Bandits Engaged (Battlegroup Z Book 4) Read online

  Bandits Engaged

  Battlegroup Z Book Four

  Daniel Gibbs

  Contents

  CSV Zvika Greengold Blueprints

  SF-86 Sabre Blueprints

  Starchart - Sagittarius/Orion Arms

  Free Daniel Gibbs Books

  Also Available from Daniel Gibbs

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

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  Bandits Engaged by Daniel Gibbs

  Copyright © 2020-2021 by Daniel Gibbs

  Visit Daniel Gibb’s website at

  www.danielgibbsauthor.net

  Cover by Jeff Brown Graphics—www.jeffbrowngraphics.com

  Additional Illustrations by Joel Steudler—www.joelsteudler.com

  This book is a work of fiction, the characters, incidents and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. For permissions please contact [email protected].

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  Battlegroup Z

  Book 1 - Weapons Free

  Book 2 - Hostile Spike

  Book 3 - Sol Strike

  Book 4 - Bandits Engaged

  Book 5 - Iron Hand

  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

  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

  Prologue

  System XB-361-A

  Terran Coalition Border Zone

  26 July 2434

  While the war between the Terran Coalition and the League of Sol raged, life in the neutral planets and outlying human colonies went on. Throughout the border zone, worlds with humans—some who left the Terran Coalition and other colony ships from Earth sent after the initial Exodus—tried to survive.

  The lifeblood of survival was trade. Alejandro Metztli and his crew supplied it like a beating heart. From the bridge of the ISV Juan de Fuca, he commanded an aged Victory ship that was a relic from the second Saurian War. Rapidly constructed, the old freighter was coming up on the end of its projected lifespan, but Metztli’s bank account didn’t allow for the purchase of a new vessel. The ship was one of thousands just like it plying trade across the stars.

  “Lawrence drives about spun up?” Metztli asked.

  The navigator turned her head and nodded. “Yes, Captain. We’re almost ready to jump. Another twenty minutes or so.”

  Metztli would’ve done anything for a new commercial-grade FTL drive. But we’re stuck with forty-year-old technology. Since they were in the middle of a war zone, the fact was sobering. But League military forces hadn’t been spotted close to the Jewel Box, where Metztli and his crew primarily ran cargo.

  “Good,” Metztli replied. He briefly considered getting a snack.

  “Neutrino spike off the port quarter,” Carlos Cabrillo, his first mate and de facto tactical officer, announced. “Looks like an incoming wormhole.”

  “How close?”

  “A thousand kilometers, give or take.”

  Warning bells rang in Metztli’s head. Too close for comfort. “Angle us away and increase thrust. Power our deflectors.” Probably a false alarm.

  “Aye, sir,” the navigator replied. “Thrust increased to maximum output.”

  “It’s a bulk hauler. Maybe an ore freighter,” Cabrillo said. “Heading straight toward us too.”

  The large vessel accelerated faster than it ought to have been able to and gained rapidly on the Juan de Fuca as its ore storage pods opened.

  “Fighters are launching from the contact.” Cabrillo swore under his breath. “Mother of God, there’s dozens of them.”

  “What?” Metztli felt his face warm. “Freighters aren’t carriers—” His breath caught. “Pirates. It must be.”

  “Makes sense, Captain,” Cabrillo replied. “But all the way out here? We could jump ahead of schedule to escape.”

  Metztli turned his attention to the status display built into the CO’s chair and pulled up their jump readiness. “No, too dangerous. Thirty percent chance of exotic-particle release if we go now.” Besides, pirates want cargo. It’s a safer play to give it to them and live to haul another day. “Open a channel.”

  “You’re live, sir,” the third mate, who manned the communications station, replied.

  “Attention, unidentified vessel. This is the ISV Juan de Fuca, a duly registered freighter with the Interplanetary Spacers Union. Please state your intentions and terms. We would be glad to negotiate with you for safe passage.”

  Seconds ticked by without a response. All the while, the incoming ship gained on them. The fighters accelerated, flanking the Juan de Fuca on both sides. In short order, they were boxed in with little room to maneuver.

  “Send my message again via text transmission,” Metztli said quietly. He stared at the sensor plot as the seriousness and hopeless nature of the situation settled in. “We could try to fight our way out. What do you think, Carlos?”

  “Too many of them, Captain,” Cabrillo replied as he gripped the sides of the tactical console tight enough to turn his knuckles white.

  “Send a general distress call while we still have time. Request Terran Coalition Frontier Enforcement assistance.” Metztli forced confidence into his voice. “Charge our forward xasers and the point-defense guns.” The Juan de Fuca mounted three xaser-beam emitters and several turreted PD emplacements. Like most cargo vessels, she was capable of limited self-defense.

  On the plot, the fighters suddenly broke and headed straight for them. Additional icons appeared—missiles. They raced through the void, shooting purple and red plasma fire and striking the Fuca’s shields.

  If it weren’t for the bridge crew’s harnesses, they would’ve been thrown about like rag dolls as the ship bucked and pitched wildly. “Port and starboard deflectors losing cohesion, Captai
n,” Cabrillo yelled above the din. “Starboard point-defense emplacement two is destroyed.”

  They had no way out. Pirates don’t act like this. Metztli couldn’t get the stubborn thought out of his mind as he tried to figure out what to do next. A merchant above all else, he had no military training and could count on one hand the number of times the Juan de Fuca had charged its weapons. Caught between fight and flight, he had only one option. Metztli punched the ship-wide intercom. “This is the captain speaking. All hands, abandon ship. All hands, abandon ship. Get to the escape pods.”

  “Port shield collapsed, sir!”

  Metztli threw off his harness and stood. “With me, everyone.”

  The small group proceeded to the two escape pods directly aft of the bridge and separated into them. Ungodly metallic groaning punctuated the air while the Fuca was tossed from side to side.

  “We’ve got to go, sir!” Cabrillo shouted as he slid into the pilot’s seat on the cramped life pod. “Seal the hatch.”

  After checking both directions down the passageway for additional personnel, Metztli put his hand on the control to shut the space door. He was torn between waiting longer for more crew members to make their way forward and the hardwired human desire to survive. There are six other pods. I’m sure everyone’s gotten to them. The thought immediately collided with the duty of the captain to remain aboard until all were safely off. In the end, survival won. Metztli triggered the shut-and-release mechanism, and the little pod rocketed forward.

  “Five hundred meters from the Fuca,” Cabrillo called. “One thousand meters.”

  Metztli hung on for dear life as g-forces weighed him down and the craft raced away from the doomed freighter.

  “Reactor is critical on the Fuca. She’s going up,” Cabrillo said somberly.

  Metztli crawled up to the cockpit and struggled to hoist himself into a chair. Once strapped in, he forced himself to stare at the stricken freighter—his ship. He pursed his lips as a bright-white flash erupted. Nothing was left except a debris field when the glare faded—with only a few chunks visible to the naked eye.

  “We’re clear, Captain.” Cabrillo sounded like an automaton.

  He’s probably in shock. Allowing himself to believe they’d survived, Metztli fought to control his breathing and lower his pulse.

  A bright explosion visible through the transparent alloy lining the cockpit brought him back to reality. “What was—”

  “Jesucristo, save us,” Cabrillo whispered. “They’re shooting down the pods.” His eyes were as wide as saucers, and his jaw dropped.

  The few remaining escape pods tried in vain to maneuver away from the attacking fighters, but it was an impossible task. One by one, they blew apart in brief smears of orange flame.

  Metztli and the rest of his crew were moments from death. A life dedicated to the spacer’s way flashed in front of his eyes along with regret for roads not taken and things Metztli wished he could’ve changed. He decided to take his precious last seconds to pray. “Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.” As Metztli crossed himself afterward, he closed his eyes.

  A single anti-fighter missile exploded in close proximity to the life pod’s hull, which shredded instantly, cutting those inside to pieces. Then the fuel cells overloaded, and the entire pod blew up.

  As his consciousness faded amidst the unbearable agony of heat followed by the extreme cold of the void, Metztli hoped his faith in God and an afterlife would bear fruit, and he would awake in a better place.

  1

  CSV Zvika Greengold

  Canaan Orbit—High Loop Five

  5 August 2434

  Captain Justin Spencer, commander of the Red Tails space-superiority fighter squadron and executive officer of the Zvika Greengold’s flight wing, paused for a moment in the gravlift to deck fifteen. A year ago, he’d been finishing up a work project—trying to tidy up some code he’d written before his two-week annual tour with the Coalition Defense Force. It seemed like it a lifetime ago.

  Nearly nonstop combat for eleven months had taken him from a cocky reservist to a hardened veteran along with the rest of his squadron and the carrier’s entire crew complement.

  The gravlift doors opened, and he strode down the passageway to a hatch marked CAG—Major Gabriel Whatley. Justin pressed the buzzer.

  “Come!” Whatley called loudly from the other side of the hatch.

  Justin pushed it open and walked in. “Captain Justin Spencer reports as ordered, sir.”

  Whatley gestured at two chairs in front of his desk. The office was small and cramped, overflowing with knickknacks and records. “Sit.”

  He’s grumpy, as always. Justin dropped into the indicated seat and waited for Whatley to say whatever he’d called him down there for.

  “We have some housekeeping to do, Spencer. You’ve been avoiding the question for weeks now, and I’ve let it slide because of our refit. I might add not being in the vacuum, fighting Leaguers, is making my skin crawl. I can’t wait to get out of here.”

  The quip let Justin focus on the second half of Whatley’s statement as he tried to push the first out of his mind. I have to face it sooner rather than later. Francis Martin’s not coming back. He died at Sol, saving our lives. My life. Justin set his jaw. “I know, sir. The Winged Lightning needs a new CO. I—”

  “You haven’t made a recommendation to me because it’ll make the loss real and validate the pain of losing another friend.” Whatley’s voice, while ever gruff, held genuine compassion. “I’ve been there, too, son.”

  If Justin were anywhere else, tears would’ve flowed. Martin’s constant bantering in the cockpit and his ribald insults directed at the League of Sol pilots they’d engaged so many times together were beacons of strength. But they were gone, as was he. But in front of Whatley, Justin only displayed iron resolve. “Yes, sir. Exactly that.” He sucked in a breath. “I’ll review the top candidates and make a recommendation to you.”

  “Got anyone in mind?”

  “Martin’s XO and also Lieutenant Feldstein.”

  Whatley raised an eyebrow. “Feldstein’s your XO. Damn good Sabre pilot too. Why transfer her?”

  “Because she’s due for a promotion, sir, and I don’t want to hold her back.” It also might help make things a bit less awkward. Ever since the incident a few months prior when they’d almost kissed each other in a moment of weakness, Justin had felt a gulf between them. Probably because I put it there.

  “Well, I think she’d be great in the position, but you need to ask rather than assign. Flying a Sabre is a hell of a lot more fun than flying a Mauler.” Whatley snorted. “Damn things turn like a pig.”

  Justin snickered. “Yes, sir.”

  “What’s the readiness level for our refitted Sabres and Boars?”

  Much like the Greengold, upgrade packages had come through for both fighters she carried. Crew chiefs, aviation division personnel, and defense contractors had strived tirelessly to ensure everything worked as advertised. “On schedule, sir. The last of our checkout flights should happen tomorrow.”

  “Make sure it happens. We will not be what holds Colonel Tehrani back from getting underway.” Whatley smirked. “I’d never hear the end of that either.”

  “Can’t let the squids hold one over on us, sir.”

  “Damn straight, Spencer.” Whatley leaned back in his chair. “Anything else going on?”

  “Wrestling with the idea of being at war for almost a year, sir.” Justin paused. “Part of me relishes the combat.” He narrowed his eyes. “That seems wrong.”

  Whatley shrugged. “Not to me. Out there is the only time in my life I feel alive. So trust me. I get it.” He scrunched his nose. “I wouldn’t go around telling civilians that, though, because they won’t get it.”

  “The other side of me wants to go back to my famil
y and the boring job I had writing software.”

  “Now we’re getting to the point I throw you out of my office,” Whatley replied. “If you need counseling, go see Chaplain Elliott.”

  “I, uh, have been.”

  Whatley’s jaw seemed to bounce off his desk. “You’ve been to the chapel?”

  “Several times.”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, Spencer, but I thought you never darkened its door.”

  “I didn’t.” Justin narrowed his eyes. “But some things changed over the last year.”

  Whatley tilted his head to one side. “I see. Personally, my relationship with God and the comforting thought that someday I might go to a better place is the one thing keeping me on an even keel.”

  “I thought it was raining death from the void on our Leaguer friends, sir.” Justin smiled.

  “Ha. I’ve told you before—leave sarcasm to the professionals.”

  Justin leaned back. “For what it’s worth, I don’t know what I believe yet. Only that I’ve come around to the idea of there being more to the universe than what I can touch.”

  “Have anything to do with your experience on that League cruiser?” Whatley asked with a piercing stare.

  Memories of landing inside the Rand-class cruiser’s hangar bay, stealing a fighter, and disabling the ship on the way out flooded into Justin’s mind. “Yeah. Something like that, sir.”