Sol Strike (Battlegroup Z Book 3)

could surprise you,” Maggie confided in a stage whisper, like it was a state secret.
“You guys didn’t have to do that,” Justin replied, tears finally coming to his eyes. “Seeing you again was all I needed.” He bit his lip. “I don’t have to be back on the ship until oh-eight hundred tomorrow morning.
“Good, because I got us an apartment for the night. One of my uncle’s friends hooked me up with it.” Michelle took his hand. “We’ve already stocked up on some food, and I’m going to fix a family dinner.”
The thought of a meal with his wife and daughter and acting like normal was overwhelming. It was such a jarring disconnect from the life of constant combat, scramble drills, and engagements in which Justin fought for his life. Part of him felt oddly distant, as if he were dreaming, while the rest of him never wanted to let go of Michelle and Maggie. He forced the competing emotions beneath the surface and smiled at her. “That’s the best idea I’ve heard in six months.” He turned to Maggie. “And I want to see your report card.”
“Oh, come on, Dad. You’ve got to tell me about flying through space and fighting the Leaguers!” she replied with enthusiasm.
“One combat story for each A you’ve got in that report card, young lady.” Justin reached over and picked Maggie up, lifting her over his shoulders. “Now, how about we get out of here?”
“I got us a helicar to use too,” Michelle said with a smile.
“In that case, lead the way.”
As Michelle walked into the crowd, Justin followed closely behind her. For at least a few minutes, everything was right in his world, and he felt as if he could float away.
As the commanding officer of the Zvika Greengold, Tehrani hadn’t wanted to run down the gangway from her command shuttle—rank did have its privileges—and jump into her husband’s arms. Her job was to remain resolute and even stoic.
But that had gone out the window the moment she saw Ibrahim standing there waiting for her, a bouquet of orange and white roses in his arms. They were her favorite colors. He wore a tweed suit, looking very much the part of the rumpled and nerdy economics professor. She’d almost knocked down the Marine sentries with her in a rush to embrace him.
They sat side by side, like two teenagers madly in love for the first time, in a Persian restaurant named Taste of Barbari. Apparently, it was the only Persian restaurant in the city. That Ibrahim had taken the time to find it, get reservations, and book a helicar to get them there made her feel like a spoiled princess. He’d even brought appropriate clothes with him. Tehrani wasn’t used to the feeling, but it was nice, especially after six months of combat.
She rested her hand on his. “I didn’t realize how much I missed us.”
Ibrahim turned his head slightly and grinned. “At first, it was kind of nice to have the house to myself. Well, for a day or two.” He paused, and his expression turned somber. “Then I had to start thinking about what life would be like if you didn’t come home.”
She squeezed his hand tightly. “Don’t dwell on that. The League’s done its worst for six months. We’re still here.” Tehrani rested her head on his shoulder. “How has the university been going?”
“Oh, you know. Endless streams of bright young minds, with little in the way of common sense, needing a firm hand to guide them toward wisdom.” Ibrahim kissed the top of her head. “Thank Allah you are here.”
As they were talking, a waiter approached with a basket of fresh herbs, radishes, and scallions. He placed it on the table. “Good evening. Have you had a chance to look at the menu?”
Tehrani shook her head. “I’m afraid we haven’t yet. What would you recommend?” On a whim, she cut in before the man could reply. “Do you have khoresh-e bademjoon?” An eggplant-and-tomato stew, it had been a staple of her childhood and one of her favorite meals.
“We do, ma’am.”
“How is it?”
“As good as my mother used to make,” the waiter replied with a grin. “Our chefs are all Persian. Very authentic.”
“That’s what I’m having, then, with a side of polo ba tahdig.” No Persian meal was complete without rice.
“Make it two,” Ibrahim interjected. “Of each.”
“Thank you,” the waiter replied, scooping up their menus, then hurried away.
Tehrani kissed Ibrahim on the cheek and almost chuckled at how careful she was to be modest. “I can’t believe you did all this. It’s extraordinary.”
“Oh, is that a roundabout way of saying I’m not the romantic type?”
“Husband, neither one of us is the romantic type.”
Ibrahim laughed, the deep timbre of the sound making everything seem better for a few moments. “Back when I courted you, we were.” He shook his head. “Everything was so much simpler then.”
“Much like it was only a few months ago.” Tehrani closed her eyes. “I was ready to be done with my service, bring our children into the world, and seize the second part of my life.” She opened them again and smiled sadly. “Now, I hope to come home alive and see you again.”
“I wish… I wish I could protect you somehow, instead of sitting around all day grading papers and teaching classes on the finer points of Austrian versus Keynesian economics.”
“As long as you teach your students that communism leads to the League of Sol, you’ll be protecting all of us,” Tehrani replied. She was shocked to see a different side of him. But why should it surprise me? My husband is a protector in his own way, like most men. The sentiment was endearing and brought a smile to her face. “Or you could record a lecture for me to play on the commlink for our Leaguer friends.”
“To bore them to death?”
Both of them laughed, and Tehrani grinned. “Exactly, my dear.”
The arrival of their food cut off further discussion. Tehrani stared at