Sol Strike (Battlegroup Z Book 3) by Daniel Gibbs (red novels .txt) 📗

the dishes, in awe of how pretty they looked, heaped with things she remembered from childhood. Her mother had been a marvelous cook and ensured her family had a homecooked meal to come home to every night. Since she’d been raised in a traditional home, Tehrani’s path through life was something of an anomaly.

Little was said as both Tehrani and Ibrahim ate quickly—almost too quickly.

Polishing off the last of her plate of eggplant, she grinned. “You’d think we haven’t had a decent meal in months.”

“I’ve been surviving off frozen meal kits,” Ibrahim replied. “So this is the first decent meal I’ve had in a while.”

Tehrani playfully rolled her eyes. “Can’t take care of yourself without a woman around, eh?”

Ibrahim brought his cloth napkin from his lap up to his mouth and wiped it clean. “Perhaps not.” He chuckled then turned serious. “So, my dear, what’s really going on?” His gaze was piercing and his tone matter-of-fact.

Tehrani’s heart sank. Of course he’s smart enough to figure out something beyond a random health-and-wellness visit is going on. “I don’t know what you mean.”

He quirked his nose at her and stared over the rim of his glasses. “Don’t make me spell it out for you.”

“Husband, if you’ve figured out there’s… something more at work, then you must know I can’t speak of it.” Tehrani put her hand on his and squeezed it. “Please. Let’s enjoy our time together.” Left off was the thought that it might be the last night they spent with each other.

Ibrahim leaned over and kissed the top of her head again. “Fine.” He paused then said, “I’ve been considering leaving the university.”

“Don’t tell me you want to enlist,” she deadpanned.

“Not exactly. The government is looking for economists to help with ensuring the war effort buildup doesn’t destroy the free-market system.” He gazed into her eyes. “I could do my part. Not quite as sexy as flying through space, blasting Leaguers.”

Tehrani nearly spat out her drink laughing. “Combat is many things.” She rolled her eyes. “Sexy isn’t one of them.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do. And if it’s what you want, helping the Terran Coalition avoid messing up anything else would be a great way to support the war.”

“Well, we will see where it leads.” Ibrahim eased out of the booth and stood. “Now, we have a date with the hotel suite I reserved.”

“Oh?”

“It has a jacuzzi in it.”

Tehrani grinned as she got up. “Lead the way.”

LX Vasily Kanin

Deep Space—Unity Station

20 March 2434

Fleet Admiral Chang Yuen took a sip of his morning green tea, possibly the only luxury he allowed himself. A career League Space Navy officer, he’d seen the corrosive effects of senior officers and political commissars who seemed to think the rules didn’t apply to them—the ones who allowed individualist thinking to corrupt their brains. Far too many. Yuen had personally sent dozens of officers under his command who showed the beginnings of such behavior to the reeducation camps. He considered it his social duty and strove to lead by example to those who served under him.

The tablet on Yuen’s desk contained after-action reports, which he reviewed with almost religious fervor—if he’d had a religion. Continually looking for ship commanders who excelled, and likewise, those who didn’t, Yuen sought to build the strongest possible fleet. In his mind, superior tactics and training were the only ways to counter the Terran Coalition and the infernal Coalition Defense Force's technical advantages.

The voice of his flag lieutenant issued from the intercom system. “Admiral, I apologize for disturbing you, but Admiral Voronin has arrived for your meeting.”

Yuen pressed a button on the device. “Send him in along with coffee and refreshments.”

A few moments later, the hatch to Yuen’s private office swung open, and Yegor Voronin strode in. Also an admiral in the League Navy, he commanded Unity Station and was responsible for supplying the fleet. “Good day,” Voronin said. “I trust this is still a good time for our discussion?”

While Yuen had initially thought little of the man—after observing many individualist actions among the station’s crew—he’d grown to understand Voronin was extremely capable in his field and had been saddled with the worst of the worst from the military as crew on the installation. Some bureaucrat in the Orion arm probably decided the best way to get efficiency numbers up was to send the antisocial enlisted personnel to literally the middle of nowhere. He smiled. “Of course, Admiral. Please, join me. I have coffee and pastries on the way.” He gestured to the empty chair in front of the desk.

Voronin nodded politely and sat. “I always marvel when I visit your ship, comrade. For one, I’ve never seen a better-drilled or more diligent crew. And second, you have the sparest office I’ve seen from someone who reached flag rank.”

“It would be individualist to boast of my achievements, would it not?”

“Admiral Lambert might disagree with you,” Voronin replied with a snort. “I have seen his office in Geneva.”

Yuen shifted. “I do not suffer hypocrisy in my command, and therefore I must lead by example. How can the men and women respect me if I act like an individualist, even as I counsel them not to?”

“I respect your mindset.” Voronin twisted his neck, stretching. “A shame more of us didn’t see it the same way.” His eyes flicked back to the desk. “And your commissar? Is he still compliant?”

“He’ll always be, as you say, compliant.” Yuen smiled thinly. “That’s the other thing about hypocrites in power. They’re easy to blackmail.” He leaned back. “But you didn’t come here to discuss the finer points of our political situation.”

They had settled into a rhythm of weekly consultations on the war effort and, with them, mutual respect.

Before more could be said, the hatch swung open, and a young sailor stepped through, carrying a tray. “The refreshments you asked for, Admiral, sir.” He set them down on the desk and came to attention.

“Thank you. Dismissed,” Yuen replied. He reached for a scone as the hatch closed.