The Tide of War

By Lori A. Witt

Lieutenant Commander Kyle West is one of Unified Fleet’s greatest fighter pilots. Every day, he leads his squadron into battle over Earth’s cities in a seemingly endless war against a vicious alien race, defending his home and his loved ones.

Millions of miles away, the Fleet’s Elite Squadron attacks from another angle, engaging the enemy on its home turf. Casualties are high, and the Squadron needs more of the Fleet’s very best. But joining the Elite is a death sentence—a surety Kyle isn’t willing to face. Until a devastating attack wipes out the family he refused to leave.

Commander Andrei Dezhnyov, an Elite Squadron gunner, isn’t sure what to make of the cocky new American pilot. Kyle is equally uncertain about the snarly Russian, but as they warm up to each other, their tentative alliance becomes a deep bond—one that endangers them both when a daring and disobedient rescue reveals secrets that call into question everything they’ve ever believed about their enemy. Secrets that their superiors would kill to protect.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bryant Street Publishing
• Release date: Jun 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9781094420837

Lori A. Witt

Lori A. Witt is the fourth corner of the Gallagher-Witt quad, and prefers to play in the genres of science fiction, fantasy, and suspense over all that romance nonsense. Okay, so romance does show up sometimes, but these are the books she writes when she needs a change of pace. Suspense, thrillers, sword and sorcery, spaceships--Lori writes it all. Like the other members of the quad (L.A. Witt, Lauren Gallagher, and Ann Gallagher), Lori currently lives in southern Spain with her husband and a pair of cats who don't like each other. In her spare time, she tries to stay out of the middle of L.A.'s and Lauren's ongoing rivalry, while never missing a chance to trip Ann when she's not paying attention. Website: http://www.gallagherwitt.com Twitter: @GallagherWitt Email: [e-mail]

Book preview

Hitler

Chapter 1

"And what if you don’t make it back next time?"

Griff. Kyle leaned against the kitchen counter and bit back a groan. He’d been home for five damned minutes. Hadn’t even had a chance to change out of his flight suit yet. Are we seriously going to have this argument every—

After every time you barely make it home in one fucking piece? Griff threw up his hands. Yes! We are!

Scrubbing over his face, Kyle let go of that groan. Then he shifted his weight and rested his hip against the counter, careful not to display any of the pain in his neck and shoulders, as he looked Griff in the eyes. Fine. So what do you want me to do? Turn in my wings?

In an instant, Griff’s anger deflated, and Kyle’s shoulders dropped. They both knew damn well Griff would never ask Kyle to give up his career, not in the midst of an interplanetary war and not after he’d worked so goddamned hard to earn those coveted silver wings. That one simple question effectively backed Griff into a corner every single time.

Kyle pushed off from the counter and moved toward Griff. I’m sorry. I am. But the danger—it’s part of the job. I can’t . . . I can’t change it.

I’m just scared, okay? Griff’s voice wavered, threatening to crack.

I know you are. But I . . . This is out of my hands. What can I do?

Nothing. I know. I . . . Griff folded his arms tightly across his chest and avoided Kyle’s eyes. I just don’t want to lose you.

You won’t. Kyle wrapped his arms around Griff and held him close.

Griff melted against him. His arms loosened, then fell, then returned Kyle’s embrace. Every time the sirens go off when you’re on duty, I am so damned scared. Between getting Brendan to the shelter and worrying you’ll be shot down, I . . . He shook his head and looked up at Kyle. And, Jesus, whenever they say a fighter’s crashed, it’s—

Kyle silenced him with a gentle kiss. He suppressed a shudder at the thought of his longtime partner and their young son scrambling down to the bunkers when the sirens screamed. What if they didn’t make it? There’d been close calls before. For as much as Griff worried about Kyle’s safety, Kyle woke in cold sweats all the time, scaring himself shitless with nightmares about what could happen to his family and how powerless he was to prevent it. At least he had an ultrafast fighter with state-of-the-art weapons systems, and he flew with one of the best gunners in the Fleet. All Griff and Brendan could do was run.

His shudder almost came to life, but Kyle forced it away. He touched his forehead to Griff’s. We both know it’s dangerous, but I promise, I’m doing my damnedest to come home to you and Brendan every night.

I know you are, Griff whispered unsteadily. "And there are fucking aliens out there trying their damnedest to make sure you don’t. He swallowed. They say the Menarians are getting better. That they’re adapting to the way you guys fight, and they’re always one step ahead of you guys now. They’re fighting better, they’re shooting better, they’re—"

We’re learning to fight them too. Kyle smoothed Griff’s hair. They’ve got a long way to go before they’re good enough to bring me down.

Griff didn’t laugh. Even the elite pilots still get shot down. Sighing, he rubbed the back of his neck. You’d think the Fleet would leave more of the elite fighters here.

Kyle shrugged. They’re fighting the Menarians on their own turf.

And what about fighting them here?

He grinned. "That’s why I’m here."

Griff still didn’t crack a smile.

Kyle’s heart sank deeper, and his grin faltered. The Fleet had been after him for a while now to go to Epsilon, the station orbiting Menar, but he’d refused every time, and Griff knew it. No matter how much his commanding officer pressured him, he wasn’t going, and yet Griff was still terrified at every turn that Kyle was a heartbeat away from agreeing to go. That was an argument they’d had a few too many times, and he just wasn’t in the mood for it tonight. Just like he wouldn’t be in the mood to listen to the brass trying again tomorrow to get him to go.

You’re the best we have, West. We put you and Blaine in with the elite, you could turn the tide of the war.

We’ve been through this, Kyle said softly. "I’m not going to Epsilon."

Not unless they order you to.

It’s strictly voluntary. You know that.

For how long? Griff wriggled out of Kyle’s embrace and slumped against the counter, folding his arms across his chest again. His posture didn’t come across as defensive so much as an attempt to keep himself from shivering. You said yourself they’re getting desperate for pilots over there.

Griff. Kyle stepped closer and gently grasped Griff’s upper arms. They’re not going to force anyone to Epsilon. The Elite Squadron’s got enough problems already with morale among the volunteers. Shaking his head, he added, You force someone into that? They’re not going to fight worth a damn, and they’ll just get themselves and the rest of their squadron killed.

Griff shuddered, some color leaving his already-pale face. Fuck . . .

I’m not going. He squeezed Griff’s arm. There’s no way in hell I’m leaving you and Brendan behind. No way. I promise.

I know you’re not leaving us behind, Griff said bitterly, "but if they get desperate and make you go, you can’t take us with you."

Kyle shook his head but didn’t speak. He just pulled Griff into his arms again and stroked his hair silently. They’d been around this block a few dozen times too, and usually at a much higher volume, but he couldn’t think of any other way to drive it through Griff’s skull that he would never volunteer.

What Griff didn’t need to know was that, lately, the Fleet had been piling even more pressure on Kyle and his gunner to join the Elite Squadron. A lot of pressure. Kyle was easily one of the best fighter pilots still on Earth, and Emily had the highest confirmed-kill rate in the entire Fleet.

But time and again, Kyle and Emily agreed that they were more useful here as part of Earth’s defenses. What good was an offensive attack on an enemy planet if there was nothing left to protect? They’d even tried to compromise by volunteering for one of the short-deployment squadrons that tried to intercept Menarians when they entered the solar system, but they weren’t selected. The Fleet was clear—they wanted him and Emily on the Elite Squadron, and that was that.

Griff pulled in a deep breath, the movement drawing Kyle out of his thoughts. He loosened his embrace, and Griff looked up at him. His lips parted as if he was about to speak, but then he seemed to let the thought go and just stood up on his toes to kiss Kyle softly on the mouth. Just be careful.

I’m always careful.

Griff sighed and lowered himself back to his normal height.

I’m scared out there too, you know, Kyle whispered against Griff’s forehead. But those sons of bitches aren’t taking me away from you and Brendan without one hell of a fight.

That’s what scares me. Griff looked up at him again. "That they’re willing to put up one hell of a fight."

Kyle started to speak, but the front door opened, and he and Griff both turned their heads.

Dad! Brendan dropped his schoolbag and sprinted across the kitchen. He jumped into Kyle’s arms and held on to him so tightly Kyle could barely breathe. You’re okay!

I’m fine, kiddo. Kyle closed his eyes as he hugged his son. Of course, Brendan had known already that Kyle was all right. Griff never would have sent him to school that morning if they’d still been waiting for word one way or the other. Still, seeing was believing. Squeezing him gently, Kyle whispered again, I’m fine.

The boy pulled back and turned to Kyle, eyes wide. God, he was looking more and more like Griff every day—the same blond hair, the same blue eyes. These days, he barely gave a single nod to his mother’s genes.

Brendan swallowed. The aliens got really close this time. Just over a year in London and a faint accent was already beginning to sharpen the edges of the boy’s otherwise American words.

Yeah, they got close. Kyle smoothed Brendan’s hair. But they didn’t get us. He kept it to himself that his fighter craft’s wing had barely stayed together long enough to get him and Emily safely on the ground. Or that the O2 system was badly damaged. Or that his neck and back still twinged every time he moved, thanks to that rough, near-catastrophic landing just before what was left of the wing had snapped off. Brendan didn’t need to know a Menarian’s missile had gotten that close to him, and neither did Griff. They definitely didn’t need to know about the missile that had turned a good friend’s bird into a fireball right in front of Kyle’s windscreen. Kyle could have done without that knowledge himself.

Brendan’s blue eyes, huge and round, locked on Kyle’s. Do you think they’ll come back?

Kyle chewed his lip, unable to look at his partner or his son. They wanted both comfort and honesty from him, truth and reassurance wrapped in one neat little package they could keep close by when doubt crept in. But he couldn’t lie. He couldn’t declare that the aliens wouldn’t be back. Maybe they wouldn’t come so damned close next time—five hundred miles from the city had been much too close for Kyle’s comfort—but they would most assuredly be back to Earth before long.

Gentle fingers pressed into the tender muscles of his neck, and he forced himself not to flinch, not to show any signs of physical discomfort that might allude to his partner and son that it was a closer call than either of them realized.

Kyle? Griff’s voice was gentle but somehow demanding too, as if to say, Tell him, damn it. Tell me.

Kyle swallowed, then met his son’s eyes. I wish I could tell you they won’t be back. I really do.

Brendan’s shoulders sank, and Griff released a heavy breath.

But, Kyle went on, I promise you that Emily and I are doing everything in our power to kick these aliens out of here and make sure I come home to you every night.

His son held his gaze, and Kyle’s heart beat faster. The boy was nine now, growing up so fast, and he was beginning to understand some of the grim realities of this war. Sooner or later, he’d ask the inevitable question, What if everything in your power isn’t enough?

Griff nudged Brendan’s shoulder. Why don’t you go put your books in your room, and we can all figure out something to eat?

The prospect of a normal dinner and their normal evening routine seemed to shake Brendan out of his near-catatonic state of worry, and he nodded. Okay. He threw one last uncertain glance at Kyle but then scooped up his book bag and trotted out of the kitchen.

Griff watched Brendan go. When their son was out of sight, he turned his head toward Kyle, and Kyle saw the question in his eyes before the words came out.

What if you can’t keep that promise, Kyle?

I didn’t promise him I would always come home. Only that I would do everything in my power to make sure I do.

Griff held his gaze. There was nothing either of them could say that hadn’t already been said a dozen times before. Nothing that would keep Griff and Brendan from being scared or Kyle from being in harm’s way. Not until something changed and this war—this endless goddamned war—was finally over.

Look, this war scares you, it scares Brendan, it scares me. Kyle sighed. It’s dangerous. There will be close calls like the one last night. He pulled Griff into his arms. But I promise, I’m staying here. I’m not going to Epsilon no matter how much my CO badgers me, and the Menarians aren’t taking me down no matter how bad they’d like to.

Finally, Griff managed a soft laugh. You arrogant son of a bitch.

Kyle chuckled. Damn right.

Just be careful out there, will you? Griff stroked Kyle’s cheek. We need you here.

I will. He dropped a tender kiss on Griff’s forehead. I promise, I will.

Chapter 2

Andrei tugged at his pristine black sleeve and then fastened the stiff cuff around his wrist. He scrutinized his reflection, inspecting every seam and medal to make sure absolutely nothing was out of place.

The raw spot on the edge of his jaw had stopped bleeding and was just a small red mark now. Nothing that would draw attention. Nothing more than a hazard of shaving extra close to make sure his face was absolutely clean and smooth. Just to be certain, though, he ran his fingers over every inch of his cheek and jawline in search of even the tiniest stubble that would be out of regs.

I appreciate protocol and military bearing as much as the next man, he muttered, "but is it necessary to put these fucking things on every time we go see the admiral?"

In the bedroom, Ogrufina laughed dryly. Could be worse.

How’s that?

"He could order us into dinner dress."

Oh, fuck that. Andrei brushed at his sleeve. "He starts asking for that shit, I’ll deliberately get myself demoted just so someone else can deal with him."

Don’t you dare, she growled, and he laughed.

He grumbled to himself in Russian. It was bad enough that being the highest-ranking officers in their squadron meant constantly being summoned into their CO’s office. The asshole admiral also insisted that anyone who came to see him did so in dress uniform. Perfectly polished. No exceptions. Because everyone had time for that in combat.

When Andrei stepped out of the bathroom, Ogrufina was focused on her reflection in the bedroom mirror. Scowling, she pulled at her collar and swore in their native tongue as it refused to lie properly.

He put his hands on her waist, then slid his arms around her. "It looks fine, printsessa."

"I want more than fine if we’re going in front of the admiral."

He kissed the side of her neck. Would you rather settle for fine or explain to the admiral why we’re late?

"Humph. All right. She tugged the collar one last time, then spat a curse. It’s as good as it’s going to get."

It’s fine. He put a hand on her waist again and leaned in to kiss her lightly.

Then they each gave themselves a final look in the mirror. There wasn’t a seam or hair out of place, so they left their stateroom.

On the way down the corridor, he offered his elbow and she took it, and they walked in silence. All through the station, Andrei prayed they could keep this meeting short. Admiral Bodner’s briefings were usually anything but brief.

Admiral Bodner had taken command of Epsilon and the Elite Squadron eight months ago, and Andrei didn’t like the asshole one bit. Ogrufina had some choice words for the man’s methods too, but neither of them spoke of it outside their quarters. Though, if things kept going the way they had been since Bodner came on board, Andrei was liable to lose his shit. Assuming, of course, that Ogrufina didn’t beat him to the punch. She’d likely be a little more . . . direct than he would.

At the admiral’s door, Andrei entered his access code into the keypad. The light stayed red, which meant the admiral hadn’t yet bothered to acknowledge the entry request. It was a little game the son of a bitch loved playing to keep his men at his beck and call. As if they all needed additional reminders that they were under his command.

After nearly thirty seconds, the light turned green, and the lock clicked.

Andrei pushed the door open and went in ahead of Ogrufina. She had no patience for chivalrous bullshit and would have done the same had she been the one to open the door. She closed it behind them, and they both snapped to attention in front of the broad, polished metal desk. Andrei thumbed his wedding ring, the only tic he could get away with that didn’t draw attention to the nerves that always accompanied him into the admiral’s office.

Behind the desk, Admiral Bodner sat ramrod straight in his oversized chair. He acknowledged each of them with a subtle nod—first Ogrufina, then Andrei. Captain Teterev. Commander Dezhnyov.

Sir, they both said sharply.

The admiral gestured for them to come toward his desk. They did, and he folded his hands in his lap but didn’t offer either of them one of the two empty chairs, so they remained standing. Thank you for coming. I’ll be brief.

Yeah, right.

The admiral put a hand on an electronic tablet on the desk and slid it toward them.

In a motion that was both sharp and graceful, Ogrufina picked up the tablet and took a step back from the desk. The room was silent for a moment except for the quiet sound of Ogrufina’s fingers tapping the tablet as she entered her access code. Once the screen lit up, casting a whitish glow onto her black uniform, she silently perused the orders. Then she handed the tablet to Andrei.

He read it over quickly, just skimming for now. A targeted bombing raid. Nothing entirely out of the ordinary. Not something they had the manpower or machinery to be doing quite as often as they were, but not out of the ordinary. Andrei set the tablet back on the desk and looked at the admiral, awaiting further instructions.

Bodner touched the screen and pulled up a few grainy satellite photos of the planet’s surface. Andrei and Ogrufina both leaned forward to get a better look.

This structure—Bodner tapped one building near the center of the photo—is where we believe the Menarian intel headquarters is located. We take that out, and we deal a severe blow to their ability to monitor our orbiting stations and anticipate our attacks.

A fairly basic structure, if larger than most of the ones Andrei had taken down.

The coordinates are on your orders. He handed Ogrufina a small chip, which they’d use to upload all the information to her tablet. It’s a heavily protected area with some extremely dangerous fighters in the vicinity, but you’ll have two squadrons as escorts. They should be able to hold off the defense long enough for you to destroy the structure.

Ogrufina and Andrei exchanged glances.

She slid the memory chip into her pocket and then held out her hand. Let me see the orders again.

Bodner tightened his jaw—he’d never been thrilled with Ogrufina’s direct manner of speaking—but gave the tablet back to her. While Andrei and Bodner watched in silence, Ogrufina reread the orders, lips tight and brow furrowed.

After a full minute, Bodner drummed his fingers on the desk. Is there an issue, Captain?

Ogrufina closed the folder and cleared her throat. She straightened her posture a little, setting her shoulders back. Permission to speak freely, sir.

The admiral offered a slight nod as he folded his hands on the desk. Granted, Captain. There was a warning in his voice, a subtle suggestion that she speak freely, but not too freely.

Ogrufina swallowed. Are we certain a targeted attack on a core Menarian structure is wise at this point, sir?

What else would you suggest, Captain? A note of terseness hinted at the man’s waning patience, and his chair squeaked quietly as he leaned back, eyeing both of them from beneath lowered eyebrows. Why in the world would we delay the delivery of a crippling blow to such a critical target?

In an equally terse voice, Ogrufina said, With all due respect, sir, Squadron Four is down to three fighters. Our own squadron has lost—

"I am aware of the status of the squadrons under my command, Captain, the admiral snapped. Make your point."

A target such as that will be heavily defended, Ogrufina said. Can Epsilon afford the inevitable casualties of such an attack?

Or adequately defend against a retaliation? Andrei added.

The admiral’s gaze slid from Ogrufina to Andrei and back. You have your orders.

Ogrufina and Andrei glanced at each other again.

Captain. Commander. The admiral’s graying eyebrows slid farther downward, darkening his narrow eyes. What do you want me to do? The Menarians cannot be allowed to recover from the damage we’ve already inflicted. The Fleet is addressing the personnel and mechanical shortages, and we can’t force pilots and gunners into the Elite Squadron. There are very few who qualify anyway. And we’re manufacturing aircraft and ordnance as fast as we can.

Is there perhaps another strategy for disabling the intel center, sir? Andrei asked.

I assume you have a better idea? The admiral’s tone made it abundantly clear he had no genuine interest in Andrei’s input.

Still, Andrei said, What about a ground attack?

That would be suicide, Commander, the admiral snapped. You know that.

I do, sir. Andrei swallowed. But if we’re in a position where an attack on this target must happen before we’ve had time to build the squadrons back up, then I’m not sure what alternative we have.

The admiral lifted an eyebrow. Are you volunteering?

Andrei cleared his throat. I . . .

No, Admiral, Ogrufina broke in. "Not for a suicide mission. But perhaps a ground mission isn’t a suicide—"

Enough, the admiral growled. Every option has been duly considered by the strategists. This—he tapped the tablet emphatically—is the decision we’ve come to. Now . . . He folded his hands beneath his chin and raised his eyebrows again. You’re the best crew I have. Top gunner, top pilot, best of the best. Can I count on the two of you to carry out this order and keep the casualties to a minimum?

Yes, sir, they both said without hesitation.

Brief your crews and get some sleep. He sat back again. You fly at 1500 hours. Dismissed.

They saluted sharply and then turned on their heels and left his office.

They walked side by side through the corridors from the admin wing toward the briefing room. Ogrufina paused to summon their squadron via the loudspeaker, but as they continued down the corridor, neither said a word. All the way through the station, past the entrance to Hangar Three and the training decks, they were silent.

That memory chip in Ogrufina’s pocket made the skin on Andrei’s neck prickle. Missions like this were getting more and more common. Strategic targets that needed to be taken out, even when manpower and machinery were dangerously low, because time was of the essence.

They needed more pilots. More gunners. More ammunition. More birds. With the amount of resistance they faced, two or three more squadrons wouldn’t hurt.

A sick feeling twisted in Andrei’s gut. While he and Ogrufina were proud to be the best of the best, it was also a burden neither one cared to carry all the time. It was up to them to take out this target. It was up to them to do it quickly, cleanly, and get out before the Menarians shot them—or the rest of the formation—down. Ogrufina’s flying had to be flawless. Andrei couldn’t miss a single shot. And with a structure that size, it would take two or three blows to bring it all the way down. Once it fell, they'd have to come around again and drop two bigger missiles to make sure any subterranean bunkers were obliterated, as well.

If he missed, if she didn’t get him close enough, if either of them miscalculated anything, it would drag out the mission. A second pass to try again. A third if they really fucked up. Then still the return pass to finish off the bunkers. All of that opened windows for Menarian fighters to swoop in and pick off the rest of the squadron.

A hand on his arm startled him.

Ogrufina peered up at him. Then she gestured at the door beside them, and he realized he’d nearly walked right past the briefing room.

Sorry. I was . . . preoccupied.

They entered the room, and most of their squadron was waiting. Ogrufina loaded the memory chip into the projector at the front, and Andrei leaned against the podium, waiting for the stragglers to arrive. Though Ogrufina outranked him, he was usually the one to deliver briefings to the squadron. As much as it irritated both of them, some of the men still chafed at listening to a woman, even if that woman could outfly them with a blindfold on.

One of the pilots, Lieutenant Commander Lewis, got up from his chair and approached Andrei. Commander, can . . . His eyes darted toward the others, and then he lowered his voice. Can I talk to you outside?

I need to brief the squadron. Can it—

I know. But . . . The pilot chewed his lip and shifted his weight. Andrei eyed him—Lewis was one of the most levelheaded pilots on Epsilon. Being so visibly agitated was alarmingly out of character for him.

Andrei looked at Ogrufina and spoke to her in Russian. Grushka, would you give the briefing? I need to speak to him.

She glanced up from the projector, and her eyebrows rose when she saw Lewis. I can handle this one. She nodded toward the door. Go ahead.

Andrei and Lewis stepped out into the corridor.

What’s going on?

Listen, uh . . . Lewis’s eyes darted toward the door again, and he kept fidgeting. I think something’s wrong with me. With my head.

Andrei folded his arms loosely across his chest. What do you mean?

The lieutenant commander ran a hand through his hair. I, um. He paused and cleared his throat, staring at the deck between them. On the last mission, I . . . I started seeing shit.

Seeing what?

I don’t know. That’s the thing. Lewis exhaled hard. It was like everything I saw through the windscreen changed. My console, my controls—those stayed the same. But the view . . . His eyes lost focus. It was all wrong. It . . . He shook his head. One second I was seeing Menar, and the next I was seeing Earth, and then it was back to Menar.

And your gunner, did she—

She was looking at her console anyway, but— He waved a hand. She thinks I’m losing my mind, too.

Andrei nodded slowly. I do think it would be wise to have a psych eval, and—

Fuck. Lewis lifted his gaze and swept his tongue across his lips. "So I am going crazy?"

No, no. Andrei put a hand on the pilot’s shoulder. But this war and this space station, they do things to people’s heads. A psych eval is standard, but I think some time off would do you good, too. You might just need to relax.

Lewis released a long breath. You think that’ll do it?

You’re not the first who’s mentioned this to me. Andrei smiled. It’s not just you.

Well, that’s . . . reassuring. But the squadron’s already short-manned. If I—

If this place is getting to you, then you’re more of a liability out there than anything. Andrei squeezed the man’s shoulder and then