civilian assistance from special tactics teams or even veterans out here who still know how to fight. If it comes down to it, we’ll raise a volunteer force from all surviving masters-at-arms. “Any saved rounds?”

Shaken heads and quiet replies of “No, sir” followed.

“In that case, we all know our jobs. Let’s get back to it. Dismissed.”

Arthur stood, as did the others, who filed out quickly—all except for Faulkner, who waited for them to be the last two.

“May I have a moment in private, sir?”

“Of course, Lieutenant. It seems we have something to address, given your behavior this morning.”

Faulkner narrowed his eyes. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

Arthur crossed his arms and blew out a breath. “You know, Lieutenant, everyone on this ship seems to do that anyway without bothering to ask. So go ahead.”

“Maybe that’s because your leadership isn’t exactly what we’re used to, sir.”

It took every ounce of self-control that Arthur possessed not to verbally tear a bloody strip out of the Marine. “Your point, Lieutenant?” he ground out.

“Frankly, sir, I’m uneasy serving under you. The actions you took yesterday made me, my Marines, and everyone on this ship complicit in a war crime. That doesn’t even begin to cover the violations of the UCMJ.”

“Are you asking for a transfer, Lieutenant?”

Faulkner gritted his teeth. “If I thought the XO and Senior Chief Cooper would back it, sir, I’d relieve you of command immediately… followed by a long stay in the brig.”

Arthur had known the Marine had a problem with his actions, but he hadn’t realized quite how deep it went. Why? Because of some terrorist scum that exist beyond the rules of war? Anger came up as the words sank in. He took a step forward and invaded Faulkner’s personal space. “How many combat deployments have you served, Lieutenant?”

“One, sir.”

“That’s right. More specifically, this one, correct?”

Faulkner went ramrod straight. “Yes, sir.”

“I was drafted in wartime, Lieutenant. I served so many combat tours I can’t remember the exact number without consulting my personnel jacket. But one thing I know off the top of my head… I was fighting Leaguers before you were born. And you will not lecture me on the rules of war or right and wrong in combat.”

“That doesn’t change the rules, sir. It’s still wrong to torture enemy combatants.”

Arthur’s face burned. “They’re not honorable soldiers fighting for their country, Lieutenant Faulkner. We’re talking about murderers, rapists, and in general, people who the Coalition’s legal system would sentence to death or a lifetime of imprisonment on Lambert’s Lament. These…” He searched for a word worse than terrorist that didn’t have a string of profanity in front of or behind it.

“That’s the crucial piece, sir. They haven’t been convicted of a crime. I fully agree with you, and if they had been, I’d gladly serve on the firing squad myself. But we aren’t judge, jury, and executioner.”

“We’re six thousand light-years away from the long arm of the Coalition’s justice. To save our hostages, information was required. I achieved the objective by any means necessary, Lieutenant. And these… people that you’re standing up for their rights? They’re less than human. I could space that bastard, have him brought back, and do it again fifty times, and it wouldn’t be enough punishment.”

As the words left Arthur’s mouth, part of his mind screamed that something had gone horribly wrong inside of him. That’s not the sort of thing a Coalition Defense Force officer says… ever. Yet the white-hot anger and hatred that burned within overpowered those thoughts.

Faulkner pursed his lips. “I might be young, and this may be my first combat tour, sir, but I still have the words of my instructors from the TCMC Officer Candidates School ringing in my ears. That kind of talk leads to horrible crimes against humanity.”

“The situation is under control, Lieutenant. The information we needed was obtained. Vannier is back in the brig, no worse for wear.”

“What about the next time, sir? Because if it’s acceptable to torture the man once, why not again?”

“I’ll cross that bridge if we come to it. This conversation is over, Lieutenant. If you can’t stomach serving under me going forward, I’ll transfer you to another ship and put another Marine in command of the platoon.”

“That won’t be necessary, sir.” Faulkner’s eyes met his. “Remember, sir, once we’ve done something, whatever that thing is, for good or evil, better or worse… it becomes easier the next time.”

“Dismissed, Lieutenant!” Arthur barked.

Without another word, the young man braced to attention then turned and left, leaving the hatch to clang shut behind him. The sound echoed like a final punctuation mark to their conversation.

Arthur let out a sigh. Tough decisions aren’t always popular. That’s why they’re tough. Once the hostages were found and rescued, everything would work out. Until then, he’d press on. Even so, a sense of unease hung in the air. Somewhere, deep inside, Arthur knew that Faulkner was right on some level. But he couldn’t dwell on it. Whatever was required to beat PFLOS… that was what he would do.

Ivanov Home

New Rostov

8 April 2474

Gregory Ivanov surveyed a small crew of workmen finishing repairs on a wall of his home. The bullet holes were no longer visible, but the sense of security that had once resided in his soul was gone, probably for good. He knew Natalie felt the same way because she’d admitted it quietly with her head resting on his chest.

But she’d never say that to anyone else and especially not their children. At least they hadn’t been there when the terrorists attacked. He wondered how many other parents on New Rostov were thinking the same thing.

The changes on their planet in less than a decade were astounding. Until the Terran Coalition had liberated their world—which, after experiencing both the Coalition and the League’s systems, he truly believed the CDF were liberators—nothing ever changed on New Rostov. It was a mining site. Period. Everything they did was in service of the state, and the best life one could hope for was possibly getting moved to a different world closer to Earth. Or even an agrarian colony. At least those have no issues with radiation because the plants wouldn’t grow.

When a rustling came from behind him, he whirled around. It was only his wife, but his brief pang of fear was quite real. “Ah, sorry. You startled me.”

“I’m sorry.” Natalie put her hand on his arm. “We’re all jumpy.”

He smiled at her, grateful for her not pressing further or dwelling on his behavior. “How was your vidlink?”

“Tense. There’re a lot of scared people on this side of the spur.”

Gregory knew the sentiment all too well. He pursed his lips. “I want to run something by you.”

Natalie chuckled. “Your words say you want my opinion, but your tone says it’s already decided.”

Gregory’s cheeks heated. “True, perhaps. But I hope you will agree with me. We should supply the CDF with munitions.”

“We’re not arms dealers. We handle the shipping of consumer goods and food.”

“Perhaps, but we know people. I looked into the matter, and we can source missiles, fusion cores, and even some mag-cannon rounds. Not exactly CDF spec, but my contact assures me they’ll work.”

“Does this man lurk in a dark alleyway or perhaps a bar, promising miracles for the right amount of credits?” Natalie’s tone veered toward annoyance as she slipped her hand away.

“Not quite, but as is the way in these things, he has a reputation to uphold.”

Natalie crossed her arms. “Men who deal in misery have no reputation.”

“Oh, but they do, my dear wife. They meet their obligations so that they may obtain credits.”

“Off the backs of—”

Gregory turned to make full eye contact. “It doesn’t matter. The CDF needs munitions. I’ve heard whispers that PFLOS took out most of their storage depots and that what the few ships left have in their holds is all they’re getting until reinforcements arrive. This is about survival and perhaps also patriotism.”

“It makes us a target.”

He gestured to the work crew. “Perhaps you don’t remember. We already are.” He immediately regretted his words. “I’m sorry. That was harsh. Forgive me.”

Natalie let her hands hang at her sides. “You’re right, husband. But I don’t like it. Our children are here, and nowhere on this planet is safe now.”

Gregory turned and put his arm around her. “All I can do is promise to defend all of you with everything I know.”

She stared into his eyes. “You are a good man, Gregory Ivanov. And you’re right. We must help the CDF any way we can.”

“We’re going to have to do this with our own funds, you know. It’s not like the Coalition can transfer us credits.”

“They’ll catch up after the war.”

He nodded and touched his forehead to hers. “It’s settled, then.”

Even though it felt good to do something about the problem, Gregory was filled with fear. If the terrorists ever figured out they were involved, that was the end of his family. But if the Terran Coalition lost, it was the end of their lives anyway. And with that in mind, it’s worth the risk.

6

Space was infinitely vast. Hence why most humans referred to it as the void. Dark and unforgiving, it nonetheless had plenty of places to hide. Major Patrick Godat’s favorite place to do so was in plain sight. While it was certainly possible to track a Growler-class stealth raider in a solar system, provided your vessel had sufficiently advanced sensors, finding ships in the void between was a far more difficult task.

The Terran Coalition made up for that with their wide-ranging PASCORE system, which monitored the entire border on the Orion Spur along with every solar system occupied by SATO and, in general, tracked every ship, small craft, and celestial anomaly within range of its powerful sensors.

The League of Sol didn’t possess such technology, which meant Godat and, by extension, the CSV Tucson could sit in safety, far from any inhabited planet or occupied system.

And right now, we need every advantage we can get.

“Jump plot coordinates rechecked, sir,” the navigator called.

Godat had ordered her to triple-check the coordinates a few minutes before. He licked his lips. “Power up the drive, Lieutenant.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“COB, rig for ultrasilent. Secure all transmission sources and take us to EMCON Alpha.”

Master Chief Richard VanDyke, also known as the chief of the boat, immediately sprang into action. “Aye, aye, sir. Sound ultrasilent status. Secure all nonessential electronics.”

Enlisted personnel around the control room immediately powered down certain systems and placed warning placards over the screens that controlled them. Doing so would help to alert other watch standers not to use the equipment.

“What about shields?” Captain Martin Letchford, his executive officer, asked.

Godat shook his head. “No, too much of an EM signature. Besides, the odds of them being right where we’re jumping in are so small. If that happens… well, a higher power doesn’t mean for us to succeed.”

“From your lips to God’s ears, sir.”

The navigator turned. “Lawrence drive fully charged, sir.”

“All stations ready,” Letchford interjected.

“Navigation, activate the Lawrence drive.”

Moments later, the FTL system had ripped a hole through the fabric of the universe, and the Tucson powered through it under constant thrust from her sublight ion engines. It only took a couple of seconds to transit through the wormhole and emerge on the other side.

“Conn, TAO. Sensors back online,” Second Lieutenant Jazmyn Vafaei called out from her station after a three-second delay. “No contacts within fifty thousand kilometers.”

First hurdle down. Godat pressed the button for 27MC—active/passive scan control. “Sensor, I want a passive scan of the system yesterday.”

“Already on it, sir.”

“Populate the plot and notify me the moment it’s complete.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“Navigation, plot a jump back to the void.” Godat glanced at Letchford. “Just in case.”

They were back to waiting at the edge of the solar system. OR-124616 was uninhabited, and it could easily just be a transfer or staging point, but something in the back of Godat’s mind told him that wasn’t the case. If I was going to hide, this is where it would be. Off the beaten path. Lots of cover in these gas giants and big gravity wells that prevent hostiles from jumping in right on top of you.

Waiting was part of the job, especially for a stealth raider commander. It had been years since any combat incidents, and while the Tucson had served for more than a decade through the League of Sol war, most of her junior officers and enlisted personnel had never fired a shot in anger.

Not bad for rookies. Godat busied himself with staring at status screens and rechecking the reactor display. He could do little until the sensor room completed its analysis.

Letchford touched his arm. “I think we’ve got some tiles loose on the port side.”

Godat turned to the screen. “Ick. Yeah, looks like it. Good catch.”

“We could lock out a repair crew in space suits during our next stopover that’s relatively safe.”

“How long do you think to get them replaced?”

He shrugged. “An hour? Maybe two.”

It wasn’t ideal, but then again, neither was running with any compromise to their stealth, especially in the hostile-rich environment that was the Orion Spur at the moment. “Once we’re back to the Thatcher with our findings, we can take the time.”

“Yes, sir.”

Godat was about to open his mouth when the intercom buzzed. “Conn, sensor room. I’ve got positive confirmation on a station-size contact. Transmitting coordinates to the plot now. It’s far enough down in the atmosphere of a gas giant that we’ll have to get in close for further details. All I’ve got is the basic outline. Whatever it is, it’s big.”

While that was all he could’ve hoped for, Godat’s mouth went dry. We’ve got four ships against some massive station? Those didn’t seem like good odds. But the odds had been against them before. He couldn’t forget their mission to take out the League’s shipyards, in which the Tucson had played a pivotal role, while he was the XO. We shouldn’t have made it back from that one either.

“Keep up the good work. Godat out.” After a pause, he said, “Navigation, plot a course that will take us to the far side of the sixth planet. Analyze the outer atmosphere of the gas giant for composition and pressure gradient.”

“We’re going in?” Letchford asked.

Godat nodded. “If we can. It’ll depend on how bad the mix is. Too much acid would eat the hull, but to get accurate intel without going active, we’ll have to be right on top of them.”

“Still no shields, then?”

“No. The EM signature alone might give us away.” Yes, it was a long shot, and Godat knew he was taking a risk, but stealth was their single and best defense.

“Course plotted, sir.”

“Ahead one third.” Godat turned to the XO. “Go get a sandwich and some shut-eye. I’ll need you to spell me in six hours.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

It was going to be a long day. At least thirty-six hours to get in, take the sensor readings, and get out, if I’m reading this right. Oh well. Here’s to hoping this is the most boring thirty-six hours of my life.

Jeremiah frowned as he stared at the hatch in front of him. It was supposed to be Faulkner’s office, but instead, the label read Supply Storage 031. I must’ve gotten turned around. Aboard the Margaret Thatcher, the Marine contingent had its own berthing compartments and facilities, much like any other CDF vessel.

A younger man with a traditional high-and-tight haircut walked past.

“Excuse me, Private.”

He turned, his eyes going to Jeremiah’s rank insignia before returning to his face. “Yes, Chief?”

“Can you point me toward the lieutenant’s cubby?”

“You’re standing in front of it, Chief.”

Jeremiah raised an eyebrow. “It says Supply Storage.”

The young Marine snickered. “Sorry, Chief. We pranked the LT with that a few days ago, and he kept it up.”

Ah yes, the good old punking. Even at war, six thousand light-years from home, Marines found a way to get some laughs out of any situation. “I see. Thank you, Private.” Jeremiah rapped his knuckles on the alloy before pushing open the hatch.

Faulkner looked up from behind his desk. “Oh, hi, Chief. Whatcha need?”

“Casualty updates,” Jeremiah replied.

After a pause, the Marine Lieutenant said, “Come in. Sorry, I was in the middle of my after-action reports.”

“Not a problem, LT.” Jeremiah shut the hatch behind him before pulling out a chair and sitting. The room was cramped beyond belief, and he wondered if the CDF designers had some fun in putting the Marines into a compressed space. Interservice rivalries were still legendary, after all.

Faulkner set his tablet aside. “Good news?”

“Guarded but yes.” Jeremiah nodded. “Everyone in med bay will recover, though we’ve got three who need replacement limbs. Because of our lack of advanced medical care and no hospital ships, that’s going to have to wait for when the fleet arrives.”

“Better than the alternative. When can I expect the guys in physical therapy to be cleared for duty?”

“Depends on the situation. If we’re getting boarded, they can fight. I wouldn’t put them into the field in a major operation, though, if we can help it. The tendon grafts, while healing at an accelerated rate thanks to the nanobots, still need more time.”

“Hopefully, PFLOS will cooperate,” Faulkner replied.

Jeremiah stared at the Marine, who was nearly fifteen years younger than him, and two weeks ago, it had showed. Today—he appeared to have aged years in those weeks. “How are you holding up, Lieutenant?”

“No holes. Ready to fight, Chief.”

“Some wounds don’t break the skin,” Jeremiah said softly. “The incident at the airlock is all over the ship, as is discussion of how you handled it.”

Faulkner narrowed his eyes. “How’d you know about that, Chief?”

“This is an exceedingly small vessel, Lieutenant.” Jeremiah chuckled. “You really thought it wouldn’t become scuttlebutt immediately?”

“I didn’t consider that, I suppose, Chief.”

Jeremiah pursed his lips. “No, you were thinking about right and wrong.”

“Yeah. As much good as it did me. The colonel thinks I’m yellow. He as much as said so.”

“Oh, I’m familiar with how that feels,” Jeremiah said, though he immediately regretted his tone.

Faulkner nodded. “Yes, I realize the irony. Again, apologies. I didn’t think before I spoke. You know, my mother used to say that you have two ears and one mouth and should use them in that proportion.”

“So did mine,” Jeremiah replied. “For what it’s worth, I’ve seen you dive straight into hostile fire to save your men and defeat the enemy. That’s not how a coward functions.”

“Thanks, Chief.” Faulkner shook his head. “My Marines don’t really understand how to deal with this, I think. They don’t believe I’m a coward, but most of them would be happy to space the entire lot of PFLOS prisoners we’ve captured so far.”

Jeremiah certainly understood why they felt that way. “It’s not like they wouldn’t deserve it, at least in how we fallible humans look at their crimes. Still, vengeance is Mine, saith the Lord. I shall repay.”

“Maybe I should take after you and spend some more time in the God box, Chief.”

“That’s never hurt anyone.” Jeremiah chuckled.

Faulkner closed his eyes for a moment before opening them and spreading his hands on the table. “Chief, you got any advice for a Marine officer on his first tour? The colonel was right. I’m in over my head.”

That wasn’t a question he got often as a corpsman, despite his high enlisted rank. Nor did it ever come from an officer. But Jeremiah respected the Marine because he knew from personal experience how hard it was to stick to what you believed in, regardless of those around you. “I think you’ve got the combat part of this done fine, Lieutenant. Keep putting the lives of your men first and try to bring as many home alive as you can. It’s the other stuff that’s hard.”

“Yeah, real hard, Chief.”

Jeremiah reached across the desk and put his hand on Faulkner’s shoulder. “We find out what our character is made of when everything else falls apart. You passed the test without realizing you were being examined.”

“What do I do now, then? Because it seems like everyone is against me. I know for a fact the XO thinks Colonel Hanson didn’t go far enough. I mean, we’re the good guys, Chief. We don’t do things like torture.”

“You do your job. And if you’re given an illegal order, remember that people have been using the excuse that they were ‘just following orders’ throughout history. That didn’t fly back on Earth, it never flew in the Terran Coalition, and it won’t now. You do what’s right. Every single time.”

Faulkner inclined his head. “Thanks, Chief. I needed some encouragement.”

“Oh, I’m just a crusty old soldier who’s served a few too many deployments as a corpsman. But I’ll take the compliment. Maybe see you down at the chapel, eh?”

“Perhaps, Chief.”

“Do something, at least. Blow some steam off in the gym, talk about it with others who understand, but don’t bottle this up, Lieutenant. Trust me on that.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean.”

Jeremiah didn’t think the younger man quite got it yet, but he also knew when not to press too hard. “Well, anything else I can do for you?”

“Keep getting my men back into the fight. I’ve got a feeling we’ll be needing every trigger puller in the days to come.”

“As much as I won’t engage in violence myself, I know you’re right, and I hope we’ll be able to rescue our hostages. For what it’s worth, when the time comes, I want to be in the assault team.”

Faulkner chuckled. “You’ve got a spot on any op I run, Chief.”

“Good.” Jeremiah forced a small smile and stood.

As he turned to go, Faulkner interrupted. “Chief, thanks for the talk. I mean that. Nice to know I’m not the only one who thinks this way.”

“Godspeed, LT.”

“You too.”

During the walk back to the medical bay, Jeremiah pondered what was happening. Officer against officer, Marine against Marine, soldier versus soldier. That’s exactly what PFLOS wants, to turn us against one another. It was a shame that Colonel Hanson had allowed himself to fall into the trap of taking the wide road that led to destruction rather than the narrow path. But Jeremiah couldn’t do anything about that particular situation. His job was to heal, and he would execute that task until his dying breath. May God have mercy on us all.

7

Among the things Kevin Michaels would’ve considered impossible was flying an SFS-3 Ghost recon fighter or any other small craft beyond a transport or Marine shuttle off the flight bay of a destroyer. Somehow, the Margaret Thatcher’s crew had made it work.

He rolled forward on the flight deck, using a small dolly with wheels to dash under the open weapons bay in the center of the Ghost’s fuselage. On a carrier, there would be a purpose-built reloading area with openings underneath so that an automated system could slide the missiles into place. On the Thatcher, however, it was all manual.

“Pass it back real slow.”

Only a couple of meters away, two enlisted ratings pushed the white rocket toward him. All three men balanced it carefully, and Michaels pushed the warhead upward. It wasn’t the normal Vulture that was standard issue for all CDF fighters. Instead, they were trying to make a missile built by one of the Interstellar Systems Federation worlds work. It was similar in size and length, but the locking pins were another story. This was the third time they’d tried to line it up.

Michaels pressed hard, but the locking mechanism didn’t engage. “It’s still off.”

“Let me get in there,” Sergeant Ashlie Roth called as she crawled under the craft with an imager. “Still a centimeter off on the mating bracket.”

Hailing from Neu Styria, a planet close to the Terran Coalition–Saurian Empire border, Roth ran the Thatcher’s shuttle bay with an iron fist. What stood out about Roth from every other human he’d met over the years was that she had a Saurian religious patch on her uniform. He’d yet to ask about it, though he’d sorely wanted to. There’s got to be an interesting story there.

Michaels had never considered how important a link to the outside world the landing area was on a destroyer, but it made sense. She could work on virtually any type of transport shuttle, and there was enough standardization that it carried over into refueling and repairing the two Ghosts in the shuttle bay.

Not perfectly. But it works for now. It helped that Michaels had spent a great deal of time learning the innards of his fighter and could apply that knowledge. “Okay. Let’s pull it out and try reprinting the interface.”

“Arms getting tired, Captain? You might want to go do some pull-ups down in the gym,” Roth replied with a good-natured chuckle.

The truth was his entire upper body hurt, but he would never let that on to a team of enlisted soldiers. “I can do this all day if you want, Sergeant.”

Thanking the good Lord in heaven above as the weight lifted off him, Michaels rolled from under the craft once the two privates had full control. “I think you might try making the lip a touch smaller. Even if it’s just a millimeter or two, that’ll give us more play.”

“Good idea, sir. Give me a minute.” She walked off then returned quickly from an industrial 3-D printer across the way. “Fourth time should be the charm.”

Michaels would believe it when he saw it. “Let’s hope, because I want something more than energy weapons to use against these terrorist assholes.”

“Amen to that.”

With a quick thumbs-up, he propelled himself back under his fighter and got into position. The enlisted ratings once again pushed the missile over, and collectively, they thrust it upward into place.

That time, they were rewarded with a satisfying click as the brackets caught and locked into place.

Michaels gingerly let go, positioning his hands so they could catch the warhead if it suddenly dropped, but no such thing occurred. After a few more seconds, he pushed himself from under his fighter and rolled off the dolly. “Well, one problem solved. The next is to see if it interfaces with my avionics.”

Roth wiped some grease off her hands and onto the navy-blue jumpsuit all enlisted personnel seemed to change into the moment they’d left space dock. “That’s your department, sir. And those tech manuals you kept demanding.”

“Nothing like some light reading to help one go to sleep.” Michaels stepped around to the cockpit of the Ghost and climbed up a short ladder. Then he leaned in and tapped a few controls. “I’ve got a green light here. Weapons controller has access to the warhead.”

“Next step is to test fire one.”

Michaels grinned. “Care to top off my fuel level while I put in a flight plan with the bridge?” On a carrier, the air boss would handle such matters, but that position didn’t exist on the Thatcher. Instead, Major Miller handled flight operations.

“Yes, sir,” Roth replied with a jaunty salute.

I wonder how they keep up such spirits. It probably helped that their ship was intact. The CSV Bonhomme Richard, where his squadron had been based, hadn’t survived the opening attack. Two thousand soldiers gone in a flash. But at least he still had the ability to make a difference. Each one of the civilian-produced missiles would help him even the score. And that’s a reason to get up every morning.

“Carry on, Sergeant.” Michaels turned on his heel and took off toward the exit. He realized that Roth wasn’t the only one with grease smeared everywhere. I guess the missile casings had some on them. He would have to make a pit stop for a clean khaki service uniform. And get my utility jumpsuit into the recycler. It still amazed him how the daily banalities of life carried on.

Arthur didn’t like what he was hearing as he nursed his cup of CDF coffee. He’d been so tired he’d dropped two extra shots of expresso mix into the brew, making it more bitter than usual, which defied the laws of physics. Major Godat had shuttled over in person along with some of his command staff, and the Thatcher’s conference room was stuffed to the gills with personnel. Miller didn’t appear to be happy with the briefing either.

“So you’re telling me this thing is two hundred kilometers inside the atmosphere of a class-six gas giant?” Arthur finally asked.

“Yes, sir,” Godat replied. He glanced at a younger man who sat next to him.

“Precisely two hundred six kilometers, sir. It’s between two storm layers.”

Arthur lived on math as an engineer, and it only took a few moments to process the numbers. “They’re too far down for any shuttle we have, even if we could jury-rig an access collar. The pressure is just too much.”

Godat bit his lip. “That’s my engineers’ assessment, too, sir.”

“We’re not giving up,” Miller interjected. Her eyes flashed. “What about Marines in power armor infiltrating through an airlock? It’s got to have those on it somewhere.”

“Unlikely, ma’am,” Faulkner replied. “Our suits can’t take the pressure, as the Colonel said about the shuttles.”

“So we let them rot over there?”

Arthur bit his lip. “Of course not. There’s always a way. We just have to find it. Maybe we could capture one of those freighters and use it as a Trojan horse. That worked when we took out one of the League’s shipyards.”

“Sir, anything that worked previously probably won’t now,” Godat said. “These guys are smart. Not only is that station bristling with weapons, but they built the thing inside of a gas giant.”

“You’re saying they specifically used the terrain against us.”

“Precisely, sir.”

“Smart Leaguers… Who would’ve thunk that,” Arthur muttered.

“They still die when we shoot them,” Miller said. “Or when we blow up their ships.”

Godat put his hands on the table. “Maybe the civilians have something we could utilize. A rescue craft or something that’s got a plasma cutter on it.”

Arthur nodded. That idea made sense, as deep-space rescue vessels were overengineered by design. “I’ll get on—”

Before he could finish, the alert klaxon blasted through the conference room, followed by Lieutenant Yasin on the 1MC. “General quarters. General quarters. All hands, man your battle stations. Set material condition one throughout the ship. Colonel Hanson to the bridge. This is not a drill. I say again, this is not a drill.”

Arthur jumped out of his chair and led a mad rush toward the hatch. What in God’s name is going on now? The alarm suggested the enemy had found them and jumped hostiles within weapons range. Some things, though, were ingrained to the point he didn’t even think about it—such as pulling on his Margaret Thatcher ball cap as he cleared the threshold of the portal into the bridge.

“Colonel on the bridge!” Senior Chief Cooper called out.

“Sitrep, Lieutenant,” Arthur said as he approached the CO’s chair.

“Wormhole opened at less than ten thousand kilometers, sir,” Yasin replied. “Inconclusive signature.”

Arthur took a deep breath as he sat. No panicking. “This is Colonel Hanson. I have the conn.”

“Colonel Hanson has the conn. Aye.”

Nothing like CDF structure to keep the OODA loop going. “Nav, plot emergency jump coordinates.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Miller appeared next to him, but Arthur maintained his focus on the tactical plot.

The relief in Yasin’s voice was palpable as she spoke. “Sir, new contact designated Sierra One. It’s the CSV Oxford, sir.”

What the hell is CDF Intelligence’s best SIGINT ship doing out here? “Comms, get me—”

“General Sinclair on vidlink, sir,” Kaveh cut in. “Asking for you by name.”

Arthur tilted his head. “Of course he is. Put him on.”

A few moments later, the screen above Arthur’s head came alive with the interior of an operations center and a slender man he recognized from seeing a few times many years before.

“Ah, Colonel Hanson. Fancy seeing you chaps out here. Brigadier General Robert Sinclair at your service. I understand you’ve had some success in locating the enemy. Perhaps we could be of use to you?”

It took several seconds for Arthur’s jaw to quit rebounding off the deck. “Uh. Sir, we’d welcome anything you could do for us.”

“Well, then, perhaps I should come over and have a chat. Some things are best said in person and in private.”

Arthur’s head swam. Everything had just changed. Okay. One step at a time. “Yes, sir. We’ll be ready.”

“Splendid. Have tea and crumpets waiting. Cheerio, Colonel.”

The flat-panel monitor went dark, and silence descended over the bridge.

It only lasted a moment before Miller spoke. “So, the spooks are here.”

“It would appear so. All the better for us. Sinclair’s codename is Zeus. Let’s hope he’s got a couple of miracles for us.”

“Battleships and heavy carriers would be a start.”

That seemed to ask too much, but Arthur would settle for some halfway decent assault shuttles and a few more destroyers. Anything more than what we have is a win.

“Major,” Arthur said as he stood. “Care to join the XO and me? Let’s see how far the rabbit hole goes.”

“I wouldn’t miss this for the universe,” Godat replied. “Are you kidding me? General Sinclair in the flesh?”

Arthur chuckled. “He puts his pants on the same way we do.”

Miller stood as well. “I seem to remember telling you that about Cohen.” Her drawl matched the flag for Houston, visible under the Terran Coalition emblem on her left shoulder.

“Point taken.” Arthur gestured toward the hatch. “Let’s not keep the spymaster waiting.”

8

Robert Sinclair prided himself on being proper in every sense of the word—manners, dress, how he spoke, his interactions with others. He’d admit quietly to himself that the additional privileges of rank pinning on brigadier general brought were welcome. Not the least of which was the expanded honor guard and better quarters on any vessel he happened to be a guest aboard.

Sometimes, it really is the small things in life. After the end of the League of Sol war, he’d briefly considered retiring to Churchill or even York. Both habitable moons orbited the capital of the kingdom of Great Britain. After all, there was only so much a man could do for his king and country. And I did my part. But more than patriotism, love of the great game kept Sinclair engaged.

Matching wits against the best spymasters the League of Sol or any other empire had to offer was the challenge of a lifetime. Thankfully, he still had a few years left in him. If you do what you love, you never work a day. A trite axiom but an accurate one.

The trip to the Margaret Thatcher was quick, and he’d been whisked away to the deck-one conference room, where the vessel’s senior staff and Major Godat of the CSV Tucson, had been holding a council of war.

Sitting quietly as Arthur walked through their intelligence, Sinclair pondered whether he was overstaying his welcome in the intelligence realm. Somebody just as good as me has put together a brilliant operation. The question was “Who?” Surely his old foes in the League’s External Security Services directorate had to be involved.

“And so, with the firepower we have at our disposal, we don’t believe a frontal assault is possible, General. Maybe we try to capture an enemy freighter intact and use it as a trojan horse?”

Sinclair allowed a small smile onto his lips. “No, they’re far too intelligent for that, Colonel Hanson. It is important, however, when walking into a game, to understand the pieces at your disposal. Your fleet isn’t as limited as you believe.”

Arthur blew out a breath. “If you’ve got some magic ace up your sleeve, sir—”

“How about three additional Growler-class stealth raiders, six tier-one space special-warfare teams, and the OPM we’ve got mounted has additional magnetic cannons and missile tubes.”

“OPM?” Arthur raised an eyebrow. “What’s that, sir?”

“Oxford Payload Module. An upgrade from a few years ago. It allows me to reconfigure the ship dependent on the situation. Thankfully, we hadn’t changed it back to SIGINT, old chap, since the particular defense contractor tasked with its overhaul is late.”

Arthur, Miller, and the stealth fighter pilot, Captain Michaels, all chuckled. Sinclair was still impressed they’d managed to turn the destroyer into a carrier with two small craft.

“Call it the first time we’re happy for the slimy contractors.” Arthur crossed his arms. “Please tell me you have stealth assault shuttles.”

“Even better, the latest hull insertion pods.”

The Thatcher’s engineer, Major Colton Ramos, interjected. “Those pods probably can’t survive a gas giant’s atmosphere.” He had the flag of the Mexican Republic under the Terran Coalition emblem.

“We’ll have to run the math,” Arthur replied. “But I’m betting they’re made of tough stuff. All that tier-one gear is next-level tech.”

Miller leaned forward. “General, what size are your mag-cannons, if I may?”

“Three-hundred-fifty-millimeter turrets.”

She let out a whistle. “That’d cut through those PFLOS bastards like they weren’t even there. Sirs, we could lay a trap for the enemy. Get them to pull back their forces and try to stop us from exfiltrating the hostages. End this in one fell swoop.”

Arthur’s face blanched, and he glanced at Miller then Sinclair.

“Care to explain to your eager executive officer why that’s a poor strategy, old chap?”

“Because alerting PFLOS to our presence will probably get the hostages killed. Not to mention we have to figure out how to get them out of there in the first place.”

Sinclair flashed a grin. Well, at least somebody here is thinking on their feet. “Precisely, Colonel. Our primary goal for this engagement is to rescue the civilians, with a secondary objective of gathering information. My perspective, as the head of CDF intelligence, is that there’s no way these PFLOS chaps are some homegrown League of Sol terrorist organization.”

“They need a better marketing department,” Miller interjected. “That acronym is awful.”

Arthur snickered as he shook his head. “Not exactly a tool in the communist box, is it? You get what the state tells you when it tells you, and if you don’t accept that, well, have a trip to our nice reeducation camp.”

Sinclair cleared his throat. “Assuming our breaching pods can handle the atmospheric stress, does anyone have suggestions on how to get our people out?”

“Time it for when there’s a few freighters docked. Take control of them, load the hostages, and get out,” Miller replied. “No muss, no fuss.”

Sinclair raised an eyebrow. “You make it sound so easy, Major. Perhaps you have a direct line to God that I’m not aware of.”

“Not easy, General. But simple.”

He inclined his head. “Well put. Okay. The next problem is those vessels don’t have the life support for more than a thousand people each. How do you overcome that?”

“It’s not an O2 problem. It’s carbon dioxide buildup that gets you. So we build portable CO2 scrubbers and take them with us. I’ve done something similar before.”

Sinclair stared at Arthur and nodded almost imperceptibly. An engineering mind, this one. But that tracks with his career. “Quite.”

Godat, who’d been silent so far, leaned forward. “I already know our stealth boats can handle the gas giants just fine in the upper thermosphere.”

Arthur put his hands on the table. “Sir, I’d suggest we adjourn to run the math then get our collective heads together for a planning session. Lieutenant Faulkner and his platoon have had success against our terrorist friends, and he’s well acquainted with their weapons tech.”

“I’ll have Master Chief Dennis Harrell transit over with his team. Have them put together the ground-assault outline while you and your people work out the details for approaching undetected through the void.” Sinclair glanced between each person. “This isn’t going to be easy, but the element of surprise is a formidable asset. I trust each of you to do your duty.”

“Yes, sir,” Arthur replied along with half a dozen of the others.

Sinclair stood. “Dismissed. Oh, and Colonel Hanson, a word please?”

“Of course, sir.” Arthur stood stiffly with his arms at his sides as the rest of his senior officers and Captain Godat filed out.

The hatch clanged shut, and Sinclair stood. “I have a couple of questions, Colonel. Starting with ‘How’d a nerdy engineer working on the first antimatter reactor end up here?’”

“Colonel Savchenko told… well, yelled at me back in the Sextans B galaxy that I should get out of my comfort zone. I transferred when we got back, and well, here we are. Never thought I’d be filling his shoes in the middle of a war.”

Sinclair snorted. “Oh, but we’re not at war, according to President Robbins. It’s a police action.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll keep my thoughts about that to myself.”

“Quite. Then enlighten me on another matter. How’d you get Captain—and I do use that word with disgust—Vannier, was it? To spill his guts? From everything I’ve seen, those are some serious chaps who’d rather die than give us anything.”

Arthur’s face froze, and it took him a few seconds to shrug. “Not quite as serious as we thought, I suppose.”

After decades of intelligence work, Sinclair knew when someone was lying. He could spot the signs a kilometer away, and Arthur had telegraphed in half a dozen ways before he opened his mouth that what was coming out wasn’t the truth. “Nice try, old boy. How about you tell me what really happened?”

“I don’t know what you mean, sir,” Arthur finally got out.

Sinclair sighed and took a step toward the younger man. “Did you torture him or one of his people in front of him?”

“We used some enhanced interrogation techniques, General.”

“Don’t give me euphemisms, Colonel. At the very least, be honest with yourself.”

Arthur blinked. “Uh…” He put his hands on his face before shaking his head. “I put him into a rescue truck and cycled the air out. Upon being revived, he was… cooperative.”

“You realize that beyond torture, you just admitted to attempted murder?”

“I do.”

“And?”

“We needed the intelligence, General Sinclair. There have already been so many we couldn’t save. I refuse to let it continue.”

“Well, if I knew about this, I’d have to order you relieved of command and taken into custody pending a court-martial.” Sinclair smirked. “But only if I was aware of it. Which I’m not, and luckily for you, men who use rape as a weapon are among the lowest scum in the universe in my book, which severely limits any outrage I might otherwise feel.”

Arthur gulped and nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t thank me. You crossed a line, and if I were you, I would police my actions going forward carefully, Colonel Hanson. Behavior like that, once normalized, becomes very easy to replicate. Watch yourself.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sinclair turned to go before glancing back at Arthur. “You can make up for it in my book by coming up with an ironclad tactical plan to get our people away from these PFLOS buggers. Clear, Colonel?”

Arthur pulled himself up to his full height. “Yes, sir. I’m on it, sir.”

“Good. Carry on, Colonel.” Sinclair walked through the hatch and toward the gravlift that would whisk him to the deck where his shuttle sat. The situation grew more complicated, but he still felt they could salvage it. Save the hostages and remove the binders from the CDF’s hands to fight. A simple assignment. Those had always been the worst.

9

Faulkner would’ve given anything to wipe the sweat off his brow. It dripped down the faceplate of his power armor’s helmet, despite the best efforts of the suit’s integrated cooling system. The physical-comfort aspect, he couldn’t have cared less about, but the little drops of water interfered with the HUD. He peered around a corner before giving hand signals to move forward.

The sensors built into his gauntlets detected the movement and transmitted the command in real time to the rest of his fire team. As two Marines advanced, Faulkner took point with his battle rifle at the ready. A stream of incoming rounds erupted from somewhere ahead, and he immediately yanked one of his men back to cover while spraying a couple of three-round bursts down the corridor. “Contact, front!”

More incoming rounds smacked the alloy walls, and one of the Marines went down in a heap.

Faulkner ripped a grenade off his armor and pulled the pin. “Pulse. Over!” He tossed the oblong device as far as he could before triggering the sound-suppression mode for his helmet.

Three seconds later, Faulkner and the two remaining Marines in his fire team charged. A shape loomed in front of him, off to the side of a four-way junction, and he put three rounds into its center mass.

Before anything else happened, a bright flash went off, followed by a computerized announcement. “Casualty. Drone fire.”

His suit froze, and he dropped to the floor. It took a good sixty seconds before a raspy male voice echoed over the commlink. “You’re dead along with your entire team, Lieutenant.”

“I killed the one guy I could see, and life-signs detector said no one else was around.”

A man came into view, wearing a suit of power armor that was clearly Coalition made but different from what the Marines were issued. He touched a button, and Faulkner’s power armor came back to life. “You used the right tactics, Lieutenant, and managed to knock off my comms geek, Chief Petty Officer Esmail Rostami. We’re not sure we claim him as a real spacewalker, but good job nevertheless.” The man extended his arm.

Master Chief Petty Officer Dennis Harrell was one of the toughest men Faulkner had ever met. He made TCMC drill instructors look tame in comparison. After half a dozen run-throughs of different combat scenarios, the Marine had nothing but respect for Alpha team.

He smirked as he took the offered hand and climbed to his feet. “Well, I’ll take that, Master Chief.”

“Don’t worry. You’re still a cake eater, and my guys could take your entire platoon without breaking a sweat,” Harrell replied.

“Okay, I’ll bite, Master Chief. How’d you do it?”

Harrell touched one of his armored gauntlets. “We’ve got integrated drones now. These babies have micro explosive darts built into them. They’ll even get through standard-issue power armor.”

Faulkner’s eyes widened. “That’s pretty sweet, Master Chief.”

“Lucky for you and the rest of the misguided kids over there on the Thatcher and the Leonidas, we’ve got enough of our special-operations suits here for most if not all.”

“You mean we get to play with the fun toys?”

Harrell chuckled. “Yeah, that’s right, Marine. Now, stop eating crayons and tell me about your take on the incursion op.”

Faulkner pursed his lips. While he technically outranked the master chief, he knew that in Harrell’s eyes, he was basically fresh out of boot camp and didn’t know what he was doing. And to some extent, the master chief isn’t wrong. He also felt awe at being in the same room as one of the top tier-one operators in the Terran Coalition. Alpha Team’s exploits throughout the League of Sol war were legendary. They’d also participated in numerous black-ops excursions afterward as part of the ongoing efforts to win the peace.

All of it meant he had to say something halfway intelligent. “We’re going in half-blind. The sensor data from the Tucson is fragmented at best. It will be challenging.”

“I think the adjective you’re looking for, Lieutenant, is half-assed.”

Faulkner grinned. “That, too, Master Chief. Ideally, we could insert covertly, recon the station, exfil, and plan a proper rescue.”

“You got some of whatever you’re smoking or drinking, LT? Because the consensus is we only get one shot.”

“I did say ideally.”

Harrell grunted. “If those bastards get any wind we’ve found their hideout, I suspect, as does General Sinclair, that they’ll kill everyone. This is evil on a level we’re not used to dealing with.”

“My Marines and I saw it up close, Master Chief. You don’t have to tell me.”

“Then you understand why we have to go in silent, take control of the computer system, locate our people, and do this spacewalker style… half-assed and with a fluid plan. Because water isn’t flexible enough for this job.”

“Plan the op while it’s in progress?”

“That’s what I said, Lieutenant. Do you need to get your ears checked out?”

Faulkner decided to strategically ignore the barb. I get the feeling Harrell isn’t happy. “You mentioned us getting our hands on these super suits. Will we also get the chance to train?”

“That’s the plan. I don’t expect you Marines to become experts, but even halfway understanding how they work will increase your lethality.”

“I’ll order my guys to quit chewing crayons long enough to pick them up, Master Chief.”

Harrell snickered. “You do that, Lieutenant.”

The entire situation was unsettling, even with some of the finest warriors in the Terran Coalition at their side. Going in blind? I mean, this is a suicide run. “Are any of those fancy new gizmos going to help map out the inside of the station?”

“We’ve got nearly microscopic-size drones for that. Along with whatever magic Rostami and his counterparts can come up with.”

As they’d talked, the other Marines had been unfrozen, and several other commandos walked up. They all wore the distinctive tier-one power armor.

“That’s right, Master Chief. I bring the magic every time.” The slender man had a Persian Republic flag on his armor with the Christian emblem underneath. He came to attention. “Chief Petty Officer Esmail Rostami at your service, Lieutenant.”

“Laying it on a bit much for the butter bars,” Harrell interjected. “This is Chief Petty Officer Amancio Carlos Mata, our sniper specialist.”

“A pleasure, Lieutenant.” Unlike Rostami, Mata had more bulk to him, though Faulkner knew there wasn’t an ounce of fat anywhere on his body.

“Chief.”

“So, what are we going to do about intel gathering and prisoners?” Faulkner asked. “I saw some next-gen stun ammo in your lockers.”

Harrell set his jaw. “And that’s where it’s staying. We’re shooting to kill on this op.”

“Never suggested otherwise, Master Chief. But capturing some HVTs might be valuable.”

“If we get the chance to bag Kovalev, I’ll take it. Otherwise, no prisoners.”

Blood drained from Faulkner’s face. “You mean we just leave them behind?”

“No. Let me be explicit for the crayon eaters. Any PFLOS members we encounter, we kill. And on the off chance somebody tosses their weapon, I’ll still put him down. We clear on that, Lieutenant?”

“Master Chief—”

Harrell pulled himself up to his full height and loomed over Faulkner. “Stow it, cake eater. I don’t want to hear about rules and regs. Or the UCMJ or whatever else you’ve got floating around your head. Clear? This is my op. I have tactical command, and when I tell you to jump, the next question out of your mouth better be ‘How high?’ Do you get me, Marine?”

“Yes, Master Chief.” There was no sense engaging, especially aboard the CSV Oxford, using its state-of-the-art training area. He was on Harrell’s turf, and he knew it. And I’m not picking a fight when the spacewalkers have the high ground.

“Good! I’m glad we got that cleared up. Report to the quartermaster with this motley crew you’ve got here and get your new gear.”

“On it, Master Chief.” He motioned to the three other Marines, who fell in behind him. It took a few minutes to get out of the training area, which was mocked up to resemble a typical Coalition space installation through the use of rollaway walls and drop-in overhead panels.

“Sir, are we going to execute prisoners?” one of the young Marine privates asked as they cleared the hatch, back out into the Oxford proper.

He stopped and turned. “No. I don’t care what the master chief says or does. But no Marine under my command is going to shoot a surrendered enemy or a wounded enemy who is no longer a threat.”

“Yes, sir.”

Faulkner was shaken to his core by the fact that such a question had been asked. What are we becoming here? As they strode toward the armory, he had no answer.

David settled down on the couch in the living room of his vastly expanded condominium in Lawrence City. Until the last few years, he had spent most of his life on CDF vessels in the void, so he’d never cared much about such things. Having a wife and two children had changed his perspective dramatically. It helped that he’d also saved the majority of his pay over the decades. With the CDF providing his bed and meals, even with the credits David sent to his mother to help her live comfortably, he’d socked away close to a million in his savings and investment accounts.

That had come in handy when Salena declared they needed a better place to live after Shoshanna’s birth. They’d looked for several months before settling on a four-bedroom place in one of the Jewish enclaves, specifically within an eruv that allowed them to perform some activities normally forbidden on the Sabbath.

He’d been able to pay for it, and since he’d had an increase in pay after becoming a four-star general and received a generous housing allowance, the Cohens’ financial well-being had never been better. Which is saying something because kids are expensive.

Smiling, Salena dropped next to him and put her head on his shoulder. “What is going through your mind, my love? I can see the wheels turning.”

David chuckled. “I was thinking about how I’m going to pay for a private Hebrew school for Levi and Shoshanna… and any others we happen to have.” While they were no longer actively trying to have children, they also took no steps to prevent it from happening, per Rabbinic law.

“And?”

“We’ve got it covered, I think.”

“What if we add another?”

“My understanding is that there’s a discount depending on the number of kids we enroll in the same school,” David replied.

She ran a finger down his face. “Ah, are you suggesting we should be more fruitful?”

David’s cheeks heated. “If Hashem decides to bless us, I am always up for more.”

Salena giggled. “Did you like the Anktar roots tonight?”

“I’ve developed a taste for them.” The food, which he would’ve described as a cross between a mushroom and a potato with a very odd taste, was one of her favorites.

“You seem far away.”

David tilted his head to look at her. “Sorry. There… There’s a lot going on. This war but also how things have just turned upside down.”

“What do you mean?”

“The interstellar security council put out a memo, signed by President Rollins, stating that we are forbidden to use the term ‘communist terrorist’ because such language is bigoted and racist.”

Salena stared at him before raising her eyebrows. “I admit to being a relatively new member of your society, but isn’t communism a belief? Not a race or species?”

David nodded. “That is correct. Furthermore, what PFLOS is doing is terrorism by any definition of the word.”

“Then—”

“Our government is afraid of hurting the feelings of any communist who may be present in the Terran Coalition and might feel slighted by the use of the phrase.”

Salena blinked a few times. “That is illogical.”

“Yes, it is. The universe has turned upside down. Rollins’s lackeys care more about not offending point-zero-one percent of our population than defending the Terran Coalition.”

“This isn’t how our country worked a couple of years ago even.”

David shook his head. “No, it’s not. I don’t recognize it anymore. Yet here we are. And I must send young men and women out to die because idiot politicians won’t make the tough choices that are needed.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“I’m COMSPACEFLT. The buck stops with me.”

Salena ran her fingers through his hair. “My love, you cannot shoulder the burden of the entire galaxy. As I understand things, you must follow orders.”

She was right. It’s not like I haven’t already bent my orders. When Rollins figures that out at long last, HaShem only knows what’ll happen next. But the situation troubled him to his very core. It was all he could think about, and everything else in life—even his wife’s warm touch—was muted. “It’s difficult to explain beyond… I view this war as my responsibility to solve.”

“What if the rest of the government doesn’t let you?”

“That’s not something I’ve allowed myself to consider yet.”

Salena smiled. “We could always move to the Arch.”

Joint Base Sagittarius Arch, or the Arch, as most had come to call it, was the gateway from the Milky Way galaxy to the Sextans B galaxy. It housed tens of thousands of people from the Coalition, other SATO members, Zeivlots, Zavlots, and even a few citizens of the League of Sol. David had fond memories of the installation and its commanding officer at the time, Colonel Mateo Larra. A good man. It surprised him after recent events that she would want to live there. “It would be an easy shuttle flight back to your home.”

“Yes.” Salena nuzzled against him. “But that is not why I would go. Among my people, your word still means much.”

“It’s worth something here, too, just not quite as much with the change in political leadership.”

“Perhaps the next election will bring further change.”

David grinned. “I’m praying for that.”

“Then you are doing all you can. It must be enough.”

Try as he might, David couldn’t quite get himself there, though he wished he could absorb her wisdom and apply it to his life. Maybe if we can rescue the hostages. That might take the edge off all this and keep a lid on things until the fleet can arrive and start chasing PFLOS and its ilk down.

10

Time seemed to race by, despite every attempt Arthur made to slow it down. He’d spent most of it working on fine details of the tactical plan to storm the PFLOS station and painstakingly going over the simulations, kill-house drills, and preparations made by other ship COs and unit leaders across the fleet. So far, they’d determined that the Oxford’s breaching pods would survive the atmosphere of the gas giant and that, on paper at least, the operation worked. If we had enough time to fully train.

Yet two days had passed in the blink of an eye. Speaking of which, Arthur leaned back and put some drops into his, as they hurt from staring at screens nonstop for forty-six hours and only taking a couple of naps.

His tablet chirped, and a message popped up. “Incoming vidlink from Sinclair. Ah joy,” Arthur murmured before tapping the accept button.

A moment later, the unsmiling face of Brigadier General Robert Sinclair appeared on the tablet and took up the entire screen. “Ah, caught you in your office. Jolly good.”

“What can I do for you, sir?”

“It’s not a matter of what you can do for me but more what all of us must do for the hostages, Colonel.” Sinclair pursed his lips. “I’ve read over the training reports and watched the replays. It’s not what I would consider tight yet.”

“An understatement, sir.” But he could do precious little about the problem. High-risk tier-one operations sometimes involved six months of planning. They didn’t even have six days.

Sinclair bit his lip. “We’re rolling the iron dice, old chap.”

“I would argue for waiting a little longer, sir. Let the teams continue to improve.”

“No. We can’t. These bloody terrorist bastards killed over four hundred spacers in the last forty-eight hours since the stand-down started.”

Sinclair didn’t have the authority to order him forward, but at the same time, the intelligence officer was right. And General Cohen would agree. Arthur steepled his fingers. “Our odds of success are low.”

“In times like these, I hope Divine Providence is on our side, Colonel. Because I see no other way to win and far too many paths where it goes horrifically wrong.”

“Well, here’s one more thing to add. I think we have to keep our destroyers out of the fight and only use stealth boats.”

“Why?”

“Because PFLOS will be alerted something is up if everything we have on the board suddenly disappears.”

Sinclair sighed. “So we violate the first rule of warfare, to concentrate your firepower especially when faced with an enemy with greater numbers.”

“That about sums it up, sir.”

“You are, of course, correct. When can we begin?”

Arthur paused. They at least need some sleep. And so do I. “Six hours?”

“Enough time for a last rest?”

“Yes. And some food. It will be the last supper for too many of them,” Arthur replied.

“This is part of command, Colonel. Something I suspect you’re now learning.”

Arthur kept his face as straight as he could. The thought that he ought to be in the engine room was never quite out of mind but mostly suppressed. Perhaps it would fade completely in time. He certainly hoped so. “Yes, I realize now the incredible strain previous COs I’ve served with endured.”

Sinclair snorted. “If I may be so bold, old chap, you’ve got a trial by fire even worse than them because we’re being ordered to fight with one arm tied behind our backs by that craven woman.”

Immediately, Arthur knew the General was speaking of President Rollins. He wanted to groan. Whatever he thought, having a political discussion with a superior officer wasn’t proper. “Hopefully, once we free our people, that will change.”

“Unlikely.”

“You never told me how the Oxford happened to be in the right place at the right time.”

“We have similar taste in friends,” Sinclair replied with a smirk. “General Cohen can be quite perceptive on how to handle problems.”

Realization clicked into place for Arthur. The Oxford’s three-hundred-fifty-millimeter magnetic cannons were heavy cruiser strength. It’s a way to get heavy-duty reinforcements in without violating the treaty. Wow. That’s a dangerous game General Cohen is playing. “I see.”

“Anything else, Colonel Hanson?”

Arthur shook his head before something popped into his mind. “Oh… Do you want me to transfer our stealth fighters to the Tucson or another boat?”

“No. Keep them with you. Just in case PFLOS has some trick up its sleeve.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sinclair’s face softened. “Go get some rest. You’re going to need it.”

Arthur nodded and sighed. “I know. I might offer the same advice, sir.”

“Oh, I plan to have a spot of tea and put myself right to sleep.”

“Then I hope we all have a good evening, and Godspeed tomorrow.”

“Amen, Colonel Hanson. Sinclair out.”

The screen went blank, and Arthur let his head hit the chair’s back. He glanced around the nearly empty day cabin. With Savchenko’s effects packed up, it was quite spare. At some point, I ought to put out a few things, if for no other reason than to help forget that until a couple of weeks ago, I wasn’t in command. While he didn’t feel so out of place anymore, Arthur couldn’t deny he still felt uncomfortable. As I probably should be. He pushed the thoughts out of his mind and stood. Time for some shut-eye. But before I do, I have to let the Marines know. God help us all.

Social and Public Safety Committee Deliberation Chamber

Geneva—Earth

8 April 2474

Dmitry Borisov was a man who seldom smiled—or showed any emotion, for that matter. Most would either tremble at the sight of the Social and Public Safety Committee chamber or be in awe of the grandiose nature of the room, with its hand-painted portraits of previous chairmen, including several founders of the World Society movement on Earth. There were even images of Vladimir Lenin and Mao Zedong, whose communist revolutions led the way toward a brighter future for Earth and the entire empire of the League of Sol.

For him, it was simply another day and another interaction with a group of doddering old men for whom he had no respect.

The current chairman, Makar Tarnovsky, had been droning on for ten minutes. “Yet do we believe that the Terran Coalition will not attempt to use this as an opportunity to exact more from us?”

Silence greeted him along with a few nods.

“It is unlikely,” Borisov interjected. “The political faction in charge currently has no interest in further war.”

“These people are incomprehensible,” one minister said from across the room. She was dark-skinned and spoke with a lilt to her French that indicated a fluent speaker. “If one colony of the League was taken, all of us would go to take it back. When one human is harmed, all are. It is the way of society. I reject this concept they will not respond.”

Borisov snorted. “What you accept has no bearing, madame. Only what is fact. The Terrans have lost the desire to fight. They will not attack us. Hell, they barely seem to be willing to fight this resistance group.”

“And how much foresight did the External Security Service have to the attack, Director?”

“None.” Borisov shrugged. “Nor is it our place to police internal matters. That is solely the domain of Internal Security.” He would never debase himself enough to smirk in an open meeting, but inside, he took much pleasure in the barb.

Chastened, the minister settled back into her seat.

Tarnovsky banged his gavel. He was the current chairman and the replacement for the last, ill-fated man to underestimate the Coalition—Pallis. “Director, what do your human assets tell you? Surely the CDF will respond with overwhelming force.”

“No, Mr. Chairman. They are holding strictly to our treaty. Every source I have confirms this.”

“Then what do you counsel?”

Borisov shrugged. “Do nothing. Let the capitalist dogs fight an insurgent force that will bleed them dry. The best outcome is that they’re driven from the Orion spur.”

“And if they’re not?” Minister Yvette Etienne asked sharply. “What then?”

“They will be weakened. How is this not obvious? Anything that hurts the capitalists is by definition good for us.”

Tarnovsky pursed his lips. “Our shipyards are just now coming back online. Our fleet was crippled after the last battle over their infernal capital planet. The committee is united in its desire for caution.”

The display made Borisov want to vomit. Showing weakness in front of inferiors. Oh, how the League has fallen. “Mr. Chairman, I acknowledge and understand the desire to avoid conflict in the near future. However, we must be realistic. There is only room in this galaxy for one human civilization. It must be ours.”

A few approving nods and the hint of a smile came from several committee members.

Perhaps some still understand. “If I may be so bold… Perhaps we should consider how we can covertly aid the Popular Front for the Liberation of the Orion Spur?”

Etienne slammed her hand down on the mahogany table. “No! That would invite open war with the Terran Coalition and its alliance. We cannot stand against four major powers at once.”

“Aliens and degenerate races will not intervene in this conflict. It is far from their space and interests,” Borisov replied. “Perhaps if we were to fully involve ourselves and attack the Sagittarius Arm but not here in the Orion Spur.”

After several seconds of silence came “No, we will not take the risk of aiding the insurgents” from Tarnovsky. “It is far too dangerous. The current course is proper. Bide our time.”

Etienne leaned forward, and her lips curved into a wicked grin that was aimed at Borisov. “What of the current aid the External Security Services is giving to the PFLOS?” She spelled out the acronym rather than use its phonetic form.

“What do you mean?” Borisov was far too practiced a professional to let the question rattle him, but it did set the wheels of his mind spinning. Does she know? Is she taking shots in the dark?

“There is ample evidence of military hardware going missing in what can only be described as a coordinated manner, Director.” Etienne picked up a tablet device and waved it theatrically.

For a split second, Borisov’s blood ran cold. No. She couldn’t have actual evidence. Otherwise, I’d already be in chains. Or dead. My tradecraft has been far too good. Still, her suspicion was troubling. He maintained a mask of composure. “I’ve read reports suggesting that elements of the League Navy remain loyal to Admiral Seville and are angry we haven’t done more to bring him home. Perhaps these subversives and individualists are involved.”

Etienne stared at him with a barely disguised sneer. “I’m sure that’s it.”

“Our internal security forces must do more to root out the sympathizers,” Tarnovsky interjected. “But perhaps not too forcefully. Director Borisov is right… bleeding the Terrans dry is a worthwhile goal.”

“Of course, Mr. Chairman. I shall see to it myself,” Etienne replied.

Tarnovsky continued, “Today has been a long session. We shall now adjourn unless there is new business.”

No one had anything to add, and a few moments later, he slammed the gavel onto a wooden block, and everyone scattered for the doors. Borisov had no desire to dally, so he, too, quickly headed out.

Etienne blocked him, like a snake ambushing its prey. “Rushing back to your scheming, Director?”

Borisov let a moment pass before he replied in a monotone, “If you have something to say, say it.”

“I fail to believe you’re not involved in this. It seems like something you would’ve put together and enjoyed immensely.” She came closer. “Did I not make it clear what would happen if you deviated from my wishes the last time our paths crossed?”

That dark day, when Etienne had poisoned him and could’ve easily finished the job, sprang into his mind. Never again will I be that sloppy. “Yes, you did, and I learn my lessons well, Yvette.”

“Good. Then pull your support for these insurgents and burn whatever network you have to the ground,” she whispered into his ear.

Borisov only flashed a smile as he nodded, then he moved off. My plans will have to be accelerated. One thing was for sure: nothing would stop him. Especially not Etienne and her misguided appeasement of the individualist scourge.

11

Arthur gazed at the Oxford’s shuttle bay, which was a misnomer because the area was easily five times the size of the Margaret Thatcher’s and more resembled an escort carrier’s flight deck. The space was also full of people—two dozen tier-one operators, almost sixty Marines, and dozens more soldiers and maintenance crews. He’d decided to transition over because regardless of Sinclair’s rank, Arthur knew it was his operation. Something made him unwilling to ask a hundred men and women to die without at least looking them in the eye.

It helped that for years, he’d observed other leaders do the same thing. And if I could be half the officer General Cohen and Colonel Savchenko were, I’d be doing okay by those under my command.

Breaching pods and Marine assault shuttles were lined up in neat rows, prepared for their journey to the supporting stealth raiders. From there, they’d head on to find the PFLOS station. We don’t even know its exact location, only a generalized area to hunt. The entire mission was flying on a wing and a prayer, from start to finish.

While the special forces operators had hard expressions, nervousness was evident if one knew where to look, especially on the faces of the young Marines, most of whom were experiencing actual combat for the first time.

Sinclair walked through the hangar’s bulkhead doors and made his way to the front of the flight line. As he did, everyone, including Arthur, stiffened to attention.

“As you were, old chaps.”

They all relaxed a hair.

“Most of you know me by my codename of Zeus. The story of how I received it is long, and I won’t belabor it here, but suffice to say rarely do I have the singular honor of addressing men and women about to go into battle. Usually, if Intelligence does its job properly, our role is one for the sidelines. No one knows of our exploits, and the only recognition for a life given in defense of liberty is a small gold star on a wall that few get to see.”

Sinclair cleared his throat and projected his voice even more. “But all of you standing here today, your sacrifices will be known to all. If we accomplish our objectives, the entire galaxy will hear of the miracle that was a group of under one hundred Marines and spacewalkers saving five thousand hostages. And if we fail, then at least we shall have done so trying to accomplish an honorable and just deed. I salute you all, and the analysts on the Oxford will not rest for a moment, trying to find any actionable information, until you return. Godspeed to you all.”

Quiet descended over the bay, and Arthur stepped forward. He had to say something. But inspirational speeches weren’t exactly his strong suit. One second turned into three as Arthur licked his lips.

“None of us thought we’d be here today, fighting a deadly enemy on the edge of Coalition space. But that’s the thing about this life and our service. We never know what each day will bring.”

Arthur swallowed. He wasn’t sure where he was going with the speech. What would General Cohen or Calvin have to say here?

Suddenly, what he needed to say became clear. “This rescue mission is risky, and that’s putting it mildly. I won’t order anyone to engage in it. Anyone willing to volunteer should take one step for—”

With a resounding clank on the deck, everyone in the hangar took a step. Arthur allowed himself a small smile as he remembered similar events during his time on the Lion of Judah.

“One last thing, ladies and gentlemen. I’m angry. We’re all angry. I want a piece of these PFLOS bastards just as you do. But I want you to remember something one of my Marine buddies likes to say. It’s not our job to judge these terrorists. That’s God’s job. Our job is to arrange a face-to-face meeting as soon as possible.”

All at once, cheers broke out throughout the hangar bay, even by the tier-one operators who usually showed no emotion. Chants of “CDF! CDF!” echoed, followed by enthusiastic clapping.

Arthur held up a hand. “I hear you. And those bastards from PFLOS, they’re going to hear you soon too. Go get our innocents and bring them home. Good luck, good hunting, and Godspeed!”

With another cheer, the Marines and spacewalkers turned and marched toward their transport craft.

Sinclair appeared at Arthur’s side and nodded. “Well said, Colonel. Well said. I dare say if that didn’t stir the blood, nothing would on this day.”

“It’s difficult to know I can’t go with them.”

Sinclair raised an eyebrow. “You’ll have to get used to that, old chap. I never get to have any fun anymore. I’m hidden behind a network of agents, counteragents, and electronic surveillance devices. But I know what you mean. Whenever my people are in danger, the first instinct is to be with them because we think we could change the outcome. Especially when good people are lost.”

Arthur glanced at him while watching the loading process continue. “I notice you say when, not if.”

“My boy, I’ve been doing this longer than you’ve been alive, but I suspect we both understand that by this time tomorrow, a lot of good, decent, honorable soldiers and Marines will be gone. We must hope that more of the enemy is dead and that the cost was worth it.”

“And if we rescue the hostages—”

“Virtually any cost is acceptable for this mission.”

It was a harsh calculation but one Arthur knew in his heart was accurate.

Master Chief Harrell marched up. His team had paused in front of one of the assault shuttles. Each man carried two duffels that Arthur could only presume were filled to the gills with advanced ground weapons.

“Not a bad speech for a cake eater.”

Arthur cracked a grin. “High praise coming from you, Master Chief. I still remember your team busting into the officers’ mess on the Lion.”

“If only pulling off this op were as simple as taking your booze.” He turned serious. “I understand we’re only getting limited fire support. Stealth boats.”

“Yes.” Arthur bit his lip. “The rest of our force will be staged elsewhere in case we’re needed. One jump away.”

Harrell nodded. “Yeah, it makes sense, Colonel. Your peashooter wouldn’t do much, anyway, with how many ships the enemy can bring. You stay out of the way and let the spacewalkers handle things.”

Arthur always found amusement in how the commandos subtly insulted senior officers or really anyone who wasn’t a space special-warfare operator in virtually everything they said. I’ve worked with officers who get riled up by the antics of guys like the master chief, but I don’t care. They’ve earned the right to do what they want in my book.

“Send a few rounds downrange for me, Master Chief,” Arthur replied with a smile.

“Wish granted.”

All three men chuckled, then Arthur extended his hand. “Godspeed.”

“Yeah, something like that,” Harrell replied as he gripped Arthur’s hand so hard he thought it might get yanked off.

As the commando strode off toward the shuttle that would carry him and his brethren over to one of the stealth raiders, Sinclair stroked his chin. “Tough chaps.”

“I wish we had more of them.”

“So do I.” Sinclair wiped his eyes, which had dark circles under them. “You’d best be getting back to your peashooter, Colonel.”

Arthur cracked a grin. “I’ll take my peashooter over this rust bucket any day.”

“You wound me, Hanson. You wound me.” Sinclair made a spectacle out of clutching his chest as if he’d been shot.

Arthur chuckled. “You’ll live, General.”

“For now, anyway. Good luck.”

“To us all.”

“Dismissed.”

Arthur came to attention before turning on his heel and making his way to the tiny transport pod, which could barely be rated as a shuttle, that he’d come over on. It was the smallest thing in the Thatcher’s inventory.

On the way back to his ship, Arthur had a few minutes to ponder what came next. I can no longer affect the outcome of this battle. Except to sit light-years away and either pray or send positive thoughts toward a group of men and women putting their lives on the line. No matter how he sliced it, the situation sucked, and the engineering portion of him that craved solving a tangible problem hated every moment.

PSB Chen Quingzhi

Popular Front for the Liberation of the Orion Spur HQ

8 April 2474

“I can scarcely believe that the CDF force has disappeared,” Hai Gao said.

Yevgeny Kovalev shook his head and took a long drink from a glass of dark-brown liquid. They were in his office, and Gao had been briefing him on their progress. “This, we agree on, comrade. But such is the weakness of a democracy, yes? President Rollins must cater to her constituents.” He said the word as if it had a foul taste.

“But… we’ve destroyed another dozen freighters. It’s to the point no one is willing to undock.”

“Except the suicidal ones,” Kovalev replied with a snicker. “This is yet another reason why our system will prevail over the Terrans. League citizens… We know each individual exists only to serve the whole of Society. These capitalists believe the individual is more important. When I first started studying the Terran Coalition, I thought that was lip service.”

“I did too. You’re saying it’s not?”

Kovalev shook his head. “Surprisingly, no. They truly believe it and structure their society in such a way as to advance the individual above all else. It galls me to no end that these… miscreants… have managed to defeat our society for so long.”

Gao downed the rest of his drink. “But they do make a fine whiskey.”

“True.” Kovalev poured another shot into the hardened-polymer tumbler, which mimicked the appearance of fine crystal. “My old friend, I believe the time has come to advance to the next phase.”

“Ground invasions? Do you think the CDF is so cowed they won’t interfere?”

“With what exactly? If we concentrate our forces, all they could do is die against us.”

“They can still inflict damage when attacking our strike groups.”

Kovalev shrugged. “But they’re not doing so because of political interference.”

“How soon until that changes, comrade? Do you think their military officers will sit back and let us carve them up?”

“You underestimate the civic institutions of the Terran Coalition. Such a thing… Disobeying direct orders from the civilian chain of command, it’s unheard of. Simply not done. No, I think the few ships remaining in the Orion Spur will do as they’re told. Oh, they’ll probably come when we land our troops, but they’ll die. I’m comfortable with this strategy.”

“Perhaps we should use an intermediate tactic and attack another orbital space station before proceeding to ground invasions.”

Kovalev took a few moments to ponder Gao’s words. As usual, they had merit. Which is why I selected him for this position. The League Navy had far too many yes-men and yes-women who contributed to groupthink and outrageously bad outcomes. “I like the overall idea. But I think it needs to be something more… dramatic.”

Gao raised an eyebrow. “Such as?”

“We should detonate a fusion warhead above New Rostov’s capital. That’s the center of government power for the Coalition out here.”

Hai Gao licked his lips. “Comrade, that would kill many decent League citizens who are only trying to survive until help comes.”

“Do you genuinely believe that, Hai? No, I doubt it.”

“I know the cause requires blood and sacrifice. But I fear such an action will drive support from us. It also risks the Coalition waking up to the threat they face.”

Kovalev shook his head. “After we’ve killed upward of three hundred thousand of their citizens? I think we can safely conclude that isn’t a great risk. It is a simple calculation, Hai. Those who are unwilling to do their part for Society must be shown the error of their ways. Think of the fear destroying that den of capitalists will instill across any others who’ve sided with them.”

“Isn’t it better to win their hearts back, though? I can see how anyone would be seduced by what the Terrans claim to offer.”

“No.” Kovalev slammed his hand down on the desk, which made a noise so loud it even startled him. “There can be no mercy to those who abandon Society. Cut out the disease and let those who will return to the fold. The rest, we can reeducate in time.”

For a moment, doubt flickered on Gao’s face, like a flame in the wind. But then he set his jaw. “It will be done, comrade. I will put together a task force at once.”

“Ensure overwhelming force. If the CDF does respond, I want the Margaret Thatcher, Colonel Hanson, and all his friends destroyed. And… bring back more ships to protect our station. Just in case something were to happen. I don’t want us to be caught unawares.”

“Yes, comrade.”

12

CSV Tucson

Deep Space - Orion Spur

8 April 2474

Jeremiah Duprey raised his arm, studying the tier-one power armor. It was unlike anything he’d ever worn. Impossibly light compared to standard-issue TCMC protective gear, the entire suit felt like an extension of his skin. No wonder special forces are so much more effective than mainline soldiers and Marines. A brief consideration of the cost in Terran Coalition credits answered his musings as to why they weren’t given to all.

“Not bad, eh, Chief?” Faulkner asked. He sat across the way, testing the integrated optics in his helmet. “I could get used to this.”

“A fine piece of equipment, Lieutenant.”

Alpha Team’s colorful leader, Master Chief Dennis Harrell, walked through the hatch. Technically, they were all in spacewalker territory, as all Growler-class stealth boats had berthing and storage compartments for two full teams of elite operators. This particular area was where they housed all equipment and weapons between missions. “Just wait until you see what our battle rifles can do.”

Faulkner grinned. “Oh, I’m looking forward to trying that out for myself, Master Chief.”

“What about you, Chief?” Harrell asked Jeremiah. “I doubt medics ever get to play with the fun toys. This ought to be a real step up for you in firepower.”

Jeremiah licked his lips. “I don’t use a battle rifle, Master Chief.”

Harrell stopped and tilted his head. “Oh, we got ourselves a real John Wayne guy here. Sidearms only, eh? Want to look them in the eye? I can respect that—doubly so since you’re not even a Marine.”

Oh boy. Here goes nothing. Jeremiah had rarely interacted with tier-one operators. Oh, he’d met a few here and there, but a destroyer rarely played host to the royalty of Coalition combat soldiers. “I don’t carry a weapon, Master Chief.”

“Why the hell not? How do you kill the bad guys? You some kind of martial artist?”

Jeremiah set his jaw. “I’m a conscientious objector. As such, I do not believe in killing another sentient being, and I don’t touch weapons.”

Harrell’s eyes went to Faulkner then tracked over to Jeremiah and finally returned to the young Marine officer. “You guys pulling my leg?”

Faulkner pursed his lips. “Nope, Master Chief. Our medic only picks up a weapon if it’s a hand grenade and he’s tossing it back at the enemy, and before you say anything else, I’ve personally seen him recklessly expose himself to hostile fire over a dozen times to save a Marine’s life. There are at least three men in my unit who owe their lives to him. We clear on that?”

Jeremiah glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. The second lieutenant has come a long way from threatening to shoot me if I displayed cowardice. Jeremiah had never held a grudge over that. He recognized that his way differed from most and, perhaps to some, was preposterous. As long as I demonstrate and witness through my actions, almost all will realize it’s not an act. The rest, I cannot change.

Harrell, for perhaps the first time in his life, was stunned. His jaw moved up and down a few times, but no words came out. “I want to make sure I have this straight. Your medic won’t use a weapon but rushes into combat with no regard for himself and saves Marines?”

“Yes.”

“That’s got to be the craziest John Wayne shit I’ve ever heard. There’s no way in hell I’d ever go into combat without a weapon, prepared to positively kill anything in my way. So respect, Chief Duprey. But… you don’t screw up my op. Are we clear?”

“Crystal, Master Chief.”

“Just one thing. Don’t expect that little red cross on your armor to count for anything. They’ll probably relish killing you more than one of the rest of us.”

Jeremiah shrugged. “If it’s my time, it’s my time. Naked I came out of my mother’s womb, and naked shall I return to the ground. The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.”

Harrell unlocked a weapons locker and hefted one of the advanced battle rifles. “This baby will take the enemy away, even around a corner with airburst munitions.” He tossed the weapon at Faulkner, who caught it in an easy motion.

“Nice. Extended mags, too, I see.”

“First class all the way, Lieutenant.” Harrell grinned. “Gentlemen.”

As the commando walked off toward another group of Marines testing out the power armor, Faulkner shook his head. “Sorry, Chief. I know I was a real ass when we first met.”

“Water under the bridge, sir.”

Faulkner put his hand on Jeremiah’s shoulder. “Let’s bring as many home as we can.”

“That’s the mission, sir.” The words were easy to utter, but they’d be much harder to carry out. Something about what he knew was coming made it feel like it might be his last combat. But Jeremiah didn’t think for a moment about sitting it out. Regardless of the cost, God would guide his path, and whatever the price to be paid was, it would be worth it.

“You good, Chief?” Faulkner asked.

Jeremiah slid the last piece of armor into place, where it locked. A second later, the suit booted up, and the helmet came alive with an advanced HUD. “Wow. Yeah, better than good, LT. This is some sweet gear.”

“Targeting assist is nice. Even better than normal Marine issue.”

“I wish you had access to this all the time. Sure would make my job easier,” Jeremiah replied.

Faulkner inclined his head and popped his helmet faceplate up. “That’d mean more bad guys killed.”

“Yeah, well, that’s between them and God at this point. I pray for every man’s soul, even those we kill, but it’s difficult to feel any sorrow for them. The wages of sin is death. And PFLOS’s sin?” Jeremiah shook his head. “It’s up there with the worst. I know as a Christian, I’m not supposed to count some sin as worse than others, but—”

“Let me put it this way, Chief. I always thought I might have a problem after killing another human or an alien. I mean, when you join the TCMC, that’s what you sign up for if there’s a war, or police, or whatever other group. Got that in one going in.”

“But?”

“I don’t feel bad after killing these men. Or the few women among their ranks.”

Jeremiah inhaled deeply. They were out of earshot of everyone else, and it wasn’t the sort of conversation he wished the commandos to hear. “Try not to lose yourself too much in that.”

Faulkner glanced up. “I won’t. I don’t enjoy it. There’s just no feeling.”

“Don’t ever enjoy it, and try to come out the other side with your humanity intact.”

Those words would haunt Jeremiah in the days, weeks, and months to come.

CSV Tucson

Deep Space - Orion Spur

9 April 2474

Given the hornet’s nest they were about to kick over, Godat had paused for a few hours before the last jump into the system containing the PFLOS station. Their Lawrence drive needed to be completely cooled down, just in case a double jump was required. However, if that happens, it means the enemy knows we’re coming, and five thousand innocent people are already dead. The same would be true for the other two stealth raiders, the San Juan and the London.

In order to minimize their heat signature and power outputs, the boat was rigged for ultraquiet by shutting down all nonessential systems. That included the communications array. They were on tight-beam, point-to-point connection only.

“I think I’m going to get ninety minutes of shut-eye,” Godat said as he concluded there was nothing else for him to do in the control room but wait.

Letchford glanced up from his display. “Not a bad idea, sir.”

“You should too.”

“Well…”

“Leaguers aren’t finding us out here, between the stars, with our stealth.”

Letchford inclined his head. “Valid point, sir.”

“We’re no good to anyone if we can’t function.” Godat’s former CO, Nathan Mancini, had constantly drilled that common refrain into him. Except of course, none of us want to be away from the command center when our boat’s in danger.

Letchford blew out a breath. His uniform had the British flag under the Terran Coalition emblem. It matched his accent well. “I pray God stands with us today.”

“And I hope we’re standing with HaShem. This is one time… there’s little doubt we are, in my mind, though. These PFLOS bastards… I’m sure I could share a beer with a Leaguer and speak with him respectfully.”

“Yeah, me too. Most of them anyway. Especially the conscripts.”

Godat was glad he wasn’t on the ground team. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to control himself during that kind of battle because he believed every last member of the terrorist group should be lined up and shot. To HaShem belongs vengeance and recompense. It was difficult to remember that.

“They’re going to succeed.”

“You sound awfully confident of that,” Godat replied.

“Allah walks with the faithful and causes the just to prevail.”

Godat stood. “I’ll take it. We all will. Captain Letchford has the conn.”

“I have the conn. Aye, aye, sir.”

“Get one of the third-shift officers up here and get some rest.”

Letchford grinned. “Yes, sir.”

With a final chuckle, Godat turned and walked out of the control room. His day cabin was only a few steps away, and unlike on a larger vessel, it was the size of a cubbyhole. The work space converted into a bunk, which he quickly did and rolled into it. Godat recited the Shema, and within minutes, his exhausted body was asleep.

13

The screen seemed to blur before going completely out of focus. Arthur blinked and reached for his ever-present spill-proof mug of CDF coffee. He took a sip then allowed his eyes to go back to the form he’d been in the middle of filling out. The boredom was almost more than he could handle. I’d rather be on the bridge, doing something… anything. He toggled his tablet over to the Margaret Thatcher’s comm network and pulled up the integrated tactical uplink.

Three blue dots representing the Tucson, San Juan and London were in the same sector of space they’d been in fifteen minutes before, the last time he’d checked. Pitting three lightly shielded stealth raiders against a mammoth space station and a small array of up-gunned freighters capable of going toe to toe with military vessels was foolhardy at best.

Arthur knew that, as did everyone else. But it remained the only option. General Cohen would’ve had some pithy comment about Sun Tzu. I don’t. All Arthur had at the moment was waiting for each agonizing second to tick by with nothing he could personally accomplish to affect the outcome. Down in the engineering spaces, at least there was always something to do.

The buzz of the hatch chime dragged Arthur out of his mental hole. It went off twice before he called out, “Come in!”

A few moments later, Miller entered. “How’s it going, sir?”

Arthur shrugged. “Trying to keep from going cross-eyed. How about you?”

She chuckled as she slid into the chair nearest the desk. “About the same, I suppose. Waiting is the worst part.”

“Said probably every space-warfare officer ever.”

“Likely.”

“Been a rough few days, yeah?” Miller’s eyes locked onto his like a Hunter missile.

Understatement of the century. “Something like that, yeah.”

“We’ve had our ups and downs. Maybe mostly down.” Miller seemed to try for something lighter than her usual frown. “But I feel the need to tell you I was impressed at how you handled Vannier and the hostage crisis. You were channeling Colonel Savchenko there, and that’s not something I say lightly.”

So all it takes to gain my XO’s confidence is to nearly kill a POW. “Perhaps not how I’d hoped to inspire you,” he replied in a neutral tone.

“We have different styles, sir. I’ve accepted that, but you just proved you can go all the way if needed. I, personally, needed to see that in action.”

Arthur pursed his lips. “Regardless of the success, I’m uneasy with how that went down. It was… too easy to torture that man. In the moment, I saw Vannier as less than human. Truly as a rabid animal that deserved to be put down.”

“That’s what he is, sir.” Miller’s expression was beyond hard, as if hate were written on it. “Anyone who behaves as they have is an animal and deserves to be treated as such. Don’t lose any sleep over him or the rest of their sorry lot. If it were up to me, I’d put them all in the cargo bay and vent it into the void.”

Something about how she framed up the desire for revenge was intensely attractive. It presented a simple and neat solution to dealing with the evil that lay before them. But even as Arthur felt the attraction, he knew there was something dark about it.

Blinking on the tablet’s screen redirected his attention. “Looks like they’re finally done with cooldown procedures.”

“Thank God. I’d love to see what Kovalev’s face looks like when he realizes we’ve rescued the hostages and are about to blow his station to kingdom come.”

Arthur chuckled. “Same, XO.”

“You know, if we all pull this off, everyone involved is going to be a hero, right?”

“I’ve never had that as a goal.”

Miller chuckled. “Why not? Because serving on the Lion of Judah made you one automatically?”

Arthur’s cheeks heated. “No, I’m just not that kind of guy.”

“It’s okay to take a victory lap, sir. Don’t forget that.”

“Let’s get the win first, then we’ll discuss the medals, eh?” Arthur’s eyes went back to the screen. Each of the three dots disappeared from the fleetlink display. “Task force is on its way.”

“Now we get to wait some more.”

Arthur didn’t need to be reminded. Boredom would quickly set back in. “Have you had lunch yet?”

Miller shook her head. “No.”

“Well, might break up the monotony some to take a walk down to the officers’ mess and get a sandwich, if you’d care to join me?”

“That sounds good to me.” Miller stood.

Arthur sprang to his feet. While it felt good to have the XO finally happy with his leadership, the more he put a mental cycle or two into the why, the more questions he had. Is what I did to Vannier wrong? Half of him said yes. The other found the perfect justification in PFLOS’s actions to date.

In the end, he had no answers except to continue. Arthur prayed for the success of the stealth raiders and the hostage rescue. That was the only consideration at the moment.

Unlike the vibrant eruption of color from a normal Lawrence drive wormhole, the stealth-jump engine aboard the CSV Tucson melded the vessel back into normal space with a minimum of fuss. It was part of what made the Growler-class boats so effective as commerce raiders and surveillance platforms.

Godat counted off a few seconds until their sensor suite came back online. “Sensor room, populate the board,” he said into an open intercom line on his chair. Ninety minutes of sleep had refreshed him before the final jump. That rest would have to be enough for as long as the next part of their mission took.

“No short-range contacts, sir. Reading one thermal wake in the fourth gas giant, bearing zero-seven-six. Consistent with previous readings.”

“Designate it as Master One, Chief,” Godat replied.

“San Juan and London reporting clean transit on tight-beam comms, sir,” Letchford interjected. “No loss of sensor-deadening tiles detected.”

“Phase one complete. Now on to the hard part. Chief of the Boat, enact EMCON Beta, secure all transmission sources, and rig for ultraquiet.”

“Rig for ultraquiet. Aye sir. All stations, EMCON Beta,” VanDyke intoned.

The enlisted ratings and officers in the control room rushed to secure systems not usable under the tight emissions-control status. Special shields came down over most of the communications screens, which would prevent accidental usage of a console.

“Nav, plot a course that inserts us into the atmosphere roughly a thousand kilometers from the source of that wake, on the vector I just sent to your console,” Godat said after a few moments.

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“Comms, tight-beam transmission to the San Juan and the London. Down the rabbit hole we go. Order their skippers to match our course and speed. No further communications until somebody’s got that station on their LIDAR screen.”

“Sent, sir.”

The steady thrum of the Tucson’s primary ion engines made the deck vibrate. It wasn’t enough to be detected by any known sensor system, but after serving on Growler-class stealth raiders for so long, Godat could tell different boats by those vibrations.

Nearly invisible in the void, the vessel and her consorts knifed through the inky blackness. It would be hours before they reached their destination and began flying into the gas giant’s atmosphere.

“I still think we’re all nuts,” Letchford interjected.

Godat raised an eyebrow. “We’re flying through space in a metal tube armed with enough fusion warheads to take out Canaan itself and planning to fly into the teeth of the orbital winds buffeting a class-seven gas giant. And you question whether we’re sane, XO?”

“Valid point, skipper.”

“Well, we’ve got one more surprise left for PFLOS. I’m looking forward to deploying it.”

Letchford grinned. “Personally, I’m looking forward to their station being reduced to its constituent atoms.”

Godat gripped the sides of the CO’s chair to contain his anger. “That will be a great moment of progress for humanity, when we remove all of them from the gene pool.”

The moment couldn’t arrive fast enough.

14

Stealth raiders—or any space-going vessel, for that matter—typically glided through the void. There were no aerodynamics concerns to speak of, and the only time they had to worry about the ship’s movements was during combat. Unless one flew through the atmosphere of a gas giant.

Godat held on for dear life as the Tucson pitched forward and, despite his harness, nearly sent him airborne. “Nav, range to next layer?”

It was especially bad at divergence zones where two atmospheric layers intersected.

“Another twenty seconds, sir,” the navigator called out as the ship rumbled and shook from side to side.

As promised, the movement leveled out, and aside from a few bumps here and there, the constant shaking ceased.

Godat exhaled deeply. “TAO, range to target?”

“Roughly eight thousand kilometers and another fifty to seventy-five kilometers down, sir.”

“Roughly?”

Vafaei turned in her seat. “Our sensors are having trouble pinpointing the exact location, much like last time, sir. We speculated that would get better the closer we got, but it doesn’t appear to be the case. Maybe they have a stealth coating on the hull or, more likely, the atmospheric mix is interfering with our tech.”

Godat closed his eyes.

“The simplest solution is to go active on our sensors,” Letchford said.

“No. That would give away our position,” Godat replied as he opened his eyes and pulled up the tactical plot.

Letchford shook his head. “In this soup? They’d never detect a single ping.”

“Not when we’re playing for all the marbles, XO.” Godat stared at the screen, searching his mind for any solution that didn’t involve revealing their position. We have two other raiders, but that’s not enough for a net. At least six points of reference are required.

“You look like you just figured out how to get your cake and eat it too.” Letchford licked his lips. “What’s the crazy idea?”

“We’ve got all sorts of surveillance gear aboard…”

Letchford raised an eyebrow. “Yes.”

“The missile-room techs need to perform surgery on one of our decoy drones. If we install better sensors in them and reconfigure the system for fly-by-wire, that’ll give us six points of passive sensor reference, and we can triangulate the exact position of the station.”

“That’s insane, sir. But… it might work.”

Godat turned back toward the chief of the boat. “COB, get down to the missile room. I want one of our drones turned into a sensor platform within twenty minutes.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“Then what?” Letchford asked. “Tell the others how to do it via direct comms?”

Godat nodded. “Exactly.”

“Ballsy, sir.”

He gestured around the control room. “We’re in a gas giant, probably going to exceed our maximum designed pressure, fighting terrorists with one arm tied behind our collective backs. This is so far past ballsy we’re on to John Wayne status.”

Letchford and a number of junior officers and enlisted personnel snickered.

While humor always helped to release tension, it couldn’t paper over the pressure cooker they were all in. Every possible aspect of the mission had to go right. All that was required for the enemy to win was for them to make a single mistake, and it weighed heavily on Godat.

Seconds turned into minutes, and after an agonizing wait of almost half an hour, the missile-room intercom lit up. “COB here, sir. Drone’s modified and ready to launch.”

“Understood, COB. Transmit specs up here, and we’ll get it over to the others.” He let his head relax on the rest built into the CO’s chair.

It took another hour before the San Juan and the London received the information, acknowledged, and built their own drones. Each minute, Godat counted down the seconds. The hull groaning under the high pressure of the gas giant’s atmosphere didn’t help anyone’s nerves, least of all his.

“Conn, Comms. We’re receiving direct laser transmissions. Modified drones ready to launch.”

“Synchronize release in thirty seconds,” Godat replied. “COB, see to the launch.”

“Aye, aye, skipper.”

All three drones separated without incident and sped away from the three Growler-class stealth raiders. Moments later, their telemetry synched. Immediately, the sensor picture cleared up, despite the atmospheric interference.

“Nice work, sir,” Letchford said in a far more easygoing tone than he’d used only minutes before.

“Nav, take us in toward Master One, nice and slow. No more than thirty percent thrust.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“COB, alert our passengers that the taxi ride’s almost over. Time to get the assault pods in the void.”

“Aye, aye, skipper.”

And just like that, they were back on track. Though it was only the first hurdle, clearing it felt good. HaShem, thank You for watching over us. He closed his eyes and prayed in Hebrew before returning his gaze to the tactical plot. To get even this far is a miracle.

While the confines of a Growler-class stealth raider made for close quarters, they were nothing on one of the stealth breaching pods. Faulkner had never set foot inside one before, as the technology was typically reserved for the best of the best. The production of the coated hull tiles involved rare earth minerals, resulting in their being extremely expensive. But that wasn’t the only new toy he got to play with: advanced power armor, used exclusively by space special warfare tier-one teams, was unlike anything he’d ever worn.

Faulkner still wasn’t quite accustomed to it and stumbled as he tried to grab the short alloy ladder that led into the pod. He was only saved from falling onto his helmet by a young private who reached out and caught him by the arm.

“You okay there, sir?”

“Yeah, thanks for the assist there, Private…” His eyes went to the name tag on the young man’s uniform. “Waters.”

The youngster flashed an easy smile. “No problem, sir.”

“What’s the logistics corps doing down here anyway?”

Waters shrugged. “Well, loading and unloading material is our specialty, and we’re getting you all loaded up.”

“Makes sense,” Faulkner replied with a sheepish grin. “Thanks again.”

“Good luck over there, sir. And Godspeed.”

As Faulkner slung one leg onto the first rung, he glanced back. “I think we’re going to need a miracle to pull this off, but thank you for the sentiment.”

“Lieutenant, if I may sir, just remember something… A good man is never alone in this world. God walks beside us.”

Faulkner pursed his lips. “Thanks. Carry on, Private.” He climbed up the few rungs and swung down into the pod with a grace afforded by the advanced armor, which wouldn’t otherwise have been present with standard issue TCMC gear.

“Nice of you to join us,” Master Chief Harrell called out as soon as his feet hit the deck. “I was starting to think the Terran Coalition’s misguided children weren’t interested in an actual fight.”

“Anytime, anywhere,” Faulkner replied with a smirk. Only a couple of seats were left, one of which was next to the massive Saurian, Kucuk. He took it anyway.

Kucuk sniffed the air. “You do not smell of fear. This is good. I tire of humans who do. They are unappetizing to be around.”

Faulkner stared at him and blinked. “What? You guys eat humans? I didn’t see that in the interspecies-interaction brochure.”

The big Saurian threw his head back, showed off all three rows of teeth, and hissed loudly. “I like you, human. If the Prophet guides your rifle as He does your wit, perhaps today will be glorious.”

Rostami snickered. “Not bad, LT. If the big guy likes you, you’re probably okay.”

“It’s not a popularity contest,” Harrell interjected.

Mata cut in, “No, it’s a Leaguer-shooting contest. What are our bets, gentlemen?”

Two more Marines climbed in, filling the pod to maximum capacity. Thirty-six men made it a tight fit and brought the pod up to two six-man special-warfare teams and two squads of Marines. The other two pods had another twelve commandos and five more Marine squads between them, for a total of one hundred eight men. CDF doctrine called for a minimum of three times the enemy’s strength to limit casualties with a shock-and-awe effect. There could be five hundred hostiles… a thousand… God only knows how many on this station. Meanwhile, the Marines from the CSV Leonidas kept talking about some battle from ancient Earth history in which three hundred soldiers had held off an enemy hundreds of times their strength in numbers for three days. Fittingly, everyone had died.

Faulkner smirked. Well, if it’s my time, then it’s my time.

“What’s so funny, human?” Kucuk hissed.

“I was considering my own mortality.”

“And this is amusing somehow?”

Faulkner raised an eyebrow. “I was thinking about the three hundred Spartans. The guys from the Leonidas can’t stop talking about how we’re going to be legends.”

Kucuk patted his large weapon, which connected to a pack strapped to his back. “I intend to make myself worthy in the eyes of the prophet by melting as many of these terrorists, as you call them, with my plasma rifle.”

“Nice gun.”

Kucuk gave another toothy grin. “It was my broodfather’s. This weapon has been with my clan for three generations.”

“Don’t you improve your tech?”

“Why should we change something that works to perfection? Not even your power armor would stop the destructive power of its plasma charge. It could melt a starship’s hull.”

Now that Faulkner thought about it, he remembered stories from his great-uncle. He’d talked about fighting Saurians equipped with such weapons during the Terran Coalition and Saurian Empire wars of seventy years ago. “Yeah, I see your point, Master Chief.”

“Be careful not to be on the wrong side of the barrel, young human.”

“Oh, I don’t intend to get between you and the enemy.”

“Hey, Kucuk, what’d I tell you about using that thing around civvies? I don’t want our team on the latest GNN broadcast with ‘Trigger-Happy Commandos Kill Hostages’ as the headline.”

Kucuk hissed loudly and held up his clawed hand. “If necessary, I will go hand to hand with the enemy. My sidearm has stun rounds if we need to take prisoners.”

Mata shook his head and opened his mouth, but before he could speak, the intercom cut in.

“Attention, ladies. This is your captain speaking. We’re about to undock from our home away from home and head out for a rousing ride through a class-six storm in a gas giant. On the off chance we survive that, you’ll have a lovely opportunity to take out some frustration on our latest enemy. Please ensure your tray tables are in the upright and locked position, and remember… in case of a crash, put your head between your legs and kiss your ass goodbye.”

They each barked a laugh.

“Damn CDF clowns!” Harrell shouted over the noise. “Fly the pod and leave the sarcasm to the professionals.”

“I didn’t realize that was your MOS, Master Chief,” Faulkner interjected.

Harrell turned and stared at him. “Did I give you permission to speak, Lieutenant?”

The pod accelerated and pressed all of them back in their safety harnesses.

Faulkner gestured to the two bars on his power armor. “Well, I didn’t realize I required it, Master Chief.”

“Butter Bars, you need permission to walk, speak, or take a dump when in my presence. Are we clear on that?”

“I’ve got a better idea,” Faulkner replied. “How about a friendly wager?”

Mata popped open the faceplate of his power armor. “This better be good, coming from a Marine,” he said in his silky-smooth Spanish accent.

“Whoever gets to their primary objective last has to do two hundred pushups. Whole unit, so everyone’s got some skin in the game.”

“Deal,” Harrell replied before anyone else could. “You chumps remember your butter bars here got you signed up for a whole mess of pushups in front of the entire unit.”

Faulkner shook his head. “Don’t count those pushups before they hatch, Master Chief.”

“We got a real comedian here.” Harrell crossed his arms. “I sure hope you’re as good at killing these Leaguer terrorist scumbags as you are at cracking jokes.”

“That would imply I’m good at jokes, Master Chief. So I’ll take it.”

Rostami leaned forward. “You’re not bad for a misguided child, LT. If you want some real action, put in for special ops.”

Faulkner gave him the thumbs-up before settling back in the chair.

All around him, the Marines and tier-one operators started doing their precombat rituals. Every man had a slightly different variation. Some prayed. Others checked their rifles one last time. One Marine seemed engrossed in a small tablet. It took Faulkner a moment to realize he was writing a letter to someone. In case we don’t make it home.

The truth was a lot of them would perish on the mission. He knew it. So did the tough-talking space special-warfare commandos, even if they’d never admit such a thing. But for reasons Faulkner couldn’t explain, fear never entered his mind. Does that make me a better Marine or insane? He wasn’t sure.

Minutes passed, and the only sounds in the pod were breathing and the occasional groan from the alloy. It’s got to be under incredible pressure.

Then the pilot’s voice cut in once more. “Ladies, this is your CDF captain speaking. We’re coming up on a hard dock with the target. In the highly likely event of this going to hell, remember to kill at least a few enemies before they get you, and thank you for flying the unfriendly void.”

“She needs new material,” Harrell muttered.

A bone-jarring thud shot through Faulkner’s body as the stealth pod latched on to something. Moments later, the high-pitched whine of a cutting beam filled the cabin. A light in the center of the seating area turned green, and their harnesses released.

Harrell was the first one out of his seat, followed hastily by the rest of Alpha and Beta teams. A panel on what was, to them, the floor slid away, revealing a neatly cut hole in the station. From the orientation of the pod, what was the bottom to them was the side entry to a corridor. The commandos pushed off like they’d done it a thousand times.

Probably have, Faulkner realized as he jumped out of his seat along with the first squad of Marines. A few steps later, he was the first one through the opening. With a light thud, his power armor touched down on the alloy deck, and Faulkner got his bearings. The passageway was like any number of others he’d been in—harsh gray walls, a nonslip deck, and pipes running through the overhead. They were exposed for easy maintenance.

Only the space station had presumably been constructed by a terrorist organization—which made little sense because of the number of credits they’d need to build such an installation—and any misstep would mean failure and the deaths of thousands. No pressure. The rest of the first squad appeared around Faulkner, and he moved forward as planned, so the second group could ingress.

Harrell’s voice cut in through the commlink. “Are the kids out of the playpen yet?”

Faulkner smirked. Man, this guy is pure, one-hundred-percent spacewalker, through and through. “We’re in and ready to advance, Master Chief.”

“Try to keep up.”

For all the bluster the man put out, Faulkner knew the commandos were among the most lethal warriors the Coalition had. They trained day in, day out, month in, month out, year in, year out, while executing the toughest missions. If anyone can pull this off, they can… and I’ll put us right up there. We’ve fought these terrorists, and God willing, we’ll defeat them again. Faulkner brought up his battle rifle and aimed down the corridor. Here goes nothing.

15

CDF Headquarters

Lawrence City - Canaan

9 April 2474

Surreal. David summed up what was going on around him with that single word. He’d spent the day not planning and executing a war but instead shepherding around senior military leaders and civilian officials from the Sagittarius Arm Treaty Organization. They needed handholding, per the Secretary of Defense. Most likely something to keep me occupied and away from stirring up more trouble.

What was worse was how often David had to explain why the Terran Coalition wasn’t responding with a stronger show of force. The Saurian delegation couldn’t, or wouldn’t, understand, while the Matrinid seemed annoyed that the topic came up at all. The Independent Systems Federation representatives each had a different opinion, and it was all he could do to keep them on track to discuss the SATO matters at hand.

In a spare thirty minutes between meetings, David returned to his private office and gave explicit orders to his adjutant not to allow anyone except the president of the Terran Coalition to disturb him. When the door swung open less than five minutes later, he groaned. What can it possibly be now?

In walked a man David hadn’t seen in many months, at least not in the flesh—the former president of the Terran Coalition, Justin Spencer, who was the secretary general of SATO’s Security Council.

“I hope I’m not disturbing you. Lieutenant Shibata mentioned you left strict instructions, but I figured since I was once the president, it would count.”

David jumped out of his chair and came to attention. “Sir, apologies. I didn’t realize you were here.”

Justin waved him off. “I’m no longer your commander-in-chief, so lose the sir, eh?”

“General MacIntosh would return to active duty solely for the purpose of PTing me until my palms bled from pushups.”

“So he probably would,” Justin replied with a laugh. “How have you been?”

David blew out a breath. Most of the time, when someone asked that, they had no genuine interest in the answer. It was a polite thing to say, nothing more. But that wasn’t so with Justin. David could sense the warmth behind the words. “This is not how I envisioned the year going, sir. I don’t think it is for any of us.”

“No.” Justin gestured at the chairs in front of the desk. “May I?”

“Of course, sir.”

Justin slid into the chair and ran a hand through his graying hair. “Age is setting in. I’ll be getting knee replacements soon. Which doesn’t bother me in the slightest, but the gray does.”

David chuckled. “Plenty of ways to fix that.”

“Yes, but I find I just can’t get myself around to coloring it.” Justin’s eyes went to the tablet on the desk. “Any progress on the multicrewed task force?”

“Some. A broad agreement to try it out on a light carrier, a Saurian battleship, and a Matrinid heavy cruiser. Compare notes after a year and put them in front of a committee.”

Justin’s lips curled up. “You sound positively thrilled to be doing this.”

“There’s a war on, sir. My place is at the front. At least, that’s what every fiber of my being says. Yet here I am. I’ve accepted this is where I need to be, but I can’t quite seem to push the desire to fight out of my mind.”

“I wouldn’t expect you could.” Justin bit his lip. “I understand there’s an action out in the Orion Spur today.”

David raised an eyebrow. “That was included in your daily brief?”

“Not exactly. I still have a few friends. It was let slip to me that we’re trying a rescue.”

“We are.”

“Any updates?”

David shook his head. “Because of the distance involved and the lack of long-range communications relays since PFLOS made a point of blowing up most of ours, there won’t be until the mission either succeeds or fails.”

“No real-time quarterbacking this one, eh?”

“Probably for the best,” David replied with a snort. “Otherwise, some political appointee would start telling me we couldn’t fire Hunter missiles on a specific terrorist target because a holovid camera was in the area.”

Silence broke out for a few moments as David pondered the causticness of his remarks. I’ve got to do something about my disdain for Rollins’s staff. “I suppose for now, this is Schrodinger’s military operation.”

Justin stared at him. “Ah. Because we don’t know if it’s succeeded or failed. It could be either state.”

“My wife tells me that if no one gets the joke right away, I didn’t deliver it well.” David allowed himself a small smile.

“Listen to her. Our respective wives are likely far smarter than we are. I certainly ascribe that to mine.” Justin put his hands on the desk. “So, how bad is it really inside the White House?”

David grimaced. “Bad. Rhodes is back in there every few days.”

“Because she’s got twenty or so representatives in her back pocket. Enough to sway close votes.” Justin shook his head. “Which… All of them are close now. You know, David, I’m owed some favors still. If you find yourself needing political help, I’d be happy to call a few of them in.”

“I’m a military officer,” David replied while trying to keep his expression neutral. “Politics is the one thing I cannot do under the UCMJ and the constitution. Yet it seems to keep coming up.”

“Sometimes, we can’t escape things like that, David. Between the lines, I’m trying to help as much as I can to push SATO along toward an intervention.”

David narrowed his eyes. “Which isn’t happening unless we request it.”

“True, but I remain hopeful that President Rollins will come to her senses.”

“With what I hear in the daily briefing, you’re going to have much whiter hair before that happens.”

Justin snickered. “Good one. How’s the family?”

“As well as they can be. I remain in awe of how my wife has taken to a brand-new culture. A different species, even. It is impressive, to say the least. Despite the challenges. Mixed-species children isn’t something that our doctors have dealt with often, so… there’s been a few complications, but so far, so good.”

“I thank the Lord for that. All of you deserve to enjoy your lives after giving so much.”

“What about yours, sir?”

“Kids are good. Michelle’s more passionate about the general political climate than I am, I think. My son, Mark, he’s making a go of CDF service. Completed his ROTC stint and got his commission as a second lieutenant.”

“I can’t tell if you’re worried or proud.”

“Is a father allowed to be both?”

David nodded. “Should Levi or Shoshanna decide to follow in my footsteps, I suspect I’ll feel the same way. Though I will confess that I would attempt to steer both clear of the Terran Coalition’s misguided children.”

Justin tossed his head back and laughed. “Oh, Mark wouldn’t make it as a Marine. I can tell you that without hesitation.”

“How come?”

“He was always a pretty sensitive kid, even though I did try to toughen him up a bit. Didn’t help I was away a lot. Politics isn’t exactly great for the home life, you know?”

“Neither is the military,” David replied. Yet I am blessed that I’m now on planetary duty, even though I chafe at it. I get to watch my children grow up and actively be a part of their lives. Spending time with his family was the one thing that brought genuine joy amid whatever else was going on.

“True. I thought I was improving things when I left the CDF. Little did I know CDF officers get more time off. But anyway, Mark surprised me by wanting to serve beyond the requirements of the draft. I’m proud of him for it, but I hope he’s decided on this course for the right reasons.”

“And not simply to make you happy?”

Justin nodded. “Service is something you have to choose. For yourself, for God, for a cause you believe in, for your country. Not to impress your old man.”

David was unable to suppress a smile. “Did you try telling him that?”

“Oh, I did. And he got very upset with me.” Justin ran his teeth over his lip. “So I went back to telling him I was proud and kept my mouth shut beyond that. He repeatedly asked me to stay hands off, so I’ve done nothing to influence his posting.”

“If you’d like—”

“Absolutely not,” Justin interjected. “He’s got to figure life out on his own, and I won’t interfere. To do so would set my son up for failure, and that’s the worst possible thing a father can do.”

David was impressed by Justin’s resolve in the matter. He had far more power than the average person and could easily put his thumb on the scale. Yet he chooses not to. Honest politicians are in very short supply. “I’ll drop you a note when there is news on the operation in the Orion Spur.”

Justin inclined his head. “Until then, I pray for the safe return of all involved and for our forces to be victorious. I know you have many tasks to attend to, David, but my primary reason for dropping by was to remind you that you’re not alone.”

“It feels as though I am an island of sanity in a sea of insanity.”

“Don’t ever run for office, then. Because that’s all you feel.”

David chuckled. “Noted, sir.”

After a moment, Justin stood. “I’ll let you get back to it. I meant what I said. If you ever truly need assistance, I’m here. The Terran Coalition owes you a great personal debt, as do I. And if I can ever begin to repay it, I will.”

“Doing my duty is no debt, sir.” David stood and extended his arm across the table. “It is my honor.”

Justin shook his hand warmly. “Indeed, General. Good luck and Godspeed.”

“Godspeed to you, too, sir.”

As the former president exited the office, his stride long, confident, and still imbued with military bearing even after multiple decades between him and the fighter cockpit, David returned to his chair. Weariness made him want to put his head down and go to sleep, but there was no rest to be had. No, I have to push on. Show the flag and keep telling everyone how great things are, even though I know the truth. It was exhausting but part of his duty. And my duty, I shall discharge.

The waiting was truly the most exhausting part. Arthur’s eyes darted back to the chronometer, which showed time in several different cities, displayed prominently on the bridge. Each tick of the second counter seemed like it took an eternity.

“Teams should be on the station by now,” Miller said, jolting him from his reverie.

“Ah, so they should. If things are going to plan.” Lord, I pray they are.

Miller stretched her neck before propping her hands behind her head and pushing forward. A moment later, a crack sounded as a reward for her action. “Ah, much better.”

“Back bothering you?”

“Even with all the money the CDF puts into these chairs, I still get spasms if I sit in the wrong position for too long.”

Arthur chuckled. “We’re getting old.”

“Speak for yourself.”

But it was true. Arthur remembered a time when he needed only an hour or two of sleep per night. I could also crawl through maintenance shafts for an entire shift without taking a break. Now if I did that, I’d need to visit the doc shack for some painkillers.

“Nothing wrong with admitting the march of time.” Arthur rubbed his hands together. “I remember back in the academy, pulling an all-nighter to cram for a fusion exam the next day.”

Miller shook her head. “You reactor types always had more work to do.”

“Sure, because if we make a math mistake, the ship blows up.”

Savitz glanced over her shoulder. “If I make a math mistake, the ship blows up too.” A hint of her accent came out in the banter. She hailed from Cairo, on Egyptius, and bore the country flag of the Egyptian Republic on her shoulder. Directly under it was an emblem for Judaism.

“Fair point.”

Miller grinned. “And if tactical doesn’t do the math right, the enemy doesn’t blow up.”

“We still got quizzed on it a lot more.”

“Life isn’t fair,” Miller replied with a dazzling show of her teeth. “If it were, I’d be a lieutenant colonel by now.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

As she was about to reply, Kaveh interjected. “Conn, Communications. Getting a transmission from New Rostov, sir. Distress signal. Fifteen-plus known PFLOS vessels inbound. Requesting assistance from any CDF vessels. Message repeats.”

It felt as if someone had sucked the atmosphere out of the room. Arthur’s mouth went dry, and he tried to lick his lips. “Three against fifteen.” The words came out in a whisper.

Miller made eye contact with him. “They want more hostages perhaps?”

Arthur shook his head. “No, that doesn’t track. This is something else. An attack on the orbital infrastructure. Or maybe the planet’s surface.”

“You’re talking about a fusion-missile strike.”

“Yes,” Arthur replied.

“What are your orders, sir?”

“There’s only one to give here, XO. We take the Leonidas and the Brazer to New Rostov. The terrorists must not be allowed to kill countless more civilians.”

Miller leaned closer. “We’re talking about a suicide run, sir.”

“Whatever it takes.” Arthur cleared his throat. “Nav, plot a Lawrence drive jump for New Rostov. I want us as close to High Loop Five as possible. Comms, signal the Leonidas and Brazer to join us.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” both officers echoed.

Arthur sensed the trepidation, which manifested in slightly off-key voices and a split-second hesitation before answering. And it seemed as if every eye on the bridge was somehow aimed at him while simultaneously monitoring their consoles. “And, Comms, make sure the CSV Oxford is apprised of our position. Her three-hundred-fifty-millimeter mag-cannons might come in handy here.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

That simple reminder seemed to make everyone slightly less tense. Arthur would take it. “Don’t forget our battle cry, ladies and gentlemen. Fight the good fight, no matter the odds.”

“No matter the odds!” Miller said loudly with her fist in the air.

Immediately, the shout came out from the lips of everyone else on the bridge. One could feel the resolve permeating the air.

Arthur exhaled heavily as he reached for the 1MC button to issue a call to general quarters. Every time he did, the realization that he held the lives of hundreds of soldiers and countless civilians in his hands was never far behind. Why don’t I pray before a battle like General Cohen did?

The thought took him by surprise. He’d never really ruminated on it before. And now isn’t exactly the right time. But he was certain prayer wouldn’t hurt. Lord, please help me to do my duty, safeguard the lives of those under my command, and defeat this enemy. Amen.

16

Second Lieutenant Avery Faulkner was many things. Stealthy wasn’t one of them, and it took every ounce of concentration he had to limit footfalls and noise from his power armor. I’d wager this is playing hell with the rest of my Marines too. It wouldn’t have been possible with standard-issue TCMC power-armor suits, but the equipment available to the tier-one operators was far more advanced. Probably costs a mint, too, which is why it’s not available to normal Marines. The alloy was far lighter yet more durable. He hoped it would be enough to defeat the Gauss weapons being used by the terrorists, though it seemed unlikely.

Their plan called for the Thatcher’s TCMC platoon to secure one of the docked freighters while Charlie and Delta teams of the tier-one operators took the others. What was strange was the relative absence of people on the station. Faulkner had spent some time on Freedom Station, the captured League outpost between the Orion Spur and Sagittarius Arm, which had been used as a staging point to wage the war against the Coalition for decades. It had tens of thousands of people on it, and no passageway was ever empty. The better for us, because otherwise, we wouldn’t be able to even think about pulling this off.

It made sense, though, that the terrorists would have limited manpower and use automated systems as much as possible. I wonder if that includes security droids.

Loud talking echoed through a junction ahead, and Faulkner held up a fist. Immediately, the rest of the platoon halted, with squad leaders communicating the command back to the rear. He waited for a full thirty seconds and breathed a sigh of relief as the voices faded.

“Lieutenant, can you hear me?” the voice of Chief Rostami echoed over the commlink.

“Yeah, Chief. What’s going on?”

“Two patrols looping around. Wait another ninety seconds, then it’s clear down to the docking bays. I’ve looped the video feeds and have an AI watching the footage to map the guards.”

“Thanks, Chief.”

It took another half hour under Rostami’s guidance to reach the outskirts of the docking bay. To avoid detection, the Marines lay low in a cargo hold twenty meters from their objective. From the dust on the containers, it saw little use and therefore made a perfect hiding place.

“Sitrep, sitrep, all CDF stations,” Master Chief Harrell said over the commlink in a rasp that one would’ve expected from a door kicker with over thirty years of service.

“Charlie in position.”

“Delta in position.”

Faulkner licked his lips, as they’d gone dry. “Marine docking bay unit in position.”

“Alpha, Beta, and the Leonidas Marine unit in position.”

Harrell’s voice returned. “I’ve decided we will storm the freighters first then rescue the hostages and use our Marines to create a safe corridor for transit of civilians. Faulkner, you’ll be responsible for getting those portable CO2 scrubbers set up once we take the ships. Clear?”

“Yes, Master Chief.” Six of his guys had them strapped to their backs. Damn things better work.

“Rostami, like the comms geek he is, says it will take thirty to forty-five minutes before he can have enough footage looped and manipulated by his magic AI box before we can begin. Remember: it’s not enough to win. We’ve got to do this as quietly as possible. If the enemy realizes we’re here, this op’s over before it starts. Assume noise sensors are present too.”

“No pressure,” Faulkner muttered.

“Not for us, Marine. Try to keep up,” Harrell snapped back.

He’s got gusto. I’ll give him that. Faulkner found himself running off intuition and muscle memory built from training. What do the Phantom pilots call it? Flying on a wing and a prayer?

“Once we have confirmation the freighters are secure, phase two starts. Any questions, ladies?”

After several seconds of silence, he resumed. “Good. Rostami will inform our misguided children when he finishes the security hack. Master Chief Harrell out.”

The commlink clicked off, and Faulkner turned to find Jeremiah behind him.

“How’s it going, sir?”

Faulkner shook his head. “The moment the adrenaline wears off, it’s weird, Chief. Aside from that, I want to get on with it.”

“Yeah, common for combat Marines. Me, too, when I did my battlefield corpsman rotations.”

“I still can’t get over you doing this without a weapon, Chief. It defies logic.”

“Well, faith can’t really be quantified by logic, can it?” Jeremiah shrugged. “Everything is going to work out.”

“How in the name of all that’s holy are you so zen right now?” Faulkner asked. He let his battle rifle drop into its one-point sling and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Because we’re probably all going to die.”

Jeremiah grinned. “Maybe. Maybe not. Whatever is going to happen is out of my hands except in that I do my job to the best of my ability. If it is God’s will that we triumph here today, then we will. If it isn’t, we won’t. Worrying about it won’t help anyone, least of all me.”

“That’s impressive, Chief.”

“You can do it too. Practice and years of doing this for a living.”

Faulkner chuckled. “Join the Marine Corps. See the galaxy. I suppose I didn’t think we’d already be in another war, though if I’m being honest… something about combat is exhilarating.”

“Oh?”

“There’s a thrill to somebody trying to kill you and failing and you succeeding.”

“Be careful you don’t come to enjoy that, sir.”

Faulkner hadn’t really considered the point so far, but after tossing it around in his mind for a couple of seconds, he concluded that Jeremiah was probably right. “Yeah.”

Jeremiah put his hand on Faulkner’s left shoulder. “Focus on one thing right now… succeeding at the next phase of the mission. Nothing else matters, and no one will be saved if those freighters aren’t seized.”

Despite outranking the chief, Faulkner knew the older man had far more battlefield experience and, more importantly, wisdom, than him. As such, he was just smart enough to accept his advice. That would’ve been doubly true of a Marine Corps gunnery sergeant or master gunnery sergeant. That he felt so respectful of a senior noncom who wasn’t a combatant was odd, but Jeremiah had proven himself repeatedly in battle. For this Marine, that’s the Galter Credit standard.

Faulkner exhaled heavily. “Yeah, Chief. We’re going to get those ships, get our people, and get the hell out of here.”

“Amen.”

Several of the Marines within earshot laughed, and a few made obscene comments about the PFLOS terrorists and their Leaguer brethren. All the while, Faulkner wanted nothing more than to get on with it. Seconds creeped by ever so agonizingly. Sooner or later, I’m going to get my wish.

CSV Margaret Thatcher

New Rostov—High Loop Three

9 April 2474

The ride through the artificially generated wormhole was rougher than usual and bounced the bridge crew of the Thatcher about in their harnesses. One final jolt sent Arthur an inch out of his seat before he slammed back down. It’s a small wonder we don’t get broken tailbones. The chairs had heavy-duty padding and were replaced fairly often for that reason.

“Conn, TAO. Sensors back online, sir. No vessels within weapons range. Reading a cluster of fifteen freighters of various types bearing two-six-five, range twenty thousand kilometers.”

Arthur stroked his chin. “That would be the party crashers.”

“Confirmed by Rostov flight control,” Miller replied.

Blue light bathed the bridge, casting long shadows. Arthur pulled up the tactical plot on his monitor. The tac-comp had already matched up several of the drive signatures with previous hostiles they’d engaged. Virtually all the contacts were known PFLOS ships. “TAO, designate those contacts as Master One through Fifteen.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Yasin paused. “Aspect change, inbound wormhole, sir. CDF signature… confirmed. CSV Leonidas.”

One more friendly was en route, the Brazer, a Meade-class frigate. Arthur didn’t like their odds. Then again, we’ve had worse and recently.

“Conn, Communications. I’ve got a transmission from the TCBE 3016, Pikeman-class corvette. Captain Sobel is requesting permission to join our formation along with the TCBE 8132, another Pikeman-class vessel.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow and glanced at Miller. “I guess they didn’t get all the Border Enforcement guys either.”

“I’ll take all the help we can get,” she replied. “Not that Pikemans are much in a standup brawl like this.”

“One thing’s for sure… We can’t sit here and concede the initiative. They outgun us by far too much.” Arthur stared at the plot, kicking around different ideas. “Hmm.”

“Uh-oh.”

“What?”

Miller smirked. “I know that noise. It’s your I-just-got-a-crazy-idea sound.”

“Well, how about this.” Arthur used his finger to draw an outline on the plot. “We skirt the edge of their formation, dart in, draw some blood, and pull back. Maybe shake ’em up some.”

She tilted her head. “One of the few things we can do, sir. A straight-on slugfest is suicide.”

Oddly, Arthur didn’t feel fear. At least, he wasn’t aware of it. He made a cold, calculated evaluation of the situation in front of him coupled with searching for the answer to the puzzle. Because everything is a puzzle when you boil it down. “Transmit that course over the taclink, XO.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“We could launch the fighters. Not sure how much good two Ghosts will do.”

“I think any additional firepower helps, sir.” Miller ran her fingers over the display, inputting a series of commands.

“Alert the shuttle bay, then.”

She nodded and pulled up a different screen.

While Miller did her job, Arthur focused on the exterior. In short order, the Brazer jumped in, bringing their little task force up to its maximum strength. The two TCBE corvettes also fell in, though both appeared to never have engaged in formation flying with military vessels before, judging by their approach vectors. No matter. It’ll all have to do. Finally, two more blue dots appeared—the SFS-3 Ghosts.

“Nav, all ahead flank on preset course. Comms, signal all friendlies to follow.”

The Thatcher leaped forward, as if the ship herself were eager to get into the fray. The deck hummed as the vessel hurtled through the void, only minutes away from weapons range.

“Comms, put me on wideband vidlink.”

“You’re on, sir.”

“Attention, enemy vessels. This is Colonel Hanson of the Coalition Defense Force. You are ordered to surrender immediately or be destroyed. This is your one and only warning.”

“Text-only response, sir. Uh, not suitable to read. It suggests you do something anatomically impossible.”

Snickers sounded as Arthur glanced at the plot to confirm his target. “We’ll see about that. TAO, firing point procedures, neutron beams and magnetic cannons, Master Twelve. Make tubes one through twelve ready in all respects, and open the outer doors.”

Yasin cleared her throat. “Firing solutions set, sir. Tubes one through twelve ready. Outer doors open.”

“Match targeting with our task-force mates, and ensure maximum damage on Master Twelve, Thirteen, and Fourteen, Lieutenant.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

The two Pikeman-class corvettes were still out of formation, out too wide of the twin destroyers, but all five vessels resolutely pressed forward. “Tell those TCBE COs to pull in closer,” Arthur said as his eyes flickered between different screens.

“Fifteen seconds to max weapons range,” Miller interjected.

Arthur steepled his fingers. “Match bearings, shoot, neutron beams and magnetic cannons.”

The Thatcher’s turrets spat projectiles into the void, while blue spears of light erupted from her bow. Joined by the weapons of the rest of the fleet, they lit up the shields of several hostile vessels. One Halcyon-class freighter took multiple mag-cannon hits, including from an armor-piercing round that hit something vital. Explosions blossomed outward as the ship blew apart.

“Master Thirteen destroyed, sir,” Yasin called out.

Not to be outdone, the PFLOS vessels unleashed their own volley. They, too, had waited for point-blank range and poured it on with every amount of fury available to them. Rotary plasma cannons sent charges into the void, while neutron beams crisscrossed the inky blackness of space.

The enemy commander knew his business, as most of the incoming weapons fire bracketed the slightly out-of-place Pikeman-class corvette nearest to the hostiles. Its shields collapsed, and plasma balls melted what little armor the ship possessed before burning through its hull.

Arthur saw the danger immediately. “Comms, tell Sierra Four to roll to their port shield and execute a high-energy—”

Muted gasps came from Yasin and Savitz as a bright flash made everyone avert their eyes before the bridge window filters snapped into place electronically. Arthur’s mouth went dry, and he closed his eyes for a moment, knowing there were no survivors from the TCBE vessel. One hundred fifty-six brave souls. They didn’t have to do that.

“Nav, break to heading zero-eight-zero, maximum sublight. Comms, notify all ships to do the same.” Arthur had planned to take another shot at the hostiles, but regrouping was more important. Maybe I can still take the pressure off, though.

“Conn, TAO. Vampire, vampire, vampire! Inbound anti-ship missiles bearing two-six-eight. Range two hundred kilometers.”

Miller cursed under her breath before slamming a palm onto her armrest.

“TAO, snap shot, tubes one through six, Master Eleven.” He turned to her. “Give them something else to think about.”

Twenty red dots lit up the tactical board. Too many. Not enough point defense. What would General Cohen do? Think, Arthur. Think. Change the battlefield. “Nav, roll us forty-five degrees to starboard. Maintain forward thrust.”

Miller stared at him. “What are you doing?”

“More PD turrets this way,” he replied. “Comms, order the Brazer to take the heat off as much as possible.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur realized both fighters had adjusted their headings for the missile flight. Can a fighter even shoot down incoming state-of-the-art warheads? I guess we’ll find out.

17

It defied logic, but Faulkner and his squads made it to the docking bay without tripping any alarms or being spotted by the station’s inhabitants, armed or otherwise. He chalked it up to superior technical assistance provided by Chief Petty Officer Rostami and a stroke of good luck. It’s possible PFLOS has crap internal security too. Whatever it was, they’d take it.

Outside the gangway leading to the immense docking bay, Faulkner paused to send in the tiny robotic flitters in his right gauntlet. It only took a few moments for them to send back telemetry showing multiple guards and the three freighters. Well, we’re not getting past them without direct action.

“Listen up, people,” Faulkner whispered. The helmet mic picked up the sound and broadcast it over the commlink network. “It only gets harder from here. I need a volunteer to help me eliminate the first two hostiles, and from there, we fan into fire teams. Teams one and two cover the far-most freighter, three and four the center, while five and six get the nearest. Eliminate all tangos silently and stack on freighter entry points. Clear?”

“Roger, sir,” one of the squad leaders replied, followed by everyone else’s acknowledgment lights going green.

A power-armored Marine appeared at his side. “I’ll volunteer, sir.”

Faulkner glanced over to read his rank and name tag. Lance Corporal Jansen. One of my more capable squad leaders. “You ready for this?”

He gave a thumbs-up. “Born ready, sir.”

“Okay. Quietly. Quickly. Everyone else, stand ready the moment we’ve neutralized these tangos.”

Faulkner slid open the service panel, and both of them climbed through. Using a route programmed into their HUDs by the flitters, he shimmied down the tight access tunnel and reached another panel leading to the docking bay. Together, they removed the bolts on each side before laying the piece of alloy on the deck without making a sound.

With a last check of their targets and a wordless nod between the two Marines, Faulkner set out, moving his feet as fast as he dared and taking into account the almost-magic ability of the tier-one power armor to deaden footfalls, even with its added weight. Truly amazing technology.

Shooting an armed enemy, especially one who was trying to kill you, was something Faulkner had done more times than he cared to count over the last week. But what he was about to do was different. As he reached the first hostile, combat knife in hand, time seemed to slow down.

Faulkner put a hand over the man’s mouth before jamming the knife into his neck several times, severing every vein and artery in its path. The terrorist gurgled and tried to react but only for a few seconds before his arms fell to his sides. Faulkner slid him onto the deck soundlessly and stared for a moment at the blood pooling around the soon-to-be corpse.

He had no time to ponder what he’d just done, but a shudder went through his body as he quickly cleaned the combat knife. Why was that so easy? At least his mind could compartmentalize the situation and what lay ahead. “Tango down.”

“Tango down,” Jansen whispered through the commlink a second later.

“All units, execute, execute, execute. Maintain stealth as long as possible.”

Faulkner strode to the center freighter and waited until the two fire teams assigned to it moved up. He tapped the point man on the shoulder and slid into the front himself. With four Marines stacked on either side of the rear entry hatch, one to the right stepped forward, holding an electronic device.

“Clear to breach.”

“Electronic breach go.”

The Marine slid a universal interface adaptor into what appeared to be a biometric scanner and fiddled with it for several seconds before a green light came to life on the screen. A moment later, the hatch slid open, revealing an equally drab and dimly lit interior corridor.

While the station’s layout was a question mark only revealed by the tiny robotic drones the Marines and commandos carried in their suits, the freighters were a known quantity, especially the Halcyon-class types present in the docking bay.

“Hey, LT, you notice something really weird?” one of the fire team leaders asked.

“No, but I think you’re going to tell me, Private Faheem.”

“There’s not enough people here. There ought to be a few dozen in a bay this size. The place is huge, sir. I grew up around loading docks, and they were always buzzing. This… feels like a tomb.”

He’s not wrong. Come to think of it, there’d been something off since they set foot on the station. Where are all the people? The most obvious answer was PFLOS didn’t have enough numbers and skated by with minimal staffing. But that makes little sense because everything’s in great shape. Constant maintenance requires manpower.

“Listen up, people,” Faulkner said after he switched his commlink to all teams. “Be alert and watch for ambushes or anything else out of the ordinary.”

“Like what, sir?”

“I don’t know, or I’d tell you. But as Private Faheem pointed out to me just now, there’re a lot fewer hostiles than there ought to be.”

No one replied, at least not audibly. I don’t blame them. I wouldn’t want to jinx us either. “All right, move out.” Faulkner pointed his battle rifle down the corridor and stepped inside.

Both fire teams followed. Within five meters, they arrived at a four-way junction that led to opposite ends of the ship.

Faulkner leaned around the corner and put eyes on the passageway leading fore. It, too, was clear. “Team four, move aft to the engineering spaces. The rest of you, on me.” He let his battle rifle fall into its one-point sling before drawing an energy pistol from a leg holster.

The weapon was more than capable of killing an unarmored enemy by melting soft tissue. Fired into the center mass of a human, the concentrated particle beam would punch a hole through the heart and cauterize it. But against armored targets, energy-pulse weapons were far less effective, which was why the military stuck to the tried-and-true armor-piercing slug throwers.

Faulkner calibrated each step to be as silent as possible, limiting their speed but hopefully preserving stealth. The goal was to reach the bridge and, once the other fire team approached the engine room, storm both locations simultaneously. Such a strategy always sounded good on paper but rarely survived first contact with the enemy.

A hatch to the right opened a meter down the corridor. Faulkner froze with his energy pistol raised as time slowed down. As a female crew member strode out, his heart beat rapidly. She glanced in his direction a split second before he squeezed the trigger and sent a superheated blast of particle energy into her head. Then he rushed forward and threw himself through the hatch to find two more hostiles.

Both struggled to draw weapons and appeared completely caught by surprise. Faulkner took advantage of that by putting two blasts into the first man before shifting his aim to the second, who succeeded in getting a rifle of some type up and squeezing its trigger.

Three rounds ripped through the air at hyperfast velocities, causing a loud crack from breaking the sound barrier. They missed Faulkner’s faceplate by mere centimeters before he calmly shot the remaining hostile twice in the chest and once between the eyes.

“You okay, sir?” one of the Marines asked.

“Not a scratch, which is more than I can say for this crew.” Faulkner paused to take life-sign readings from all three bodies, and when he found none, he marked them as killed in action.

Faulkner was mostly thankful for the lack of an alarm. Well, and being alive. “Everyone okay?”

“Yes, sir,” the Marines replied quietly.

“Okay.” He shifted back into the passageway and once again aimed his weapon down the corridor. “Let’s get this back on—”

“Contact front!” Jansen yelled over the all-squad commlink.

Simultaneously, the loud reports of TCMC battle rifles firing reached Faulkner’s ears. Oh shit. “Push forward! Forget stealth. Marines to the bridge, double quick!” Getting to the command deck and either killing or incapacitating the crew before they could alert the station was the only play he had. And God help us all if somebody on this tub has an integrated comms network like we do or any other halfway-decent military does.

As they ran down the corridor, power-armored boots pounding on the alloy deck plating, a hatch flew out, and a man stuck his head out. Faulkner didn’t even have a chance to shoot before the Marine behind him put a three-round burst into the unlucky hostile’s skull. Blood smeared across the wall, and no one slowed their run.

Perhaps the only “nice” thing about the Halcyon-class freighters was that most of their cargo-loading systems were automated, and the pressurized portion of the ship was quite small compared to the exterior size and volume.

It only took the fire team about thirty seconds to cover the ground to a double-size hatch that led to the bridge. All four men moved up with the practiced efficiency of professionals, which, after the trial by fire they’d all gone through, they were. Faulkner gave a quick thumbs-up as they crouched in formation, two on either side, and one of the privates hit the open button.

Faulkner had a pulse grenade ready and tossed it inside without preamble. It blew apart with a flash of brilliant-white light as the Marines looked away. A second later, he charged in with the rest of the fire team at his side or behind. At least six men and women occupied the control center. All of them were armed, and the nearest man fumbled with a pistol.

“Freeze! Drop your weapons immediately or you will be killed!” Faulkner shouted.

The terrorists either didn’t understand, didn’t care, or had some crazy notion they could still win. The nearest man started to bring up his sidearm only for Faulkner to pull the trigger of his battle rifle. Three rounds slammed into his upper torso, went straight through his internal organs, and kept going into a metallic console a meter behind him.

Sheer pandemonium broke out all around Faulkner as the Marines opened fire simultaneously. He focused on the next hostile in his path, a female who appeared to be under thirty. Thinking that if he could disarm her, she’d make a decent prisoner to interrogate for further information, Faulkner stepped forward and used his battle rifle’s stock as a club on her face.

She fell backward and hit the alloy deck.

“Clear!” one of the Marines shouted as the report of weapons fire faded.

“I need plasticuffs!” Faulkner yelled. “We got a live one.”

The woman quickly put a hand into her pants. It came out with a small pistol, which she pressed against her chin.

“Hey! Don’t!” Faulkner adjusted the barrel of his battle rifle a few inches to the left as he calculated that perhaps he could shoot her in the shoulder. He squeezed the trigger.

But he was a split second too late, as she’d already pulled the trigger on her weapon, sending a bullet through her skull and into the overhead.

Faulkner turned his head, disgusted with himself and with the young woman for the death she’d caused herself. For a moment, he felt as if he might vomit in his helmet. Why? However bad things are… it’s not like being captured by us is all that bad.

“You okay, sir?”

After a pause, Faulkner found his voice. “Yeah.” Okay, snap out of it. We’ve still got a job to do. He did a three-hundred-sixty-degree glance around the room. All secure. “Get me a sitrep. Did they send a distress call?”

His started to cue his commlink, but Jansen cut into the channel first. “Engineering secure, Lieutenant. Sorry, sir. It got hairy for a minute there.”

“Team status?”

“We’re all alive, sir. Private Oskar took a round through his armor, but he’s still combat capable. All hostiles eliminated.”

Faulkner exhaled. “Okay. Post security. I’ll do the same here, then the rest of us will sweep this ship compartment by compartment for hostiles and eliminate all resistance.”

“Understood, sir.”

He was about to step into the passageway directly outside of bridge when Private Faheem glanced up from a console. “Sir, we’ve got a problem.”

“Just one?” Faulkner replied.

“Big one, sir. The docking clamps holding the freighters in place… can’t be disengaged from here. I got around the lockout pretty quickly, but there’s a central control point somewhere else on this station.”

Okay, he’s right that this is a big one. He cued his commlink to a private channel with Harrell. “Master Chief, my comms Marine is telling me these freighters can’t undock without the station releasing clamps.”

“Oh, for the love of…” Harrell growled. “Wait one, LT.”

Every moment standing on the freighter’s bridge, battle rifle in hand, without a further objective and the specter of total failure staring him in the face was one Faulkner hated. They also went by agonizingly slowly.

“Chief Rostami is going to look into it. Proceed with mission until I say otherwise. Alpha One out.”

Well, that’s it, I suppose. We press on like nothing happened. “Okay, wrap it up in here. We’ll sweep the ship then prepare ambush positions for a counterattack.” Faulkner hoped to God that his tone and delivery had more power in them than the words sounded in his mind. He prayed there was still a solution.

“So let me get this straight. A terrorist group has better cybersecurity and physical access controls than the CDF on a half-automated station buried in a gas giant?” Harrell stared at his network and cyber expert, who also happened to be one of the best commandos he’d served alongside, though the chances of him ever saying that to Chief Rostami were nil.

“Yeah, that’s about it, Master Chief. We could blow the docking clamps with explosives, but that would trigger alarms throughout the station. The auto controls are on whatever passes for a bridge. If I try to hack in, same problem. There are an absurd amount of failsafes built into the system.”

Harrell crossed his arms. “And this is why you can’t get laid.”

Everyone within earshot burst out laughing, though they did so in a muted fashion.

Rostami shook his head. “You wound me, Master Chief. I’m saving myself. For the right woman. How many ex-wives get alimony from your meager paycheck anyway?”

That remark got even more snickers as Mata slapped the younger spacewalker on the shoulder. “A perfectly placed barb, my friend. Now we must do the same to PFLOS.” Like many in the Terran Coalition, he pronounced it ‘pee-floss.’

“Laugh it up. And see if I don’t remember the next time we’re training.” Harrell smirked. The comparative youngster wasn’t wrong. I’m on wife number three. This life doesn’t exactly work for a stable home life. But door kicking would be something he did until the CDF finally forced his retirement, as they had for Master Chief MacDonald.

Harrell turned serious. “So much for getting in and out before they knew what hit them.” He ran scenarios through his head. None were very good. They were already dangerously overstretched. Everyone seems to think tier-one operators are supermen. But there is such a thing as numerical quantity becoming its own quality.

“We’re going to have to take the command center to pull this off, Master Chief.”

“No shit, Rostami,” Harrell growled. “I’ll leave the Marines to guard the freighters. That oughta be slow enough speed for ’em and the cake eater. Delta team will have to assault the command center on their own. That’s all we can spare.”

Mata glanced up from checking his sniper rifle. “That’s not enough.”

“It’s all we’ve got.”

Kucuk bared his teeth. “The number of things that must go right for us is too many to count. If this mission succeeds, it will truly be the will of the Prophet.”

Harrell snorted. He still didn’t quite understand how the Saurian religion worked, though such things weren’t important to him. Kucuk knew how to fight and had become a brother, just like the man he’d replaced—Petty Officer First Class Nathan Meissner. So many years later, Harrell still hadn’t deleted the fleet link profile for him out of his squad tracker. They’d been amazingly lucky not to lose anyone else, though the period of peace had helped.

This is probably a one-way trip. Instinctively, Harrell knew the odds were too small. But that didn’t change that they had to try. There’s no way we’re leaving without a fight, no matter the odds.

“The only easy day was yesterday, gentlemen.” Harrell toggled his commlink to the universal channel. “Listen up, boys and girls. Plan’s changed…”

As he detailed the new directives, something made him snicker. At least my ex-wives will finally get their life insurance policies paid out. That realization gave him even more motivation to overcome the terrorists.

18

Faulkner stared through the hatch into the expansive hangar bay, which had a payload of three freighters. As an officer, he was on the command commlink channel as a courtesy. The conversation between the space special-warfare team leaders alarmed him because above all else—Faulkner could handle his math.

There’s no way this comes together with the limited resources the spacewalkers have. Yes, they were almost super soldiers. Or even supermen. But they had to obey the laws of physics, just like every other human in the universe. The moment he came to that realization, what had to happen next came into focus.

“You look like a man having some deep thoughts, LT.”

Faulkner glanced back at Jeremiah Duprey, who’d come up behind him rather quietly. “Sure you’re not a combatant? Stealth skills like that have their use in this kind of combat, Chief.”

“It’s the suit, not anything I know. This thing is akin to magic.”

“You’re right, you know. It’s not going well.”

“What are you going to do to fix it?”

Faulkner shook his head, causing the helmet to rock back and forth. “Something I probably shouldn’t. I’m going to take most of the Marines here and head up to the deck with this control room the spacewalkers found. And hopefully, that’ll be enough firepower to assault it successfully.”

“Presumably to take over the station and disable its security systems?”

“Got it in one, Chief.”

“Ballsy, at least to this noncombatant. So what’s the holdup?”

Faulkner blew out a breath. “I have no operational authority here. That was made clear prior to the op starting. Master Chief Harrell is in command.”

“You’re the ranking Marine, and Harrell isn’t here, sir.”

“But he… He’s got a lot more experience.”

“The opinions of ten thousand men are of no value if none of them know anything about the subject.”

“He’s got a lot of knowledge about the subject of combat, Chief.”

Jeremiah shrugged. “But not what you’re looking at right here, right now. Don’t be afraid to make the call if you think it’s the right thing to do. Because I promise you, if you don’t act, and what you fear comes to pass, you’ll regret it the rest of your life, regardless of how long that may be.”

“Where do you get all this from anyway?”

“I study Stoicism in my abundant spare time.”

Both of them chuckled.

“I’m going to have to get that book you told me about. If we survive this.”

Jeremiah put a hand on Faulkner’s shoulder. “Sounds like a promise to me, LT.”

Faulkner cued his commlink to the all-squad-leaders channel. “Listen up, Marines. I want one fire team covering each freighter and two providing security in the bay. Everyone else, on me in three mikes. We’re headed for the control room to bail out those fancy commandos.”

“That’s not showing as our orders, Lieutenant” came a rough voice.

“Sergeant, I don’t care. They’re outgunned up there, and I am sure as hell not sitting my ass on the sidelines. Neither are you or anyone else who can be spared. You get me, Marine?”

“Yes, sir,” he replied crisply, all trace of questioning gone.

“Form up at the double entry hatch.”

“That’s some real John Wayne talk there, LT. You might be getting the hang of this,” Jeremiah said.

Faulkner laughed and checked the magazine on his battle rifle. “Learning on the job.”

“Sometimes, that’s the only way we learn. If you’ll have me, I’ll join the assault element.”

“Chief, I don’t like putting you into the firing line without a weapon. You know that. We could set up triage down here.”

Jeremiah held up a hand. “Don’t even think about it. I’ve established once and for all with you that I go where the fight is, no questions asked.”

Faulkner nodded. He felt even more responsible for the medic’s safety than his own men’s. Probably because he can’t even defend himself, yet he never hesitates to jump into enemy fire. “Damn straight. I’ll see you at the hatch.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, and, Chief? Say one of those prayers I hear you’re famous for. We’re going to need it to pull this off.”

Jeremiah turned and grinned. “I’ve been doing that the entire time.”

As Faulkner watched the older man jog down the steps into the hangar and Marines emerge from the PFLOS freighters, he felt invigorated. Whatever was about to happen, he would be on the sharp tip of the spear, where a Marine belonged.

Harrell ducked into a side passageway just in time for a man and a woman, both carrying energy weapons, to go past on a patrol route. With satisfaction, he noted they were sticking to a pattern observed over the last half hour. Mata and Rostami crouched behind him in the shadows. One wild card was robotic surveillance. So far, they hadn’t seen security bots or scanning models, but given the relatively few humans observed so far, Harrell was convinced the terrorists had something else in their back pocket.

“Faulkner to Harrell.”

What’s the cake eater want? He checked to make sure the hostiles were fully out of any possible earshot before whispering into his commlink. “Make it brief.”

“I overheard the chatter, Master Chief. I’ve redeployed my Marines. As many as I can spare are headed to the control room.”

Harrell had to stop himself from erupting over the commlink in a rage. The only thing that prevented the explosion was the certain knowledge that if he did, PFLOS would come running. Instead, he counted to three before replying, “I don’t think I heard you correctly, Lieutenant. Did you violate my operational authority and pull Marines off a priority posting… specifically the only way we’ve got off this piece-of-shit terrorist space station?”

“One squad of six guys isn’t taking the most heavily fortified position on this station, Master Chief,” Faulkner replied, as cool as a cucumber.

What was totally maddening was the Marine was right. Not that Harrell would ever admit that out loud. “You cannot rush blindly through this place—”

“Slow is smooth. Smooth is fast.”

Harrell gripped his battle rifle so tightly he almost cracked the pistol grip. “Do not quote spacewalker mantras at me, little man.”

“You’re not the only one who knows how to move through enemy territory, Master Chief. I’ve fought these guys. So have my Marines. We’ll get there, link up, and hopefully be enough to carry the day.”

“Negative, Lieutenant Faulkner. Turn your ass around, get back to the hangar bay, and secure our rides.”

“With respect, Master Chief Harrell, I will not comply with that order, and I remind you that I outrank you.”

“Listen to me, you cake-eating—”

“We don’t have time for this.”

Harrell balled his hands into fists as rage coursed through him. “You are putting this entire op in jeopardy! We’re screwed if these shitfaced terrorists take those freighters back!”

“And we’re all dead if we can’t take the control center. It’s a risk either way, but my gut says this is the better choice.”

“Screw your gut, LT. This is our lives.”

“Bring me up on charges when we get back. If we get back.”

Harrell slammed his fist into the nearest alloy wall and instantly regretted it. The sound didn’t carry, thanks to the deadening properties of the advanced power armor, but it hurt badly enough to make him wince. “Damn you, Faulkner. You screw this up and get my team killed, and I swear to God, I will find you in the afterlife and torture you for eternity in ways that would make God blush. We clear on that, Marine?”

“Got it, Master Chief.”

“You link up with Master Chief Yamaguchi and wait for instructions. Are we clear on that? Do not move without my authorization.”

“Understood.”

“Good. Now get off this channel before I come through the commlink and strangle you.”

Harrell clicked off the device and turned to find Rostami and Mata staring at him, mouths hanging open. “What do you rabble want?”

“Don’t you think that was a little rough?” Mata asked with more of a Spanish lilt than normal.

“Who gives a shit, Two? If the kid can’t handle me, he sure as hell can’t hope to survive this battle.”

Rostami shook his head. “That Marine is running toward extreme danger. Give him some credit for that.”

Harrell rolled his eyes and rechecked his battle rifle. “Whatever. I’m not debating it with you two. We’ve got terrorists to kill.”

The refusal to engage further was an admission, albeit unspoken, that the other two men were right. Not that I’ll ever say it. He hoped the Marines wouldn’t blow the op prematurely, but more importantly, that he’d get the opportunity to take a few terrorists with him. Because I haven’t come all this way not to get to the big dance.

19

Arthur wiped blood from his forehead. He’d suffered a slight gash when a piece of something, probably a shattered coffee mug—which were supposed to be nigh on indestructible—smashed into the right side of his head after a nasty fusion detonation on the Thatcher’s shields. The Brazer was beaten up, and the other two CDF destroyers weren’t much better off.

“Starboard power couplings are showing extreme stress for the forward neutron emitters,” Miller said.

“Lock them down and get damage control in there immediately.”

Miller glanced at him. “We’ll lose energy-weapons capacitor throughput.”

“Better that than half the ship.”

She blew out a breath before nodding.

Slowing your rate of fire wasn’t a great tactic in combat, but Arthur couldn’t afford to be totally reckless. Besides, I helped design these ships. I know full well if the system says stop using it, we oughta listen. “TAO, what’s the most damaged hostile contact?”

After a pause, Yasin turned her head slightly. “Master Three, sir.”

“Prioritize Master Three with our squadron mates—”

“Vampire, vampire, vampire… all Master contacts.”

Arthur kept his gaze trained forward, with one eye on the tactical plot. Dozens of icons appeared, so many that they turned into groups automatically. “How bad is it, Lieutenant?”

Yasin swallowed. “At least seventy-five inbound, sir. Wait… They’re not targeting us, sir. My screen says they’re headed for New Rostov’s most populated cities.”

Blood drained from Arthur’s face, and he suppressed a desire to scream. What the hell is wrong with these butchers? “Navigation, calculate an intercept vector for the largest group of warheads. All ahead flank.”

“What about the fleet—”

“XO, there are millions of people on this planet. More than that, it’s the seat of Coalition power in the Orion Spur.”

“We can’t help them if we’re dead.”

“Then we’d better not die.” Arthur turned back to the plot. “TAO, plot general targets for each of our escorts and pass those on. Comms, transmit text only to all friendly vessels that our primary objective is stopping those missiles. All other concerns are secondary.”

It was clipped command speak, which Arthur had learned well in the past few years of training to become a space warfare officer. So had the men and women commanding the three other ships in his fleet. If we must make the ultimate sacrifice, so be it.

Miller leaned in. “We could summon the Oxford.”

“No.”

“Why not, Colonel?”

“Because if things go sideways with the hostage rescue, the Oxford is the only reinforcement available. I can’t… I won’t pull them out of position.”

“We should never have agreed to that damn buffer zone.”

“Perhaps we’ll get to vote for somebody else in a couple of years,” Arthur replied with as much of a deadpan as he could muster.

For the next few minutes, the Margaret Thatcher and her ragtag group maneuvered aggressively to get on a favorable intercept vector. As she came into range of the first group of warheads, the tension on the bridge was palpable.

“TAO, open up with point defense the moment we’ve got a lock. Target at your discretion.” Arthur had no choice but to leave it up to Yasin. If he tried to micromanage the engagement, they’d get half the missiles they could if she handled it unfettered.

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Tiny pricks of light erupted in the void as the Thatcher’s PD turrets spoke into the deep. A small explosion dotted the inky blackness as one of the targeted missiles blew up from a direct hit.

Arthur noted that the hostile warheads bobbed and weaved enough to give their point defense systems fits. I wonder who’s been selling these guys advanced military hardware. It was yet one more unanswered question.

Meanwhile, the Brazer continued hammering away with her suite of point defense missiles as well as laser-based systems. The barrage knocked down almost half of the remaining warheads.

Not to be outdone, the Munro and the Leonidas added their weight of fire to the effort. One after another, the missiles blew apart in small explosions that only briefly registered in the void.

Then the remaining PFLOS warheads were out of range of every ship in the flotilla, still headed toward New Rostov.

“TAO, how many got through?”

Yasin turned. “Six or seven, sir.”

Enough to wipe out every major city on the planet. “Nav, increase speed to flank.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Not that it would do much good. The Thatcher and her escorts simply weren’t fast enough to catch up without something drastic happening.

Arthur turned to Miller. “If you’ve got any ideas, I’m all ears, XO.”

“The only thing we’ve got that can catch up is the Munro. She can overheat those engines for a long time. Pikeman-class corvettes are over-engineered that way for customs inspections and chasing down smugglers.”

Something felt wrong to Arthur about asking the Border Enforcement agents to perform an inherent military duty. But as Miller had outlined, they were the only ones in range to be able to help.”

“Comms, get me the Munro’s commander—”

“Conn, TAO. Aspect change, all hostiles. They’ve targeting Sierra Four, sir, and just entered maximum range.”

Arthur knew what was coming next. As he opened his mouth to give an emergency set of orders, the remaining dozen PFLOS freighters lit up the void with every weapon in their possession. All of them had a single focal point: the Munro’s aft deflector quadrant. The corvette weaved back and worth, making a respectable amount of incoming miss or slide down onto the port or starboard shields.

But it wasn’t enough, and before long, neutron beams were cutting the vessel’s engine pods in two when a massive explosion tore through the corvette. It disappeared in a brilliant flash of blinding-white light, and when the glare faded, there was nothing left beyond their collective memories to prove that the ship had existed in the first place.

“TAO, power down all weapons except point defense. Navigation, ahead flank and route the additional power to our ion engines.”

“Aye, aye, sir” echoed across the bridge.

Arthur didn’t waste a moment. “Comms, order the Leonidas and the Brazer to transfer all weapons power to their engines and accelerate at max thrust.”

“Running will only get us so far,” Miller interjected as she leaned in. “Especially without weapons.”

“The only way they can keep up is to do the same.” The Margaret Thatcher crossing a circle on the tactical plot that represented the maximum energy- and projectile-weapons range of her foes confirmed his hypothesis for the moment.

“What now, then?”

Arthur turned. “The only play we’ve got is for Captain Michaels and Lieutenant Ichikawa to shoot down the remaining warheads. Once that’s done, we’ll figure it out.”

Miller pursed her lips and said nothing.

“Comms, get me a direct commlink to Captain Michaels. Audio only.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Seconds later, the crackle of static erupted from a speaker built into the CO’s chair, followed by Michaels’s voice. “This is Iota One.”

“This is Margaret Thatcher actual. Glad you’re still with us, Captain.”

“It’s not over yet. These guys play for keeps, Colonel.”

“I need some more magic out of you and Lieutenant Ichikawa.”

“Shoot down the remaining missiles headed toward New Rostov?”

“Got it in one.” Arthur absentmindedly smoothed out his black space sweater.

“We’ll get them, sir.”

“Whatever it takes, Captain. Those warheads cannot be allowed to hit the surface.”

A pause followed. “I understand, sir.”

“We’ll cover you.”

Michaels cleared his throat. “Roger. See you on the flip side, Colonel.”

“Godspeed and good luck.” Arthur closed the channel with the control built into his chair. Sending men and women to their deaths isn’t getting any easier. As hard as it was, he hoped it never did.

Michaels whipped his Ghost around in a tight loop, the stars blurring outside the canopy. The effect was disorienting, even after so many years of flying in the void. He glanced at his HUD’s sensor readout, which showed a crowded battle space. If the enemy ships weren’t more than enough, the volleys of missiles almost overloaded the display. He toggled his commlink to the private channel with Ichikawa. “Looks like a few are going to make it through.”

“I saw that. With shield and weapons power dumped into the engines, I think I can catch up.”

He was about to do the same but nonetheless found himself impressed by her initiative. “Not waiting for my orders, then?”

“Weren’t you about to give it, sir?”

Michaels nodded, even though there was no way she could see him across the void. “Yes. Listen carefully, Lieutenant. I’m not letting fusion warheads hit a Coalition planet on my watch. I’ll ram one of them if all else fails. Are we clear on that?”

A pregnant pause followed. “Is that an order, too, sir?”

“No.” Michaels bit his lip. “It’s a choice that every man and woman wearing this uniform must make at some point in their career. After my recent transgression, it’s an easy one for me.”

“You don’t have to kill yourself to atone. With respect, sir,” she added hastily.

“I have no plans to do so. But I am setting the bar for success. None of them get through.”

“Yes, sir.”

He had reset his power allocation system while they conversed, and his fighter pawed the vacuum at twice its normal speed. There was no afterburner system built into the Ghost, unlike most Terran Coalition space-superiority fighters. Well, that’s what we call it anyway. It’s really more of a short-burst rechargeable rocket motor. But afterburner is a lot easier to say.

Seven warheads remained, and they all had superior acceleration to the Ajax-class destroyers. The Pikeman would’ve been able to catch up, Michaels realized. Probably why the bastards prioritized blowing it to kingdom come.

“Sir, what is it that you did to get demoted to recon duty?”

Michaels pursed his lips. He still had a couple of minutes until he needed to focus on shooting down missiles. “My actions got my wingman killed.”

“That… doesn’t match what I’ve observed, sir.”

“Yeah, I’ve been on the straight and narrow. Lieutenant Fletcher… Evan… wasn’t just a fellow flier. He was my best friend. We’d served for three years in the same squadron. I’ll never forget or put it out of my mind.”

Emotion welled up. Michaels still struggled with the consequences of that day, even though the incident had been three months prior. Three months, six days, and eleven hours. “Lieutenant, focus on the mission. That’s what I have to do. I’ll see you on the other side. You take the three warheads I’ve marked.”

“Wilco, sir.” She cleared her throat. “Sir, if we don’t make it, it’s been an honor.”

“Likewise. Godspeed.”

“You, too, sir.”

All of a sudden, Michaels felt very alone. The cockpit wasn’t exactly roomy, and zipping through the inky blackness of space in a small alloy tube led to that line of thought, but one also had their fellow pilots and CDF soldiers to rely on. Hurtling toward an appointment with destiny, Michaels knew it came down to him and Ichikawa.

The targeting reticle of his neutron cannons turned green at long last. Between the limited energy left in his weapons capacitor and the rapidly approaching atmosphere of New Rostov, every moment and shot counted. He squeezed the integrating trigger and sent a burst of rounds toward the first warhead. It blew apart in a small explosion that barely registered to the eye.

If it were that simple, the errand would’ve been easy indeed. But a moment later, the other missiles began a series of turns and jinks.

What the hell? Leaguers don’t have AI-enabled warheads. Michaels supposed it could be that the PFLOS vessels were close enough to send evasive maneuvering instructions to their instruments of death. But it didn’t matter what was causing the behavior, only that he adapted to it.

He picked a target and turned with it, matching the warhead move for move. It pushed his fighter’s inertial damping system to the limit, but every couple of seconds, he got a green light. Taking advantage of one, he took out another missile. Two down, two to go. A quick check of his sensor screen showed Ichikawa had blown up one of her assigned three as well. We can do this.

The next one wasn’t so easy, however. Michaels overshot his target with several bursts of neutron-cannon bolts and ended up on the wrong side of the missile before realizing his mistake. Ugh, this is going to suck. He pulled back hard on the flight stick and performed an Immelmann turn, which had the effect of reversing the Ghost’s course. While he couldn’t see it with the naked eye, his targeting computer told him it was directly ahead. Another burst of bolts went out without impact. He held down the trigger and rotated his craft. A couple of seconds before they would’ve flashed by each other, the missile exploded close enough to rock his fighter but caused no damage.

“Splash three warheads,” Michaels called over the commlink.

“Iota Two has nailed two. Repeat, splash two.”

“One more, Lieutenant.”

Where is this thing? The last one had gotten by him, headed straight toward New Rostov. Silently cursing his loss of situational awareness, Michaels turned to an intercept vector. He ran some quick math. Still time. A more pressing concern was the number of shots left in the capacitor. Six bolts, if I’m lucky. It wasn’t a lot, not with the sophistication of the enemy tech.

He turned off auxiliary life support and shunted the power into the engines along with his defensive decoy system. That’s it unless I take the weapons totally offline. He wasn’t quite there. The warhead loomed ahead at a range of sixty kilometers then fifty.

“Pull up. Atmosphere ahead,” the sterile voice of the AI-generated warning system said. “Danger. Atmosphere ahead. Ballistic reentry detected.”

“I heard you the first time.” Michaels gripped his flight stick so hard that sweat dripped out of his hand. If I can’t get a hit, I’ll have to ram it. That was the only solution. The targeting reticle turned green, but he held his fire. Closer and closer, the Ghost got, until he was under a kilometer, even as an eerie red glow spread across the cockpit canopy. That’ll be reentry heat generating plasma.

It was now or never. Michaels held the trigger down and expended every shot he had left. At the last possible moment, an explosion blossomed out from the warhead, and his fighter flew straight into it. He pulled up on the stick and prayed.

When the Ghost stopped shaking like a tiny boat going through a hurricane, he realized he was back in open space and somehow still alive. He toggled his commlink. “Still with me, Ichikawa?”

“Got the last one, sir. Thought I’d lost you for a minute there.”

“I’ve got to say perhaps the big guy was looking out for us.”

“Maybe so, sir. What do we do now?”

Michaels blew out a breath. “Head back and hope to hell that was the last set of missiles headed our way.” Because we’re all out of tricks. He didn’t feel the need to crush her morale with that last bit.

20

“Conn, sensor room. Two intermittent contacts bearing zero-seven-two, range two hundred thousand kilometers, give or take. They’re faint and running at minimal power. But I’m pretty sure they’re the same class of freighter PFLOS uses.”

Godat sighed. Great. More hostiles. “Designate them as Master Five and Six.”

“Aye, aye, skipper.”

The intercom clicked off, leaving the control room in silence. Godat had observed over the years that when running at ultraquiet, even enlisted ratings would whisper to the crewman next to them. It was part of the stealth raider culture. He thought back to the year-long process it had taken to earn his golden nebula insignia. From a nonuseful body to passing his board, it had been the longest year of his life. And I still whisper when we’re at ultraquiet.

“Three boats against five freighters. Not great odds if they can locate us,” the XO said.

“Yeah, I don’t like that either. Though we have to count on three of those being captured. Three on two… much better odds.”

Letchford nodded. “Yes, but hope is not a strategy, sir.”

That line was one of the old saws of the CDF. “Not much else going for us out here.”

“Conn, TAO. Aspect change, sir. Got another Lawrence drive hole opening. Same general location as the last.”

“See what I mean?” Letchford asked with a smirk.

Godat shook his head as he punched up the intercom. “Sensor room, how many hostiles?”

“At least two drive signatures, sir. It’ll take me a few minutes to clean it up this far out.”

Letchford crossed his arms. “Seven on three or four on three.”

This is getting worse by the minute.

“Comms, can we get a tight beam to one of our breach pods?”

The communications officer swiveled in her chair. “Not at this range. We’d have to get closer by at least two thousand kilometers, sir.”

“It’s a risk,” Letchford interjected.

Godat leaned forward. “A greater one if we don’t tell them that we’re attracting company. Too much company, and this isn’t going to work. Nav, take us in, dead slow.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Of all the combat situations he’d been in, this was by far the most stressful. Godat fondly thought back to days past when they’d lie in wait for a League supply convoy for a week before reducing it to wreckage and disappearing back into the void. HaShem, watch out for them, protect our people, and let us leave this place alive. At the moment, there was little more he could do.

Most special operations missions came down to impeccable timing. Sure, the spacewalkers had the best gear available in the Terran Coalition. They had more training than any other combatant command. But it wasn’t their ability to put rounds on target or utilize technological wonders that set them apart. Instead, it was the tightly choreographed ballet of death they brought to the fight.

Harrell and the rest of Alpha team had precisely timed the patrol routes of every hostile they’d encountered so far. The shackled-AI processor in their suits was especially useful with facial recognition to plot out the path guards took on their rounds. Nothing fancy, which is good for us.

The OPFOR was certainly less creative than Harrell would’ve planned it, but he figured that was to be expected from two-bit terrorists. Careful. Don’t underestimate these guys.

“One, this is Two,” Mata said on the commlink channel. “I’ve got our two outermost tangos coming around for another pass.”

Alpha was less than thirty meters from their objective—a set of holding dormitories that housed over a thousand hostages in extremely cramped quarters, according to the micro drones that mapped them. It felt more like a million kilometers.

Because of the overlapping patrol routes, they had to eliminate the two guards coming up. Harrell considered waiting for the next circuit but shook his head. I can’t play this safe. We’ve got to go because as soon as Delta’s in position with those Marines, assuming the bastards make it up there, that’s our execute point. “Okay. Get into position. We’ll pop up behind and take them out.”

How much empty space there was in the space station was a minor miracle. Clearly, the designers had intended it to have a far larger crew complement. Harrell believed it had been towed here or perhaps disassembled in stages from another orbital body and moved. Not that I mind. As a result, it was easy to fade into rooms right off the main corridors.

Harrell drew his combat knife from its sheath on his left leg. Mata was on the other side of the corridor, and the timing would have to be perfect. He ticked off the seconds mentally before the two hostiles were precisely three meters beyond their hiding place. “Execute, execute, execute.”

There was no acknowledgment, as time was of the essence, and they’d been doing this together for so long none was required. Harrell pushed the hatch open as silently as he could and found Mata had already done the same. They turned and took six steps down the passageway together as the two terrorists loomed ahead.

Harrell reached his left hand around and clamped it over his target’s mouth. Simultaneously, he jammed the knife into his throat and nearly decapitated the man as he pulled the weapon to his right. Blood gushed, and out of the corner of Harrell’s eye, he saw Mata had accomplished the same objective. “Get them out of sight.”

“What about the blood?”

Harrell shrugged as he let his hand go from the mouth of the man, who might still be technically alive if one was measuring brain activity, but he had no motor control over anything in his body, couldn’t make a sound, and would be fully dead in less than two minutes. “Hope nobody sees it.”

“What was it Alpha One used to say all the time? Hope is not a strategy.”

Harrell snickered. At times like this, he missed his old team leader, Master Chief MacDonald. Utilizing the superhuman strength of the armor suit, he dragged the body back to the cubbyhole the others were in and dropped it like a sack of potatoes. “You ladies ready to go?”

Rostami flashed a thumbs-up, while Petty Officer First Class Saar Bachar, the newest member of the team, smirked. “You’re a mean first date, Master Chief.”

“Don’t you know it, rook.” Harrell pulled up his battle rifle and checked the suppressor on the end of the barrel. “Let’s roll.”

A few seconds later, the six commandos silently moved forward, filling the corridor. If one strained their ears as hard as possible, they might’ve heard a footfall. But it was unlikely, thanks to the dampening tech.

However, random occurrences could never be ruled out even with that advantage. Five meters down the passageway, a man exited an X junction, walking by himself in a black jumpsuit reminiscent of a League Navy uniform. He nonchalantly glanced from side to side only to do a double take at Alpha team.

Harrell reacted on pure instinct, adjusting his battle rifle by a few centimeters and pulling the trigger. All three rounds hit center mass, and the man collapsed with little more than a muffled cry. He’d started to let out a sigh of relief when a piercing klaxon came from out of nowhere. It was so loud that he had the split-second thought that without his helmet, the noise might blow out his eardrums.

“What the hell is that?” Mata shouted over the din.

“Alarm of some sort, probably sound detection,” Rostami interjected.

“No shit, Sherlock,” Harrell replied.

The sound of combat boots pounding on alloy echoed down the passageway. Directly ahead of them, several armed men emerged from a T junction, their weapons at the ready.

As one of the point men, Harrell put down one hostile while Kucuk and Rostami finished the other two. This just went to hell. Dammit. He toggled his commlink over to the team command channel. “We’re compromised. All units, execute. Save as many hostages as you can and get them to the exfil area. Faulkner, move your ass.”

“On it, Master Chief” came the cheerful reply of the younger Marine.

There was something about his attitude that Harrell respected and hated at the same time. Give him twenty years kicking doors, and that jovial demeanor will be gone. He flipped back to the Alpha team channel. “Okay, blitz forward, on me. We don’t stop until we have those hostages.”

“Yes, sir,” Bachar replied.

Without another word, Harrell advanced. The team moved like a wave, two men advancing then holding position while the next two moved up. Finally, the last two proceeded, keeping their weapons aimed at the rear to counter any threats. Within ninety seconds, they’d achieved the first objective—the double hatch to the dormitory area.

“Blow it,” Harrell ordered, no longer caring how much noise they generated.

Before Bachar could advance with det cord, the hatch opened on either side, and the first elements of a squad of PFLOS terrorists wearing unpowered combat armor and carrying various types of rifles emerged.

Cursing, Harrell opened fire, as did the rest of Alpha. The first couple of tangos went down hard, but others, who hadn’t yet emerged from cover, returned fire haphazardly. Bullets pinged off the alloy walls, sending showers of sparks from the impacts.

Kucuk charged forward, bellowing a roar that was even louder than the klaxon still blasting away. He stuck his plasma rifle half a meter from an unlucky soul and squeezed the trigger. The man fell backward, screaming in agony before Kucuk put him out of his misery with another shot of superheated energy.

Any sane combatant would try to at least close the door in the face of such an onslaught, and that was exactly what the terrorists did. Except they didn’t plan for a nearly two-and-a-half-meter-tall Saurian to ram his hand into the opening, grab the hatch, and hold it open with his strength combined with the assist from his power armor.

Harrell didn’t need encouragement to make the play. He grabbed a pulse grenade from his belt, pulled the pin, and tossed it through. “Pulse, over!”

A second after the flash, he charged through with Alpha at his heels. It wasn’t a graceful assault, but five commandos armed for taking out half a brigade of League troops didn’t always have to be. Directly inside the double hatch was an access control point that served as an air gap between the rest of the station and the prisoners.

In theory, it would’ve provided a buffer in case of assault. But not with both sets of doors open. Harrell shot down a man and a woman in his path before aiming his battle rifle at a man who had his hand over a control that would presumably lock down the entrance. They made eye contact for a split second before Harrell squeezed the trigger. Blood splattered against the wall and dripped onto the console as the terrorist collapsed.

“Entry clear!” Rostami shouted.

Harrell turned his attention to the dormitory, a giant room sectioned off with two partitions and encompassing two decks. At first, he thought it was populated solely by hostages. Then armed men and women came into focus, thanks to his helmet’s advanced optics.

“What’s the call?” Petty Officer First Class Saar Bachar asked over the commlink. Apparently, he saw the same thing.

“Get in there! Neutralize any hostiles and protect the hostages at all costs,” Harrell said as he ejected the magazine from his battle rifle and slid a new one in. The moment it clicked, he hit a button marked Open Cells and charged into the cavernous dormitory.

Several PFLOS members tried to engage, only to be cut down by precise headshots from Mata. One man turned his weapon on a group of hostages. He opened fire and hit a mother shielding her child before Harrell put three rounds into his center mass.

There wasn’t even time to stop and offer first aid, as neutralizing the hostiles remained his priority and, by extension, the entire team’s. All around him, the commandos terminated the enemy as quickly as possible without hitting the innocents.

Kucuk waded into a group of men and wielded a large traditional Saurian blade as he carved through them like they weren’t even there. Blood splashed the deck plates as he slashed throats, stabbed through at least one ribcage into a heart, and ended their lives in as brutal a manner as possible. The last combatant, after Kucuk drove the knife through his chest and ripped it back out, was hurled across the dormitory with an angry bellow.

Harrell gave the big Saurian a jaunty salute as he searched for another target. There didn’t appear to be any, though Bachar and Mata were out of sight. “This is One. All Alpha stations, sitrep!”

“Clear!” Mata replied.

Rostami cut in. “Clear!”

“There are no infidels left to kill,” Kucuk interjected. The way he said the words made them sound as if they had a disgusting taste.

The big guy always puts a fine point on it. “Okay, hold what you’ve got. Rostami, jack in back in that control area and shut off that damn alarm.”

“On it, One.”

“Everyone else, start corralling these civvies and render first aid as possible.”

Time seemed to blur and slow down. Once the civilians—primarily women and children—realized the terrorists were dead, they began asking rapid-fire questions.

One short and stockily built lady grabbed Harrell’s arm. “Young man, who are you?”

Young wasn’t something Master Chief Dennis Harrell had been called in a long time, if ever. He smirked at her. “Coalition Defense Force, ma’am. We’re here to get you out of here.”

“There’s only six of you. And since when do Saurians serve in the CDF?”

We almost got our asses shot off, and she wants to play twenty questions? Still, Harrell admired her spunk. “There’s a lot more where we came from. Now, ma’am, I need you to help me here. Direct these people, and especially the kids, to the exit. Can you do that?”

She nodded and patted his arm as she glanced at his rank insignia. “Thank you, Master Chief. My husband put in twenty-two years fighting the good fight before his ship… Well, I knew you’d come.”

Damn. Twenty-two years and didn’t make it home. Damn Leaguers. “I’ll see you on the other side, ma’am. Now, get these people moving.”

She trundled off, ordering mothers to grab their children and come on. Must have been an officer’s wife. Any help was welcome, however, regardless of who was providing it.

“Three, why the hell is that alarm still blaring in my ears? I’ve got a headache.”

“Because whoever set up security on this station is smart, Master Chief. They’ve got some kind of sonic detection system on a separate network, not the primary security net. I can’t get to it from here. There’s also a comms jammer giving me fits.”

“Forget the alarm and focus on comms. Everyone else, form up with the civilians and prepare for exfil.”

Harrell felt his OODA—Observe, Orient, Decide, Act—loop compromised. I knew this half-assed op was going to implode. The larger problem was how the Terran Coalition viewed its tier-one operators as superheroes who couldn’t fail. But none of that mattered right then. All we can do here is work the problem. Get the civilians out, and whatever else happens happens. He estimated their chances of survival at less than thirty percent.

Kovalev thought his mind was playing tricks on him at first as the klaxon wailed. An integrated alarm, it was part of the security systems he’d paid an outrageous amount of credits for. Any discharge of ballistic or energy weapons automatically triggered it, and while one or two reports could’ve been chalked up to an accidental discharge, the dozens that continued to pour in indicated something far more sinister: The CDF had found them and was mounting a rescue attempt.

Clever. The capitalist dogs feigned compliance while hunting us down. He strode out of his small office overlooking the Chen Quingzhi’s control center to find Hai Gao heading up the steps.

“Comrade, what are your orders?”

“Execute the hostages and purge these attackers. Capture some of them alive if possible, because I’d like to kill them on a live holobroadcast into the Terran Coalition.”

“Yes, comrade,” Gao replied.

“No response from block Charlie,” someone called from the other side of the control center. “Or block Beta.”

The scope of the situation suddenly came into focus. The Terrans have already reached the cells? How? “Pull up the holocam footage now!”

A second later, an image of a nondescript corridor popped up on a holoprojector. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary.

“I don’t understand. According to our systems, there’s an active firefight there.” The young woman making the report already had sweat trickling down her forehead.

Kovalev rushed over and leaned over her console. “Move to section eleven, outside of block Beta.”

The result was the same. Everything appeared as it should, as if nothing was going on, yet the data showed small-arms fire continuing to spread. Deep within his gut, Kovalev knew the Coalition was there. “Find me someone in those sections who can speak to what is happening,” he snapped.

“If I may,” Gao interjected. “Permission to reboot our primary surveillance network?”

Kovalev’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“Because I believe we were hacked, and it will clear the issue with a redundant backup.”

“Do it.” It was vital to understand what the threat was before responding. Kovalev’s mind thrashed as he considered different scenarios and possibilities.

Time slowed to a crawl as the computer system went through its reboot cycle. As the screens remained black, Kovalev paced the deck plating. I could send security personnel… our robotic units. But sending them to the wrong place could cause the loss of everything they’d worked so hard for. The agony of the wait almost drove Kovalev mad as he blew his breath out then sucked in a lung full of air to do it again.

“Coming back up now, comrade!” Gao barked.

Kovalev rubbed his hands together. The screens came alive, as did the holoprojector. The images were enough to make his knees shake against each other. Power-armored figures moved forward, cutting down his fighters. Here and there, one took a burst of rounds, but the Coalition lackeys shrugged it off and kept advancing.

“Those aren’t TCMC,” Gao said. “I think that’s tier-one operator armor. The spacewalkers.”

The very name struck fear into any League sailor or soldier who wasn’t stupid or insane. The best of the best, the Coalition’s space-special warfare soldiers were pound for pound some of the most aggressive fighters in the galaxy. They’d give the Saurian special ops a run for their claws. How’d they get here? To his benefactors’ knowledge, there were no spacewalker teams stationed in the Orion Spur currently, which had been one reason for launching the attacks when they did.

“How many?” Kovalev asked.

“All of them, sir. We’ve got at least fifty commandos aboard and possibly more.”

Kovalev slammed his fist into the nearest console. “How? How did they get aboard without our detecting them in the crush of this gas giant’s atmosphere?”

The outburst caused everyone in the control center to glance at Kovalev before quickly averting their eyes and going back to whatever task was assigned to them.

“Stealth assault pods, perhaps.” Gao shrugged. “Comrade, the how is immaterial. We must assume they have a plan to get the hostages off the station.”

“By Lenin…” Kovalev’s mouth went dry. “Raise the docked freighters.”

Seconds ticked by.

“No response,” a crewman reported. “From any of them.”

Kovalev almost put his hands over his face. The level of failure before them was unacceptable. Moreover, it was an insult to the men and women who’d died fighting the accursed Terran Coalition. But what do I do now? Losing the hostages, the station… It was too much. He felt himself shutting down inside.

Boots clanked across the deck as Gao made his way across the control center and came to a stop beside Kovalev. “Comrade, we must do something.”

Kovalev wasn’t experienced with being at a loss for words or actions. In fact, this was perhaps the only time he’d experienced it throughout his career in the League Navy and now as the leader of their freedom fighters.

“Comrade,” Gao urgently whispered.

Must… Must deny them the victory. It is the only way. Make the Coalition pay for its crimes. He ran his tongue over his lips. “Pull our people back. Send the security bots forward.”

“But, comrade, they—”

Kovalev held up a hand. “It is only to delay the capitalist dogs. Set the self-destruct sequence and recall the fleet. We will ensure these Coalition super soldiers suffer the fate they should’ve long ago and kill the hostages and their rescuers in one fell swoop.”

Gao nodded slowly. “That would be a decisive blow to their morale.”

“Yes.” Kovalev snarled as he pulled himself up to his full height. “None shall stand before those who defend society. Remember this is a week in which decades happen. All of you shall be able to tell your children that you were there. That your brave and forthright actions helped to finally destroy the capitalists and their empire once and for all.”

Cheers swept through the room, while the men and women pumped their fists into the air. “For the revolution!” many cried out.

“Yes, brothers and sisters, for our revolution!” Kovalev screamed.

Equilibrium restored, he knew what to do next. It was a pity that so many of his followers would perish, but such was the way of the movement. There would be plenty more once the fire caught on throughout the League and the rest of the Orion Spur.

21

There was no mistaking the alarm or what it signified as it blared so loudly that if Faulkner hadn’t been wearing a helmet, his hands would’ve been over his ears. The Marines and a single commando team were spread out around the control center’s entrance, maintaining stealth by having split up among several corridors and into air vents and supply closets, out of sight. Well, the plan just went to shit. He kicked around what to do next. “Faulkner to Harrell.”

A couple of seconds passed with no response. I’m not sitting on my hands, waiting, nor are my Marines. He transferred from private commlink mode to a channel that had the two squads with him plus Delta team’s spacewalkers. “Listen up, ladies. The enemy is aware of our presence.”

Even as Faulkner spoke, the sound of boots stomping on the alloy deck echoed.

“We’re not waiting for further instructions. All units, execute, execute, execute.”

Master Chief Yamaguchi broke into a private channel. “Lieutenant, you do not have operational command. Our instructions are to wait for Master Chief Harrell—”

“And he’s not answering. Probably because Alpha’s in a firefight. If your crackerjack, no-shit warrior spacewalkers want to sit this out, feel free, Master Chief. But we’re going.” He clicked off the commlink and darted out of the machine room a corridor down from the command center where they’d holed up.

The sight that greeted him wasn’t exactly what he’d been hoping for: A patrol of six military-aged men not in uniform, each cradling ballistic weapons. They were less than three meters away, and Faulkner only had three other Marines with him. He acted on instinct and training as he toggled his battle rifle to full auto and squeezed the trigger.

Sixty full-metal-jacket bullets poured out of the barrel like the wrath of God, laying waste to the unarmored foes. It took less than two seconds to empty his magazine, and when it was over, all the PFLOS terrorists were lying on the deck, dead or mortally wounded.

In that moment, the sheer horror of war finally became apparent to Avery Faulkner. While he’d certainly killed enemies over the last week, seeing all six of them, blood pooling around their bodies and the light going out of their eyes, was different. Even the terrorist he’d stabbed to death earlier wasn’t quite the same. He shook off the shock and kept moving. “Six tangos down. Advancing up access corridor two on our map.”

The sounds of battle came from other battle rifle reports and the high-pitched whine of a Saurian plasma weapon coupled with bone-rattling screams. Running around a corner, Faulkner found several commandos pinned down along with another fire team of Marines.

“Get down!” someone shouted. “Auto guns!”

Faulkner didn’t need to be told twice. He and the rest of his squad made themselves as small as possible and used the bulkheads for cover. Deceptively small weapons on gimbles had swung out of the overhead and were searching for targets.

One such device put a burst of rounds into the position where Faulkner and his team had been moments before. Judging by how the rounds punctured the alloy, they were dealing with more magnetically accelerated projectiles. Great.

The commandos had apparently prepared for such an eventuality. One of them fired a shoulder-mounted rocket launcher. The missile blew out of the tube with a roar of flame and moments later slammed into the auto gun. When the blast cleared, all that remained was a charred, melted piece of alloy that no longer functioned in any meaningful sense.

Faulkner gave a belated thumbs-up as he moved forward, battle rifle aimed down the corridor. “Thanks, Chief,” he called out as his squad met up with the commando element.

“Hell of a party you got going here, Lieutenant.” The man dropped the single-use weapon to the deck and raised his ballistic rifle. “Not as many hostiles as I thought there’d be.”

“Small miracles, Chief. Form up, Marines. We’ve got a job to finish.” Faulkner crossed the next five meters before turning yet another corner to the passageway leading to the command center.

At the other end, another squad and the rest of Delta team formed a pincer. There were no enemies left, and the ceiling-mounted guns had already been destroyed. The klaxon had since shut off, and there was no sound except for the treads of power-armored boots on the alloy deck.

Master Chief Yamaguchi walked up to Faulkner and shook his head. “A bit more kinetic of an entry than planned. And no word from Harrell.”

Faulkner checked the commlink-traffic history. “I’m sure Alpha team is handling themselves just fine. Our objective is to take control. Then we end this thing.”

“Your show, Lieutenant,” Yamaguchi replied. “I’m only going along with this because we can’t get ahold of Alpha.”

“Oh, come now, Master Chief. You like kicking doors as much as we do.”

Yamaguchi smirked. “Spoken like a spacewalker, Lieutenant.”

“I need demo charges on this hatch yesterday!” Faulkner boomed. “Everyone else, stack up four meters back.”

“Yes, sir!” several Marines echoed as preparations were hastily made.

Faulkner glanced around until he located a member of the heavy-weapons team carrying a grenade launcher. “Baker! I want pulse grenades and CS gas fired in there the moment that hatch is down. Clear?”

“Sir, yes, sir!”

“Everyone else, watch for HVTs. It’d be nice to capture the ringleaders alive. Give our interrogators a chance for solid intel.”

Someone, probably a commando, shouted, “Then we space ’em along with the rest of this sorry lot!”

Cheers went up from most of the men, but Faulkner pushed any reaction he had out of his mind. The only thing that mattered at the moment was the objective and, if he was lucky, getting his hands wrapped around Kovalev’s throat. And maybe I can avoid killing him if I do.

“Demo set, Lieutenant!”

“Light it up!” Faulkner yelled.

“Fire in the hole!” one of the commandos screamed before a deafening roar filled the corridor along with a blast of flame and smoke.

Faulkner was determined to be the first man through, and a split second after the Marine with the grenade launcher sent two pulse and four gas projectiles into the control center, he dashed through with the entire force on his heels.

The interior was about what anyone would expect on a quasimilitary space station, with various stations, screens, and holoprojectors wrapping around a center area where whoever was in charge presumably sat.

It was also filled with dozens of enemies. Under normal circumstances, pulse grenades and gas would knock out most combatants and make mopping up easy—especially untrained terrorists.

Faulkner’s first clue that they were dealing with something else entirely was when he was three steps into the control center and a heavy-caliber bullet slammed into his left shoulder. The enhanced power armor stopped the round but not its kinetic force. Instead, he spun ninety degrees, lost his balance, and plummeted to the deck while searing pain shot through his body.

“Shit.” He blew out a breath and blocked out the throbbing agony long enough to raise his battle rifle and put three rounds into the center mass of a hostile who appeared above the computer console he’d fallen behind.

From the white-hot spikes that seemed to erupt from his left shoulder, Faulkner quickly deduced the impact had dislocated the joint. I can’t fight like this.

Another Marine thudded to a stop next to him. “You okay, sir?”

“Yeah, cover me.” Faulkner adjusted so that his back was on the deck and reached a hand behind his back before moving it toward the opposite shoulder. The intense pain and the popping sound, audible even with the battle in progress around them, told him he’d gotten the joint back into place. That and I can move my arm now. He used his suit’s medic functions to inject a pain reliever and anti-inflammatory cocktail into his bloodstream. Back in the fight.

As Faulkner poked his head above the console to get a view of the battlefield, it dawned on him that every PFLOS terrorist wore a gas mask. They also made good use of cover and suppressive fire tactics that quickly forced him to duck down. Somebody’s been training these guys. We’re not dealing with wannabe soldiers who can’t hold their guns right. There was marked improvement in the combat abilities of that particular set of hostiles versus those they’d encountered during boarding actions.

Meanwhile, friendly forces poured through the blown-out hatch while the defenders focused their fire on the narrow opening. Several Marines were hit, and from the squad-status display, two were killed instantly from severe chest trauma.

It was enough to compromise Faulkner’s OODA loop. The battle was clearly spinning out of control, and they’d lost the initiative. My God, I’ve led us to our doom. He immediately banished the thought and fell upon training. When pinned down, use grenades and other high-powered munitions to shape the battlefield. He ripped a fragmentation device off his belt and pulled the pin before tossing it toward the two nearest hostiles. “Frag, over!”

The deceptively small round ball clattered to the deck, nearly right on top of the two terrorists, who were using a nearby console as cover. Only seconds later, the device blew apart. One of the two men disappeared from view, while the second stood up, dazed and clearly wounded.

Faulkner aimed his battle rifle and squeezed the trigger twice, sending two bursts into the man. The effects happened almost in slow motion, as the six bullets all found center mass, and large blood stains spread across the hostile’s chest while he collapsed backward.

Under normal conditions, the gas would’ve been a force multiplier for the assault team, but with the defenders equipped with masks, instead, it turned into a negative. Faulkner couldn’t see a meter in front of him and had to rely on integrated infrared imagery in his power armor. He cued up the commlink. “Forget this. Use grenades. Frag and pulse. Drive them out of cover and push up.”

“Negative, Lieutenant. That’ll take out vital intelligence and HVTs,” Yamaguchi interjected.

Faulkner tightened the grip on his battle rifle. “Master Chief, I don’t give a damn about electronics or high-value targets right now. I’ve got two dead… Make that three, and these bastards are lighting us up. Carry out my orders.”

Volleys of gunfire rang out, echoing about the command center along with the quiet but highly distinctive reports from the Gauss rifles. Faulkner pulled another frag grenade off his belt. Better make these count. I’m down to one after this. “Ready volley, fragmentation!”

He pulled the pin. “Frag, over!”

Grenades from a dozen other Marines and commandos fell all over the room, targeted at groups of terrorists in cover. The blasts ran together as one, creating chaos—which was exactly what Faulkner had hoped for. Amid the cries of men who’d taken shrapnel wounds across their bodies, he yanked a pulse grenade off his belt and pulled the pin. “Pulse, over!”

The bright flashes made the room go white, though the advanced power armor automatically adjusted audio and visual filters.

Incoming slacked off dramatically after at least a dozen defenders were unable to fire their weapons. Yamaguchi was the first out of cover, followed with the rest of Delta team, laying waste to anyone in front of them.

Not to be outdone, Faulkner scrambled up and charged. He flipped the fire selector to full auto and sent almost thirty rounds into a group of four terrorists clutching their ears. The bullets punched through them like hot knives through butter. Even though his air was filtered through the power armor’s environmental system, the putrid stench of propellent and blood mixed together. It took everything he had not to vomit.

Although it came at the cost of a lot of destroyed consoles and pieces of equipment with shrapnel jutting out of them, the grenade attack moved the battle into the CDF’s favor. Utilizing superior fire discipline, the Marines and commandos pushed forward. The remaining terrorists went farther into the rear of the control center and tried to make a last stand. A few more pulse grenades followed by Master Chief Yamaguchi and his team sweeping the final redoubt with an automatic plasma thrower ended the threat.

Faulkner was impressed by how fluidly the spacewalkers moved. Each man was so in tune with the rest of the team that they seemed to anticipate each one’s movements ahead of time. It was, in ways, a ballet of death. “Corpsman! Check for wounded and vitals!”

From the blown-out hatch, Jeremiah popped his head up and went to work. He first examined the fallen Marines and a commando that had gone down in the fighting. Then he moved on to wounded friendlies before turning his attention to the dead and dying PFLOS terrorists.

“Not bad, Lieutenant,” Yamaguchi said as he strode up to Faulkner. “Despite your youth and inexperience, I begin to think you know what you’re doing.”

Faulkner pursed his lips. “I’m sorry for your man, Master Chief.”

“You lost four too.” Yamaguchi’s facial features hardened. “It is the sad price of this work. But eliminating these vermin is our job. Chief Espinosa knew that. As do I and your Marines. We will honor them by finishing the fight.” He seemed to battle within to keep from showing any emotion with a taut brow and a clenched jaw.

“Sir,” Jeremiah called out. “Kovalev isn’t here, per facial rec.”

“What?” Faulkner replied.

“Cursory glance says these are low-level foot soldiers.”

Faulkner was about to say something to Yamaguchi when one commando interjected, “We got a bolt hole over here. Hidden hatch. Recon flitter says it leads to maintenance shafts.”

“Those are some cold bastards. Leave the grunts behind to die while they escape.” Faulkner crossed his arms. “Real leaders.”

“About on par with what I’d expect out of people who rape and murder women and children,” Yamaguchi replied. “Okay, get the explosive sniff—”

Before the master chief could finish his thought, a blast of flame erupted out of the area where they’d found the hidden egress point. It knocked the commando and several Marines off their feet and sent several men slamming into consoles a meter or two away.

Faulkner blinked as the shock overwhelmed his senses. His ears rang, and all sounds were muted as he tried to shake off the daze.

Yamaguchi slapped the side of his helmet. “Are you injured?” he screamed.

“No!” Faulkner shouted. “Can’t hear. It’ll pass.”

A quick check of the squad’s health status suggested that they only had minor injuries from the explosion, but the passageway itself was totally destroyed. Jets of flame and collapsed alloy were clearly visible.

“We’re not getting through that anytime soon.”

Yamaguchi shook his head. “No, we’re not.”

Faulkner cursed under his breath. “See if any of those consoles work. Taking command of the station’s functions would be useful, and gather any intel possible.”

One of the commandos stuck his head up. “Controls completely locked, and they have biometric inputs. We’re not getting in.”

“Lieutenant, I realize you outrank us, but I strongly suggest listening to my wisdom,” Yamaguchi interjected. “This location has no value in holding. We should set demo charges and find another fight where our numbers may yet be worthwhile.”

Faulkner nodded. “I’d say that’s wherever Master Chief Harrell and his boys are holed up.”

“My thoughts precisely, sir.”

While the spacewalkers, tough warriors that they were, adhered to the CDF’s rules on customs and courtesies to officers, the way Yamaguchi said it was the first time Faulkner detected actual respect. It brought a small smile to his face for about half a second to know that his platoon had fought well enough to impress the toughest warriors in the CDF.

Deep in the labyrinth of corridors crisscrossing the station, a trio of heavily armored security bots lumbered into a cross junction directly in the path of Alpha team and a few hundred freed hostages behind them. Simultaneously, human combatants stuck weapons out of their hiding places and pelted the commandos with bullets. Harrell sent a burst of rounds from his battle rifle into a PFLOS terrorist who exposed his position by leaning out into the gangway.

One bullet connected with the enemy’s head and sent him flying backward. Two more took the man’s place and sprayed rounds from their rifles.

Harrell ducked behind a bulkhead as the sec-bots opened him with ballistic weapons. “Damn these terrorists. Hey, Kucuk! Care to give these bolt buckets here a warm welcome?”

The Saurian stood and hefted his plasma rifle. “I am grateful for the opportunity to show them the fruits of their evil deeds.” He held down the trigger, charging up the plasma before releasing a series of superheated bolts down the corridor.

While the civilian-made sec-bots had impressive armor, it was nothing in the face of the best weaponry Sauria had to offer. Arms melted off, entire portions of the mechanized combatants collapsed to the deck plating, and unlucky human flesh caught in the middle burned.

“Really glad he’s on our side,” Rostami said, and even though it was sotto voce, the words carried across the team commlink.

“We’ve got to pick up the pace, spacewalkers. These damn roadblocks are for the birds.” Harrell gingerly stepped forward, since his sensors showed no activity ahead. In the junction, the molten alloy quickly cooled, while the charred body of a woman clutching a bent weapon barely recognizable as such moaned.

Shit. She’s still alive.

“Please, kill me,” the woman rasped.

Harrell thought that such a mercy shouldn’t be granted, that anyone siding with the PFLOS butchers deserved the worst death possible. But in that moment, he also knew that if it were him in that kind of agony with no hope of survival, he’d pray that someone would grant him a quick death, even if it were an enemy. Harrell let his battle rifle drop into its one-point sling and drew his sidearm.

“Rot in hell.” He pulled the trigger, and the discharge gave off a deafening roar.

Mata appeared at his side. “Sir…” He glanced down at the now-dead female terrorist and Harrell.

“A hospital ship and the best trauma team in the Coalition couldn’t have saved her. Even the worst don’t deserve to bear that agony for twenty minutes.”

“I was more shocked you offered that reprieve.”

Harrell reholstered his pistol and gripped the battle rifle with both hands. “Yeah, me too, Chief.”

Another klaxon blasted through the air, though the sound differed from the one they’d heard announcing the intruder alert. What now? Harrell turned to Rostami.

Before he could speak, the station’s PA system came alive with a synthetic voice. “Attention. Attention. Self-destruct enabled. Fifteen minutes to detonation. There will be no further warnings.”

“You got to be shitting me.”

Rostami stepped to the side and used the butt of his rifle to hammer open a small access door. He let the weapon drop into its one-point sling before whipping out his tablet and going to work. “Bad news.”

“What other kind of news could we get with the station about to blow up?” Kucuk deadpanned. “Perhaps a League fleet has arrived.”

“I can’t even get a connection with the engineering computer system, Master Chief,” Rostami continued, ignoring the big Saurian’s dry humor. “It’s physically not connected to everything else.”

Harrell growled. “I don’t speak nerd, but that sounds like we’d have to go to reactor control to stop it.”

“Got it in one.”

How the hell are we going to save a few thousand hostages, shut down a runaway reactor, and get off this piece-of-shit station in time? Harrell saw it all spinning out of control. Work the problem. That’s all I can do. He tried to do the math. The bottom line was they didn’t have enough force to be everywhere they needed to. Delta’s hitting the control room. Charlie is on hostage duty. So is Beta. “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. Beta team is coming to come up and take point. Alpha will assault reactor control. Once we get that self-destruct shut off, Alpha will exfil. Any questions?”

“Yeah, just one. When’d you go nuts?” Rostami wore a rather large smirk.

“Just because you’re an effective comms geek doesn’t mean you can razz me like we’re pals.”

Rostami turned serious. “This sounds like a one-way trip, Master Chief.”

“Maybe it is. That’s the job.”

“Till the bitter end, brother.”

Mata stepped forward. “Fight the good fight, no matter the odds.”

“Then stop yacking and get ready to move.” Harrell turned his system to a private channel with Master Chief Sadun Celebi, who led Beta Team. He prayed the impending doom of everyone would cause the terrorists to quit fighting and head for the escape pods. If they don’t, we’re so screwed.

Only time, of which they had precious little, would tell.

22

So this is what the end looks like. Arthur stared at the tactical plot on the monitor above his head. They’d played the hand they had about as well as anyone could’ve, in his estimation. But that didn’t matter. Even though the last missile attack had been stopped—at significant cost—the PFLOS ships bore down. Within half a minute, they’d be in optimal weapons range, and there was nothing the Margaret Thatcher, the Leonidas, or the Brazer could do to stop them. Oh, we’ll take at least two more ships. But it wouldn’t be enough, not by a long shot.

“Got any tricks left, sir?” Miller asked quietly.

It was possibly the most pensive Arthur had ever heard her. He shook his head. “Not really.” The math simply didn’t work, and maneuvering was out of the question with New Rostov at their backs. If they tried, the terrorists would simply bombard the world below. Which they’re going to anyway, but we will have done our duty.

As each second ticked by, Arthur became very cognizant of all the things he hadn’t done with his life that he’d wanted to experience at some point. They ranged from the mundane, like taking a trip through diamond rain in a touring shuttle while visiting the right kind of gas giant, to having a family. He didn’t realize until that exact moment how much in the way of exposure to life he’d left on the table.

Something else popped into his head. Where am I going to go when I die? He’d also taken it for granted that saying the sinner’s prayer was enough for him not to go to hell. If it even exists. But as Arthur Hanson stared straight ahead at the death approaching them, overwhelming fear shot through his mind. It took everything he had to direct his focus back to running the ship. “TAO, we’re only going to get one shot, so make every slug and beam count.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Her voice almost cracked.

One PFLOS freighter turned neatly, headed away from the planet at maximum thrust. Then another and another. Within ten seconds, all of them were reversing course. It came so suddenly that Arthur wondered if his mind was playing tricks on him. “TAO, confirm Master Six bearing and range.”

“All contacts bearing two-seven-six, range opening up, sir.”

What the hell—

“Conn, TAO. Aspect change. All PFLOS vessels are charging Lawrence drive, sir. Master Five has jumped. Master Six has jumped. All hostiles have jumped, sir. Clear board.” Yasin’s voice cracked that time.

Arthur let his head drop back and glanced at the overhead. What the hell just happened? It doesn’t matter. Got to get the ship ready to fight again in case they come back. He turned to Miller. “Get everyone with a pulse on damage control immediately.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“Conn, Communications. New Rostov’s civilian flight-control station is offering medical assistance and has a docking port open for us.”

“Thank them, but I don’t think we’re done yet,” Arthur replied. Something else is going on here. They had us, and there’s no way these murderers just leave the job unfinished. Unless whoever’s in charge told them to.

“What are you thinking, sir?” Miller asked softly.

“I’m not sure.” Arthur closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Get ahold of yourself, man. “Comms, get me the Oxford.”

“What about EMCON, sir?” Kaveh replied.

“I’m overruling it. Emergency broadcast now.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

The screen above Arthur’s head came alive with an image of Robert Sinclair, who wore a scowl. Behind him, the joint-operations-center floor and its usual beehive of activity were visible. “Colonel, we’re a little busy here. This had better be good, old chap.”

“Sir, we just about got our rear ends handed to us by a PFLOS fleet that acted like it wanted to bombard New Rostov. Then at the last moment—”

“We received your burst transmission five minutes ago, Colonel. The Oxford’s spinning up to jump.”

“No need, sir. The enemy fled.”

Sinclair raised an eyebrow. “But they had you dead to rights.”

“Quite, sir. Something else is going on here.”

“A most astute observation.”

Arthur couldn’t tell if he was being serious or sarcastic, though it probably didn’t matter either way, as his response would be the same. “I think they’re headed back to the station. That’s the only thing more important to PFLOS than killing Coalition citizens or destroying us. It makes sense, sir.”

“Leave the intelligence analysis to the professionals, Colonel. That’s why we get the big bucks.” Sinclair licked his lips. “But in this case, I believe you’re correct. Are your ships able to jump?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then head back our way.”

“Aye, aye, sir. We’ll see you soon.”

As the screen blinked off, Miller leaned in. “What if they come back here?”

“Why would they? They just left during a prime opportunity to finish us.”

Miller narrowed her eyes. “I stopped trying to figure out what drives that pack of murderers a long time ago.”

“It’s the only play we’ve got.” Arthur spread his hands out on the armrests of his chair.

“You’d better be right.”

“For all our sakes, I pray I am. Get those fighters landed ASAP. We’ve got to get moving.”

She said nothing further, and silence broke out across the bridge. Arthur sensed an element of “two steps forward, one step back” in their relationship as fellow officers. It would bother him, except he had no time to consider such matters. For the moment, he was happy to be alive for another hour. In the back of his mind, the overwhelming fear of what came next lingered, despite his attempts to ignore it. At some point, there would be a mental reckoning. He did not relish the thought.

“Auxiliary sensor control says they’re getting intermittent contacts with something one atmospheric layer up,” Gao called out. “They’re trying to run it down, comrade.”

Kovalev kicked that around mentally. Probably Coalition stealth ships. That’s the only thing we wouldn’t see. But there was only one of those left. It couldn’t possibly have put as many assault teams into play as they’d faced so far.

“Shall I tell them to stay at their posts?”

“No.” Kovalev stopped next to the unused machinery deep inside a service tunnel. “Tell those men to get out now. We’ll need them in the days to come.”

“Yes, comrade.”

He turned and kept moving forward, all the while examining his actions so far. What did I miss? Kovalev had already recalled all available PFLOS vessels in the hopes they could crush whatever CDF force was here and to keep any hostage-laden freighters from escaping. It was vital to his propaganda and the next phase of the conflict that there be no survivors. The Coalition relied on the near invincibility of its special operations unit, its technological superiority, and the gung-ho exhortations of “Godspeed” from its military. They fight as if they actually believe some imaginary man in the sky helps them.

To demoralize them, that idea, above all else, must be defeated and shown for what it was.

“Comrade, we should send our remaining forces to delay the Terrans. Keep them pinned down until the reactor goes critical.”

Kovalev stopped once more and faced Gao. “Our followers are a precious resource. If I thought our victory here depended on it, I would not hesitate to sacrifice them. But it is not. There is no way the CDF or anyone else is stopping that countdown. We finish the evacuation, take solace in the Coalition’s reputation being ruined and the delicious political fallout that will follow, and carry on our struggle.”

Gao wanted to argue. It was written in the tight folds of his frown. But he brought his first to his chest in salute. “Yes, comrade.”

“Good.” Kovalev made quick eye contact with the others. “Listen to my words carefully and weigh your own actions accordingly, especially when the days come in which you must make decisions without me. Now, let us press on. Our destination is only forty meters away.”

The party moved forward, with Kovalev taking the lead. He kept picking through bundles of cables and other obstructions. No one was supposed to be there if they weren’t repairing something, but it still made for a useful hiding place, one he was certain that the infamous spacewalkers, with their power armor, couldn’t fit into.

Kovalev came to a halt in front of a hatch and checked the number on it before pressing his hand against a palm scanner beside the opening. It turned green, and he punched in a code on the nearby keypad. A moment later, the hatch creaked open. “Through here.”

A small hangar lay beyond, not found on any schematic in the station’s computers or on the design drawings—not that the Coalition Intelligence Service could’ve found them in the first place. The primary occupant was a ten-meter-long spacecraft with no markings anywhere on it.

Gao climbed into the chamber, and his jaw dropped. “That’s… a Galt-designed transport.”

Kovalev snickered. “Quite right. Those Galters, they’d sell their mothers for a credit. This model has the best stealth tech available to civilians in the ISF and a few things it’s not supposed to have. It was my insurance policy.” Left unsaid was that he primarily intended it to be used in case of a mutiny.

“A wise precaution, comrade,” someone murmured.

“There is no time to waste. Let us get aboard, power up, and leave this place.”

Gao touched his arm. “Where are we going?”

“To the Zhukov, if it’s arrived. We’ll use her as a flagship to hunt down these capitalist dogs and send them to the void.” The moment Kovalev finished speaking, he felt the atmosphere lighten. Just hearing my reassurance that a price will be exacted improved morale. It was good to know his followers still responded to the call for vengeance. Even after this debacle.

The tension in the Tucson’s control room was so thick it could’ve been cut with a knife. Godat felt it with every breath and seemed to be pressed down into his chair by it. He’d been on many a wartime patrol, spending hour after hour sneaking into the perfect position to ambush an enemy freighter or convoy, and that had nothing on this combat evolution.

“Conn, Communications. Tight-beam emergency transmission from the station, sir. CDF signature.”

And here comes the boredom being interrupted by moments of sheer terror. Of course, it was possible that someone was calling to say the op was over, all the terrorists were dead, and they’d captured the station. Yeah, and if that happens, I’m going to be starring in a War Patrol spinoff. He turned to Letchford. “No choice but to accept.”

“I still don’t like it at EMCON, sir. They can triangulate our position pretty damn easily.”

Godat shrugged. “We’ll have to move once we terminate the link. Communications, put it on. Voice only. Minimize the emissions.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

A few moments later, a scratchy voice emerged from the speakers in the CO’s chair. “This is Alpha One to any CDF stations. Come in. Over.”

“We read you loud and clear, Master Chief,” Godat replied.

“Glad you’re still in one piece, Tucson. Look, the op’s gone to hell—”

Harrell’s voice was cut off by the sensor room technician, Chief Petty Officer Betty Henderson, as she overrode the comms circuit. “Conn, sensor room. Lawrence drive effects bearing zero-one-zero, range two hundred thousand kilometers. Assess additional enemy vessels jumping in.”

Shit. “Types?”

“Working that up now, sir.”

“Keep the TAO informed,” Godat replied and clicked back to Harrell. “Whatever’s happening over there, it just went from bad to worse, Master Chief. This place is coming alive with PFLOS ships. Do you have the hostages?”

“Affirmative, but the terrorist bastards set the station reactor to blow. I have limited confidence we’ll be able to get everyone off before it goes up. I’ve got a team attempting to stop the self-destruct down in the engine room.”

“Worst case?”

A pregnant pause followed. “We lose half the hostages and most of the assault team.”

My God. Godat’s mouth went dry. “Do what you can and prioritize getting those people out, Master Chief.”

“That’s what we’re doing, sir.” Harrell’s tone left no doubt as to whether he’d make the ultimate sacrifice, should it come to that. “If we don’t make it, get these hostages home and kill a few more PFLOS assholes for us, okay?”

Godat pursed his lips as emotion came to the surface. Even though he’d only known the spacewalker for a few days, his larger-than-life personality had made an impression. “You have my word, Master Chief.”

“Well, I’ll let you know before it goes up regardless.”

“Godspeed over there.”

“You, too, sir. Alpha One out.”

Godat briefly closed his eyes. HaShem, watch over them all and let us save the innocents with a minimal loss of life. There seemed to be nothing more he could do.

“Sir,” Letchford interjected. “We should pull back. This close, the explosion might be strong enough to do considerable damage.”

“No. Maintain current distance.”

“But—”

“I’m not leaving until the last possible second. Are we clear?”

Letchford had the good sense to know when not to push something, especially in the control room. He nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Godat settled back in his chair. He felt as if the weight of the entire combat rested on his shoulders. In a way, it does. If I get this wrong, it could be the Coalition’s worst defeat in decades. Thousands of civilians being killed in combat was especially grim, and whatever else could be said about the current war, they desperately needed a morale boost, the kind one got when pulling off a nearly impossible rescue mission. Maybe even enough to get people back home to get on the same page. It sounded good anyway.

Most pipe dreams do.

23

“Running to the sound of the guns” was a military maxim dating back over seven hundred years. It was still true in every sense of the saying. Faulkner ran at double-quick with the full servo-assisted speed of his power armor. The station itself was a maze, though thanks to the tiny mapping and intel gathering drones released by their suits when first boarding the installation, they had some idea of its layout.

“Thirty meters!” he yelled between pants. On the visor’s integrated HUD, a small display showed friendly forces pinned down, represented by a group of blue dots. Estimated enemy positions were displayed in red, and there were a lot of them. All the while, the estimated countdown to the self-destruct going off ticked away.

Ten meters from contact, Faulkner held up his right fist, the universal stop signal. “Corporal Jansen, split off a fire team and take the corridor five meters to our left. If I’m reading this map right, you can circle around and hit them from behind. Master Chief Yamaguchi, can you spare a couple of your men? They’d be a nice force multiplier.”

“Will do, sir,” he replied.

If Faulkner had time to process it, he would’ve noticed the change in tone from all of Delta team but especially from Yamaguchi. His orders were followed with respect because that respect had been earned.

“See you on the other side, Master Chief. Godspeed.”

“Make it count, LT.”

Faulkner flashed the thumbs-up to Yamaguchi as he resumed forward progress. The sound of ballistic weapons was unmistakable, with the staccato reports of TCMC battle rifles mixed with the whoosh of the enemy rail-gun projectiles. “Beta One, this is Lieutenant Faulkner on your six. I’ve got some friends with me. Thought we might even things up a bit.”

“What the hell are you doing here, Marine? There’s a ticking clock till we all go boom.”

“Leaving brothers behind isn’t my style.” Faulkner and the remaining Marines and commandos were within a stone’s throw. “Coming up behind you now.”

He turned the corner and realized the firefight was in progress. Faulkner snapped his battle rifle up, double-checked to be sure no friendlies were in his line of fire, and squeezed the trigger, sending two bursts of full-metal-jacket rounds down the passageway. A few steps later, he was side by side with one of Beta team’s spacewalkers.

“Nice of the misguided children to join us!”

“Great party you’ve got going here,” Faulkner replied as he methodically drilled a hostile who emerged from cover with a three-round burst to her center mass. “That’s new. They’re using women down here.”

Both men ducked, and the commando reloaded. “Probably reserves. They’re not good fighters, but damn, they’re fanatical. The Leaguers would’ve cut and run by now. This crew just keeps coming until we kill them.”

Faulkner checked his HUD. “My fire team and a couple of spacewalkers are in position to blow the rear entry to that prisoner dorm.”

“For God’s sake, tell them to watch their crossfire. I think we’ve already seen a few civvies killed or seriously wounded.”

“Understood, Chief.” Faulkner cued his commlink to communicate with every friendly within fifty meters. “Execute in thirty seconds, gentlemen. Secondary breach team, check fire and avoid blue on blue.”

Acknowledgment lights lit up across his squad-status window on the HUD. Faulkner pulled a grenade, the last pulse unit he had, off his belt. Better make it count. After waiting until there were five seconds left, he pulled the pin then tossed it toward the hostiles in cover beyond the next bulkhead. “Pulse, over!”

A blinding-white flash announced the device’s detonation followed by wails from the PFLOS terrorists. Timed perfectly, Beta team dropped several of their own before charging at the enemy. The Marines joined in, pushing forward through another junction of corridors.

Faulkner naturally found his way to the front of the ad hoc formation and dropped two hostiles with precise shots to their center mass. Normally, tactics called for consolidating before pushing into the unknown, but they were relying on combat weight to carry them into the dorm facility.

“Go! Go! Go!” Master Chief Celebi shouted as one of the other spacewalkers reached the hatch. It was open, and the sounds of battle issued from within. The commando tossed another pulse grenade in then charged.

Dodging the still-twitching bodies of fallen enemies, Faulkner propelled himself forward without stumbling too badly and cleared the hatch with his battle rifle up. The scene was one of chaos. Groups of hostages hid between metal bunks two cots high. Mattresses, if they could be called that, were as thin as blankets and caked in human waste of various types, including feces and vomit.

Bullets ripped past his helmet, and Faulkner threw himself to one side. “Unknown number of tangos mingled with friendlies! Check fire! Check fire!”

One of the commandos took a round to the shoulder that punched through his armor and spun him around. He clutched the wound as blood flowed out. It only took a few seconds for Jeremiah to reach the man’s side and start first aid even as the weapons fire grew ever more intense.

A deafening roar filled the air, and the back wall of the dorm blew out, leaving a jagged edge in the alloy while the civilians screamed all the more. Faulkner calmly shot two terrorists who stumbled into the center aisle, dazed from the explosion. Around him, the combat devolved into absolute pandemonium that culminated with PFLOS terrorists attempting to shoot hostages near them at close range.

In a mass scramble, the commandos and Marines cut down as many of the hostiles as possible, putting their bodies between the terrorists and the hostages. Faulkner ended up drawing his sidearm after his battle rifle ran out of ammo and shot a man in the head and chest as he tried to bring a rail gun around toward a group of women huddled under a cot.

As he looked around for another target, it dawned on him that the room had gone deathly silent except for the muted cries and whimpering of the civilians.

“Tangos down!”

“Clear!”

“Clear back here!”

“Clear right!”

“Left clear!”

“Hostiles eliminated,” Celebi interjected into the commlink. “Corpsman! Get the corpsman in here! I’ve got two wounded, one seriously.”

Faulkner took in the scene and blew out a breath as he tried to decide what came next. “Listen up, people!”

When none of the hostages except a few of them a meter away, whom he’d just saved, seemed to pay attention, Faulkner popped his helmet faceplate out and bellowed, “Listen up!”

That got the attention of everyone in the room.

“I am Second Lieutenant Avery Faulkner, Terran Coalition Marine Corps. We are here to save you, but you have to get up and move. I know it’s hard, and I know you’re all scared to death. But that has to wait. Freighters are waiting in the docking area, and they are your ticket out of here. My Marines will escort you. Any questions? No? Good. Stand up, shake your legs out, and get moving!”

The civilians obviously remained in a daze, but they complied with his command. As a few walked past, Faulkner inclined his head in acknowledgment.

Celebi approached with a battle rifle hanging in a one-point sling from his power armor. “Not bad for a crayon eater. Say, you like the red ones or the purple ones?”

Faulkner smirked. “Really, Master Chief? Is that the best you’ve got?”

“Well, can’t say I’m used to butter bars having a brass set and going all John Wayne on the enemy like a holovid actor. So what’s next, oh fearless leader?”

“Give me a second.” Faulkner flipped down his visor and checked the tactical overlay. “Looks like Alpha is still fighting the enemy in reactor control. I’m heading down there with as many Marines as I can spare. I want you and Delta team to get these civvies to the freighters. Nine minutes left, and you need to run at full tilt.”

Yamaguchi approached. “Did I hear you right, Lieutenant? You want us to bug out? No offense to your boys, but we’re better door kickers.”

“No doubt, but if you hit hostiles, you’re the better bet to keep these people alive.”

“Understood, LT,” Yamaguchi replied after he exchanged glances with Celebi. “Hope you make it.”

“Same, Master Chief. Godspeed.” Faulkner started issuing orders for two fire teams to form up and head to the reactor-control area. One deck down and five minutes away. Damn, this is close to suicide. But we still have to try. If the self-destruct wasn’t averted, most of the rescued civilians would die anyway, and he was determined not to let that happen.

So was every other CDF soldier and Coalition Marine on the station.

“Sir.”

Faulkner turned his head to see Yamaguchi and Celebi standing ramrod straight, their hands at their brows in salute. He returned it quickly before sharing a moment of eye contact with respect. Something about the display touched a chord deep within. Lord, help us to finish the fight and save these people.

He set off at double-quick as the Marine fire teams rushed up. They didn’t have a second to waste.

Esmail Rostami tended to get some crap as, despite being a fully qualified space special-warfare operator with hundreds of missions under his belt, he was also the team’s electronics and hacking expert. It was part and parcel of military culture and especially spacewalker culture to hammer away at the nerds—even when he had a track record of bailing his teammates and the overall mission out at the most opportune times with his “nerd” skills.

Not that he cared. Rostami had made peace with it a long time ago, and he knew that whatever Harrell, Mata, Kucuk, Ahmad, or Bachar said in jest, they respected him as a door kicker.

That didn’t stop him from enjoying the opportunity to show off, though. As a man with a rifle emerged from a side corridor and raised the weapon toward the team, Rostami was on point, putting three rounds through the guy’s center mass.

Incredibly, the hostile didn’t drop. He staggered backward then managed to get the weapon up and squeeze off a burst of rounds.

Rostami couldn’t believe it as he shifted upward and squeezed the trigger again, putting three rounds into the terrorist’s head. Two bullets hit, and one went wide. It was more than enough to kill him instantly. “You guys see that?”

“Yeah, your nerd aiming skills suck. Get more range time. You should’ve put all three through his cranium,” Harrell replied over the commlink.

“Har-har,” Rostami said as he knelt next to the dead PFLOS combatant. He’s not wearing body armor. “Something’s off here. Three jacketed hollow points to the chest will put anybody down. Even Saurians.”

“Maybe they invested in some combat armor.”

“Nope.”

Harrell harrumphed. “Combat drugs, maybe? Well, head shots work. Move it up, Chief. We don’t have all day.”

The ticking clock was ever present in their HUD. Forty seconds later, the six-man team was in front of the engineering hatch, which was double size and ominously inviting all at the same time.

“Stack on either side. Prepare for explosive entry,” Harrell barked.

Rostami put his hand on the handle and turned it. “Uh, Master Chief, it’s unlocked.”

“No shit.”

Everyone was thinking the same thing, Rostami was sure. It’s a trap. Though he was mildly impressed and shocked at the same time that the terrorists would even bother to defend the engineering spaces. Using a specialized explosives-detection tool, he scanned the area. “Nothing showing up.”

“Screw it. We’re all dead anyway if we can’t shut down that self-destruct,” Harrell replied.

Kucuk held up his automatic plasma rifle. “I wish to kill as many of these enemies as I am able to. Let us proceed.”

Rostami ended up on the left side, still the point man, while Harrell took the right. On a count of three, they opened the hatches in unison. A split second later, all hell broke loose as what seemed like dozens of hostiles opened fire.

“Okay, so it is a trap!” Mata yelled over the thunderous din.

Harrell pulled a deceptively small metallic ball off his power armor. “I’ve got one pulse grenade left. Sound off if you’ve got any.”

“I do!” Bachar called out.

Rostami felt on his belt, and his hand closed around a pulse grenade. “Me too.”

“No explosives left,” Kucuk said.

“Okay, anyone who’s got ’em, set for three seconds and throw on my command,” Harrell rasped out.

Rostami yanked the pin and held the spoon down to keep the fuse from igniting.

“Now!”

Four pulse grenades flew into the engineering space and, after exactly three seconds, detonated. Screams issued from within, and like a wave, the six commandos charged through the opening. Rostami shot a woman cradling an energy weapon. She was likely blinded because she was firing it at full blast into the overhead two decks above them. One of the rounds tore through her throat, and the gurgling sound she made as she died was enough to bother even a hardened warrior.

Killing a woman bothered Rostami to his core. It never got easier, and while he’d gone into pitched combat with female combatants only a few times, it was clear PFLOS was an equal-opportunity terrorist organization. At least thirty percent of the tangos had been women so far.

Two more hostiles—both men—stumbled into view just beyond a pipe assembly and lines of engineering control consoles. They carried a crew-serviced weapon that Rostami guessed was an automatic Gauss cannon. Not taking any chances, he smoothly toggled the fire-selector switch on his battle rifle to full auto and squeezed the trigger.

Even though he only held it down for a couple of seconds, dozens of rounds blasted forth from the barrel, shredding the two tangos. Blood sprayed out of half a dozen bullet holes in each man as both fell to the ground. Amazingly, one still tried to pick up the Gauss gun to use it. Rostami put a round through his head to end the threat.

To his right, Harrell killed another man, while Kucuk sprayed superheated plasma on several terrorists trying to shoot down from the next deck up, which overlooked the massive reactor.

“Quit shooting people and secure that damn self-destruct, Chief!” Harrell yelled as he slid in beside Rostami.

“Uh, yeah. Let me see if I can link in.” Rostami crept forward before finding a data-access port on one of the control consoles. While bullets and energy blasts flew all around, he plugged in a universal connector and went to work. At first, the hack job was easy, but once he was past the initial system login, it became anything but. The operating system for the freighter’s engine control was about what one would expect from a ship built by humans.

The encryption around the applications that provided said control was unlike anything he’d ever seen. The first layer proved impenetrable to all basic cracking tools, leaving Rostami no choice but to improvise on the fly.

A bullet whizzed by his faceplate and buried itself in the alloy wall behind him.

Rostami rolled to his side and took cover behind a large pipe coming out of the deck as more followed up. He searched for whoever was shooting at him and found a target leaning out from behind cover on the third level. Before he could return fire, a loud crack echoed, and the man pitched backward. “Thanks, Two.”

“Anytime, Three.”

“Contact right!” Bachar yelled. “Platoon-strength hostiles, and there’s more where that came from.”

Loud reports from battle rifles, the PFLOS ballistic weapons, and the telltale sound of a CDF light automatic weapon firing on full auto created a cacophony of chaos. “One, can you keep these idiots off me long enough to, oh, I dunno, stop the ship from blowing up?”

“Keep your armor on,” Harrell replied. He raised his rifle and triggered the underslung grenade launcher. A forty-millimeter projectile erupted from the barrel and exploded on the third deck of the reactor room. Two unlucky PFLOS members were blown forward over the safety railing, where they terminally impacted the deck a couple of seconds later.

“Thanks, Master Chief.” Rostami rolled back toward his tablet and got to work. Thirty seconds later, he’d still made no progress, yet the clock continued to tick. He had less than five minutes left.

Failure was something Alpha Team rarely experienced. And it never led to the deaths of an entire unit. Yet as Rostami’s hands flew over the tablet and he looked for any weakness in the system, a hint of fear entered his mind.

Without warning, a section of wall ten meters away exploded. The alloy blew inward and crushed a terrorist who happened to be in the way before it collided with a piece of machinery.

It all happened so fast that Rostami’s eyes barely processed the movement. A nice side-effect was a pause in the gun battle. A moment later, Marines in power armor rushed through the opening. They spread out and caught the enemy in the flank. Flushed from cover, the terrorists on the first deck became easy pickings for the spacewalkers and their Marine cousins. More than a dozen of their dead bodies littered the deck in short order.

Three of the new arrivals thudded to a stop next to Rostami, and one turned to him. “Working on that reactor, Chief?”

“Trying to, Marine. Cover me?”

“You got it.” He pulled a small data card out of a pouch on his armor. “This worked on some of the funky encryption these guys are sporting on the door locks. Might help.”

Rostami took it gingerly, like the thing was made of pure gold. “Thanks, Marine. I’ll try it.” He quickly plugged the data card into his tablet’s external media port. There was only a single decryption file on it, which made loading simple. Rostami took a moment to integrate the algo before hitting the start key.

His eyes nearly popped out of his skull as the decrypt algorithm cut through the entire lockout and gave him access to the reactor control system. Rostami’s fingers flew as fast as they could while encased within the power armor’s gauntlets. He quickly found and disabled the overload circuit. “Uh-oh.”

Harrell appeared at his side. “Uh-oh? I don’t like the sound of that. When a nerd says uh-oh, bad shit happens.”

Rostami shook his head. “Sorry, Master Chief. This reactor is too far toward critical. I can slow it down, but I can’t stop it.”

“How long?”

“Fifteen minutes, give or take.”

Around them, the sounds of battle receded as the combined weight of the Marines and the additional commando teams eliminated the enemy.

“Well, I’ll take that over getting killed now. Can you do something to keep these guys from restarting the fast count?”

“Yeah.” Rostami licked his lips and applied his own lockout cypher. “Done.”

Lieutenant Faulkner approached them, limping, and blood trickled out of at least two holes in his armor. “Master Chief, how are we looking?”

Harrell stood. “We’ve got fifteen mikes to get the hell off this thing before it goes up. Might have to give you a small amount of credit for escorting our reinforcements to the fight.”

“I’ll take it,” the Marine replied. His breathing sounded labored, and pain cut through the words.

“Hey, uh, LT, you need some medical attention?”

Faulkner raised his arm as if to wave off the question before wincing and twisting to his left side. “Maybe it wouldn’t hurt.”

Harrell yelled, “Two, get down here! LT needs a med eval, and hurry it up. I don’t want to get killed because some cake eater took a round.”

A moment later, the other commando got off his sniper perch and made his way over to the small group. In the meantime, Rostami packed up and copied as much data out of the central core as he could.

“In-and-out leg wound here,” Mata said. The area was now quiet enough that one could hear spoken words within a few meters without assist from the commlink. “No exit on the chest wound. You’re losing blood internally, Lieutenant.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll make it back to the pod.”

Another man in a suit of Marine power armor came up, though his arm had a prominent red cross on it, and he appeared to have no weapons. “Belay that. Corpsman’s orders.” He glanced at the scanner data.

“I’m fine—”

“You’ll bleed out before we get a hundred meters,” Mata interjected softly but firmly.

“Agreed.” The new arrival turned so that his nameplate was visible—Chief Jeremiah Duprey. He pulled a small can out of his bag and fitted a hard polymer tube to it. “I’m thinking we use anticoag mix C?”

Mata nodded. “It’s his best hope.”

As the two worked, Master Chief Boyd Owens and a few other commandos approached. “Top decks are cleared. They’re all dead. Fought like men possessed too. We’d best be packing up. Our rides are leaving.”

Harrell glanced at Faulkner before turning his gaze to Owens. “Get your men to the breaching pods. We’re right behind you with the Thatcher’s Marine complement.”

“On it, Master Chief.” Owens didn’t need to be told twice. He quickly gathered his remaining commandos along with Beta team and took off.

“I’m ready to go,” Rostami said as he stood and snapped the tablet back into its protective holder in his armor. “Downloaded some information from their computer core. Not sure if it can be used, but better to try.”

“Yeah.” Harrell jerked his thumb toward the hatch. “Corpsman, you care to let us get moving?”

Jeremiah pulled the tube out of the hole in Faulkner’s armor. “I’d say we should stretcher him out of here, but I don’t see an antigrav sled.”

“Oh, look here. We got a real funny man. A CDF comedian.” Harrell snorted. “Can you walk, LT?”

Faulkner took a few steps before almost collapsing. “I, uh, I’ll be okay, Master Chief.”

Harrell shook his head. “The hell you will. Hey, lumbering Marines in combat armor! Get your hands out of your asses and get over here. One on either side. Pick him up by the shoulder joints and double-time.” When there wasn’t instant compliance, he bellowed, “Move!”

“Get your people to the pods, Master Chief,” Faulkner said as two Marines did as they were instructed. “Don’t wait for me. You dust off before this place goes up.”

As the Marines trundled Faulkner off, Harrell blew out a breath. “I’m pretty sure I just heard some cake eater try to give me an order. I’m gonna let that one pass, because hell will freeze over before the Terran Coalition’s misguided children ever get to say we abandoned them. Now, all of you, move out! Come on! We don’t have all day, ladies! Go! Go! Go!”

Rostami fell in behind Mata and Kucuk, while Bachar, Harrell and Ahmad took up the rear. He was immediately thankful for the servo assist in his power armor because every muscle in his body suddenly turned their pain receptors on. The only easy day was yesterday. With four hundred meters to go, through a space station that probably had hostiles left in it, he’d never felt more alive.

24

CSV Tucson

Thirty Kilometers from PFLOS Station

9 April 2474

“Conn, sensor room. Multiple contacts undocking from Master One. Classified as freighters previously detected, heading away from the station at maximum sublight.”

Godat blew out the breath he’d been holding for what seemed like the last five minutes. “Communications, confirm IFF with voice authorization and facial rec.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“Not taking any chances?” Letchford whispered.

Godat shook his head. “Not with these terrorists.”

“Confirmed friendlies, sir,” Vafaei called out. “New contacts designated Sierra Four, Five, and Six.”

“Nav, plot the nearest jump point based on those freighters’ Lawrence drives and relay it to my display.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

As Godat suspected, it was quite a way off. We’ll never make it. There’re nine… no, eleven of those blasted Halcyon-class up-gunned freighters between us and safety. The Growler-class boats could jump out sooner, but he couldn’t see any way the vessels containing the hostages could make a run for it, even if they scooted out to the other side of the gas giant. “Damn,” he muttered.

The tension in the room was palpable, and a sense of urgency permeated the air. Godat’s mind raced as he calculated every possible scenario, searching for a way to outmaneuver the enemy. The weight of their lives and those of the hostages bore down on him like the crushing weight of the gas giant’s atmosphere.

Letchford leaned over. “We could run silent and deep until they get tired and move off.”

“I thought about that. Not enough life support on those freighters to keep the hostages alive.”

“Ah. Yeah. Good point, sir.” Letchford ran a hand through his hair. “We can’t catch a break.”

“Nav, take us six thousand kilometers from the station and make sure all Sierra contacts get the memo.” Godat leaned back in the plush leather chair. “Comms, send a distress call to the Margaret Thatcher. Looks like Hanson’s going to earn his pay today.”

“Conn, TAO. Got a problem, sir. One of the breaching pods hasn’t launched. Lieutenant Faulkner is wounded and still en route. They’re refusing to leave without him, sir.”

Of course they are. Marines don’t leave their own or anyone else behind. “Nav, belay my last. Plot a course six thousand meters from the station. Send the XYZ coordinates, and we’ll pray to HaShem we can find everyone in this muck.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Letchford turned. “We get caught in the blast, we’re dead too.”

“I’m not leaving those men behind if I can help it. We stay to the last moment.”

The chronometer ticked down above his head. Less than five minutes remained until the station’s fusion reactors blew.

Pain shot through Faulkner’s body with every stop he took. Several times, he encouraged the Marines with him to get to safety. It wasn’t like it took a rocket scientist to do the math. They’d be lucky to get out running, much less the restricted pace he was going, thanks to the leg and chest wounds. “I’m going to get you all killed. Leave me here and get off this cursed station before we all die.”

“Not happening, sir,” Jeremiah replied. He had one arm slung under Faulkner’s suit. Another Marine had the other side, and they kept propelling the lieutenant forward.

“I outrank all of you, in case you guys hadn’t noticed.”

“Put us up on charges when we get back, sir,” the young private carrying the other half of his suit replied.

Faulkner was grateful that they were all risking their lives, and he had no desire to die. In fact, more than anything, he wished to live—for his men, for the cause, and because he knew he had over a hundred years of life in front of him. But that didn’t change the guilt that crept in because if they didn’t make it out, it was solely on him.

“And don’t kid yourself, LT. I’d do this for anybody,” Jeremiah said as they lifted him over the raised frame of a bulkhead door.

The sudden motion nearly made Faulkner cry out, but he bit his tongue to stop the noise. Giving in wasn’t on the menu, and an outward showing wasn’t acceptable with all the losses they’d taken. What was it the gunny used to say? Pain is weakness leaving the body. His head swam, and he stumbled.

“Hang in there, sir!” Jeremiah yelled. “Thirty meters to our ride.”

Faulkner took a breath, which was harder than it should’ve been. It’s like a shuttle’s sitting on my chest. He took a step then another and another. Each one was harder than the last, but he persisted. Finally, the entry point of the pod lay only a meter away, and even though Faulkner felt himself losing consciousness, he tried to push forward. Hands reached out of the breaching pod and helped them get him inside, and he was only generally aware of the noise around him as everything went dark.

“Stay with me, sir!”

Bright light flooded Faulkner’s eyes as he came to. The pod hatch was closed, and Mata stood next to Jeremiah, both men performing first aid. “How long was I out?”

“Not long, but I didn’t want to risk it. You need to keep awake until we get you back to the Tucson.”

“Detaching in ten seconds” came the pilot’s voice over an intercom. “You guys really cut this close, so hang on to your asses!”

The back of Faulkner’s head throbbed, he assumed from blood loss. It was a vivid reminder of how bad the chest wound probably was, despite Jeremiah’s assurances. Then he realized his heart was racing. Yeah, that’s blood loss. Damn.

The pod jolted suddenly, and even though he was in no shape to do much of anything, Faulkner tried to grasp a handhold as they rocketed into the void with enough force to send everyone back into their seats.

Mata and Jeremiah used one hand each to grab an overhead strap while their other hands kept him pressed into the antigrav sled. Even an assault pod had a built-in area for handling casualties, which came in handy in such situations.

Without warning, the pod pitched over. The sudden movement sent Mata and Jeremiah tumbling, their power-armor-clad bodies crashing into the walls. The screeching of metal echoed in Faulkner’s ears, mingling with loud thuds and groans from the pod’s structure. Moments later, the acrid smell of burning circuits filled the air as sparks flew from a wall panel.

Harrell’s voice carried over the tumult. “Debris through the hull! Get an emergency patch kit now!”

The next few seconds were a blur, and Faulkner had little input on what to do next, nor could he assist. Instead, he fought to keep his breathing steady. In, out. In, out. His stomach churned, and for a moment, he thought he might vomit into his mouth, but he kept it under control.

Faulkner’s ears popped, and a loud noise permeated the pod’s cargo bay. Air… rushing out through a small hole. That’s what that is. Then it stopped. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a commando squeezing polymer from a tube into what appeared to be a series of small jagged holes in the hull.

Jeremiah reappeared at his side. “You okay, sir?”

“I’ll live. I think.”

“We’ll leave that for God and Dr. Wildstein to sort.”

Faulkner snickered, which caused pain to shoot through him.

“So, you’re the sorry bastard who almost got my team killed,” Harrell said without preamble as he appeared next to the antigrav sled. “At least you’re an officer, so maybe we’ll get another medal.”

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Master Chief. I hate doing that to a lady.”

Harrell laughed. “You’re all right, Marine. I’ll kill terrorists, Leaguers, or whatever else the universe throws our way with you any time.” He put his hand on Faulkner’s and squeezed.

“Deal.”

“Don’t forget, you and your boys owe me some pushups.”

The pilot’s voice issued from two speakers in the cabin. “Ladies, this is your captain speaking. Because some idiot delayed our dust-off, we’ve got severe damage to our hull and lateral thruster array. Whoever that was will be getting a bill for the damage. In the meanwhile, we’re flying on luck and prayer through the atmosphere of a gas giant. So I suggest you all stick your heads between your legs and kiss your ass goodbye. On the off chance we survive, donations in the form of the best booze left on the ship will be accepted.”

Faulkner couldn’t help himself and let out a laugh along with everyone else. Even Harrell seemed to be amused by the brash pilot. The pain returned, but it wasn’t quite as bad. “Those intel boys are apparently a bit rough around the edges.”

“Bunch of wannabe comedians, all of ’em.” Harrell crossed his arms. “She’s got one thing right, though. You’d better deal us in on some of the O-club’s beer stash.”

“I think that can be arranged,” Faulkner replied.

Jeremiah held up a hand. “Let’s give the LT some space, gents. He’s not out of the woods quite yet.”

Faulkner motioned to Jeremiah and, when he bent down, whispered into his ear, “How bad is it, Chief?”

“You’re going to be fine.”

The way the medic said it sounded more like hope than a promise. Faulkner decided not to pester him or Mata, as both seemed to be preoccupied with monitoring his vital signs and status. Instead, he prayed. His own mortality wasn’t something he’d expected to face in quite this way. Even with bullets, grenades, plasma charges, and all manner of other weapons flashing around him, Marines being cut down, and dozens of terrorists killed… it wasn’t the same.

Nothing registered like knowing you could die and might even probably die. It was strange to think about what might be on the other side. Faulkner suddenly wondered what would become of his soul. There’d seemed like so much time to sort things out, to figure out right from wrong and somehow settle things with God. Is He going to want me after all the life I’ve taken?

That particular thought brought fear into his heart. If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness. In that moment, Faulkner didn’t know if his actions against PFLOS would be counted against him. But he decided that he wasn’t going to be taking any chances with his soul. Quietly, he prayed for the rest of the flight, asking for forgiveness and wisdom to make the right choices if he survived.

A thud rang out, and Faulkner pitched to one side.

“We’re locked in!” the pilot called over the intercom system.

Things happened quickly. Faulkner couldn’t see too well from his vantage point, but within thirty seconds, the antigrav stretcher he was strapped into started moving, guided by Jeremiah and Mata.

“Are you okay, sir?” someone with a familiar voice asked.

Faulkner tilted his head to see a young private walking up briskly. “Uh, you should see the other guy.”

“LT took a couple of rounds,” Jeremiah interjected. “Where’s the trauma team?”

“Not sure, Chief. I’m logistics corps. Sure they’re on the way, though, as long as you called ahead.”

Jeremiah cracked a small smile. “I’m sure the warrant did.”

The private stepped closer and walked side by side with the sled. “The Lord sustains him on his sickbed and restores him to full health. You’re going to be fine, sir. Just like I told you, a good man is never alone.”

As he finished speaking, several medics rushed up. “Sorry we’re late, Chief. Triage is nuts right now. Where’s your stat trauma case?”

Jeremiah gestured to the antigrav stretcher. “Right here. Leg wound, clean through. Chest impact is worse. We’ve got a projectile lodged within and internal bleeding that was controlled through first aid and coagulant injection on the site. I don’t know how long it’ll hold.”

“We’ve got it from here,” the lead medic said as he took the front handle of the sled.

“No offense, but I’m coming with,” Jeremiah replied. “If nothing else, I’m sure you’ve got some patients I can treat.”

“We’ll take everybody we can get, Chief. Okay, let’s go, people. Moffatt, hang an IV bag, and get me enhanced vitals. Lieutenant… Faulkner, sit back and enjoy the ride, okay?”

“I’ll try.”

The shuttle bay, Private Waters, and Mata faded from view as the pace picked up considerably. Faulkner quietly continued to pray while the medical team carried out its job. Lord, please see me through this.

25

CSV Margaret Thatcher

New Rostov Orbit—High Loop Five

9 April 2474

“Engineering reports forward power relays repaired and mag-cannons back in action, sir.”

Arthur nodded toward Miller, who was hunched over her screen, tapping at the controls. “What about forward and port shields?”

“Fully recharged.”

The Thatcher was ready to fight, more or less. She only had less than half her complement of Hunter missiles remaining. But the combined effects of armor and hull damage added up. That, coupled with repeated internal repairs, meant the ship was held together with duct tape, hope, and prayers. After all this is done, the old girl will need three months of yard time… minimum.

None of that mattered at the moment, however, not with the nearly panicked message from the Tucson. While they’d rescued the hostages, the enemy had them trapped, and without help, they’d all perish.

“Conn, Communications. General Sinclair for you, sir.”

“Put him on my viewer.”

Moments later, Sinclair’s impeccably dressed form filled the screen above Arthur’s head. “Looks like we’ve stirred up the hornet’s nest now, old chap. Did you plan it that way?”

“Not exactly.” Arthur forced a small smile. “You’ve seen the same reports I have?”

Sinclair shook his head. “Quite. A real pickle, as you Yanks would say.”

“That time we talked about bending orders… It’s here. The Thatcher, the Leonidas, and the Brazer, aren’t remotely enough force to defeat twenty PFLOS freighters.”

The screen glitched then resumed while Sinclair spoke. “—worry, Colonel. The Oxford will be there. Just tell me when.”

Arthur pursed his lips. “I was hoping you’d say that, General. I’m going to jump us in and hopefully draw off those hostiles, then you come in and hit ’em hard. We’ll create a lane for the freighters with our hostages to escape, then we all go home.”

“Sounds easy enough, old chap.”

“Yeah, I think we both know it won’t be.”

“Anything worth doing isn’t, as the saying goes.”

“It’d sure help if the Oxford could help us jump closer with your antimatter-powered Lawrence drive. We can’t keep up these back-to-back wormholes.”

Sinclair pursed his lips. “Consider it done. My navigator will send you coordinates within one hop from your position, and we’ll link up with your battlegroup.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“We’ll see you shortly. Sinclair out.”

Arthur smoothed out his black space sweater as the screen went blank. He’d thrown it over his khaki uniform shirt mostly because he hadn’t had time to put on his ribbon bar. “Nav, can we perform a back-to-back jump if needed?”

After a pause, Savitz turned in her chair. “According to my board, yes, sir.”

“XO, double-check that with engineering.” Arthur let his head go back into the plush leather rest. He had all kinds of reservations about what they were about to do. What magic rabbit would General Cohen pull out of his hat? Arthur supposed that, at some point, there were no more tricks left. Three stealth raiders, two destroyers, one frigate, and a technical-assistance ship versus a fleet.

His fingers tightened around the armrests, the material yielding beneath his grip. It was as if he sought comfort and stability in the physical world, trying to ground himself amid the tumultuous thoughts swirling in his mind. The softness and warmth of the leather offered a small semblance of reassurance, a reminder that he was still connected to something tangible in the chaos of war.

“Major Ramos confirms, sir. We’re good to jump,” Miller interjected.

Arthur exhaled and nodded. “Very well. Time to earn our pay.”

Miller leaned in and whispered into his ear, “Are you sure about this?”

“Not in the slightest. But do you have a better idea?”

Miller licked her lips. “No.”

“Then may God have mercy on all of us and those rescued hostages.”

“Amen, sir.” Miller appeared to have aged a decade from even a few hours before. Dark bags hung under her eyes, and her face was drawn.

Weariness permeated the entire bridge as well as the officers and enlisted crew. Arthur could see it etched onto their faces. How long has it been since we had a collective bathroom break and got some water and food? A glance at the chronometer told him upward of four hours, and he realized just how badly he had to pee.

“Nav, synchronize a jump for fifteen minutes from now. Until then, I want everyone to hit the head and refill your coffee or water containers in the conference room. One at a time.”

A smattering of aye, ayes swept across the bridge like a wave before Arthur turned back to Miller. “Get some sandwiches up here, too, XO. Nothing heavy. We’ll need to refuel our bodies before the next fight.”

“On it, sir. Anything in particular?”

“Not the tuna,” Arthur replied with a grin. “Whatever that fake crap is, it’s awful.”

“Agreed.”

Arthur stood. “XO, you have the conn.”

“You’ll be in the head, sir?”

Several guffaws broke out, including a particularly loud one from Senior Chief Cooper. His lips curled into a smirk. “Got to recycle some coffee, sir?”

“Something like that.” Arthur turned and walked out, cognizant that his face had heated. I’ve got to get better at this whole ribbing thing. At least the good-natured banter was a distraction from the battle to come.

The flight off the station was uneventful and somewhat anticlimactic. Kovalev reflected on how close it had been as they touched down on the PSS Zhukov, a bulk hauler converted into a makeshift carrier by PFLOS. It held two dozen fighters, a mix of civilian units they’d purchased on the gray market, and was enhanced with League weaponry. And whatever else we could buy from megacorps and SATO-citizen-owned corporations. The capitalists really will sell us the rope we use to hang them. There was enough of the fleet sensor net connection on the craft to determine that the station hadn’t exploded the way it should’ve and that several freighters departed right before it had.

Kovalev seethed, knowing that the enemy had so far eluded them, but they still needed to get by his fleet. Now that he was back on a PFLOS vessel, it would be up to him to ensure they continued forward to victory.

Several crewmembers were there to greet Kovalev as the shuttle door opened, but he waved them off. He had little interest in military protocol and didn’t need his ego boosted by being welcomed aboard with a band like a League of Sol Navy Admiral would’ve insisted on. Instead, his sole focus was on finding and killing the hostages and their CDF rescuers.

“Would you like to go to the bridge or tour the launch facilities, comrade?” Ava Osborne asked. A woman with drawn features, she’d lost her only son to the war and had eagerly signed on with PFLOS on the promise that she could fight the war properly, using tactics that would inflict serious pain on the Terran Coalition.

“There is no need for a tour,” Kovalev replied. “I’m eager to get to the command deck and reestablish contact with the fleet. What is the status of the fighter wings?”

“Holding at alert five, comrade. I did not feel it prudent to launch them in the atmosphere, given the extreme pressure, until we have targets.”

Kovalev nodded. Her decision was wise, and while he wished solely to eradicate the Terrans, wasting the lives of his followers accomplished nothing. Anger coursed through his veins, threatening to erupt any moment as he strode through the landing bay and into the spartan corridor that lay beyond. “And the rest of the fleet?”

“More ships arrive every few minutes. The rest shall gather within the hour. When I left the bridge, half of our force had jumped in so far. I held them together as a unified formation to engage the CDF vessels and the freighters they stole.”

“Excellent.” He glanced at Hai Gao. “Any further updates?”

The three of them entered a gravlift along with two junior officers, and the doors slid shut. Someone touched a button to head to deck one. The lift came to life immediately.

“Nothing yet, comrade. We think they’re hiding between the atmospheric layers.”

Kovalev licked his lips. “They can’t hide forever. If nothing else, the Halcyon’s shields will give out after ten hours.”

Gao nodded. “That’s our strategy. Keep running them down and encircle the planet.”

“What if the rest of the CDF’s forces arrive?” Osborne asked.

“I hope they do,” Kovalev replied darkly. “We’ve got more than enough firepower here to see them all off once and for all. I want to get to phase two as fast as possible, before reinforcements get here.”

The lift came to a halt, and the doors swished open, revealing yet another drab gray corridor. Kovalev set the pace as they hurried toward the bridge. After we defeat the Coalition, there must be a reckoning for how this travesty occurred. The loss of the station hurt, and it would hurt in the future in more ways than he could even consider at the moment. But nothing mattered except the cause. And the only way to continue the cause was to grind down the last vestiges of the CDF.

Yevgeny Kovalev would do so no matter the cost, even if it took his life.

In OR-124616, the fabric of spacetime ripped apart as the CSV Margaret Thatcher opened a wormhole. Arthur had ordered a jump point that he hoped would draw off some of the ships gathered to trap their stealth raiders and the captured freighters containing five thousand civilians. He couldn’t even imagine the awful conditions on the vessels, which were crammed to the gills with people in cargo holds. Limited O2, no food, and not enough bathrooms. But better than being executed by insane terrorists.

As always, the first couple of seconds were the most dangerous as the Thatcher emerged back into normal space. Arthur counted them off, each tick of the clock a prayer they were outside of PFLOS’s weapons range and not walking into a trap.

“Conn, TAO. Sensors online. New contacts bearing three-four-five, range six hundred thousand kilometers… resolving out, sir. Two bulk haulers designated Master One and Two, fifteen Halcyon-class freighters designated Master Three through Seventeen, and three Missionary-class light freighters designated Master Eighteen through Twenty.”

Arthur’s mouth went dry. Upward of forty small craft, twenty ships and enough firepower to see all of us off. He forced himself to quell the fear in the pit of his stomach, which threatened at any moment to see his hands shake or worse. “Escort status, Lieutenant?”

“Leonidas and Brazer safely through, sir.”

Miller licked her lips. “Boldly, they rode into the jaws of death, into the mouth of hell.”

The dim blue lighting cast long shadows over the bridge and made picking out anyone’s expression difficult. Maybe that’s part of the reason to kill the lights, so none of us can see the fear on one another’s faces. “Nav, intercept course, Master… Nineteen. Pass that on to our escorts.” The deceptively small freighter was at the edge of the enemy formation.

“Aye, aye, sir.”

The bridge chronometer ticked forward, each second taking what seemed like an agonizing eternity. Arthur’s eyes went back to the tactical plot.

“Course plotted. All escorts report ready, sir,” Savitz interjected.

“All ahead flank.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Miller tapped at her miniature console control. “No sense putting off our appointment with the Grim Reaper, eh?”

“Wouldn’t want to keep him waiting,” Arthur replied.

The deck plates thrummed as the Thatcher’s ion engines kicked in at maximum thrust.

The port pod is miscalibrated. I’ll have to talk to Ramos about that when we’re done. If we’re still alive.

“Conn, TAO. Aspect change on roughly half the hostile contacts, sir. They’re headed straight for us.” Yasin’s voice had gone up an octave.

Arthur couldn’t blame her. This has got to be the craziest stunt I’ve pulled so far. “Comms, let the Tucson know we’ve split the enemy force. They should be able to think about heading out soon.” I’m talking to hear myself talk. Stop that, Arthur.

“We’re all dead if Sinclair doesn’t come through,” Miller whispered. “You know that, right?”

“Yeah. He will. The man’s a legend.”

Miller smirked. “I’d rather have some carriers than a funky up-gunned spy ship.”

“Technical-research vessel.”

“Whatever,” Miller replied with some pique in her voice.

At least bantering with her was preferable to wondering if they’d be alive in five minutes. “Whatever happens here, we’ll draw off enough heat for the civvies to get out. That’s all that counts.”

Miller pursed her lips. “Agreed, sir.”

“Tell Captain Michaels to get ready to launch. We’re going to need him and his wingman’s services in short order.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Arthur allowed his head to lie back against the headrest. There was nothing else he could do, no further commands or decisions to be made. What’s it the Jalm’kis say? Time to roll the iron dice. He hoped whatever they had left in the tank for luck came through again.

26

Red dots rapidly approached blue dots on the tactical display projected through a monitor above Arthur’s head. Lucky for us, these butchers care more about killing the hostages than blowing apart our ships. With eleven vessels headed their way, Arthur knew it was about to get hairy. Understatement of the century there. “TAO, range to Master Nineteen?”

“Ah, fifteen thousand kilometers, sir.”

Miller leaned in. “Be nice if we could soften them up with Hunters.”

“I thought about that, but with two PD frigates in the formation, I doubt anything would get through, especially at range.”

She nodded. “Agreed. I suppose it was only a matter of time before somebody started building warships specifically to counter ours.”

Arthur snorted. “Yeah. A pity it had to be crazed terrorists.”

“I’m not sure they’re crazed. Ruthless, sure, even evil. But there’s a methodical manner in how they act. To themselves, anyway, they are rational.”

“Maybe.” His eyes went back to the plot. “TAO, firing point procedures, neutron beams and magnetic cannons, Master Nineteen. Pass targeting information to the Leonidas and Brazer. Let’s see if we can execute a time-on-target attack.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Yasin paused before turning. “Firing solutions set and coordinated with our escorts.”

Arthur blew out a breath. As each second ticked by, time seemed to slow. Incoming plasma balls lit up the void outside the Margaret Thatcher’s hull as the PFLOS ships flung everything they had toward them.

“Vampire, vampire, vampire!” Yasin called out. “Inbound anti-ship missiles bearing zero-eight-zero.”

“Communications, task Brazer to interdict.” The Meade-class frigate was the best anti-missile platform available in the CDF, and Arthur needed every other weapon focused on the enemy’s own point-defense units.

The mass of red super-charged plasma balls, even though the range was extreme, scored hits. Engaging a target flying straight at you with the League’s signature energy weapon was far easier than accurately tracking a high-speed vessel moving off. Something I intend to take full advantage of shortly.

“Almost there,” Miller said under her breath.

Arthur nodded. The moment the circular visual aid that showed the Thatcher’s effective weapons range on the chart ranged over the targeted enemy, he spoke. “TAO, match bearings, shoot, mag-cannons and neutron beams.”

One-hundred-fifty-millimeter shells erupted from the three dual turrets, as the ship was slightly off beam of the hostile vessel, allowing all her weapons to shoot. Moments later, the Leonidas added to the volley, and neutron beams shot out of the bows of both Ajax-class destroyers. Not to be outdone, the Brazer put the only true anti-ship weapon she possessed—a light neutron beam—into the fracas. The PFLOS PD freighter’s shields collapsed under the barrage, while at least one particle beam blew through the hull and out the other side.

“Conn, TAO. Master Nineteen’s reactor is going critical.”

A brilliant flash of white light confirmed her report as the ship blew apart. There were no life pod launches, and the remaining enemies continued their bombardment of all three CDF ships.

“Nav, come to heading zero-nine-zero, maximum thrust.” Arthur punched the intercom for the main engineering space. “Major Ramos, redirect weapons and emergency power reserves to our engines.”

“Uh, aye, aye, sir. That’ll stress our power couplings—”

“Keep an eye on them. Hanson out.” Arthur’s eyes went back to the tactical plot. “Nav, broadcast that course to our escorts.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

The Thatcher twisted in space. Even though the vessel had a robust inertial damping system, extreme maneuvers, especially when the engines exceeded their nominal high-rated outputs, put tremendous amounts of stress on it, increasing g-force bleed-through. As a result, the bridge crew was jostled to one side of their chairs, and Arthur held on to both armrests to keep from being thrown around. Both escorts followed dutifully.

“What good is no weapons going to do us?” Miller asked pointedly.

Arthur forced a grin. “It’s basic math. The higher our transversal velocity, the less chance their shots have of hitting us.”

“Okay, smart-ass,” she replied with an eye roll. “I get that part. But why?”

“Watch and see on this one.” Arthur ticked off a few more seconds until he was sure that they were attracting pursuit. “Comms, signal the Oxford. It’s time.”

“Aye, aye, sir. Flash traffic sent.”

They didn’t have to wait long. Within thirty seconds, a wormhole opened, precisely between the CDF ships and their pursuers. The CSV Oxford shot out of it at full speed, and a few moments later, her weapons lit up the void. A Halcyon-class freighter at the head of the PFLOS formation was the first target. Three-hundred-fifty-millimeter magnetic cannons double-loaded with a one-two punch of EMP and high-explosive shells spat their fury at the terrorist vessel.

The helicar-sized projectiles hammered down the shields of the unlucky ship, while at least one of the HE shells spent itself against the armored hull. The technical-research ship added cruiser-sized neutron beams to the mix and speared the freighter from bow to stern before finally, it blew apart in a daisy chain of explosions, from either its own missiles or reactor failure.

Miller’s eyes widened, and she whistled. “Wow. I didn’t realize intel packed that kind of a punch.”

Arthur gave her a fierce warrior’s grin. “It helps that they’ve allocated weapons and shield integrity power to their engines… to keep up with us.”

“Touché, sir.” Miller tilted her head to one side. “Clever.”

“Basic engineering, Major. Nav, plot intercept course with Master…” Arthur’s eyes went to the tactical plot. “Eight.”

“Aye, aye, sir. Intercept course plotted.”

“Send it to our escorts and engage at maximum thrust.”

As Arthur issued the commands, the Oxford fired again. The remaining point-defense ship in the pursuing fleet had its bow blown off.

But the enemy wasn’t going to sit there and allow themselves to be picked off one by one. Every hostile shifted their targeting to the CDF Intelligence ship and opened up with everything they had. Red plasma balls along with secondary weapons of various types rained hell, and the Oxford’s deflectors lit up in a spectacular display. It was almost beautiful if one forgot the life-and-death nature of combat.

“How much can she take?” Miller whispered.

“I’m almost certain there’s an antimatter reactor on that ship,” Arthur replied. “Which means enhanced shield generators. In short, a lot more than we can.”

“That doesn’t make the Oxford invincible.”

Arthur shook his head. “No, everything in this universe is subject to the laws of physics. Which is why we’re headed right back where we came from.”

The range between the Margaret Thatcher and the nearest PFLOS vessel was already decreasing following the high-speed turn that Savitz had executed. Arthur willed the ship forward, back into the fight. For the first time in a while, he believed they might yet pull it off. “TAO, make tubes one through twelve ready in all respects and open the outer missile tube doors.” Let’s see how these bastards do without their fancy PD.

Patrick Godat was a man who’d been resigned to his death only a few minutes before. One got used to the mindset of being a mistake or two away from perishing in the void, serving on a stealth raider. They were highly lethal in the opening moments of an engagement, but the moment the protective armor of their stealth shields was gone, the enemy tended to pound them. Which is why we slip in, kill things, and slip out. The silent service, indeed.

But as Godat watched PFLOS ships disappear from the sensor readout, he imagined their death throes in the void, punctuated by blinding fusion explosions, and hope returned.

He wasn’t the only one. Exclamations, mild cheers, and even some applause swept the Tucson’s control room. The mood lifted immediately.

“That was a bit too close for my tastes,” Letchford said.

Godat nodded. “Agreed.”

“Conn, sensor room.”

Godat touched the mic-activation button on his chair as the intercom sprang to life. “Go ahead, Chief.”

“Sir, we’re showing all enemy ships veering off and heading out of the atmosphere. They’re burning at max thrust through the layers and leaving us a nice trail to follow, if you get my meaning, sir.”

After a career spent on stealth boats, Godat most certainly did. A feral grin crossed his face. “Plot all contacts’ trajectories on my display.”

“Aye, aye, skipper.”

Letchford leaned in. “Whatcha thinking, sir?”

“That we do what we do best… hunt. Send the San Juan off with the freighters on an escape vector while we and the London engage. These terrorists will never see us coming.”

“Sounds like a plan to me, sir.”

Godat stroked his chin. “TAO, get me firing solutions on the four nearest hostiles.” The internal switch between hunter and prey finally flipping back to its normal position felt good. We might actually pull this off. Godat couldn’t quite believe it.

“Iota Two, preflight status?” Michaels asked as he flipped a switch to toggle his weapons systems to standby. He’d spent the last five minutes doing the final-launch checklist, as had Ichikawa.

“Green on all systems, sir.”

“Roger. Same here.” He changed commlink channels to the one they’d set up to communicate with the Margaret Thatcher’s shuttle bay control team. “Iota One and Two ready for launch.”

“Roger that, Captain.”

A klaxon blared, and enlisted personnel exited the bay quickly. One, Roth, the de facto crew chief, turned and offered a salute.

Michaels brought his hand to his brow then flashed a thumbs-up. The hatch closed quickly behind her and Michaels stared straight ahead. Normally, he would keep his hands off the throttle and flight stick for a computerized launch on a carrier. No such luck on the Margaret Thatcher, where everything had to be done manually.

Ahead of him, the shuttle bay doors slid open, revealing the inky blackness of the void with a brilliant smattering of stars brilliantly visible as a backdrop. He never got tired of the view. To him, it was proof of God’s handiwork and something of a treat to be able to take in the masterpiece of art that was the universe. Though I’d be far more able to appreciate it if I weren’t flying combat missions.

“Iota One and Two, you are clear for launch.”

Michaels toggled his commlink. “Understood, flight control.”

“Good hunting and Godspeed, sir.”

“Likewise.” He powered up his craft just enough that it lifted off the deck. Then tightened his hand over the flight stick and blew out a breath. Here goes nothing.

With a quick burst of power, the SFS-3 Ghost accelerated out of the shuttle bay and into open space. Moments later, Ichikawa joined him, and they flew away from the Thatcher.

“I’ve got green lights down the board. What about you, Lieutenant?”

“Same, sir.”

“All right. Time to turn and burn.” He whipped his fighter around and pointed the nose toward the ominous mass of red dots.

Ichikawa’s voice went in and out through a burst of static. “Lot of bandits, sir.”

“I used to fly with somebody who would’ve called this a target-rich environment, ripe for making ace in,” Michaels replied. “Look, Lieutenant, we don’t have to shoot them all down. All we’ve got to do is shake them up a bit and keep those makeshift bombers from getting comfortable enough to launch anti-ship missiles.”

“Roger, One.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

Ichikawa’s lip licking came through loud and clear on the commlink. “I, uh… Last flight was a close one, sir.”

Michaels closed his eyes momentarily. Too close. “Lieutenant, listen to me carefully. You’ve got to push that out of your mind. I know facing death takes some time to process, but we don’t have it. The fleet needs us. Those civvies on the freighters… So do they.”

“I won’t let you or them down, sir.”

“Good. Keep it loose.” Lord, please don’t let me push her too far.

“Roger.”

On his HUD-projected LIDAR display, four groups of enemy fighters distilled from the blob. Each group had four craft. Still those crappy civilian models but dangerous enough in a pack. The Ghosts were virtually invisible to anything but the best sensor systems unless they started shooting. Open the internal stores bay to launch a missile or fire the neutron cannons, and it became quite easy to see where to shoot back.

Michaels gave a nasty little grin, though no one could see it. “Two, pick a target.”

“Wilco, sir.”

Brackets indicating she’d locked on passively popped up over one dot, and he took another one in a different group. He then toggled his commlink to the guard frequency, which was a common channel used by all pilots and ships to communicate in the void. “This is Captain Barry Friendly of the Coalition Defense Force,” he began, using the most comical tone he could muster.

“Attention, inbound fighters. You are in violation of Terran Coalition space. Failure to reverse course immediately will result in hostile action, up to and including your death. Since we pride ourselves on this being the friendly skies, it sure would be nice if you turned around.”

“Show yourselves, Terran,” a man replied a few seconds later. “If you have the balls to fight.”

“Oh, me and my friends out here, we’re going to wait for the right moment. But don’t you worry your pretty little heads. One of my missiles will be the last thing you ever see.”

“Lots of talk from the capitalist toadies,” another PFLOS pilot interjected. She had an accent that was vaguely harsh, but Michaels couldn’t quite place it.

The range between the opposing forces closed rapidly, and Michaels counted the seconds until they’d hit maximum missile range. Moments later, the active lock-on tone buzzed. “Iota One, fox two.” He pressed the missile-launch button, and a LT-47F Advanced Vulture ejected from his fighter’s internal stores bay. Its gel-fueled rocket motor kicked, sending the warhead on its way.

He cued him his commlink to Ichikawa. “Two, hold on launch until I give the words.”

“Wilco, sir.”

Meanwhile, the Vulture missile raced through the void and, with its active-LIDAR tracking abilities, quickly located the PFLOS fighter it had targeted. One high-explosive blast later, and another terrorist was dead. Michaels flipped back to the guard frequency. “We can do this all day, ladies and gentlemen. Or you could just take off.”

“Iota Two to One. What are you doing, sir?”

He toggled the commlink. “Keeping them guessing, Lieutenant. Speaking of which, engage your targeted fighter at your discretion.”

“Then what, sir?”

Michaels bit his lip. “Then we blow through their formation and hope they don’t notice we’re headed for those slow-moving bombers a thousand kilometers away.”

“Wilco, sir.”

Ichikawa sounded like she thought they had better odds of winning the Galt lottery. Can’t blame her. This is half-assed, and we’re flying on a wing and a prayer.

“Iota Two, fox two.”

The Vulture missile she loosed plowed into a PFLOS craft and blew it apart.

Michaels immediately got back on the guard frequency. “I wasn’t kidding. We can do this all day. Your choice.”

A series of curses in three different languages came back over the open channel. Mission accomplished. True to its name, the Ghost flew straight through the PFLOS formation. At one point, he thought he might’ve been able to make out one of the enemy fighters visually, but either they didn’t spot him or Ichikawa, or they had orders to attack the CDF ships astern.

“No incoming, sir.”

Michaels exhaled heavily. “One miracle down. Now we don’t stop until we hit those bombers. Clear?”

“Wilco.”

A sudden burst of white light illuminated the void, and he realized one of the red icons representing a PFLOS freighter had disappeared. Oxford got another one. As Michaels’s craft pawed the vacuum, he had one thing on his mind: being the last thing the terrorists saw a split second before they died.

27

Another volley of helicar-size projectiles erupted from the Oxford’s three-hundred-fifty-millimeter mag cannons. The first turret’s worth contained EMP rounds, while the next two held high-explosive ordnance. Whoever was launching the assault knew their business, as explosions blossomed out from the doomed Halcyon-class freighter.

Arthur pumped his fist as the vessel blew apart before their eyes in a runaway fusion reaction. It felt wonderful to see the spy ship cutting through the PFLOS fleet like a hot knife through butter.

“Master Eighteen destroyed,” Yasin called out.

The tactical plot painted a picture that, for the moment, was quite rosy. The enemy accelerated away from them, desperately trying to link up with the reinforcements coming from around the gas giant. Caught out of position, every PFLOS ship trying to find the hostage-laden craft in the atmosphere of the massive gas ball raced to form up to fight the CDF.

This couldn’t have gone better if I’d scripted it. Arthur realized that by the terrorists’ attacking in detail, they’d enabled the Oxford to be far more effective than she would’ve been otherwise. Sometimes all it takes is for the enemy to screw up. His little fleet continued to be in prime position to exploit the tactical failure.

At least until all those ships reunite into one unified ball of death and destruction. Arthur had lost count of how many destroyed or heavily damaged combat vessels PFLOS had suffered so far, but there would be at least thirty hostiles of varying classes in one place soon.

An idea crystalized in his mind. “Comms, send to all friendlies to cease missile launches until we have a full volley reloaded.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Miller raised an eyebrow. “Got something in mind?”

Arthur nodded. He pointed at several ships on the plot, which were at the tail end of the enemy formation. “Good targets of opportunity to pick off, as Hunters reach out and touch a bit farther than our other weapons.”

“And if they keep running to try to shake the incoming, it hurts their overall formation, leaving them disjointed.”

“Bingo.” Arthur grinned.

On the tactical plot, yet another hostile disappeared. Arthur pumped his fist so that no one would notice, but it still reflected his emotion at seeing their enemies blown apart.

“I’m seeing a problem, sir,” Miller interjected.

“Oh?”

She gestured to a large group of red icons representing PFLOS strike craft. “They look like they’re headed straight for the Oxford.”

Arthur ran his tongue over his lips. It made sense because the intelligence vessel was the difference in the combat. “What of our fighters?”

“They’re doing their best, but it’s two against forty.”

“Send the Brazer. We’ll miss her missile-defense capability, but we can’t afford to lose the Oxford.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“Conn, Communications. Incoming tight beam from the Tucson, sir. Major Godat sends his compliments and indicates they’re in position to launch a full spread of Hunter missiles along with the London.”

Arthur rubbed his hands together. “This will do nicely.”

On the screen above his head, two new blue dots appeared, representing the two stealth boats. They had the PFLOS vessels in a pincer. All that was left was to close the trap.

“Conn, TAO. Leonidas reports all missile tubes reloaded, as are ours.”

“Firing point procedures, tubes one through twelve. Four per contact… Master Twelve, Master Fourteen and Master Twenty.”

“Firing solutions set, sir.”

“Make tubes one through twelve ready in all respects, and open the outer doors.”

“Doors open, sir.”

Arthur leaned forward and set his jaw. All right, you bastards. Time to die. “Send it.”

Kovalev ran his fingers through his jet-black hair. He’d worked to suppress the nervous habit after it was brought to his attention during his service in the League Navy. A leader can never show weakness. Such was the mantra of a political officer he’d served with. At the moment, it was all he could do to keep the rage within checked.

Most of it wasn’t even directed at the Terran Coalition or his followers. No, the person responsible for their present condition was Yevgeny Kovalev. I should’ve kept the fleet together and anticipated the Coalition would have something up its sleeve. Instead, I trusted that their feckless politicians would do what they normally do and try to play by the rules against an opponent that will do whatever it takes to win.

Part of him, though, respected whoever had sent the mysterious ship that didn’t appear in any League of Sol recognition guides, nor did it possess the markings of a military vessel. Yet it sported heavy-cruiser- to battleship-grade weaponry and laid waste to his fleet.

This must be some sort of intelligence asset. Or else the backstabbing humans in their Independent Systems Federation, who knew how bad the capitalist dogs of the Terran Coalition were yet still allied with them.

The who or what matters little. He raised his head and forced his hands back to his sides. “Captain Osborne, have your people communicate to the fleet that I want all forces to come together.” He stood and walked to a holoprojector that showed the current tactical map.

“Here.” Kovalev pointed at a spot roughly halfway between the incoming CDF force and the gas giant. It would be a tight turn, but he knew the specifications of every ship in the fleet.

“Yes, comrade,” Osborne replied. “What of our attack craft?”

There, too, they’d taken losses, thanks to Coalition stealth fighters. Kovalev didn’t want to waste them in a piecemeal manner. “What is your professional opinion?”

She turned her head. “As much as it pains me, I think trying to take out their frigate with a combined assault would be our best strategy. Especially after how it maneuvered toward the larger ship. The Terrans are in pursuit mode. Take that out, and it will make a bomber assault on their battleship much easier.”

Kovalev nodded. “Do it. And may Lenin walk with them.” He returned to his seat. Over the next few minutes, the die would be cast, and he would either go into history as the man who started the defeat of the Terran Coalition, or he and all those who served the cause would be a footnote at best. That was one place Yevgeny Kovalev refused to be. They would triumph, no matter what it took.

If this were an episode of War Patrol, the heroic music would be starting up right about now. Godat allowed himself a grin at the thought. The iconic Coalition holoshow, which held nearly equal reverence or revulsion in the CDF depending on how one viewed the liberties that the entertainment media took with reality, couldn’t have come up with a plot line quite as crazy as what the Tucson was living.

“Conn, TAO. Range to Master Twenty… five thousand kilometers, sir. And closing awfully fast.”

Godat’s heart pounded. “Understood, Lieutenant. Make tubes one through twelve ready in all respects and open the outer doors. Reset range safeties to twenty-five kilometers.”

“You know I hate it when you cut it that close. One of those Hunters could come back in our face,” Letchford interjected.

“We only get one shot at this, and after seeing how fiendishly accurate the PFLOS point defense systems are… I want to see the whites of their eyes.”

“Spoken like a hunter.”

Godat smoothed out his blue utility jumpsuit absent-mindedly to give his hands something—anything—to do. “Firing point procedures, Master Twenty, tubes one through six, Master Nineteen, tubes seven through twelve.”

“Firing solutions set. Range now two thousand kilometers, sir.”

Wait for it. Wait for it… Wait. Each second brought them closer and closer. The burst of speed both the Tucson and the London had achieved coming out of the gas giant had been masked by the planet’s atmosphere, preserving their stealth.

“Range within one thousand kilometers, sir.”

Godat exhaled. “Reverify firing solutions.”

Seconds continued to tick by, each seeming to stretch into infinity, before Vafaei spoke. “Firing solutions confirmed, sir.”

One hundred… ninety… sixty… now. “Match bearings, shoot, tubes one through twelve. Comms, order London to deploy all weapons.”

Immediately, the Tucson bucked and rattled. Twelve Hunter missiles erupted from their launch tubes over the course of three seconds, timed perfectly to avoid blowing one another up during the boost phase.

“All tubes fired electronically, sir. Units running hot, straight, and normal.”

“Nav, reverse our course to heading one-nine-six, all ahead flank,” Godat said without even a glance at his tactical plot. The backwash from the missile launches would light them up like a giant menorah to any halfway decent tactical sensor platform, and the PFLOS freighters seemed to be equipped with the League’s best.

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Moments later, enemy fire found them as the boat lurched from repeated energy-weapons hits. Godat pursed his lips as the arc shifted from starboard to aft, wasting some of the enemy’s shots.

“Hunter missiles in terminal acquisition phase,” Vafaei called out.

On the tactical plot, each group of warheads broke into tight clusters, deftly maneuvering through the void. Taking a vector that would put them on the weakest shield facing of each hostile, they plowed forward and detonated first against shields then against the armored hull of the Halcyon-class freighters.

It took several seconds for the Tucson’s sensors to register the status of the two enemy vessels. When both icons disappeared from the control room’s screens, Godat breathed a sigh of relief. During the war with the League, there was always a pang of regret for the human lives lost when his actions destroyed an enemy vessel. But not with PFLOS. He was certain that HaShem was already rendering judgment to the souls aboard the two ships. And they shall be rewarded as they deserve.

Godat was jostled forward in his chair as another wave of incoming fire slammed into their limited shielding. Damn. Looks like we’re a priority target. “Nav, evasive pattern six alpha. Give me everything you’ve got to the engines.”

“We could bleed off weapons power.”

“Or reload and try for another volley,” Godat replied. Almost instantly, he realized that was misplaced bravado. If we don’t get out of range in sixty seconds, we’re all dead. “Nav, calculate an emergency jump out, and comms, signal the Thatcher. We could use some fire support.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” the officers echoed.

Godat eyed the tactical plot and willed the boat to go faster and the incoming to miss as the rapid course changes threw him and Letchford from side to side. HaShem help us all.

Kovalev almost jumped out of his seat as the two Coalition Growler-class stealth boats came into focus on the sensor screen. Backwashed by the exhaust from full salvos of Hunter missiles, the two hostiles were immediately lit up by every ship in range. “Order every vessel to focus on those ships! Eliminate them before they can gain distance and stealth.”

“Are you sure, comrade? We have the CDF frigate on the ropes. To pull our ships now—”

“Leave the strike craft,” Kovalev snapped. “Send everything else to kill those raiders.”

“Yes, comrade. Immediately,” Hai Gao replied.

He waited as a flurry of commands and responses played out. Destroying two of the CDF’s prized stealth vessels would not only greatly help their cause but also, he hoped, strike fear into the hearts of the remaining enemies. Yes, they’d lose a couple more ships to that internal pocket battleship disguised as a research vessel.

But what is the loss of a few when we can gain total victory? It was an equation that any League commander would make, and so would Kovalev. In the end, destroying the Terran Coalition was the only thing that mattered. His crew could perish, and he could die, but if the capitalists were destroyed, it would be worth the price—any price.

28

An alarm blared in Michaels’s cockpit, warning him of inbound enemy anti-fighter missiles. He juked right then left before directing as much power as possible to the engines and pulling up hard on his flight stick. Given the Ghost’s—and all other CDF fighters’—use of inertial damping, he was able to endure what would’ve been twelve g’s without breaking a sweat. The equipment also had the effect of making it look to an outside observer as if his craft had broken the laws of physics.

That suited Michaels just fine as he whipped around, pleasantly surprised to find an enemy bomber in front of his fighter. With his finger poised over the trigger integrated into his flight stick, he lined up the firing reticle before squeezing. Bolt after bolt from the Ghost’s neutron cannons raced away, slamming into the PFLOS bomber’s shields. It took six direct hits before the deflectors collapsed, and his shots pressed home against the hull. Throughout it all, he tracked the hostile relentlessly. The civ-spec bomber might’ve done fine against a pirate freighter, but it was no match for a well-trained CDF pilot flying a military fighter. What I wouldn’t do for a Phantom or a Chimera right about now.

Michaels clicked his commlink over to the guard channel as the enemy bomber blew apart with a smear of orange-and-blue flame, which was quickly extinguished by the lack of oxygen in the void. “That’s the best you guys have got?” He punctuated the taunt with a snicker.

“Says the coward using a stealth fighter!”

“You guys really want to talk about cowardice when you used civilian ships to attack sleeping soldiers in their bunks? I mean, seriously? That’s ironic right there.”

He was only seconds from death if anything went wrong, but he also found the situation exhilarating. Something about being two against forty, knuckles white from gripping the flight stick like he was in danger of losing control of it at any moment, made him feel alive.

“Die, Terran.”

“You first,” Michaels replied.

“Iota One, this is Two. We’ve got a situation, sir. Four bombers are lining up on the Brazer. She’s already lost two PD turrets and a missile launcher on the arc they’re targeting,” Ichikawa said over the commlink.

Damn. “I’ll work my way over. What’s your interception vector look like?”

“Not great, sir. Fighters nipping at my heels. I think they’ve put a sensor network together to triangulate our approximate position.”

“Only a matter of time before someone went outside the box over there. I’ll try to link up with you in a minute. One out.”

Michaels rotated his Ghost and accelerated toward the Brazer. All around him, streaks of particle-weapons fire flashed by. Some of it was between the small CDF force and the PFLOS vessels, while most were the enemy fighters “plowing the road” and hoping to score a random hit. He had to give them a begrudging level of respect because it was clear they had skill as pilots. Thankfully for us, not the best or even equal tech.

The point was underscored as an enemy got a lucky hit on his aft shield and immediately maneuvered to engage further. Michaels wrenched his flight stick to one side as a fusillade of purple energy blasts blew by the Ghost’s cockpit. Only three missiles left. Guess now’s as good a time as any. He killed all forward thrust then turned off his fighter’s inertial dampers. The effect threw him to one side as the craft went into a flat spin, which even in the void generated a lot of g-force.

As the enemy overshot, he pulled out of the spin and reengaged the damping system before moving to line up the hostile. Come on. I need the tone now! As soon as the lock-on buzzer sounded, Michaels sent a LIDAR-tracking missile into the void along with a barrage of neutron-cannon shots. Seconds later, he was rewarded with another orange smear in the void.

As he regained situational awareness, he realized most of the ship-to-ship weapons fire had ceased, as had all enemy point defense. The cause became clear after a quick check of the sensor display in his HUD: everything PFLOS had was headed toward the stealth raiders. God help them, but I’ll take a few minutes’ reprieve.

The hostile small craft hadn’t gotten the memo, it seemed, as they pressed on toward Brazer. With grim determination, Michaels settled himself and accelerated toward the nearest enemy capable of launching anti-ship missiles. This isn’t over, not by a long shot.

Seeing every PFLOS ship that had the Tucson and London within weapons range turn on the two stealth raiders was a shock to Arthur’s system. Even though it put them out of position and seemingly took the pressure off the Thatcher for a moment, the goal was obvious: dramatically reduce the available CDF firepower. And kill a few hundred soldiers. “Comms, signal Sierra Six and Seven to jump out immediately.”

“We’re going to miss their Hunter missile tubes,” Miller interjected.

“I’ll miss their crews more. TAO, status of missile-tube reloads?”

“Tubes one through four ready to launch, sir.”

The status display on Arthur’s chair showed the energy-weapons capacitor back to eighty percent. What’s in range? He stared at the tactical plot. “Firing point procedures, neutron beams, magnetic cannons, and tubes one through four, Master Sixteen.” The Halcyon-class freighter was about the only thing within optimal firing distance, and he didn’t want to waste any shots.

“Firing solutions set, sir. Tubes one through four ready in all respects. Outer doors are open.”

“Match bearings, shoot, all weapons.”

Six mag-cannon shells erupted from the Margaret Thatcher’s turrets, while blue spears of intense particle energy joined a moment later, pummeling the freighter’s starboard side. All the while, the enemy vessel stubbornly fired everything it had at the CSV London in the form of volleys of superheated plasma spun out of a tri-barrel rotary cannon in rapid succession.

“All units running hot, straight, and normal, sir.”

Arthur leaned forward. “Feather our shots and give me another burst of neutron-beam fire right before impact.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Just as he’d ordered, a few seconds before the four warheads slammed into the freighter’s shields, Yasin hit them with another pulse from the neutron emitters. It didn’t quite drain the deflectors but came close enough that two of the warheads blasted apart on the hull, leaving a massive molten scar nearly the height of the vessel. Outgoing fire immediately ceased, and the ship started to rotate—hoping to present another shield arc that wasn’t collapsed.

“Sir, assess Master Sixteen’s forward power couplings are down. She can’t fire her big guns.”

Arthur allowed himself a small smile. “Good shooting, Lieutenant. Finish them off.”

“With pleasure, sir.”

That wasn’t exactly the standard CDF reply, but Arthur was past caring. The sight of burning, destroyed, and drifting PFLOS ships brought forth an animallike sense of glee from deep within him. Seeing those who’d caused so much pain finally receive their just reward… was a reward all of its own.

“Permission to switch to high-explosive shells in our mag cannons, sir?” Yasin asked.

“Granted.”

“Ready, sir.”

Arthur set his jaw. “Shoot.”

The warheads did their jobs with brutal efficiency. Before the hostile could get the damaged hull section out of the firing line, all six of them slammed into the same general area. Explosions blossomed before a final blast separated the vessel into two pieces. The portion containing the engine pods detonated seconds later in a brilliant burst of white light.

“Master Sixteen destroyed, sir.”

While the victory was sweet, it did little to improve the overall tactical situation. Both the Tucson and London’s deflectors showed under thirty percent cohesion on the fleet-status screen, and Arthur despaired about getting to the stealth boats in time to make a difference. Even the Oxford, with all her concentrated firepower, was taking damage and flailing against several enemies simultaneously. Still, they’d taken out at least twelve PFLOS ships so far.

Arthur was contemplating his next move when Kaveh interrupted his train of thought.

“Conn, TAO. Sierra Eight, Nine, Ten, and Eleven have jumped without incident.”

The civilians are away and safe. Arthur blew out a breath. Even though they were still in the thick of combat, he couldn’t help but note the relief that washed over him. “Thank God for small… and perhaps in this case a rather large miracle.”

“Let’s finish the job,” Miller replied. “And make our losses worth it.”

Arthur turned toward the communications station. “Any response from the Tucson or the London, Lieutenant?”

“Not yet, sir.”

“Send it again. And, Navigation, intercept course for Sierra Six. Let’s give them something else to shoot at.”

Godat hung on for dear life to avoid flying into the overhead as enemy plasma fire continued to find the Tucson every which way she turned. While PFLOS had to know they’d lost, they seemed determined to exact any kind of price from the CDF, and the two Growler-class stealth boats were getting an outsize amount of attention.

“Sir.” Letchford tugged at his sleeve. “The freighters just jumped out. London reports she’s right behind them. Hanson’s ordered us to jump.”

The weight of the universe lifted off Godat’s shoulders at those words. Time to go. “Comm, send to Major Arad to get out of here now. Nav, plot a jump to the rendezvous coordinates. And keep these idiots guessing.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

I’ve got one decoy left. Was saving it for a rainy day, and I believe it’s storming. “COB, program our countermeasure drone for a right-angle course and max thrust separation. Nav, where’s our Lawrence drive plot?”

“Programmed, sir,” VanDyke called out.

Godat licked his lips. This needs to be perfect. “On my mark, COB, deploy the drone. Meanwhile, Navigation, you will immediately spin up the Lawrence drive. Burst us forward on thrusters into the wormhole as soon as it fully opens.” And pray to HaShem that the enemy’s sensors fall for it.

He exchanged glances with Letchford before setting his jaw. “Mark.”

Things happened quickly as the chief of the boat directed the release of their Mk-VIII Enhanced Visual and Sensor Disruption drone, even as First Lieutenant Maxwell plied her console to trigger a stealth Lawrence drive jump.

The first indication things were going their way was a dramatic reduction in the amount of incoming fire directed at the Tucson. Since she was taking hull hits and the aft armor was gone, that came none too soon.

In front of the vessel, a wormhole opened—the muted product of the Growler-class specially designed drive.

“Lawrence drive wormhole established, sir,” Maxwell called out.

“Take us in,” Godat replied as he gripped his armrests.

A momentary push backward into the CO’s chair was the only effect of the Tucson’s thrusters firing. On the monitor that showed a real-time view of the exterior, the maw of the disturbance grew larger. As the vessel started inward, a cluster of at least ten missiles bearing fusion warheads suddenly changed course, directly for the CSV London.

Godat could say nothing as the red dots converged within moments on the friendly boat, and the blue icon representing the London disappeared. A lump formed in his throat, but no words came out. Moments later, the entire sensor screen went blank as the Tucson flew through its artificial tunnel between the stars and emerged on the other side.

Where an atmosphere of pride if not outright jubilation had been present seconds before, the mood in the control room quickly went somber. Soldiers who wore the Golden Nebulas were a tight lot and a group who’d earned their elite status. Godat closed his eyes and said a brief prayer for the dead in Hebrew. Upon opening them, he realized many others were doing the same.

“Conn, sensor room. No hostile contacts. Only our friendlies, sir. We’re clear.”

Godat touched the intercom button. “Did the London happen to make it? Or any lifepods?”

“No, sir. I didn’t detect any launches. My scope said the reactor went hypercritical.”

Letchford cursed under his breath.

“Thank you, Chief.” Godat closed the channel and put his head back. “That could’ve been us. Probably should’ve been, with how many risks I’ve been taking.”

“Can’t think like that, skipper,” Letchford replied. “This isn’t supposed to be an easy or low-risk job.”

Godat chuckled bitterly. “No, it’s not.” His eyes went the Tucson’s logo and motto—In defense of human freedom. May she ever prowl the void.—prominently displayed on the port-side wall. For now, anyway, we keep up the hunt.

Arthur closed his eyes for a moment. God, have mercy on their souls. The glow from the fusion explosion dimmed, leaving the Margaret Thatcher’s bridge in blue light. His gaze went to the tactical plot and, more specifically, the fleet readout. The screen displayed the overall status of shields, armor, and weapons for each vessel. Beat-up is an appropriate description. Each ship in the fleet had sustained damage to some extent, while the Leonidas was down to her forward mag-cannon turrets.

“Conn, TAO. Enemy fast movers regrouping at five hundred kilometers, while remaining hostile contacts are moving to consolidate.”

A good tactical officer knew when and how to deliver a report that highlighted important information to the CO. And despite Yasin’s youth and relative inexperience, she’s learning on the job rather well. Arthur knew what he had to do next. “Comms, signal all friendly vessels to prepare for Lawrence drive jump to the rendezvous coordinates. Tell our fighters not to worry with recovery. We’ll pick them up after the jump.”

Miller turned, her eyes bulging. “We’ve got them on the run.”

The words came across as less of a statement and more of an accusation imbued with rage.

Arthur pursed his lips before replying, “The fleet’s taking too much of a beating to continue this. We got what we came for, and now it’s time to go.”

“PFLOS can be defeated in detail right here. Right now.”

“Not without more loss of life. The Brazer can’t take many more hits. Even the Oxford has sustained heavy damage. They’re broken. We can finish them off in detail later. Now, our job is to make sure the hostages get to safety and restore our respective vessels to full fighting shape.”

The daggers erupting from Miller’s eyes said she wanted to throw down with him right there on the bridge in a no-holds-barred fight to see who would come out on top. But all at once, her expression softened. “Yes, sir.”

Maybe the last conversation we had sank in. Arthur turned his attention toward the front of the bridge. “Navigation, plot a Lawrence drive jump for us.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“Conn, Communications. Text-only message from the Oxford, sir. ‘Jolly good show, Colonel. We’ll see you on the other side. Signed, General Sinclair.’”

Arthur rubbed his hands together. “We must be doing something right if Sinclair’s happy. You heard the man, people. Good job. Actually, more of a miracle, really.”

Normally, after a win of that magnitude, one would expect the bridge crew to be pumped if not outright celebrating. But not then, at least not on the Thatcher. The loss of the London weighed heavily, as did the nonstop horror of the last ten days. Arthur Hanson looked forward to a momentary respite before the carnage of war continued. At least we’ve greatly diminished our foe. That’s got to count for something.

29

The White House

Lawrence City—Canaan

9 April 2474

David Cohen gripped the handle on his helicar’s door. Unlike the private models he was used to, one of the benefits of being COMSPACEFLT was a crewed craft with a backup pilot in case of failure. He emerged into a beehive of activity with men and women in business attire. As the seat of executive power in the Coalition, this place is always hopping, but there’s an extra energy I can’t quite put my finger on.

A young man walked up to him. “General Cohen?”

“The one and only.”

“Sir, they’re expecting you.”

David had sent word that he had an urgent update to President Rollins’s office but hadn’t put the contents in the message to avoid leaks in what he’d learned was a notoriously porous Lawrence City political scene. “Thank you.”

“If you’ll follow me?”

“Of course.”

While he knew exactly where the Situation Room was and, more importantly, how to get there, David wasn’t about to be rude to a junior staffer who appeared to have just gotten out of college. And probably thinks this is a big assignment. A grin crossed his lips as they got moving.

Five minutes later, after being waved through several checkpoints, the young man held the door open to the richly appointed conference room where President Rollins and her staff waited.

David came to attention a moment before Rollins gestured to one of the empty chairs. “At ease, General. You told my chief of staff it was urgent, so we’re all here.”

Yes, we are. David’s gaze shifted to Jessica Rhodes, who was seated several places down from the president. She keeps turning up like a bad credit chip. “The headline, ma’am, is less than half an hour ago, CDF forces under the command of Colonel Hanson secured the hostages. They’re en route to New Rostov now for medical care and to be released to their families and loved ones.”

Cheers broke out along with sustained clapping. Jackson Hardin, the president’s Chief of Staff, joined in, as did the Interstellar Security Advisor and a few other uniformed military personnel assigned to the White House. Even Rhodes brought her hands together a few times.

David slid into one of the empty chairs and propped his hands on the table. “Mission complete. Over five thousand men, women, and children rescued,” he said once the burst of emotion died down.

“That is… welcome news, General.” President Rollins seemed to summon a smile from the depths of her soul. “I didn’t think we’d hear it so soon.”

“Frankly, ma’am, I’m somewhat shocked Colonel Hanson and his people pulled it off. The numbers were not in our favor.” David shook his head. “But sometimes, right makes might. This was a brilliant operation that shouldn’t have worked, but it did.”

“When are those hostages going to be safe?” Harding interjected. “Are we certain there’s no more danger to them?”

“Since PFLOS lost at least ten ships and what we believe is its main static space installation, my best people think they’re not an interdiction threat on the way back to New Rostov. However, to be safe, we will make all Lawrence drive jumps into deep space. They have no way to track us there.”

Rollins nodded. “How many hostages lost?”

“We’re unclear on the exact number, but… several. I will say that the loss of life on our side was far less than to be expected among the assault teams. One ship was destroyed, the CSV London, a Growler-class stealth raider. One hundred eight officers and crew went down with her.”

“Heroes. All.” Rollins bit her lip.

Before she could add something else, David decided to strike while the proverbial iron was hot. “As we met your criteria, Madame President, I’d like to resume offensive operations immediately once the Margaret Thatcher and her consorts drop off the hostages and repair their most pressing battle damage.” Please don’t ask me a direct question about how we took out so many ships. I’m already bending so many mitzvot here it’s not funny. Adding lying to the list is not something I want to do.

As an Orthodox Jew, breaking the law of God was something David hated. He tried with all his might to keep every one of the six hundred thirteen mitzvot. Most days, something got missed. It always did… hence the term “practicing Jew.” One never quite mastered the law. Yet there were bright lines he could not cross, and deep within his soul, he knew that the switcheroo with the Oxford was something that, while inherently right, was also wrong. I committed a sin in order to save five thousand lives and stop terrorists from murdering innocents. Is that right? Is it wrong? Will HaShem forgive me?

Something told him that yes, God would forgive him. But it was not a position David Cohen liked to find himself in.

“Now would seem to be a perfect time for a ceasefire and peace talks,” Rhodes interjected.

David couldn’t believe what he’d heard. His mind played it back several times before he allowed himself to accept that any citizen of the Terran Coalition would be so idiotic as to suggest a ceasefire with terrorists who’d butchered men, raped and murdered women, and burned entire families alive while recording their actions and broadcasting them live to the galaxy.

“Are you serious?” The words came not from David’s mouth but Harding. His jaw seemed to almost hit the deep-cherry-wood conference table.

“The cause of peace is always serious,” Rhodes replied.

This has to be satire. Or a dream. Or maybe somebody’s flooded the White House with a hallucinogenic gas. It took every ounce of self-control David Cohen possessed not to verbally tear a bloody strip out of Rhodes. Instead, he forced his mouth shut.

“You removed PFLOS’s leverage, General,” Rollins finally said. She kept her eyes focused firmly on David. “Now finish them.”

“With pleasure, ma’am.”

“But—”

Rollins turned to Rhodes and affixed a death stare on her. “There will be no peace talks with terrorists.”

“I’m sure the rest of the Peace Union will love to hear that, Madam President,” Rhodes shot back haughtily. “Perhaps we’ll remember that the next time you have a bill up before the assembly.”

The threat had an ugly feel about it, especially during a time of war. David wondered if cabinet meetings with President Spencer had the same sort of dynamic. Or is this new? He did know that Senator Kaufman was a staunch opponent of some provisions of the SATO treaty. But that seems to have been left in the past. At least, as far as he knew from the talking heads on various holonews programs.

“General, please excuse us, as this meeting is shifting toward matters of politics,” Rollins said, her lips tight.

“Of course, ma’am.” He stood. “Ladies, gentlemen.”

Arguing erupted as David pushed the doors open and exited into the hallway. Once they closed, the only sounds were the footfalls of staffers along with murmured conversations as they walked. He strode back toward his helicar, amused. Possibly not the best thing for me to feel toward the leader of the Terran Coalition, but watching Rollins have to deal with that lunatic seems like a just reward. Perhaps she’ll get shown the door. Unlikely, because that would make too much sense.

David knew one thing: it was a miracle that Sinclair, Hanson, and their little ragtag band had pulled off the rescue. And I will thank HaShem for His assistance.

Arthur had realized over the last two weeks that there wasn’t a preprinted manual that explained how a commander was supposed to behave. Sure, there were regulations and a code to follow, but the deep meaning of leadership was something each man and woman had to discover for themselves. Many times, he thought about what General Cohen or Colonel Savchenko would’ve done and emulated them almost on autopilot.

The hatch to the Thatcher’s medical bay opened. This is one of those times. Not many military patients were left. Only a few crewmen and half a dozen Marines from the ship’s contingent were still checked in, but they were the most serious cases.

Dr. Wildstein popped his head out of the small vestibule that counted as an office. “Ah, Colonel. Need anything?”

Arthur shook his head. “No, Doc. I’m just here to pay a visit to the wounded.”

“I’d ask that you not wake patients that are asleep. They need some rest to heal.”

“Of course.”

With a respectful nod, Wildstein disappeared again.

Arthur surveyed the first few beds, which were occupied by enlisted soldiers and a lieutenant from engineering. All were asleep. The lieutenant had only a stump where his leg would be. He couldn’t tell, thanks to the blanket covering the young man, where exactly his appendage had been lost at, but it appeared either knee level or higher.

Sorrow filled Arthur’s mind. He would get a 3-D-printed metallic prosthetic as soon as the wound healed, which would only take a few days, thanks to superior Coalition medical tech. A few months later, they would reattach a flash-cloned limb and, after a couple of weeks of biomedical feedback therapy, it would be as good as new. Still, the thought of losing an arm, a leg, or any other portion of his body elicited dread. He’d heard from friends who’d suffered such injuries that a latent pain stuck around even after the damage was healed.

Arthur fished a small case out of his pocket and gently laid a purple heart next to the lieutenant’s bed before he came to attention then turned on his heel.

A few beds down, one soldier was awake and furiously tapping away on a tablet.

She glanced up from the device and took a moment to recognize him before dropping it in her lap. “Apologies, sir.”

“Why, Private?”

“I should be rendering proper respect to a senior officer, sir. But ah, well, I can’t move my bottom at the moment.”

Arthur grinned. “Any reason for that?” His eyes went to a screen above her bed. Private Herrera. Fire-control tech.

“Got caught in an energy-conduit explosion. Waiting for a nerve graft and repair to fully set.” She wiggled her toes. “It’s working, though. I just can’t move my trunk yet.”

“Praise the Lord for small miracles, yes?”

“Yes, sir,” Herrera replied.

He gestured to her tablet. “Got any decent entertainment down here?”

She pursed her lips. “I was writing a letter to my boyfriend back on Mexicali.”

The man in the bed next to them stirred. “Herrera, what did I tell you about waking me up?” he muttered.

Arthur recognized the voice of Avery Faulkner, which was confirmed a moment later when he poked his head out of the covers. “Oh, uh, sorry, sir.”

“Since when do Marines apologize to squids?” Arthur replied.

Herrera snickered, as did Faulkner and a couple of others within earshot.

“Valid point, sir. In that case, some of us want to sleep, sir.”

Arthur handed purple hearts to both of them before taking a step back. “I know those aren’t official, but that’s coming along with the ribbons soon enough.”

“Not needed, sir. I’m fine.” Faulkner grasped the medal. “Dr. Wildstein told me I’ll be back on my feet in a few days, ready to kick some terrorist ass.”

“I want you healthy, Lieutenant. So does a certain master chief.”

Faulkner snickered then winced. “Yeah, I guess Doc was right about being sore.”

Arthur suspected that to the Marine, what constituted sore was an eleven out of ten on a pain scale for him and most other soldiers. “Harrell was worried about you. That’s a rare compliment for a man who, to my knowledge, hates officers with a passion.”

“Yeah, special ops guys don’t care for cake eaters.”

“You managed to impress him. And a whole lot of other people, Lieutenant. Including me.”

Faulkner inclined his head. “I was just—”

“Doing my duty?”

The Marine nodded. “Exactly, sir.”

“Cut the sir stuff.” Arthur gestured around the medical bay. “Look, butter bars don’t tend to tell E-9s how to roll, and not only did you make a couple of key calls, but you saved a lot of lives. Be proud of that. I’ve been doing this a long time, Lieutenant. And I consistently find the men and women who go above and beyond while saying it’s their duty or part of a job are the ones you want beside you when shit hits the fan and we’re all about to die.”

Faulkner licked his lips. “I can see that, s—. Still, I don’t feel like a hero.”

“I recall hearing that the heroes are the ones who go home in a pine box.”

“Same.”

“A lot of people owe you their lives today. I, ah, wanted you to know it’s not forgotten.”

There was no trace of the animosity that had come between the two of them in the leadup to the station assault, and Arthur certainly wasn’t going near the tactics he’d had to use on Vannier to get answers. Though if he was being honest with himself, his actions still weighed on his conscience. Why? I didn’t do anything wrong. Yet for all he told himself that, the condemnation remained.

“Think Command will let us get back out there?” Faulkner asked after a few moments of silence.

“General Cohen will make sure of it,” Arthur replied. In truth, he felt confident they’d be eradicating the terrorists within a week. Once the fleet arrives, it’s open season on these guys. “You guys should get some rest.”

“Sounds like a plan, sir. One I was accomplishing with glee until somebody woke me up,” Faulkner replied with a faux annoyed tone.

All three of them laughed before Arthur moved off. He spent a few more minutes with a couple of other wounded soldiers before ending up in Dr. Wildstein’s office.

“So how are they really?” Arthur asked as he gingerly sat in a chair, careful not to disturb a bag of emergency medical supplies set against it.

Wildstein put down his tablet. “I’ve seen some of the worst injuries I’ve treated in my career coming out of our Marine casualties.”

“Seriously?”

“PFLOS uses ballistic weapons, much like we do. Except they also use magnetically accelerated hand weapons.”

That much, Arthur already knew. “Which are banned outside of crew-serviced varieties by the Canaan Convention on Human and Alien Rights.”

“They’re also the subject of several arms control treaties between the Coalition, the Saurian Empire, and other civilizations in our local cluster, for good reason. They’re extremely lethal and punch through multiple people and objects. While the League certainly isn’t a party to those treaties, it doesn’t have the coin to field such weapons in large numbers.”

“But PFLOS does,” Arthur replied.

“That’s not all they do. Do you know what a fléchette is, Colonel?”

“Can’t say I do.”

Wildstein shook his head. “These Gauss rifles they’re using… Some of the rounds split into fléchettes. Tiny projectiles that look like arrows. I’ve got men with sixty of the damn things in them, and they spread around the body, making it difficult to get them all. Lots of internal bleeding. I suppose the lethality is what the terrorists are after, but given how they’ve behaved, I think it’s uglier. I think they enjoy making you suffer before you die.”

Arthur took a moment to consider what the doctor had said. While Arthur had spent most of his time in the CDF as an engineering duty officer, a handful of times, he’d had to pick up a weapon and defend himself. I know I killed Leaguer boarders on the Lion of Judah and some of those crazy aliens with the teleporters. What were those guys called? The Admari? Yeah. Killing wasn’t something he was proud of or boastful of. I’m an engineer first. I know that.

But the thought of making an enemy suffer needlessly during death didn’t sit well with him. It wasn’t something he’d ever think to do. Except… I did. I tortured Vannier, didn’t I? Is there a difference? No, there was something different about loading a weapon with ammunition designed to maim rather than kill or stun.

At least, he’d try to hold on to that.

“Disgusting,” Arthur finally replied as his mouth caught up to his mind.

Wildstein shook his head. “I’d almost rather be fighting actual Leaguers.”

“But then we’d be back in another war.”

“At least that war had some rules to it. And we had specific regulations regarding POWs.”

Arthur licked his lips. “Doctor—”

“I will not debate it with you, Colonel. You’re the man in the big chair. You have the lives of everyone on this ship on your shoulders, and that’s not a weight I want. Trying to save one soldier at a time and praying to HaShem that He will use my hands to heal and give me wisdom to treat every patient is more than enough.”

“There’s a but in there.”

“Rules exist for a reason, sir. I hope somebody in your command structure has reminded you of that, because this kind of conflict… It’s caustic. It destroys our souls. And that revulsion you just felt? Remember it the next time you order your Marines to put a prisoner into an airlock.”

Arthur winced. The doctor’s words, while pointed, weren’t wrong, and he knew it. “I was justified by the situation. We had to find our people.”

Wildstein shrugged. “Then it’s between you and HaShem.”

“Do you need anything else in terms of medical supplies, Doctor?” Arthur was eager to change the subject to something, anything, else.

“What we need is a hospital ship on station. Which I hope will be coming with these promised reinforcements. I’ll be able to order flash-cloned limbs and provide far more advanced healing, especially to the Marines.”

Arthur nodded. “I’ll make sure when it gets here, you’re first in line.”

“Thank you, Colonel.”

Sometimes, it’s knowing when to leave. Arthur stood. “Thanks for your time, Doctor.”

“The wounded appreciate seeing that the brass care.”

“Of course,” Arthur replied.

He made his way out of the medical bay, the conversation with Wildstein replaying in his head. It caused an overwhelming feeling that perhaps where he belonged was in engineering and not on the command deck. Arthur pushed it down because he also recognized that for the moment, he owned the situation. Period. And I’ve got to see it through by eliminating PFLOS. Then I’ll figure out what comes next.

“So why are we on the Oxford again?” Jeremiah asked as he and Faulkner navigated through the long passageways in the bowels of the intelligence vessel.

“Master Chief Harrell’s request,” Faulkner replied. He was just as perplexed but figured there was an after-action briefing they’d missed or something to that effect.

“But he specifically wanted me along too?”

“Yup, Chief. That was the explicit instruction that arrived on my fleetlink.”

Spacewalker country aboard the supposed technical-research ship appeared as bland and drab as Marine berthing on any CDF vessel. Nothing denoted that some of the fiercest and most lethal warriors the Terran Coalition produced were housed only steps away.

They came to a hatch marked simply Alpha Team, and Faulkner pressed a button to open it.

“Well, took you too long enough,” Harrell called from within.

Faulkner snickered. “My chronometer says we’re three minutes early, Master Chief.” He stepped inside to see a series of wire mesh cages circling the room. Each was large enough for a suit of power armor, a collection of weapons larger than most freighters had to repel pirates, and a bench for gunsmithing. I recall reading somewhere that most spacewalkers work on their own weapons rather than trust someone else. Guess it’s true.

“Yeah, yeah. Anything less than five minutes early is late in these parts. So about those pushups, Lieutenant—”

“Seeing as how my platoon saved your team, let’s call it even, Master Chief.”

Harrell snorted. “On account of you being recently sewed up, I’ll let it pass for now.”

The rest of the team stood around a central table. The men, without power armor and wearing standard-issue BDU—battle dress uniform—camos clearly had well-built physiques but didn’t possess the same imposing presence as the fully armored and armed group. Even Kucuk, the Saurian member, seemed about as relaxed as members of his species would ever portray.

Harrell lined up eight shot glasses and poured a dark-brown liquid from a decanter that appeared to be made of fine crystal. “Care to join us, Lieutenant?”

Faulkner tilted his head. “We’re on duty, Master Chief.”

“Oh, please. You’re not even on your own ship.” Harrell scooted two of them toward Faulkner and Jeremiah, while the other commandos each picked up a glass.

Mata grinned. “We liberated this supply from General Sinclair’s personal collection. I will say this—the man knows his scotch.”

Faulkner’s eyes widened. “You broke into Sinclair’s office?”

“Private quarters, actually,” Rostami replied. “I got his digital trip wires, and he didn’t know we’d done it until Kucuk here told him the next day because, well, honor.”

“You told me we were testing his security on the general’s orders,” Kucuk interjected as he showed off two rows of teeth. “Which was a lie.”

“Not exactly. I heard he tripled his security because of that stunt,” Harrell said with a snicker. “And we got to keep the spoils.”

Faulkner picked up one of the glasses, held it up, and pursed his lips. “Well, in that case, who am I to refuse the fruits of a mission well run? Thank you, gentlemen.”

Harrell lifted his as well. “Bravo Zulu, Lieutenant. You and your entire platoon. I don’t find many cake eaters—or crayon eaters for that matter—who can keep up with us, but you did okay.”

Jeremiah snickered as he ran his tongue over his lips. “Please don’t take offense, Master Chief, but I practice complete abstinence.”

“So you don’t drink. You don’t kill people. Do you gamble? Have a few girlfriends on the side? I mean, come on, this is the CDF, not the Boy Scouts.”

A wave of raucous laughter swept the room, and Faulkner playfully punched Jeremiah’s arm. “He’s got you there.”

“Part of my religion, Master Chief.”

“Well, if you ever want to get drunk, come see me. We’ll get you fixed up right. In the meanwhile, you keep doing your thing. I don’t really get going into a battle zone without the means to defend myself, but hey, it works for you, and there’s a lot of Marines and a couple of spacewalkers still alive because you saved them.”

Jeremiah shook his head. “I’m only doing my job and using the talents the Lord blessed me with.”

“Oh my God, are you serious? Take some credit. Bask in it. Go impress some girls… Oh yeah. Okay. What is with you Margaret Thatcher types anyway? Everyone on that ship is a downer. I don’t see anyone smiling over there.”

“Stiff upper lip and all that, Master Chief,” Faulkner replied without missing a beat. “Gotta live up to our name, you know?”

“Yeah, well, killing Leaguers or these terrorist assholes brings a smile to my face.”

The youngest member of the team, Bachar, piped up, “Me, too, Master Chief.”

“Oh good. Glad the new blood agrees with me. Otherwise, I’d have to change course.” Harrell downed his shot in one smooth gulp. “Ah, that just flows down the throat so nicely. Rostami, you’re going to have to get us back into the good general’s quarters. I want more of it.”

“Yeah, I think I’ll pass on that one, Master Chief. Sinclair was pretty clear we got a one-time pass.”

More laughter followed, then everyone else consumed the liquor.

Harrell ended up grabbing the shot Jeremiah had refused and took a sip. “If you two want to join a real outfit, either one of you is welcome in the spacewalkers any time.”

“Mighty kind of you to offer, Master Chief,” Faulkner replied. “But I didn’t go through the TCMC crucible to bail out. Once a Marine, always a Marine.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Bachar gestured to Jeremiah. “The chief hasn’t said no, though. We could always get him set up with some stun rounds or something. Or maybe he could pray for the enemy’s souls on a loudspeaker.”

Rostami raised an eyebrow. “Was that an attempt at a joke?”

“Uh, yeah, Chief.”

“Stow it.”

“Yes, Chief.”

Ah, some things never change. Faulkner had seen that kind of banter for years, since it was a staple of both the TCMC and the CDF. It was part and parcel of being a Marine or really any type of ground pounder the Coalition military had. “So, where to now, Master Chief? You guys heading back to the Arm?”

Harrell shook his head. “Who knows. Brass can’t figure out what they’re doing, but we’re on extended assignment to the Oxford. That means we go where Sinclair says to go. As long as he’s got doors to kick and douchebags to shoot, I’m good.”

“I’m sure we’ll all get our fill of dealing with PFLOS. Something tells me that despite their losses, they’re not anywhere near done yet.”

“You speak wisdom, human. Sadly, I believe you are right.” Kucuk flashed his teeth. “And we will be there to protect the innocent and send the wicked on to their judgment.”

Faulkner shook his head. He didn’t have any qualms about killing PFLOS—or Leaguers if they were trying to kill him. An undercurrent of being glad to do the deed came from the big Saurian, though, and that was something he didn’t want to emulate. “Fair enough. Well, this has been fun, Master Chief, but we’d better get back to the Thatcher. I’m sure Colonel Hanson is eager to get back to fighting PFLOS the moment they raise their heads.”

“Well, the next time you see some off, raise a glass to my fallen brothers.”

Faulkner stuck out his hand. “You got it, Master Chief. Take care.”

“Yeah, watch yourself out there without the spacewalkers to bail your ass out.”

Harrell’s grip was so tight that Faulkner’s hand stung afterward. He and Jeremiah turned but only got as far as the hatch.

“Spacewalkers, attention on deck!” Harrell barked with the practiced rasp of a man who’d pushed his fair share of boots during basic and advanced infantry training.

Jeremiah and Faulkner turned. All six of them had assumed a ramrod straight posture, arms down at their sides, in the classic attention pose.

Faulkner inclined his head in acknowledgment. “At ease, gentlemen. Thank you and Godspeed.”

“You, too, sir,” Rostami replied.

A few moments later, the hatch shut behind Faulkner and Jeremiah. For at least fifty meters, their footsteps echoing on the alloy deck plates were the only sound.

“Takes a lot to earn a commando’s respect, sir,” Jeremiah said finally. “You did good over there. Some real John Wayne stuff.”

“The only thing I did was my job.” Faulkner bit his lip. “The heroes are the ones who came back in body bags… or the ones whose bodies we couldn’t get before the station went up. Not me.”

“That Purple Heart you’re up for says otherwise.”

Faulkner stopped and turned. “I won’t accept it.”

“Why not?” Jeremiah asked with shock. “You took two rounds and came pretty close to bleeding out. That’s an earned Purple Heart if I’ve ever seen one.”

“Because I was fine the next day, and I’m already back on light duty. Save that for the men and women who lose limbs. Not a Marine officer with a little wear and tear.”

Jeremiah tilted his head. “How about some advice from an older man?”

“I’m all ears.”

“Keep that attitude. It’ll serve you well.”

Faulkner flashed a grin. “Why do I suspect you’d box me on the ears if I tried to stray from it?”

“Oh, I would, and so would your gunnery sergeant.”

Faulkner bit his lip. “I’m lucky to have people like you around me. This is… not an easy row to hoe. But together, we can do it.”

The two men resumed their brisk pace. Faulkner looked forward to getting fully healed and getting back into the fight. The best way for him to honor the fallen was to keep beating PFLOS. Save the innocents. Stop the terrorists. It’s really that simple for once. In the back of his mind, he knew it wouldn’t be. He would have moral decisions to make, ones he wasn’t looking forward to. But for the moment, the situation remained black and white. That, at least, was a blessing.

30

Despite the impressive victories, the rescue of the hostages, and a general sense that perhaps a page had been turned in the war against PFLOS, Arthur Hanson was unsettled. He walked in a loop around the Margaret Thatcher several times to clear his head. The action usually did the trick, but it wasn’t working. The second time he passed the chapel, it dawned on him that perhaps his subconscious mind was trying to tell him something. I suppose I could use an honest conversation.

Exhaling heavily, he pushed open the hatch. Unlike the Lion of Judah, with its multiple large chapels for each major faith and a multiuse facility for smaller faiths, the Thatcher and most noncapital-class vessels had a single space that was changed up depending on who was using it. He walked to the back, past the table set up with items for a Christian service, and stuck his head into the office. “Hey, Chaplain. Are you busy?”

Major Stephen Pelicot set down his tablet and leaned back. “Just proofing my sermon for Sunday. What do you need?”

“Some advice maybe? A friendly ear, for sure.”

“Then sit.” He gestured to an empty chair. “That’s what I’m here for.”

Arthur swung one of his legs over the armrest and slid into the seat. “Well, where to begin.” Why is it so hard to have an honest conversation?

“Wherever you’d like.”

“I’m… a mess of different emotions. Part of me is proud of the victory, yet I don’t even feel like I belong in my position. Almost like I’m wearing somebody else’s skin. Then—”

Pelicot held up his hand. “Let’s discuss it one at a time. What you’re describing is classic imposter syndrome. We all feel it at some point or another. The last time we spoke, you mentioned this as well, but I thought it had improved.”

Arthur closed his eyes. “It has… then it hasn’t. Then it has again.”

“Perhaps something deeper is bothering you.”

The oblique reference to the enhanced interrogation techniques used on Vannier made Arthur grimace. “I know I crossed a line. And on some level, I don’t know what to do with it. Because I have little in the way of remorse.”

“But that’s not entirely true, is it?” Pelicot’s gaze seemed to pierce his soul.

Arthur steepled his fingers as he mentally squirmed. “I have two separate thought processes. One is that I should’ve ejected him into the void after getting the information. The other is that I’m losing my humanity and making a mockery of my belief in God, the law, and the Terran Coalition.”

Pelicot nodded and didn’t say anything for a few seconds. “Have you talked about this with anyone else?”

“Not beyond Major Miller and Lieutenant Faulkner.”

“One for, one against?”

Arthur nodded.

“Have you ever read the Proverbs?”

“Can’t say that I have. I know, not exactly a great ecclesiastical student. I was always too busy reading the latest reactor manual.”

“‘Where there is no counsel, the people fall. But in a multitude of counselors, there is safety.’ I’m not suggesting you should talk to every person on the ship, but there’s got to be a few senior officers you could confide in.”

“General Cohen used to say it’s not a democracy.”

“He’s right. We’re also six thousand light-years from Canaan, and I don’t exactly see plentiful Coalition military brass out here. You’re on your own in a strange and hostile situation. Take some advice from those around you and try to make sure it’s balanced between different perspectives. Then ask yourself what Jesus would expect from you.”

Arthur’s eyes went to the floor. Somehow, I don’t think Jesus would approve of my torturing a man almost to death. “What else could I do?”

“That isn’t for me to say, and I’m not here to judge you. But I encourage you to listen to your conscience. I believe that is the voice of the Lord speaking to us. Trying to guide us. And if we ignore it too long, He will walk our path no more.”

The chaplain was trying to help, but the talk almost seemed to make things worse. Inside, a battle raged within. Arthur wasn’t sure which side would win or what he ought to do beyond carry on. PFLOS had to be defeated, and once that occurred, perhaps he could sort out his soul.

“Thinking it through?”

Arthur blinked. “Sorry. A lot on my mind.”

“May I pray with you?”

“Yeah. I’d like that.”

Pelicot stood and walked around to the chair next to Arthur’s before sitting and holding out his hands.

Arthur took them and bowed his head. Despite the chaplain’s soothing words as he prayed, asking God to help and guide his steps, Arthur felt nothing but turmoil as his mind raced a kilometer a minute. Perhaps it’ll get better in time. I hope. Because this is no way to exist.

The alarm went off in Arthur’s stateroom below decks at oh four thirty. He’d allowed himself the luxury in hopes of getting a solid night’s sleep. To his surprise, there had been no interruption since he closed his eyes. Beyond vague recollections of strange and distorted dreams, he’d obtained seven hours of rest.

“Uuuuugh.” Arthur pushed the covers off and sat up on the side of the bed. “Play Bach mix.”

Familiar strains of the Brandenburg concertos filled the cabin and immediately brought vigor to Arthur’s mind. He went through a sequence of exercises on the floor specifically to work core muscle strength before hitting the shower and preparing for the day.

After he’d had a quick breakfast of a bagel with an egg on it, his tablet beeped. He suppressed a groan. Sinclair wants to see me in person? We have vidlinks for a reason. It would totally wipe out his routine and the watch he’d planned to stand starting in fifteen minutes, but the general’s orders trumped everything else. Off to the shuttle bay, I go.

Half an hour later, Arthur entered Sinclair’s office aboard the Oxford. It was considerably larger and better appointed than anything on the Margaret Thatcher. On the back wall, a poster of the CDF Intelligence logo with the motto “In God We Trust. All Others, We Monitor.” hung proudly.

He walked to Sinclair’s workstation and came to attention. “Lieutenant Colonel Arthur Hanson reports as ordered, sir.”

“At ease before you rupture a spinal disc,” Sinclair replied as he gestured to one of the chairs in front of the large faux-wood desk. “Have a seat.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Some things can’t be said openly on commlinks. Especially ones that are open to interception.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “Our encryption systems are second to none, sir.”

“My boy, don’t ever assume technical superiority. If all the years in this business have taught me anything, it’s that whatever computer wizardry we do, the League can accomplish too.”

“Yes, sir.” What’s so important it can’t go over subspace anyway?

Sinclair propped his hands on the desk. “We’ve drawn quite a bit of attention with the Oxford appearing out of the void to lay waste to those buggers. League External Security is actively searching for the ship and attempting to gather intelligence on our capabilities.”

“I would think they already know about the Oxford’s abilities.”

“Oh, quite. But we’re more effective in the shadows rather than a straight slugging match. I plan to fade into the void and help you pinpoint targets.”

“That makes sense, sir. And by not broadcasting that, you leave PFLOS and our League friends guessing.”

Sinclair’s face lit up with a grin. “Precisely, old chap.”

“There’s something more to my trip here, though.” Arthur steepled his fingers.

“Perceptive. Yes. I wish to discuss the disposition of the prisoners captured by your Marine VBSS teams.”

Arthur’s heart skipped a couple of beats, and he fought the urge to twitch. “Yes, sir.”

“I want them transferred to the Oxford for further interrogation. PFLOS has to have other strongpoints, stations, staging grounds. These individuals need to be questioned by professionals around the clock. I hope we can get something out of them.”

The Margaret Thatcher wasn’t equipped to hold the number of detainees she had aboard for any length of time. It’ll take some stress off our supplies situation, at least. “What about Vannier?”

Sinclair affixed him with a hard stare. “What about him, my boy?”

“We broke him. I broke him. I think he’s more likely to give more information up while in the Thatcher’s custody.” Unspoken was a fear that erupted from within that Vannier would implicate Arthur as having violated the Canaan Convention on Human and Alien Rights. Even as he tried push it down, self-preservation was of paramount concern.

“That does make sense, though I am concerned about his… treatment aboard your vessel, Colonel.” The way Sinclair made the statement, it was obvious to what he was referring.

“I don’t believe any further harsh methods will be needed.”

Sinclair sighed. “If this were any situation besides fighting organized terrorists who rape and murder with impunity, I’d bring you up on charges.”

“None of us would do that to a run-of-the-mill Leaguer, sir.” But if I did it to this man, why not others? That was the thing about lines. Once crossed, the behavior was far easier to do in the future.

“I want your word as an officer and a gentleman that you will abide by all UCMJ regulations on the treatment of prisoners going forward, Colonel.”

Arthur inclined his head. “I will to the best of my ability, sir.” Even as Arthur uttered the words, he knew that despite wanting to believe them, the likelihood of getting through the war without using extreme measures was low. Am I a hypocrite? If I have to ask that, isn’t that the answer? But pondering and self-searching would lead nowhere. I must focus on the mission and solely on the mission.

“Good.”

“What of the San Juan, sir?”

“Still one of our escorts. I’ve got two more heading out, but it’ll be a couple of weeks before they arrive.” Sinclair made a face. “You’ve only got another eight days until the fleet arrives.”

Arthur exhaled. “Seems like an eternity.”

“That’s because it is, old chap. Wish you’d stayed in the Lion’s engine room now?”

“No.”

Sinclair raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“I can’t explain it to you, but even though I’m learning as I go, I think I’m supposed to be here. And I’d rather be here than playing it safe back on the Lion.” As Arthur spoke, his back straightened.

“Good. That’s the attitude needed to win this.” Sinclair picked up his tablet and waved it in the air. “We’ll find you targets.”

“Then we’ll blow them out of the universe so they can face judgment.”

“Amen to that.” Sinclair set down the device. “Well, Colonel, I have many things to do. But I appreciate your taking the trouble of coming over. Good luck in your hunting.”

Arthur stood and came to attention. “Thank you, sir.”

“Dismissed.”

On the brisk walk back to the Oxford’s shuttle bay, Arthur had some time to think. There’s going to be a reckoning after this is over, if I’m still alive. Right and wrong… maybe they didn’t matter. Maybe at the moment, the only thing that mattered was defeating PFLOS. He frankly wasn’t sure. But beating and killing these terrorists is something I can focus on. The rest will get handled in due time.

Arthur strode on.

31

PSS Ivan Panfilov

Deep Space—Orion Spur

10 April 2474

Yevgeny Kovalev stared at the plasma pistol in his hand. It had been his officer’s sidearm many years prior when he served in the League of Sol Navy. He’d never actually shot it outside of a range. A first time for all things, I suppose. The cause and their effort had been noble but futile. He couldn’t figure out how it had all gone wrong. They’d had the drop on the Coalition Defense Force, but despite that, somehow, just a few of their infernal ships had laid waste to his brothers and sisters in arms.

He raised the weapon to his head and closed his eyes. My sons, I failed you. For that, I am sorry. Others will take up the torch, and someday, you will be avenged.

The urgent buzzing of the intercom attracted Kovalev’s attention before he could slide his finger to the trigger. I suppose it doesn’t hurt to answer. He set down the sidearm and touched the accept key. “Yes?”

“Sir, we have an urgent transmission from our benefactor, authenticated for your eyes only.”

Kovalev almost rejected the commlink. What does it matter if he wishes to chastise me? He can do no more than I have already done to myself. He was far past the point of rage. His fury had been expended on anything not glued down in the small office, as evidenced by the marks on the walls and thrown objects littering the deck. Yet I owe him the pleasure of condemning me.

He steeled himself before replying, “Put it through.”

“At once.”

The screen built into Kovalev’s desk came to life, but as usual, there was no video connection, only audio. “Hello, comrade.”

“I have nothing to do but take full responsibility for this disaster,” Kovalev said without preamble. “Forgive me, comrade. This failure should fall on me alone, and I am prepared to answer with my life for letting down the cause.”

A pause followed. “Yevgeny, I’ve known you for years. Your determination is a trait I admire, and the drive to avenge your sons and the sons of all our mothers and fathers is admirable. This setback is merely a bump on the road to victory.”

Kovalev blinked a few times. Of all the things he’d expected to hear, that wasn’t it. “Comrade, perhaps you do not have the full situational report. We’ve lost half our initial force. I do not believe operations can continue with any hope of success, especially with CDF reinforcements so near at hand. All are willing to make the sacrifice needed, but I hesitate to send good men and women to die without true possibility of victory.”

“As you should, comrade. The appearance of the infernal CDF Intelligence vessel and my old foe, Robert Sinclair… was not expected. But that is how the great game sometimes works. And I have a contingency plan for such an occurrence.”

“May I ask what that is?”

“Not over this connection. I remain distrustful of the Coalition’s technical capabilities, especially with the Oxford in our general vicinity. You will receive a set of coordinates through a quantum-encrypted one-time code momentarily. Go there, and the path forward will be revealed.”

It seemed like something from a goofy Galt-made spy holo or a poorly written fictional account of how clandestine operatives functioned. Yet if those were the benefactor’s orders, Kovalev would carry them out with his last breath if need be. “I understand.”

“Good, comrade. Good. This hasn’t been the best day for us, but do not give up hope. The Terran Coalition will be brought to its knees before us. I promise you that.”

Kovalev licked his lips. To say that the benefactor was unusually forgiving was an understatement. The normal response to any failure was the termination of the operative, not a quiet acknowledgment and more resources. Perhaps he means to have me eliminated and doesn’t think I would have the fortitude to do the deed myself. It didn’t matter. Kovalev would accept his fate if it came to that. If he could further the cause of defeating the Coalition, he’d gladly do that too. All that mattered was making them pay and erasing the scourge of the so-called freedom-loving capitalists from the universe.

“I will serve to the best of my ability, comrade.”

“Of this, I have no doubt. We will speak again once you reach the coordinates.”

Unlike every previous instance Dmitry Borisov had contacted Kovalev or the other senior leaders he maintained contact with in PFLOS, today, it was from the comfort of his office. The die was cast. To go further, thanks to Robert Sinclair’s meddling, he could no longer hide in the shadows and be effective.

Borisov stood and put his finger on a sensor hidden under his desk. A secret compartment opened, revealing a small case, which he put into his pocket. He buttoned the jacket and strode out, walked past his assistant in the vestibule outside the office, and moved through a labyrinth of corridors that made up the League of Sol External Security Service headquarters.

Two hours later, he emerged from his private helicar on the grounds of Minister Yvette Etienne’s home. Estate would be a better description, as it sat on sixty acres of land in what had once been southern Germany. I wonder how many credits she’s embezzled or accepted as bribes to afford this lifestyle. The touches of wealth were everywhere, from the horse stables within view of the main dacha to half a dozen laborers working on the landscaping under a brilliantly sunny sky.

It was more fit for a Coalition robber baron who raked in billions of credits off the backs of hard-working men and women. That kind of decadence was one of the primary reasons Borisov had been moved to act in the first place. He made his way across the immaculately manicured lawn and up the grand entryway.

The doors swung inward, and a security officer stood before him. “Director, we were not notified of your arrival, sir.”

Borisov kept his mouth in a nearly perfect straight line. “That is because you did not need to know, young man. I must speak with Minister Etienne immediately.”

“She is…” The youngster pulled a device off his belt and examined it. “In her study, sir.”

“Take me there at once.”

“Of course, Director.”

The guard turned and marched off into the home, through a hallway with marble flooring and up a staircase that wrapped around a central spire. Borisov estimated the house had to have fifty rooms. Down another hallway lay an ornate door, and once the guard opened it, Etienne stood from her desk.

“Director, what a pleasant surprise,” she said in a tone that screamed it was anything but.

Borisov allowed a small smile on his lips. From a man who never showed any emotion, it was a large gesture. “Madame Minister, forgive the intrusion, but there are matters we must speak of immediately.”

“Leave us.”

The guard nodded curtly before turning and closing the door behind him, leaving the two of them in silence.

“We must discuss the current situation, Madame Minister,” Borisov said as he plucked a small device from his coat and set it on the desk. “This will allow us to talk with complete candor.”

Etienne smirked as she returned to her seat. “Do you think I would dare to record a conversation with the head of ESS?”

“Considering you almost killed me in my own home, why, yes, I think that’s something you would do. And you’d be a fool if you didn’t.”

“I see you haven’t slipped.”

“Since I’m still alive, no. Let us discuss the Popular Front for the Liberation of the Orion Spur.”

“Oh, I thought the Coalition had recently defeated them… Using weaponry prohibited in the exclusive zone,” Etienne said with another smirk. Her tone exuded the level of enjoyment she was having at his expense.

“I wouldn’t believe everything you hear, Yvette. Especially about patriots fighting against capitalist aggression.”

Etienne tossed her head back and laughed. “Spare me. Look, Dmitry, I know you’re behind PFLOS. My people have gathered enough proof to have you hanged after a fifty-year stint in a reeducation facility, though I must commend you, as it was especially difficult and cost several lives.”

Borisov didn’t move a muscle. After decades of clandestine work, he was a master at not giving anything away on his face. “If that were true, Madame Minister, you would’ve already had me shot.”

She chuckled. “Not at all. The League needs people like you, Director. And your gambit went a lot further than I expected, frankly. It’s destabilized the Terran Coalition and will cause lasting damage internally. Which is good for us.”

“Hypothetically, if this were true, having our fellow patriots press forward would end up returning the Orion Spur to us. The Coalition’s government seems to have no interest in risking a war.”

Etienne crossed her arms. “That is where we disagree and where the facts no longer support you, Dmitry. Once the CDF’s reinforcements arrive, your little toy soldiers won’t stand a chance. Beyond that, even if they did win, the Coalition’s politicians would eventually send overwhelming force. Why? Because enough of them are smart enough to know we won’t start yet another interstellar conflict with our shipyards barely rebuilt and operating at twenty percent capacity.”

Listening to her prattle on, Borisov knew what was coming next would bring him not only satisfaction but also joy. His hand slowly inched toward the case in his coat pocket, and he deftly pressed a button on its side. A cylinder ejected into his palm. “You think in such small terms.”

“Spoken like an intelligence officer unconcerned with the lives affected by his strategies. What do you call it? The great game, yes?”

Borisov’s lips curled up. “From time to time.” With lightning-fast reflexes, he drew the cylinder out of his pocket and leaned across the desk before depressing a button built into its top.

A fine mist erupted from the device and seemed to engulf Etienne’s head. She started to reach a hand under her desk, but it fell uselessly to her side, and her head collapsed backward.

“Ah, good to see our technical-support-services people can still do their jobs,” Borisov remarked as he stood. “You’re no doubt wondering what was in the liquid. Nothing more than a fast-acting paralysis agent. Without medical intervention, you would recover in no more than twenty minutes with no lasting effects.”

Etienne’s hand jerked slightly as if spasming.

“I’m afraid there’s nothing you can do, Minister.” Borisov withdrew the case from his coat and laid it on the desk before opening the top. “Unfortunately, this next drug will have permanent effects.”

A grunt came from Etienne’s lips, so faint that even a meter away, Borisov barely heard it.

“Ah, you’re a strong one. That is commendable, Yvette. I’m sure if you could speak, you would be telling me how I will pay for my actions and the League will execute me for my crimes.”

As Borisov spoke, he took a small autoinjector out of the case and knelt next to Etienne’s chair. It only took him a few moments to remove her left shoe—a black designer-brand high heel—and slide the needle between two of her toes. “Truly, it’s a shame things have come to this. But you see, Madame Minister, you should’ve killed me when you had the chance. I’m not like one of those silly holovid villains, because I never forget, nor do I forgive.”

He squeezed the device, which in turn delivered its deadly payload, before putting the shoe back on and standing. “Now, that will take less than five minutes to stop your heart. You will be dead within eight minutes from now, and no one will ever know. When they find your body later today, it will appear you suffered from a medical emergency. Oh, and don’t worry. I have a handpicked replacement waiting in the wings. Your portfolio will be in good hands.”

Once again, Etienne’s hand spasmed upward, and she made a noise.

Borisov collected the case, returned it to his jacket, and headed toward the door. “Really, do take this time to contemplate your life choices, Minister. You have a couple of minutes of absolute peace until everything goes black. Use them wisely.”

With that, he turned on his heel and strode out, careful to close the door without making a sound behind him. As Borisov strode down the hallway and back down the stairs toward the exit and his helicar, he felt a sense of relief. More than that, he was quite happy to have removed a serious threat to his plans. And one more traitor to the League is dead. Today is a good day.

32

It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that a butt-chewing of monumental proportions was headed David’s way. He’d been ordered to attend a meeting in the Oval Office, and President Robbins didn’t particularly like him. The feeling’s mutual. As he walked through the hallways, most of the junior staffers didn’t meet his eyes. They almost act afraid of me. He didn’t understand it. Then again, I don’t connect with this new crew.

David rounded a corner and approached the vestibule in front of the Oval Office, where the executive assistant who handled the comings and goings sat. “Good morning. I have an appointment at—”

“She’s expecting you, General. Go on in.” The tone was off, in perhaps an attempt at forced joviality.

Maybe I’m about to get fired. “Thank you.” David took a few steps forward and pushed the door open before walking through.

The Oval Office was a perfect recreation of the original on Earth, as was the building it resided in—the White House. The Terran Coalition, upon its founding, had taken as much inspiration from Earth as possible. I suppose it makes sense that the Americans, having the most population evacuated, left a larger mark than some other countries. But it seemed to even out in the end, thanks to the dozens of republics that made up the Coalition.

President Rollins sat behind her desk with a scowl on her face. She put the tablet in her hands down and stared at him.

Before she could speak, David marched to a spot several feet in front of the Resolute Desk and came to ramrod-straight attention. “General David Cohen reports as ordered, ma’am.”

“Ah, the consummate hypocrite has arrived.” Rollins pursed her lips.

David set his jaw. “I believe we’re above petty insults, Madame President.”

“Do you? Is that why you disobeyed my direct orders not to send heavy units into the Orion Spur? I would say that demonstrating disrespect for the chain of command and the president of the Terran Coalition is a petty insult, General Cohen.”

“I obeyed your orders to the letter, Madame President.”

“Orthodox Jews believe lying is a sin, do they not?”

“Yes, we do. It’s one of Moses’s commandments.”

Rollins crossed her arms. “Then explain this to me, General. Because from where I’m sitting, you’ve made a fool out of our government. You also made a fool out of me, which is something I’m unlikely to forgive.”

David relaxed his shoulders a hair.

“I didn’t give you permission to stand down from attention, General!”

He immediately stiffened once more. It was galling to be screamed at by an individual who’d served three years, never fired a shot in anger, and had learned fewer customs and courtesies regulations than David had forgotten over the years. At least she can salute properly.

“Permission to speak freely, ma’am?”

Rollins held his gaze for a full five seconds before replying. “Granted.”

“You ordered me not to send warships above destroyer- or light-carrier class into the Orion Spur. I followed those orders meticulously. The CSV Oxford is a technical-assistance vessel. It is not a warship.”

“Seriously? You’re going to play word games here?”

“It’s not a military vessel. It doesn’t appear in the fleet register. She’s officially classed as an auxiliary and not covered by the treaty.”

“That’s bullshit, and you know it, General. That ship is the roving headquarters of CDF intelligence. It has battleship-size mag cannons on it.”

David breathed deeply as he fought to keep his emotions under control. “With respect, Madame President, those mag cannons are the sole reason our hostages have been rescued and a dozen enemy ships destroyed. You should be celebrating that, not screaming at me for orchestrating a nearly impossible rescue.”

“That you didn’t request permission to execute.”

“Because I knew you wouldn’t approve it.”

“You don’t give the orders, General Cohen. I do. In case you’ve forgotten, I’m the president of the Terran Coalition.”

“You’re a coward.”

“How dare you address me in that manner—”

David ran his teeth across his lips. “You gave me permission to speak freely, ma’am. And that is what I will do. Somebody ought to because you will lead us to our worst defeat in history.”

“I’m keeping the nation out of war!” Rollins stood, shoving her chair backward. “Do you bother keeping up with the situation our nation is in, General? There are worlds openly debating dropping out of the Coalition!”

“Yes, and you have one of the most prominent voices in favor of voluntary dissolution is in your cabinet meetings. Or perhaps you’re not aware of Jezebel Rhodes’s statements arguing that planets far away from the border shouldn’t have to send soldiers or money to fight. She and her ilk are disgusting, but more than that, they’re idiots.”

“We cannot survive another war. Not now and not yet, General. The Coalition will come apart at the seams. We must have peace, and I’ll do anything that’s required to keep that peace long enough to put us back together.”

“Appeasement has never worked in the annals of human civilization, Madame President. It’s been tried repeatedly, but all it does is make the eventual fight all the harder. Your assessment is correct. The League wants another war. On its terms. It seeks to destroy us from within. That’s not exactly news. They use our freedoms against us, turn brother against brother, parents against children, friends against each other, by poisoning our minds using social media across the GalNet, enabled by our protections for freedom of speech.”

“They will win if we fight now.”

He shook his head. “No, ma’am. The strongest force in the universe is free men and women fighting for what they believe with moral conviction and courage. That has been repeatedly demonstrated for centuries. Ask the fascists, the Nazis, the communists, or the League, for that matter. There is a bend in this physical realm we occupy, and it bends toward justice. Our citizens are smart enough to realize that, and when the war comes, these divisions will go away. SATO will rally to our defense under article five.”

“That’s not what the polling says or the antiwar protests going on across a dozen worlds!”

David focused on breathing in and out as he saw red. “Right and wrong aren’t pollable, Madame President. Appeasement has never worked. Humans have this way of doing the same thing over and over again while expecting different results. That’s the very definition of insanity. You have a chance here to not make the same mistakes.”

“This is the policy of my government, General Cohen. If you can’t back that policy, you’re free to resign.”

David forced his back to straighten to every possible millimeter. “I will not resign. If you want rid of me, you’ll have to fire me. Which is your right as commander in chief.”

“Traditionally, if the president asks for your resignation, it’s not a question.”

“These aren’t normal times. I swore an oath to protect the Terran Coalition from all enemies, foreign and domestic. As far as I’m concerned, your administration represents a clear and present danger to the interstellar security of our nation.”

Rollins flexed her hands into fists, relaxed them, then flexed them again. Her face resembled a fire engine. “Then I’ll exercise my authority under the constitution to remove you, General.”

“No, you won’t.”

The effect on the room was akin to a thunderclap. Multiple seconds passed with Rollins staring at him.

“I don’t believe I heard you correctly. Do you plan to initiate a military coup?”

David chuckled. “Not at all. I respect our constitution and our founding principles. I simply understand politics, Madame President, and I know that from a political perspective, you can’t fire one of the most popular war heroes in the Terran Coalition directly after the greatest hostage rescue ever performed by a human military. And if you do… I’m no longer bound by the UCMJ to avoid political discourse. You can bet every credit your campaign has left in the bank that I’ll appear nonstop on any talking-head pundit show that’ll have me.”

Rollins licked her lips. It seemed like she was flipping a mental coin on what to do next, then a smirk broke across her face. “Apparently, you do play politics, General.”

“No. I hate politics. I set objectives, then I devise a strategy to achieve them, like any good military planner, Madame President.”

“Perhaps I cannot remove you today. Know that as soon as these terrorists are dealt with, you’re gone, General. And I’ll make sure that we screw you so hard on the way out, you’ll never recover. That career of yours has dirt somewhere. Political operatives don’t play by your neat and tidy battlefield rules. This is a fight you cannot win.”

David narrowed his eyes. It’s like dealing with a rabid animal that’s been cornered. “I haven’t yet found a fight I can’t win, Madame President. But I can assure you it won’t come at the hands of a dirty-tricks crew. As for anything you can do to me, I frankly couldn’t care less. Titles, prestige, credits… they mean nothing to me as long as I have my family and my Torah.”

Rollins laughed bitterly. “You are so full of shit, Cohen. All humans care about is titles, credits, and power. You might deny it, but that motivates you too.”

It all became crystal clear to David as she droned on. He’d had such a hard time figuring out why the system was so messed up just a few years after President Spencer had cleaned it up, beat the League, and put them on the path to winning the peace. The unadulterated pursuit of power. The mask came off right before his eyes. “Perhaps that motivates you. But not me. Words such as courage, commitment, and faith drive me.”

She snorted in reply. “We’re done here, General. Know that I’ll be watching you. My people will be watching you. Step out of line again, and I’ll squish you like a bug.”

The utter contempt that flowed through David’s veins begged to come out as he stared at her. He finally let some of it drip. “I’ve faced down a League fleet in orbit of Canaan, outnumbered ten to one. If you think some politician who’s more concerned with maintaining her party’s grip on power than doing what’s right is going to scare me… you’ve got a lot to learn, Madame President. The sad part of this is you will cost a lot of innocent people their lives… because that’s the outcome of appeasement. The good guys usually win. It’s just a lot more painful.”

“Get the hell out of my office.”

Not exactly the most orthodox dismissal. David turned on his heel and strode toward the door. As he reached it, he turned his head. “We’ll pay almost any cost for our freedom and for peace. But we will never surrender for peace. Not now. Not ever.”

“Get out!” Rollins bellowed.

David pushed the door open and marched past the executive assistant, whose jaw was nearly on her desk, and into the main West Wing portion of the White House. That could’ve gone better. He’d known going in it would be explosive, but now the battle lines were drawn. On some level, he’d crossed the Rubicon. Going against the president of the Terran Coalition wasn’t something a military officer did. Yet he felt vindicated in his position. It’s the only thing I can do to safeguard the republic. I wonder if others have felt the same way and how did they handle it. The thought of reaching out to General MacIntosh came to mind.

He’d probably tell me to mind my lane and stop trying to influence the politicians. David knew on some level he was blowing through rules and norms that shouldn’t be broken. Yet what else can I do? I swore an oath to protect the Terran Coalition against all enemies. It was clear to him that President Rollins was an enemy, even if that wasn’t her intent.

And now it falls on me. David recalled a speech that President Spencer had once given, discussing a young man named Martin Treptow in a war long ago back on Earth. A diary had been found on his body after he was killed in action. It proclaimed, among other things, “I will work, I will save, I will sacrifice, I will endure, I will fight cheerfully and do my utmost, as if the issue of the whole struggle depended on me alone.”

It’s up to me. If Rollins won’t do her job, I’ll do it for her. I will not flag or fail. The issue of the whole struggle depends on me alone.

33

CSV Margaret Thatcher

New Rostov Orbit—High Loop Seven

10 April 2474

It had been less than twenty-four hours since they’d escorted the three hostage-laden freighters to New Rostov and repatriated the roughly five thousand civilians. For some, the ordeal was over. For others, the mental scars would take years to heal. Aboard the CSV Margaret Thatcher, life was more or less back to normal. Even though it hadn’t even been two weeks of sustained combat, the enlisted ratings and junior officers had gone through a trial by fire.

And they’d survived.

Iron sharpened iron, as did the men and women of the Margaret Thatcher improve one another.

Arthur had a spring in his step as he exited the gravlift to deck one. While he was grateful, proud, and a bit surprised by their clutch victory over PFLOS, none of that detracted from the task at hand: finishing off the terrorists. As he stepped into the conference room, everyone came to their feet.

“Colonel on deck!” Cooper barked.

“As you were.” Arthur flashed a smile to those assembled as he sat at the head of the table. “Well, we collectively don’t look like zombies for the first time in a few days. I’ll take that.”

Polite chuckles broke out.

“Yeah, well, I still feel like one, sir,” Miller said. “Even six hours of shut-eye wasn’t quite enough.”

“When this war is over, I plan to sleep for a week,” Arthur replied. “How are our repairs coming along?”

“Good. Primary systems are fully functional and all hull breaches patched. The civilian repair yard is putting armor plating over our damaged areas, and while it’s not CDF standard—”

“It’s better than nothing.”

Miller nodded. “My thoughts exactly, sir. Our biggest problem right now is ammo stores. We’re at less than thirty percent stocks of mag-cannon rounds, and we only have twenty-four Hunter missiles left.”

While Arthur knew they’d been using their consumables at a fast rate, he hadn’t realized they were that low. “I suppose that’s okay, since we’re running out of targets.”

“There’re still a lot of them, sir,” Yasin interjected. “I’ve run an analysis of the sensor logs and cross-checked with Chief Henderson on the Tucson. We think there’s at least fifteen PFLOS ships still out there, and two of them are carriers.”

“With heavily degraded air wings.” Miller crossed her arms. “And our reinforcements are almost here.”

“Yasin’s right. Can’t count our chickens before they hatch, as my mother would’ve said. For now, we get fully repaired, then we’ll get back into the fight. Any reports of sightings?”

“None, sir. No distress calls. It’s like they disappeared.”

Arthur stroked his chin. “They’re not out of the fight. And neither are we. What of the rest of the fleet?”

“Battered but intact. Brazer took a lot of damage, but we’ll rotate engineering teams from the Thatcher and the Leonidas over to help as soon as possible.”

“Casualties?”

Dr. Wildstein leaned forward. “Three crewmen dead, another two dozen or so wounded. Our Marines took it pretty hard. Four dead. Several took serious wounds that will require time to heal. I’d like to offload our worst cases, actually, since the medical bay is so taxed.”

Arthur inclined his head. “Agreed, if the facility has proper security. What about Lieutenant Faulkner, any updates?”

“He’s out of the woods. Lucky man. An inch to the right, and he would’ve died before he made it off that station. As it is, he’ll be back in action within a few days.”

“Just in time to kill some terrorists,” Miller said darkly.

“Precisely,” Arthur replied. “It’s going to take all hands on deck, as always.”

“The Iron Lady does not turn,” Ramos interjected. “We’ll be ready, sir.”

At least he’s in a better mood. Arthur was pleasantly surprised his chief engineer no longer questioned every command. However, if he ruminated on it for a moment, that was true of almost everyone, including Faulkner. Maybe I am finally projecting the air of command that seemed to come so effortlessly to General Cohen, from the time he took command of the Yitzhak Rabin on.

“We’ve had some enlisted ratings who were on liberty at various points in the Orion Spur and separated from their commands contact the New Rostov government,” Cooper said. “With your permission, sir, I’d like to see about replacements. The old girl is down about forty crewmen, and it’s affecting operations.”

Arthur flashed a grin. “If you can conjure up additional enlisted personnel, I’m all for it, Senior Chief.”

“I’ll start combing through their personnel jackets immediately.”

“So, ETA to the fleet being able to get under way?” Arthur’s eyes went to Miller then Ramos.

“Within thirty-six hours, sir. If we got a distress call, we could go now, but ideally, we need to give Brazer enough time to finish the big-ticket repairs.”

Arthur nodded. The situation had become familiar over the last two weeks, but he was comfortable with it. “Very well. Take on some decent provisions. The way we’re fighting, the least we can do for our crew is to make sure they eat well. And prepare to get underway. I want everyone rested, ready, and back in the fight.”

“Yes, sir,” Miller answered quickly.

“Any saved rounds?”

Head shakes and silence were the only responses.

Arthur counted off three seconds before nodding. “Very well. Dismissed.”

The officers and Cooper made their way for the exit, except for Miller, who waited for the hatch to close before turning to him.

“Sir, I wanted to say pulling this off was one heck of an accomplishment.”

“I can’t take the credit. No one person here can. It seems like a massive group effort and more importantly, CDF one, PFLOS zero. What I’m trying to say is that the bad guys lost. We put everything on black, and our number came up. General Cohen hated situations like that. He believed in defeating the enemy through superior planning.”

“Some athlete… I don’t remember his name, but I think he was from Earth. He said something to the effect of ‘Everyone’s got a plan until they get punched in the face.’”

Arthur regarded her for a moment. “So just wing it?”

Miller shrugged while her lips curled into a grin. “Seems to have worked just fine in this instance.”

“Too many people died. Civilians too. At least a hundred in the rescue. Most of whose bodies weren’t recovered.”

“Sir, take the win.”

She was right, but still, so many things were tugging at him. Like torturing Vannier. Arthur stood. “Perhaps you’re correct. I’m sure they’ll pull something else out of their hats tomorrow.”

“Nah. I think PFLOS is done. We broke their backs.”

“From your lips to God’s ears, Major.”

Miller smirked. “Have a good day, sir. Enjoy the paperwork.”

“Oh, I intend to.”

As she left, Arthur headed toward his day cabin. He did indeed have a great deal of paperwork to finish, but the item he would focus on first was writing letters to the families of fallen soldiers and Marines. Later in the day, there’d be a briefing back to COMSPACEFLT, and he looked forward to seeing his old friend General Cohen. Life moved on, even in war.

Arthur would keep going as best as he could. Reinforcements will be here soon, and I will no longer have the weight of the Orion Spur on my shoulders.

That, he anticipated greatly.

Robert Sinclair had been an intelligence officer and, moreover, a spy, for a long time—virtually his entire adult life. Even as a lowly operative, working assets and fighting the League through espionage, he’d always had a knack for pushing the limits of his orders. The key to doing so was to exploit the unwritten portion… the gray area between what was clearly defined.

Staring at his tablet and the set of instructions issued directly from the office of the president and countersigned by the Secretary of Defense, Sinclair knew there was no gray.

I’ve been recalled. David Cohen’s brilliant gambit had worked, yet Sinclair felt that somehow, it was a loss. There were clearly political machinations at work beyond his ability to influence. Still, it bothered him greatly that the politicos back on Canaan were so set on honoring every last detail of a bad treaty that shouldn’t have been signed. But they didn’t ask me, did they? I must obey lawful orders, even if I think the people giving them are bollocks.

In the grand scheme, Sinclair did think staying out of another wide-ranging war with the League of Sol made sense, at least for the near future. Though having a large peer enemy sitting on the Coalition’s border wasn’t positive, healing the wounds from three decades of conflict that had left tens of millions of her citizens dead came first. He instinctively knew that, but sometimes the enemy didn’t behave rationally. At least by what I consider being rational. That was part of the job of an intelligence officer, to think like the enemy and figure out why they did what they did to better counter it.

Sinclair chuckled as an idea presented itself. This missive says the Oxford as well as I must return along with our surviving stealth boats. It doesn’t say we all have to leave. He toggled his tablet over to the encrypted vidlink function. A short time later, the screen engaged with the smiling face of a man with a boyish look.

“What a pleasant surprise. I was just thinking you’d forgotten about my team and me.”

Sinclair grinned. “Oh, I could never do that, Captain Adams. Not when Covert Action Unit One-Seven-One has been so instrumental in helping take apart the League’s External Security Service’s plots and intrigue. I have a mission for you. Off the books, mind you. So you’ll be flying without much of a net.”

“Color me interested, General. What needs fixing?”

“These Leaguer terrorists… While our communist friends from Earth have on many occasions used pirates and cutouts, this is something far different. The men and women undertaking these attacks are true believers, from everything we’ve gathered so far. I’d go so far as to say they view themselves as patriots.”

Jackson Adams snorted. “Drenched in the blood of innocents.”

“Ah yes, but remember, one man’s terrorist is another’s freedom fighter. I’ve already noted a common thread among the captured. Almost all of them lost a family member in the war.”

“So you want us to figure out how they’re organized?”

Sinclair grinned. “Not quite, old chap. I’m far more interested in how they’re funded. Anyone can round up a few thousand people who hate the Terran Coalition. Not exactly hard to find in the Orion Spur. But refitting forty or more freighters to use as pocket warships? That takes more credits than most ISF worlds put toward their entire defense budget.”

Adams nodded slowly. “So we figure out who’s funding them and expose it?”

“Perhaps. My wager is the League is, through cutouts, of course. The crucial question is whether or not it is sanctioned. That’s the information I want because through it, we can probably force the politicians to act.”

“I’d suggest a secondary objective, sir.”

Sinclair raised an eyebrow. Adams had a penchant for thinking on his feet. “Which is?”

“Disrupt their weapons shipments. Especially since we’ve hit them so hard, these guys will need to rearm and resupply. If my team could figure out where, how, and when—”

“You could defang the beast. Even better if you can catch the Leaguers in the act of giving them military-grade munitions.”

Adams nodded. “Yes, sir. We’ll get it done. What assets do I have in play?”

“Your team. And… perhaps, if you’re very lucky, the space special-warfare unit I’m accidentally transferring to the CSV Tucson before we leave might help you out. As Major Godat may assist you… unofficially from time to time.”

“What about the Oxford, sir?”

Sinclair snorted. “Off the board. We’re headed back to the Sagittarius Arm.”

“Not even targeting packages, then?”

“I’m afraid not, my boy. As I said, you’re going without much of a net on this. I want to make clear that this is strictly voluntary.”

Adams grinned. “Oh goody, a challenge for my team. We haven’t had a good one in a while.”

“Promise me you’ll make it clear to them.”

“Of course, sir. I wouldn’t think of doing it any other way. Is this coming from General Cohen?”

“What do you think?” Sinclair shook his head. “General Cohen’s the reason we’re out here to begin with. The Secretary of Defense himself countermanded that directive.”

Adams pursed his lips. “All it would take is for Cohen to whisper into a few ears, and President Rollins would find herself on the receiving end of a regime change.”

“And let us thank the good Lord in heaven above that the general is a good-enough man to know that and never go near the temptation.” Sinclair leaned back. Damn these bloody politicians. “Well. You’d best be on your way, as the Oxford must head out soon. Oh. I almost forgot.” He tapped a button on the screen.

“What’s this? Gifts?” Adams’s eyes widened. “That’s a lot of credit chits. Galter too.”

“My entire contingency fund. About four million credits’ worth, to be specific. I ran that through a mixer protocol, so it should be untraceable, but kindly turn it into physical chits as soon as possible.”

Adams’s eyebrows shot upward. “Yes, sir. I’ll try not to spend it all in one place.”

“That would be appreciated. Use it however you see fit. Just get the job done.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good luck out there, and Godspeed.”

“Thank you, sir. I wish you the same.”

“Sinclair out.”

As the screen went black, Sinclair pondered what came next. I do not relish informing Colonel Hanson I’ll no longer be able to help. He briefly considered ignoring his orders, but decades of service wouldn’t allow it. I do not get to choose which orders I obey. I’ll bend them, but I won’t break the law. The chain of command breaks down when we start deciding what we want to do.

This is a thoroughly disgusting series of events. Robert Sinclair toggled applications on his tablet and pressed on. It was all he could do.

Gregory Ivanov stepped through the front door of he and his wife’s home to the smell of one of his favorite Russian dinners: stroganoff. Sure, it was a staple, but there was something special about how she prepared it. And she’s never told me the secret. It tasted different from any he’d ever had, and it always made him happy when the sweet aroma hit his nostrils.

He quickly made his way to the kitchen, where Natalie was stirring a large pot of noodles. “What did I do to deserve this treat?”

Natalie smiled. “Oh, I was just in the mood.”

“A home-cooked meal seems like a luxury these days.” Since the war started, they’d mostly subsisted on sandwiches or premixed trays cooked by the food-prep robot sitting at the far end of their kitchen.

“With the rescue of the hostages and our world being saved yet one more time from a nuclear holocaust, I thought a mild celebration was in order.”

“I most certainly agree.” Gregory came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her chest. “Today was long. But good.”

“Did you make progress?”

Gregory nodded. “Yes, and I found a broker on Galt willing to handle the credit transfers. Of course, he’s charging an exorbitant rate in Galter coin.”

Natalie snorted. “Anything less than Galter coin… is less.”

It amazed Gregory sometimes how quickly Coalition and even neutral-world expressions took over life on New Rostov. They spoke a different version of the English language, and more than that, their version had replaced the League’s within years. Now, if one used idioms common in the League, people would stare at you oddly. Or perhaps think whoever the speaker is longs for the joys of communism. Perish the thought. “I love you.”

She stopped her work and turned. “I love you, too, Gregory Ivanov. In all this work and rampant activity… we don’t say that enough.”

“I know.” He bent down and kissed her. “When this is over, I’m taking you on a vacation, and our children are going to your mother’s for a week.”

“And where, pray tell, are we going? There is absolutely nothing on this planet I wish to see. I’ve seen it all. Sand dunes, rock formations, and a single body of water so filled with toxins that you take your life in your hands to wade in it.”

He chuckled. “We could move, you know. There’re plenty of other worlds the Terran Coalition. Or even ISF space.”

“No. This is our home, and someday, the Coalition will get the sea cleaned up enough that we can swim in it. Maybe in my lifetime.”

Gregory had read enough news articles on the subject to know that was a long shot. The League industrial mining operation had spent over a hundred years turning half the planet’s surface into a barren hellscape. Even with the technological wonders the Terrans possessed, it took time to fix. “Perhaps. At any rate, I would like to see Canaan and its capital.”

“Lawrence City?”

“I understand it’s the crown jewel of their civilization.”

Natalie grew pensive. “I used to want to go to Earth at least once. All the stories of how it’s a utopia with no hunger, want, or crime. Where every citizen is free to pursue their interests for the good of the State.”

“Well, miracles do occur from time to time. Maybe we can someday.”

“I know now it’s all built on a lie. So no. Not until the League no longer controls the cradle of humanity do I wish to visit it. But Canaan… yes. When this war is done, we will go there.”

Gregory grinned at her. “All the more reason for me to expedite weapons deliveries to the CDF.”

Natalie rolled her eyes and swatted him with a cloth. “Gregory Ivanov, go set our table before I succumb to your playfulness.”

He winked. “Save that for after the kids go to bed, my dear.”

Before she could get him again, Gregory moved out of range and helped himself to several forks, spoons, and knives. Fear was still written all over his heart and soul. But he remembered something one of the CDF officers from the Lion of Judah had said. Fear is a choice. He chose not to be afraid and to march onward. It was the only choice.

Epilogue

The mood on the Ivan Panfilov was somber, to put it mildly. Yevgeny Kovalev had taken the command chair on the bridge because he didn’t trust himself anywhere else. Half of him believed they were heading toward coordinates where a League of Sol fleet would erase them from the universe. It’s what I would do if I were a spy and my machinations threatened to become public. He’d rather that than be captured or destroyed by the accursed Terrans. To die at the hands of a fellow communist would at least have dignity.

Their destination was deep within a class-six nebula. The swirling gases gave their sensors fits, and Kovalev wondered how long any type of vessel could survive the buffeting radiation and plasma discharges. Engineering had already informed him that their shields would collapse within six hours. Thankfully, our target is only three hours in. Still, depending on what they found, it would be close.

“Comrade,” Hai Gao said with urgency. “I’ve got something out there on sensors.”

“What?”

He shrugged. “Too much interference. Wait, clearing up. Whatever it is, it’s directly ahead.”

Perhaps the benefactor did send the Navy to finish us off.

“Show me on our viewscreen.”

“Yes, comrade.”

A moment later, the holoprojector came alive with a fuzzy image of a vessel. Initially, Kovalev struggled to discern much except for the boxy appearance that suggested that it was likely a human creation.

As the Ivan Panfilov crept closer, the communications officer interjected, “Comrade, receiving a transmission from the contact. It’s an automated beacon on a loop. Too garbled to make out.”

Kovalev felt as if he were sitting on the edge of his seat in a cheesy Coalition holodrama. Whatever is going to happen will happen. He couldn’t change it, so no need to dwell on possible outcomes. That reasoning had been his way of life for many years. And so he sat, like a zen statue, waiting for what came next.

The shape on the screen came further into focus, as did a bank of red running lights along both sides of the hull and a couple of glowing strips. As a multidecade veteran of the League Navy, he immediately recognized the hull.

“A Rand-class? Out here?” Gao asked as small gasps swept the bridge.

I suppose command wanted to be sure. He almost let out a chuckle at his gallows humor. “Bring us in slowly and send our greetings to the commander of that vessel.”

“Yes, comrade.” The communications officer wiped a bead of sweat from her brow. After another thirty seconds of futile attempts, she turned. “No response, comrade. We’re so close. They must hear us.”

It was very peculiar. Kovalev was convinced something else was afoot. But what?

“Comrade, looping message is clear now. It’s requesting your authentication codes.”

Kovalev exchanged glances with Gao as he raised an eyebrow. He pulled up the comms array on his chair-mounted interface and transmitted his biometric data. A message quickly popped onto the device. He had to reread it twice before he’d allow himself to believe what it said.

“What does it say, comrade?”

“Among other things, it contains the command codes for the LX Kornei Andrusenko, which is transferred for our use against the Terran Coalition and their puppets.”

Gao’s jaw dropped. “A heavy cruiser? She’ll cut through anything the Terrans have in the Spur.”

Kovalev rubbed his hands together in what he could almost describe as glee. “Comrades, I believe our fortunes have improved dramatically. By Lenin, we will win this struggle.”

The mood brightened as he spoke. People shook their fists in the air, and a spontaneous rendition of the League’s anthem rang out. Off-key, but it would do. Kovalev made eye contact with several crewmembers, and he could see hope in their eyes. The struggle against the capitalists was long, and it was paved with pain. But the end would be worth it. When Canaan burned and the CDF ceased to exist, he would get his revenge.

And on that day, Yevgeny Kovalev would finally be happy.

The Iron Fleet: Book 3 – Counterstrike:

Reinforcements arrive in the Orion Spur, but Lieutenant Colonel Arthur Hanson quickly learns hope is a luxury that war doesn’t afford. When a League heavy cruiser ambushes the fleet—destroying a hospital ship and crushing Coalition support vessels—the CDF is left reeling.

As the enemy predicts their every move and politics stall meaningful action, Arthur takes matters into his own hands, interrogating a captive for intel that leads nowhere but deeper into moral crisis.

With mutiny simmering and court martial looming once more, he must summon the resolve to face the terrorists who outgun them at every turn—and prove that while the Iron Lady may bend, she does not break.

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THE END

Acknowledgments

As I type “The End” on yet another book, in my seventh series counting the anthologies, it remains difficult to believe that what began as a single novel over seven years ago would have ended up where I am today.

The Lord certainly numbers our steps, and I can see His hand in the journey I’ve been on the last seven years—that is for sure. Where it goes from here, who knows… except that there is another book on the way.

As always, I’d like to thank my editor, Susie, for her efforts, my ARC team who catches what is left behind after a few editing passes, and all those who have supported my work along the way through things big and small.

You know you are—thank you from the bottom of my heart.

It is coming up on two years since my father passed, and over a dozen more books. While I know he can read them up there… it still stings that I can’t hand him the first paperback, as I always did.

Finally, I want to thank the men and women of the US armed forces for their efforts at keeping us safe. I, and many others, get to write/say/think what we want – because of them.

As is my custom, in closing, it is fitting to thank God for the ability to write these novels, and bring the universe of the Terran Diaspora to life.

Godspeed,

Daniel Gibbs

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