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

“What’s bugging you, skipper?”

What, indeed. Tehrani thought through her general low mood. “Aside from short combat refits, all leave and shore duty rotations have been canceled. The general order will be issued tomorrow, but O-6 and higher got a head’s-up this afternoon.” She closed her eyes. “I was so looking forward to a three-month rotation off with Ibrahim to recharge my batteries and recover a bit.”

“But with the fall of Eire…”

“All hands on deck.” Tehrani picked her fork up again and took another bite. “Ultimately, we must carry on. I tell myself I should be thankful I’m still alive and my husband isn’t being shot at.”

Wright leaned forward. “Skipper, it’s okay to feel and to let your guard down every once in a while. We’re all here for you. I’m here for you too,” he said quietly.

“I know, Benjamin. But you’ll understand someday when you sit in the big chair. The commanding officer is the rock that anchors the ship and her crew. I can never afford to look or act weak in any way.”

“Showing emotion isn’t a weakness. Though I realize that might be odd to hear coming from a guy.”

Tehrani snorted. “Yes, I suppose.” She turned somber again. “We’re going to keep on fighting until we can’t fight anymore.”

“Then we’ll get some sleep and give ’em hell.”

“Quite.” Tehrani ate another mouthful. Wright’s positive spirit seemed to rub off on her after a while, making the future seem less bleak. She determined to seize that spirit for her own. “I think I will come down to the hangar bay to watch War Patrol with you. How much of the crew do you think will be there?”

“Oh, I’m pretty sure half of us will be there. What else is there to do on this tub, anyway?” Wright grinned. “Try to remember you’re not alone.”

“I know.” Tehrani dug into her baked potato. “Let’s eat up so that we can have dessert.”

Wright’s eyes lit up at the mention of sweets. “What’s on the menu?”

“Chocolate cake with peanut butter frosting and cream.”

“Yeah, I’m going to need two servings of that.” Wright took a big scoop of onions and shoveled it into his mouth. “Maybe three. One for a snack during the show.”

Feeling somewhat better, Tehrani continued to eat and pondered a better day when they no longer had to fight the League of Sol. Not being able to see Ibrahim again for what was probably the better part of a year bothered her, as did the constant churn of battle. But it came with the territory. She’d served faithfully for twenty years, and with Allah as her witness, Tehrani would continue to serve until the CDF didn’t need her anymore. And on that day, I will retire and enjoy life with my husband as God intended.

After eating dinner, which had been hearty, thanks to their resupply, Justin wandered through the passageways of the Zvika Greengold. In the week since they’d gotten back to Canaan, he’d mostly avoided being alone with Feldstein, engaging only during official activities and with others. Their relationship was still weird, but part of him supposed it was to be expected. Meanwhile, he’d made little progress in digging himself out of the funk he seemed to be stuck in.

Perhaps it was random, or maybe it was his subconscious, but he ended up on the same deck as the various chapels on the Greengold. Standing in front of the door to the Christian worship area, which was directly across from the Jewish shul, he stared at the door. What do you have to lose? Have a conversation with the chaplain. Maybe he can help.

Summoning more courage than it took him to roar into space to fight the League, Justin pushed the hatch open and walked through. Well, I didn’t burst into flames as I crossed the threshold. I guess that’s something. He smiled and strolled down the aisle.

At such a late hour, the chapel was empty. At least, it seemed that way to Justin. He ended up outside the door to the chaplain’s office. He’s probably not even in there. Part of him wanted to turn and walk out as fast as he could, but another force inside his mind refused. Justin rapped on the hatch a few times.

“Come in! Come in!” someone called from the other side of the door.

Justin pushed the hatch open to find a man sitting behind the desk. He wore a CDF khaki service uniform and a clerical collar. The room was small and cramped but maintained in a tidy manner.

“Uh, hi. Chaplain?”

“The one and only Father George Elliott, at your service.” He smiled brightly then narrowed his eyes. “Wait, I recognize you. Captain Spencer. An honor.” The man stood and towered over his desk—he was at least two meters tall. Elliott extended his hand.

For a moment, Justin stared at the hand like it was an alien appendage. Finally, he shook it. “I, uh, well… I’m honestly not sure why I’m here.”

“Son, regardless of your faith, I’m here to minister to you.”

Justin peered at him. “What about people who don’t have faith?”

“Same. If you’re an atheist or agnostic, my job is to counsel you as best as possible, just like I would any other soldier, regardless of belief system. You look troubled. Why not have a seat?” Elliott gestured to the closest chair. “Would you like some water?”

It took Justin a few seconds to process the chaplain’s words before he nodded and sat down. “No, I’m good.” He furrowed his brow. “I’m not sure where to begin.”

“The beginning?” Elliott’s eyes twinkled. “Or perhaps the middle or end? It doesn’t matter to me. Wherever you feel comfortable.”

It seemed as if warmth radiated from the priest. Justin wasn’t prepared for it. He’d thought he would receive immediate condemnation for his lack of belief and instead found a jovial man that kept asking to help. “Well, uh, Father—”

Elliott held up a hand. “George, if you would, please. I don’t stand on formality in