Hostile Spike (Battlegroup Z Book 2) Page 15

  Justin superimposed the confirmed route of the enemy over the Astute’s current path. They intersected at the farthest point from the station.

  The commlink in his helmet crackled. “Can you hear me, Lieutenant?” The voice belonged to Lieutenant Colonel Fielding, the commanding officer of the Astute. He pronounced the word lieutenant as leftenant.

  “I can, sir.”

  “We’re closing in on our intercept point. I again apologize for not letting you out to stretch your legs, old chap.”

  “Would rather not risk it, sir.” Justin gripped the flight stick as he spoke.

  “So, we’re going to light up those two buggers and, once they’re down, let you loose to do your job. How’s that sound?”

  “Best idea I’ve heard all day, sir.” Justin grinned. He wanted to get on with it.

  “In that case, sit back and relax for a few more minutes. You might find yourself jostled about a bit. The old girl tends to buck when we start using our primary missile armament.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  “Right. Well, cheerio, Lieutenant, and do make a mess of those Leaguers for us.”

  “You got it, sir.”

  Justin switched the commlink mic off and yawned as he stretched—or more accurately, tried to stretch without hitting anything. On the HUD, the Astute was well inside weapons range. I guess the colonel wants to be close enough that they won’t have time to react. While the strategy made sense, it also produced nail-biting tension. He was well aware that stealth raiders had limited defenses. Their shields were paper-thin, and the sensor-deadening tiles that lined the outer hull of the boats protected them from sight. And that’s how they survive. No one sees them until it’s too late.

  One moment, he was staring at his helmet-integrated HUD. Then all hell broke loose. The hangar deck seemed to pitch up, and Justin was thrown backward. Multiple blue icons separated from the Astute and seconds later merged with the red representing the League patrol fighters—which immediately disappeared.

  “Alpha One, both contacts destroyed. We’re opening the bay doors now,” Fielding announced. “Good hunting and good luck out there. Oh, and when you get back to the Greengold, assuming we survive this, you’ll find yourself a nice bottle of scotch waiting, because you might just be the bravest man I’ve ever met.”

  Justin keyed the throat mic. “Thanks, Colonel. You golden nebula guys are pretty badass yourselves.” Directly in front of his fighter, the shuttle bay doors slid open, revealing the blackness of the void. “Astute Actual, launching now. See you at the after-party.”

  He eased the throttle open with his left hand, and the League craft shot forward. So far, so good. Justin rolled the fighter toward the enemy space station and increased his engine power to maximum. He glanced at a small picture of his wife and daughter—a new one to replace the last printed photo destroyed with his old Sabre. I’m getting home. Somehow. It gave him strength.

  The Astute rapidly faded behind Justin. He poured on the speed, having already rehearsed his plan. If challenged, he would claim that the other fighter had been destroyed by engine failure, and his took damage in the explosion. A thousand kilometers turned into five hundred then two fifty.

  Beads of sweat formed on Justin’s forehead. Okay, calm down. He took several deep breaths as the range continued to close. His heart raced, pounding so loudly that he thought it might explode. Something felt different about the situation, and it took him a minute to put his finger on it: he was alone. No backup, no one to help. Only Justin Spencer, in a captured fighter he could barely fly, against the entire League garrison. Maybe stuff like this is why people turn to God.

  A red light started blinking on the League comm panel, and a rough voice speaking a language Justin didn’t understand filled the cockpit. His HUD’s integrated translation unit—a thoughtful upgrade from one of the CIS spooks—said the words in English. “You’re moving fast, comrade. Where is comrade Tikhomirov’s Yakovlev?”

  I guess Tikhomirov is whoever commands the patrol. Justin took a deep breath. “His fighter malfunctioned, comrade. He ejected before it exploded.”

  “Nonsense,” the Russian man replied. “Both craft you’re flying are brand new. Are you playing games? Another test the political officer put you up to?”

  Okay. Maybe the pilots the Astute took out were pranksters. I can work with that. And what’s a political officer? It would’ve helped to have that piece of knowledge. “Uh, negative, not the political officer.”

  “Ah, so it is a game. Who, then? Panov? Korolyov?”

  Man, these guys have some weird names. Justin grinned, despite it all. He was less than thirty kilometers from the station proper, and it was just barely visible through the cockpit canopy. The speck grew with every passing moment. I hope this translator makes me sound Russian. “It wouldn’t be fun if you knew.”

  A new person cut into the conversation. “Yakovlev Eight-Nine, this is Colonel Hsu. As the political officer for this command, I demand both of you cease these childish games and act as proper sailors of the League of Sol.”

  Oh shit. Maybe that’s it. Perhaps he’s done now after putting the fear of whatever they fear the most in us. His heart skipped several beats.

  But Justin had no such luck. Hsu returned to the commlink. “I will take both of your names for an official reeducation report.”

  “Lieutenant Ibragimov, comrade Colonel,” the officer from the station control replied.

  Justin froze momentarily. While he’d agreed on a Russian name to use in case of challenge, it took a second for it to come to his mind. “Lieutenant Evanoff, comrade Colonel.”

  The period of silence on the commlink was oppressive.

  “Yakovlev Eight-Nine, no such pilot is assigned to this outpost. Cease forward movement or be destroyed.”

  I guess the cat is out of the bag. Justin tried one last gambit. “Couldn’t make out your last transmission, Control. The communication system shows damage. Please repeat.”

  “Yakovlev Eight-Nine, cease forward thrust. You will be towed back to base for interrogation.”

  As the political officer spoke, a new group of contacts appeared on the League fighter’s LIDAR display. They showed friendly IFFs, while the overview in Justin’s HUD designated them as the enemy. Four more craft out here brings me to a total of six hostiles, not counting the frigate. The station was less than fifteen kilometers away, but to ensure the EMP weapon hit, he would have to close to point-blank range. Less than a kilometer. Why’d I sign up for this again?

  “Yakovlev Eight-Nine, if you do not cease thrust immediately, you will be destroyed. This is your final warning.”

  Justin sucked in a breath and gripped the flight stick tightly. Okay, this is it. He double-checked to make sure the fighter was pointed directly toward the station and kicked on its afterburners. The League craft shot forward, doubling its speed nearly instantly. G-forces, as suppressed as they were by the onboard inertial dampening system, pressed him into the seat and made movement difficult.

  The Leaguers reacted immediately, shifting their courses for a quicker intercept while painting with target-acquisition LIDAR. An alarm blared, which Justin assumed had the same function as the Sabre’s missile-lock-on warning. A few moments later, six new icons appeared on his HUD—inbound active LIDAR-tracked warheads.

  It took Justin a second to remember where the chaff-dispenser control was located. He put his left hand on it while juking the craft with his right hand. The g-forces were brutal because of the turns combined with max thrust and the afterburner being at its highest setting. He used each turn to gain some distance from the missiles while keeping the station in his forward cone of movement.

  “Yakovlev Eight-Nine, what are you doing?” the station controller nearly shrieked.

  At the last possible moment, as four warheads closed within half a kilometer of Justin’s fighter, he triggered the chaff dispenser and pulled up hard on the flight stick. The series of explosions as the missiles to
ok the bait nearly shook his teeth out of his skull. Justin let out a breath as he whipped the craft around and glanced at the range to the station. Three kilometers.

  Red balls of plasma flashed by the cockpit’s canopy, and two enemies settled into Justin’s six o’clock position. Dammit, they’re so close to a guns solution on me. He jinked his craft to one side, attempting to throw the pair off. Two kilometers. Justin felt calmness come over him. Nothing else mattered except dropping the EMP on the station and sending the burst transmission to alert the Astute.

  Justin selected the EMP warhead in his HUD and toggled the manual-launch option. As he threw off his pursuers with random course changes, he toggled the commlink to active. “Hey, Leaguers. The Terran Coalition sends its regards.” The next moment, he pressed the launch button.

  The EMP warhead, encased in a standard CDF Starbolt anti-ship missile, dropped away from Justin’s fighter, and its gel-fuel motor came to life. It accelerated away as he turned directly toward the closest enemy craft and opened up with the fore-mounted plasma cannons.

  Perhaps the League pilots were shocked or startled by his transmission or the sudden tactic change. Whatever the reason, they froze, which was all the opening Justin needed. He poured on the fire, shredding the shields of the fighter and blasting apart its hull. After a brief flash of orange, no trace remained of the craft.

  The rest of the five Leaguers all loosed missiles at Justin, a mixture of LIDAR-tracking and heat-seeking variants. They closed in from all sides, leaving Justin with little avenue for escape or evasion. I guess this is it. I just have to hang on long enough to get a message out once the EMP goes off. Determined to go down fighting until the bitter end, he dropped chaff and flares then pushed his flight stick down relative to the Z-axis. A couple of the inbound warheads took the decoys, but two pressed on.

  Out of nowhere, a blinding flash of light came. The EMP! The shockwave raced across the void, and while it didn’t harm the shielded fighters, the missiles in flight weren’t so lucky. They all shut down, with their electronic circuitry fried.

  Justin hadn’t expected that stroke of luck. He quickly triggered the burst transmission then turned his craft toward the nearest Leaguer. Perhaps I can take one down and even the odds before they realize what happened. Justin gripped the flight stick tightly. He would try with everything he had.

  16

  On the bridge of the Zvika Greengold, Tehrani sat in the CO’s chair, eyes locked onto her tactical readout. Battle stations were manned and ready, and the area was bathed in the blue light of condition one. She’d configured the display to show a raw sensor readout along with their shield- and hull-integrity status. So far, the readout was completely blank. Precisely what I would expect and hope for. They were more than thirty minutes overdue for a check-in by the Astute. Dread gripped her chest as she pondered what to do next. Spencer’s the best pilot aboard, except for the CAG. If anyone can pull it off, he can. With some help from Allah, that is. The infusion of such overtly religious thoughts was still a shock.

  “Conn, Communications,” Singh said, interrupting her ruminations. “We’ve got flash traffic from CSV Astute. Lieutenant Spencer successfully deployed the EMP.”

  A few scattered shouts and cheers went up from the enlisted ratings, and Tehrani shared knowing smiles with Wright.

  “Navigation, reconfirm Lawrence drive jump coordinates.”

  “Triple-checked, ma’am. We’re good,” Mitzner replied.

  Tehrani looked at Singh. “Communications, tie 1MC into my intercom link.”

  “You’re live for 1MC, ma’am.”

  “Attention, all hands. This is your commanding officer,” Tehrani said into her chair-mounted microphone. “We’ve been at war for the last six weeks, and I couldn’t be happier with the performance of every soldier on the Zvika Greengold.” She smiled as pride welled within her. “Today, we’re doing something that all of you have wanted from the first day of the war, once that initial shock faded. We’re taking the fight to the League of Sol. Thanks to incredible heroism from our pilots and the hand of God, the Greengold will momentarily jump for what I believe is the first offensive action of the war. The fight will be fierce, and it will be hard, and we will take losses. But I know the League will be defeated today. Man your posts, and do your duty, and no matter the odds, we will prevail.” Her volume had increased to nearly a shout by the end of the impromptu speech.

  Enlisted ratings and officers alike applauded and cheered as the 1MC clicked off.

  In the back of the bridge, someone shouted, “No matter the odds!”

  The chant was immediately taken up by the rest of the crewmembers present and quickly grew to a roar.

  Tehrani held up her right hand and made a fist. “Let’s make the Leaguers hear us. Focus on your stations, ladies and gentlemen.” The tumult immediately ceased. “Navigation, engage Lawrence drive. All ahead flank.”

  “Aye, aye, ma’am,” Mitzner replied.

  Outside of the windows at the front of the bridge, space started rippling. The lights dimmed as the powerful FTL drive opened a hole through the void between two points light-years away from each other. The ripple turned into a kaleidoscope of colors, and the wormhole came into being. The Greengold accelerated toward it and flew through. Transmit was momentary, but the walls of the artificial construct made for an eerie display of color and light, bending in ways that were beautiful and mesmerizing at the same time.

  Then they were out. The ship emerged into normal space, and the wormhole disappeared in a flash. Tehrani gripped the sides of her chair. Are we in the right place? The next few seconds were nail-biters as the Greengold’s systems came back online.

  “Conn, Navigation. Emergence location confirmed. We’re exactly where we’re supposed to be.”

  “Conn, TAO. Shields and point defense active. Sensors coming up. One space installation designated Master One, consistent with League of Sol energy signature. One Lancer-class frigate, designated Master Two. I show five League fighters, four of which are attacking the fifth.” Bryan turned around. “Master One is disabled, ma’am.”

  “Son of a… Spencer pulled it off, and he’s still alive,” Wright interjected.

  Tehrani felt amazed, then she jolted back into reality. “XO, signal the air boss to launch the Red Tails squadron along with one element of Maulers and Boars each.”

  “Aye, aye, ma’am.” Wright turned his attention to his display and tapped away furiously at it.

  “Navigation, intercept course on Master Two.”

  “Aye, aye, ma’am,” Mitzner called. The stars immediately began to move.

  “TAO, firing point procedures, neutron beams, Master Two.” Tehrani tugged her uniform sweater down nervously. I expected more ships here. “Stand by to coordinate your attack with elements Gamma and Epsilon.”

  “Firing solutions set, ma’am.”

  They were still out of range, but Tehrani wanted everything lined up. Numerous dots appeared next to the Zvika Greengold on the tactical display, representing the small craft being launched. They sorted into flight elements and roared away from the carrier. She noticed that one of the Sabres bore the designation of CAG. I don’t recall giving Major Whatley approval to join the fight. Tehrani grinned. Who am I kidding? I’d have to confine him to the brig to keep him out of space in an all-squadron scramble situation like this.

  “Conn, TAO. Almost to maximum range of our forward neutron cannon, ma’am. Master Two is accelerating to intercept. Inbound missiles,” Bryan reported.

  “TAO, set point defense to automatic mode.”

  “Aye, aye, ma’am.”

  The second the enemy frigate closed within range of its primary armament, it began a withering bombardment of plasma balls coupled with blasts from forward-mounted neutron beams. While the League tech wasn’t as advanced or as powerful as the Coalition’s weaponry, it still packed quite a wallop. The shield-charge indicator for the Greengold’s forward arc dropped like a stone.

 
; “Steady as she goes,” Tehrani murmured, more for the bridge crew’s benefit than her own. Closer and closer, the frigate came, until it was at point-blank range. “TAO, match bearings, shoot, forward neutron beams. Signal Gamma and Epsilon elements to break and attack.”

  “Aye, aye, ma’am,” Bryan replied.

  Two beams of blue death erupted from the neutron-beam emitters on the Greengold’s bow. Moving at the speed of light, they connected with the shields of the League frigate. While the enemy’s protective screens held, they were severely weakened by the assault. Each Mauler bomber let loose with a Javelin anti-ship missile, while the Boars added their projectile cannons to the fray. It didn’t take much to collapse what was left of the energy barrier. Two Javelins impacted the brittle hull of the enemy vessel, causing massive explosions. A moment later, a chain reaction began a series of secondary detonations. They ended with the frigate blowing apart. No life pods were launched.

  “Conn, TAO. Master Two neutralized,” Bryan said with disbelief.

  “Good shooting, Lieutenant. Get our Marines into the vacuum and task the Red Tails for close escort.” Tehrani turned to Singh. “Communications, ensure Major Whatley knows I’ll hold him personally accountable for the shuttle’s safety.”

  “Aye, aye, ma’am.”

  Tehrani returned her attention to the tactical plot on her display. Allah, watch over us. I do not believe that is the last the enemy will throw our way. Although she reasoned that it would be nice to catch the League with its pants down, just once.