Hostile Spike (Battlegroup Z Book 2) Page 7

  “Reporting as ordered, ma’am,” Wright said as he slid into the XO’s chair directly next to Tehrani’s. “What’s going on?” He cracked a grin. “I was just about to get some beauty sleep.”

  “You need it,” Tehrani replied with some mirth. “Check this out.” She turned her screen to face him.

  Wright scanned over it. “Oh. Yeah. That doesn’t seem good. Not only does it look like someone’s tracking us, but whoever it is seems to have figured out where the most damaged freighters are.”

  “Got it in one, XO.” Tehrani turned back toward the front of the bridge. “We’ll have more small craft on deck in…” She checked the ship’s time. “Twenty-three minutes.”

  “The last report I saw from the Marcus Luttrell indicated main propulsion was fully operational, and they had all weapons back online.” Wright’s face betrayed worry. “That little ship seems to get shot to hell and back a bit too often for my taste.” He grumbled. “We oughta have at least a heavy cruiser, eight destroyers, and a small fleet of frigates out here, with another escort or light carrier.”

  “What’s that expression you like to use? ‘When pigs fly’?”

  Wright laughed loudly. “That’s it, ma’am.”

  The bridge momentarily quieted, and Tehrani took a moment to ponder her XO’s words. As the commanding officer of an escort carrier, she’d been trained for convoy escort duty. Past wargames had shown just what he mentioned—strong carrier battlegroups backed up with capital-ship firepower watching over large formations of freighters. Key to their plans was an ample number of fast space-warfare vessels—destroyers and frigates—to prevent an enemy from nibbling at their flanks. Now they ask us to protect dozens of civilian ships with a force barely large enough for customs duty on a core world. An undercurrent of fear coupled with anger ran through Tehrani. She pushed it down and focused on her task.

  In times past, CDF officers grumbled about command and the Joint Chiefs being too cautious, not committing enough warships, or one of any number of common complaints. But the problem wasn’t with headquarters. We lost so many ships at the Battle of Canaan that it’s a small miracle our tiny battlegroup is still functional.

  A change on the tactical plot caught her eye. “TAO, confirm sensor ghost has closed to two hundred thousand kilometers.”

  Bryan turned around. “It has, ma’am. I’m not getting strong enough echoes off its hull or propulsion to give you an estimate on what class of ship it is.”

  “Too bad we don’t have a stealth raider with us,” Tehrani muttered. They were clearly about to get jumped. Allah help us if they bring another heavy cruiser. She reached down and punched the 1MC intercom. “Attention, all hands. This is Colonel Tehrani. General quarters. General quarters. Man your battle stations. I say again, man your battle stations. Set material condition one throughout the ship. This is not a drill. I say again, this is not a drill.”

  The lights on the bridge immediately faded to blue, which had the effect of making the screens and consoles easier to see. A klaxon sounded once and cut out. Throughout the rest of the vessel, it would blare for five minutes. Anyone not awake after that was probably already dead.

  Wright leaned in. “Going to GQ this early?”

  “Best to be prepared.”

  “You realize the uniform of the day is camo, right?” Wright asked.

  Tehrani turned toward him, annoyed until she saw the wide grin plastered on his face. “Seriously, Major?”

  Wright snickered. “Well, just saying. Your uniform is a bit… well, ripe.” He raised an eyebrow. “Is your command-in-space insignia out of place there? I think the ribbon bar’s off too.”

  She shot back a withering look. “Don’t push a good joke too far.” Unable to keep a straight face, Tehrani smiled. “Thanks. I needed that.”

  “Don’t mention it, ma’am.” He sighed. “Captain Shikoba just reported a minimum of two hours before the freighters can jump.”

  “All of them?”

  “Merchant Marines are pretty gung-ho on sticking together. They all go, or none of them do.”

  While Tehrani could respect the sentiment, if a few freighters had to be sacrificed to get the overall convoy through, that was what her duty demanded. And what’s a few more nightmares for a fleet officer to deal with? “Do we have the ability to override their navigation consoles remotely and trigger a jump?”

  “Uh… er, um…” Wright’s eyes nearly popped out of his skull. “I’m not sure, ma’am. I’ll dig into it.”

  “While you’re at it, perhaps you should perform a uniform inspection for the rest of our bridge team.” Tehrani smiled wickedly. “Since you’re handing out demerits.”

  “I think we can pass on that for now,” he shot back before directing his gaze to the screen attached to his chair.

  Despite her attempt at a breezy attitude, mostly for her crew’s morale, Tehrani privately despaired. She couldn’t imagine a situation in which the Leaguers didn’t throw everything they had at the convoy. If they do, we probably won’t survive. The thought sobered her, though at the same time, it caused Tehrani to focus every bit of creativity and tactical prowess she possessed on finding an advantage. A prayer went through her mind. Allah, watch over Your warriors, and if it is Your will, grant us victory over this enemy.

  An obnoxious klaxon woke Justin from his slumber. It felt like only moments before, he’d finally fallen into sleep. He wiped his eyes, carefully removing the hard crust that had built up around their edges, and blinked a few times.

  That’s the scramble alarm. Like a bullet, he shot out of bed and raced to the bathroom, where he relieved himself quickly. No time for a shower. I guess I’ll smell up my flight suit. He rapidly pulled the one-piece jumpsuit that went under his space-rated flight suit, then he took the journey from his quarters to the flight deck at an all-out run.

  “I don’t think that mustache is in regulation, sir,” Feldstein called as Justin entered the Red Tails locker room to put on his space-rated flight suit.

  “Yeah, probably not. Don’t forget to tell the major.”

  Feldstein snickered as she locked the seals on her boots in place. “How’d you sleep?”

  “Better than last night. I don’t remember anything after zonking out,” he replied. As he spoke, he stepped into his suit and went through the same protocol as she was, checking all joints and seals. In the event of ejection, their lives depended on it.

  “Same nightmare?”

  Justin pursed his lips. “Yeah.”

  “You can’t single-handedly destroy every League fighter, bomber, and capital ship in the galaxy.” Feldstein’s voice grew soft. “Don’t take that burden on yourself.”

  “I close my eyes, and I see that freighter blowing apart.” Justin peered at her. “Those men and women depended on us. We failed them.”

  “No, we didn’t. It’s war, sir.”

  “A jaded vet already?”

  “We do the best we can, and that’s all God or our fellow men can ask of us.” She touched his arm. “There’s a Hebrew proverb from the Talmud: whoever saves a life, it is considered as if he saved an entire world.”

  Justin stared at her. “What’s a Talmud?”

  “It’s a holy book… writings of our most respected rabbis. The point is, how many people have you saved, Justin? I’ve lost count of the number of times you bailed me out. You’ve got to stop beating yourself up.”

  “I should probably see one of the fleet shrinks.” Counseling was already being offered to the entire ship’s company. Centuries of research on post-traumatic stress disorder showed that it was best treated by talking with fellow soldiers as soon as possible after the battle that triggered the reaction.

  “Not a bad idea, sir.” She took a step back. “My suit’s good. What about you?”

  Justin snapped the gauntlets into place and sealed them. “Yeah, me too.” He grabbed his helmet from the locker. “Ready room? I’m hoping there’s some coffee.”

  Feldstein grinne
d. “I impressed some young private into making us a fresh pot and bringing down biscuits from the mess.”

  “Why not some scones?” Justin asked with a smirk.

  “Scones? Seriously?” Feldstein cracked up. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t hit me as a scone kind of guy.”

  “What’s wrong with eating a scone?”

  “If you have to ask…” A stern expression came over her face. “I guess we’d better get in there.”

  “Yeah.” Justin began going into combat mode, in which he shed all other concerns and focused on one task: defeating the enemy. He squared his shoulders, gripped his helmet tightly, and strode through the hatch into the ready room.

  “Nice of you to join us, Lieutenant Spencer,” Major Whatley rasped.

  Justin immediately felt on the spot. He looked around to see most of the Red Tails pilots already there along with a few bomber crews. The ever-present Boar-squadron pilots sat together on the left side. One of them made a brrrrrrt. It seemed to be their unofficial motto or something.

  “I was making sure my suit was ready to face the vacuum.”

  “Probably a good thing, Sabre boy,” one of the Boar drivers shouted. “Those short little ugly fighters of yours have poor armor.”

  For a moment, Justin allowed his ego to take over. He turned and smirked at the man. “And just how many kills do you have?”

  “Uh—”

  “When you’re over thirty, let me know, and we can talk.”

  Multiple cheers broke out, and Mateus let loose with a catcall. “Listen to our man here. Sabres rule. Boars eat our dust.”

  “Attention!” Whatley shouted.

  Those standing turned toward the major and froze into place, while those sitting leaped up and did the same.

  “Now that you’re done peacocking, let’s consider the task at hand, which isn’t insulting one another. Focus, ladies and gentlemen, on going into the void and erasing our Leaguer friends from existence.”

  “Sir, yes, sir!” Justin shouted along with the rest of them.

  “At ease and sit down.”

  As the pilots complied with his order, Whatley continued, “The skipper thinks we’re about to have company.” He pulled up the current formation of the fleet on the holoprojector. It showed the Zvika Greengold in the center of the convoy, with a sphere of freighters around her. Icons representing fighter elements populated and spread out from the carrier. “Last time, they had a heavy cruiser. There’s no reason to believe they’ll come with anything less than all-out force.”

  “What options do we have for getting through a cruiser’s shields, Major?” Mateus asked.

  “Put enough anti-ship missiles on target, and even a battleship will fall, Lieutenant.” Whatley turned toward the Boar pilots. “You guys are always razzing the rest of us about how awesome your decades-old fighters are.” His mouth curled into a grin. “It’s time to put up or shut up. Clear?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Good. Now, all of you get to your fighters. I want everyone in this room ready to launch in ten minutes. Move out, pilots!”

  Justin jumped out of his seat along with everyone else and headed for the door.

  Whatley’s voice carried over the tumult. “And when you all get back, I’ll be conducting a series of scramble drills. Twenty minutes is unacceptable. Now go kill some Leaguers!”

  With his blood pumping, Justin realized the vacuum had one benefit: he wouldn’t have to listen to Whatley tune him and the rest of the pilots up. He grinned. The major means well, but damn, his delivery model could use some work.

  8

  The soothing blue hue emanating from the overhead, bathing the bridge in dim light, did little to assuage Tehrani’s fear of what was coming next. She stared at the tactical plot, thinking that at any moment, the enemy would jump them. The question of how the League was tracking them so well also worried her, though she had no time to ponder it.

  “Conn, TAO. Ghost sensor image is less than one hundred thousand kilometers away.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant.” Tehrani turned to Wright. “Convoy-jump status?”

  “Still an hour and twenty minutes out, minimum, ma’am.”

  Every minute more was a gift, and Tehrani viewed it as such. Her eyes went back to the plot. Think. There’s got to be something you missed. A light bulb turned on in her mind. “XO, what convoy members have the best weapons and shields?”

  Wright leaned over and pointed at a tight cluster of four icons. “Those. The company that runs them kept getting hit by pirates on runs to the Jewel Box nebula. They all have enhanced shielding and weapons. I’m pretty sure one of them even has a neutron beam.”

  “Civilian ships can’t obtain those legally,” Tehrani murmured. She grinned. “But good for us.” She traced a series of lines on her screen. “Get with the convoy liaison officer. The moment the Leaguers jump in, I want the damaged ships to come about hard to port and dive under the Greengold. These vessels”—she touched the cluster of more heavily armed freighters—“should fill the gap. And politely let the master of the one you think has a neutron beam know that would we be grateful if they used it on the enemy.”

  “I’m on it,” Wright replied with a twinkle in his eye. “I like your tactics. These guys won’t expect a freighter to open up on them.”

  “I hope it’ll be the last mistake they make.”

  Time continued to crawl by. Each tick of the digital clock above Tehrani’s head felt like an eternity. As it counted down the minutes until the convoy could safely jump, she felt hope that they might make it out of the system without a fight. Their next jump would take them to a CDF forward operating base, which would offer safe harbor and possibly reinforcements.

  “Conn, TAO,” Bryan announced. “Aspect change, multiple inbound wormholes.”

  So much for us getting out of here without combat. Tehrani set her jaw. “Identity and range, Lieutenant?”

  A pregnant pause followed as Bryan tapped his console and sucked in a breath. “League signature confirmed, ma’am. Three Lancer-class frigates bearing two-seven-six, mark positive fifteen. Contacts designated Master One through Three.” Then he said, “Another wormhole. Rand-class heavy cruiser, designated Master Four. All vessels are launching small craft. Range is roughly two thousand kilometers.”

  “TAO, best guess—ETA to enemy intercept?” Tehrani figured they’d meant to jump in the middle of the formation, but Lawrence drive jumps were an inexact science. Our gain.

  “Frigates are five to eight minutes from firing range on the closest freighters, ma’am. The Rand is slower. Call it fifteen, tops.”

  When she glanced at the digital clock, Tehrani’s heart sank. Forty-five minutes of fighting with that cruiser? Allah help us. They could do nothing except engage and hope for the best. “Navigation, bring us about to heading two-seven-zero, mark negative ten. All ahead flank.”

  “Aye, aye, ma’am,” Mitzner replied.

  “TAO, firing point procedures,” Tehrani said as she double-checked the tactical plot. “Forward neutron beams, Master Two.” She paused. “Designate Master Two as the primary target.” As the closest ship, it would feel their wrath first. “XO, get everything we’ve got on deck into space.”

  “Aye, aye, ma’am.”

  Fighters and bombers streaked out of the Zvika Greengold’s launch bays, appearing on the tactical plot as blue icon groups that sped toward the enemy. Tehrani whispered a prayer in Arabic for her pilots and the allied fleet. May they return safely home. She knew many would not.

  After the hurry-up-and-get-ready part of the scramble drill, Justin and his fellows stared at the clock during the hurry-up-and-wait portion. Some of the pilots had engaged in spirited banter, but Justin kept quiet, for the most part, lost in his thoughts. He replayed some of the latest simulator runs he’d engaged in through his mind, always seeking to hone his tactics.

  “This is Whatley,” he announced on the all-pilot-wide commlink. “We’ll be launching
shortly. As usual, it will be a high-risk, target-rich environment. Fight the good fight, no matter the odds!”

  “No matter the odds!” Justin yelled back, as did every other pilot active on the channel.

  The launch indicator for Alpha element turned green on Justin’s HUD. He clicked the commlink to the channel for the entire Red Tails squadron. “Alpha and Beta elements, launch by predesignated groupings.”

  As the squadron commander, he went first. His Sabre shot off the flight deck like a bat out of hell. In seconds, the carrier had disappeared from his canopy, and the vastness of the void replaced his view. Except a dozen other vessels were in range. Justin could make out the running lights of several, while a couple of the freighters had unique lighting patterns that lit up the night.

  “Bandits. Bandits bearing two-seven-five and closing fast,” Feldstein called.

  “Alpha, break and attack,” Justin replied. “Beta, provide close escort for the bomber element the moment it launches.”

  “Wilco,” Adeoye said in his rich baritone. “I count four bandits.”

  A glance at the HUD confirmed his observation. Four League fighters were headed straight for them, with another four right behind. If that weren’t enough, a formation of bombers was moving toward a freighter. The missile alarm sounded, indicating an inbound warhead. Justin pulled back on his flight stick violently, sending his Sabre up. Simultaneously, he dropped several packs of jammers in hopes of spoofing the threat.

  Justin felt the vibration a split second after his HUD registered the explosion from the enemy missile that mistook a jammer for his fighter. He looped around, searching for the craft that had fired on his Sabre, only to find it flying directly toward him. Red balls of plasma flashed by his cockpit canopy, and in return, he sent bolts of blue neutron-cannon energy back. At the last possible second, the missile tone sounded, and Justin triggered a Vulture LIDAR tracker’s launch. It flew straight and true, impacting the enemy craft on its weakened fore shields and blowing it apart. “Alpha One, splash one.”