by Daniel Gibbs
Sol Strike
Battlegroup Z Book Three
Daniel Gibbs
Contents
CSV Zvika Greengold Blueprints
SF-86 Sabre Blueprints
Starchart - Sagittarius/Orion Arms
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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
Epilogue
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Sol Strike 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
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
1
CSV Zvika Greengold
Canaan Orbit—High Loop Three
3 February 2434
Captain Justin Spencer’s alarm went off as usual at 0430 hours CMT, Coalition Mean Time, and like every other morning, he jumped out of bed. After he’d spent nearly six months on active duty, the routine was ingrained. Following an hour-long workout, he returned to his quarters, showered, and dressed in the uniform of the day, then he made his way to the pilots’ mess.
As he finished his hearty breakfast of bacon, eggs, corned beef hash, and coffee, his handcomm beeped. The screen showed an order to appear in the deck one conference room at 0630—in fifteen minutes. I can make it with time to spare if I go now.
Justin sprang from the table, dropped his tray and cup into the used-utensils receptacle, and quickly strode out of the mess.
The Zvika Greengold was a Thane-class escort carrier. Even though it only held thirty-six combat spacecraft in three squadrons, it still had large numbers of personnel. From the soldiers who ran the ship itself to the aviation crew that was nearly a thousand strong to Marines, medical support, and engineering, the vessel carried almost three thousand souls. It was a small city in space. Meanwhile, the larger Saratoga-class fleet carriers had six or seven thousand soldiers and supported over two hundred fighters and bombers each. Maybe I’ll get to one someday. Justin had plans beyond returning alive from whatever mission he was assigned to fly, and serving on a Saratoga-class carrier was still his goal.
He stepped off the gravlift to deck one and was greeted by a short passageway with only a few hatches off of it. One led to the bridge and had two Marines to each side, standing guard twenty-four hours a day. Justin’s destination was the conference room, situated on the corridor's right-hand side when one exited from the lift.
He pushed open the hatch to find Colonel Tehrani, the commanding officer of the Zvika Greengold, already seated at the head of the table. Justin immediately brought himself to attention. “Captain Justin Spencer reports as ordered, ma’am.”
“At ease, Spencer. Have a seat,” Tehrani replied, gesturing toward the many available chairs. No one else was present.
“Thank you, ma’am.” Justin sat and maintained a ramrod-straight posture.
“How’s your squadron holding up?”
Justin commanded the Red Tails squadron, named in honor of the first integrated fighter command hundreds of years ago on Earth. When the Coalition Defense Force had been formed, the unit was reactivated and filled with citizens of every nation-state, religion, and creed within the Terran Coalition.
“Good, ma’am. The loss of Higgens last week was a blow, but his replacement should be here tomorrow.”
Nearly constant loss had become the norm. The flight element he commanded, Alpha, had suffered several close calls but had yet to lose a pilot. Justin knew in his heart it was only a matter of time. Heck, it should’ve been me after I was shot down. He still didn’t quite understand how or why he’d survived.
Further chitchat was cut off by the arrival of Major Wright and Major Whatley—the XO and CAG of the Zvika Greengold. Both men hailed from American-controlled planets, as denoted by the American flags on their uniforms’ left shoulders. Tehrani, as far as Justin could tell, was from the Republic of Persia.
“Colonel,” Wright said as he sat. “Our guest will be here shortly.”
“Thank you, XO.”
Whatley took a seat next to Justin. “What’d I tell you about showing up early to get points with the skipper?”
While the remark seemed like a dig, Justin had long since learned to accept the CAG’s unique sense of humor—in all of its acerbic glory. “Well, I had to represent aviation, sir,” he shot back.
“Ha.” Whatley smirked and turned toward Tehrani. “Any hints to what this is about, ma’am?”
“Oh, I think it’s better if you hear it from our newly assigned officer.”
Whatley looked at Wright with a raised eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware of any—”
The hatch swung open, revealing a tall newcomer. The man wore a khaki CDF duty uniform with the flag of Scotland on his shoulder. He took two steps into the room and clicked his heels together. “First Lieu—” His face turned bloodred. “Captain Andrew MacIntosh reports as ordered.”
Tehrani was gracious. “Still getting used to your promotion, Captain?”
“Yes, ma’am. Apologies.”
“Take a seat,” Tehrani replied. “Captain MacIntosh, from CDF Special Projects Division, is joining the Greengold’s engineering team. He’ll be overseeing a most unusual project with us
.” She grinned. “What you’re about to be told, gentlemen”—she glanced between Wright, Whatley, and Spencer—“is code word classified as the highest level. You won’t speak of it, even in your sleep. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Justin replied quickly. Okay, this is different. Not every day Special Projects shows up.
Excitement built up in him as the others nodded their agreement.
“Good. Captain MacIntosh, I’ll leave it to you.”
MacIntosh stood and touched a data storage device to the holoprojector on the conference table’s center. “Gentlemen, are you familiar with the SFS-4 Ghost?”
Stealth recon fighters? Justin stared at the newcomer, puzzled. SFS-4s were highly specialized craft. He seemed to recall it was nearly impossible to get into a recon squadron, and not many were in service. Beautiful machines, though. He’d often wished he could take one out for a spin.
“We’ve heard of them,” Whatley said in his familiar gruff tone. “But riffraff like us doesn’t get to fly the Coalition’s best.”
Justin barely kept himself from laughing at the sarcastic barb. “Think we could touch one? Supposedly, being in the same hangar as one of those things helps you fly better.”
“Leave the sarcasm to the professionals, Spencer,” Whatley retorted. “Now, why the questions?” He stared at MacIntosh intently.
“Because you will be flying them, Major. You and your entire wing.” MacIntosh deftly worked the holoprojector controls, and a map of the galaxy appeared. He zoomed in to show a section of space between the galactic arms of Sagittarius and Orion. “President Nolan wants to show the League of Sol it can’t attack us with impunity.” A mark denoting Earth appeared. “Our orders are to stage a hit-and-run raid on League military and economic targets inside the Sol system. Preferably as close to Earth as possible.”
Silence descended over the room. Justin stared at the map, and his jaw dropped. Attack Earth? That’s… insane.
“Look, I’m all for killing Leaguers,” Whatley interjected. “I’ve gotten my fair share so far, and I’ll keep on getting mine, but this? From the way you’re talking, I figure the brass is sending a small, expendable fleet, and who cares if we die.”
“Major, I understand your concern.”
“No, you don’t, son,” Whatley rumbled. “You’re a newly minted O-3 and have probably never held someone’s life in your hands. I do that every day. My pilots would fly into the depths of hell itself for the Terran Coalition, but don’t dare ask us to perform a suicide mission for political points.”
“Major,” Tehrani said sharply. “That’s enough.”
“Colonel—”
“Let the man finish, then judge.”
Chastened, Whatley grimaced. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Please continue, Captain,” Tehrani said as she crossed her arms. “I’d like to understand how we’re supposed to avoid being destroyed within fifteen minutes of jumping into Sol by whatever defense fleet the League has stationed there.”
“Well, Colonel,” MacIntosh began, seemingly regaining his groove, “the CAG is right. The Joint Chiefs want to avoid as much risk as possible, but President Nolan is adamant we need to strike Earth. Put some fear into the League and get morale up inside the Terran Coalition. I’m the nexus of this idea. Well, me and a stealth raider driver.”
Wright leaned forward. “The Golden Nebulas? This gets better and better. What’s next? A troupe of dancing bears?” Stealth raider personnel wore a distinctive insignia—a group of stars set against a nebula. Since the emblem was gold, they’d become known as the Golden Nebulas.
“Sir, we’d need a fleet of five hundred plus ships to invade Earth. You and I know that. So does the president. What was asked for was outside-the-box thinking. Enter the SFS-4 Ghost fighter. It’s the only small craft we have that can execute a Lawrence jump.”
“Captain, I think I see the beginnings of your plan here,” Whatley said. “You’re right. Ghosts should provide the element of surprise and avoid risking the Zvika Greengold and whatever other ships are sent. At a high level, that’s good thinking. But you forget something. Ghosts are designed for recon, not fighting. They’re barely armed. Speed and stealth are their primary weapons.”
Justin watched the interplay between the others, and his spirit stirred. For so long, they’d mostly reacted to Leaguer attacks. Aside from a couple of missions in which they’d seized the initiative, almost everything had been a defensive fight. On a good day, they’d repelled the League. On a bad one, the Leaguers took another planet, destroyed a convoy, or worse—overwhelmed a CDF battlegroup. To put the Leaguers on the defensive by attacking Earth—the thought made him downright giddy, even if the odds they’d make it back were exceptionally long.
“Which, sir, is why we’re going to alter them. My job is to refit the SFS-4s for sustained anti-fighter and anti-ship combat.” MacIntosh made the statement sound as if it were no more complicated than taking out the trash or ordering dinner. He held up a tablet. “Some of our best engineers have put together a package that will let them carry missiles and upgrade the energy-weapon armaments. It might not be a Sabre, but these additions will allow us to jump in, cause some serious trouble, hit League targets, and jump out.” MacIntosh’s face broke into a grin, and his Scottish brogue came through a bit clearer. “And we’ll give those communists a message they won’t soon forget.”
Polite chuckles greeted MacIntosh’s statement.
Except for Whatley, who scowled. “I’ll bite, Captain. If these upgrades are so awesome, why haven’t we deployed Ghosts across the fleet?” Before MacIntosh could respond, Whatley pressed on. “I’ll tell you why. Multirole fighters have never worked. Never. Any mechanical object is a tool. The best tools are optimized specifically for the task at hand. That’s why Sabres excel at engaging enemy small craft, and Maulers are meant to attack ships. One is fast, agile, and lightly armored. The other is a beast, capable of shrugging off sustained point-defense attack. What you’re proposing is to take a tool—designed to gather intelligence and get out—and turn it into a combo craft that will suck at everything it tries to do.” Whatley set his jaw. “And that gets my pilots killed.”
“Major, I was on the bridge of the Victory when General Irvine—perished.” MacIntosh locked eyes with Whatley. “I know what loss looks like. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t believe we could retrofit these fighters, and your pilots could use them effectively to defeat the League.” His voice was steel, one that spoke to dedication and determination.
Whatley nodded once then turned to Tehrani. “I won’t order my people to fly these things unless we put them through their paces and all squadrons sign off.”
MacIntosh held up his hands. “Special Projects wouldn’t have it any other way, sir. We’ll work with you, iron out problems, and do whatever it takes.”
“This is a difficult situation.” Tehrani spread her hands out on the table. “Orders are orders, however.” Her gaze took on a piercing quality. “Make this work, CAG.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am.”
Tehrani turned her attention back to MacIntosh. “Continue.”
“The broad strokes are that we’ll have the Zvika Greengold link up with a force of stealth raiders and a resupply vessel, traverse the galactic arms, and stay out of solar systems as much as possible. From a position of safety, where we assume the League can’t track our ships, the Greengold will launch its fighters to attack Earth. The stealth raiders will nose around Sol prior to this, gathering information on possible targets. We’ll make some noise, blow up some Leaguers, and head home.”
“It’s at least two and a half months’ travel time from our side of the arm to theirs,” Justin interjected. “We’re talking a six-month operation here.”
“I didn’t realize you’d studied navigation,” Wright replied with a smirk. “That’s correct. What of it?”
Justin glanced between Whatley and Tehrani. “It’s been six months since most of us saw our familie
s in the flesh.”
“That’s war, son,” Whatley said. His tone was stern but held an unmistakable softness. “This is one of the parts that suck.”
“I get that, sir, but we should get an opportunity for shore leave.” Justin spoke without much thought going into the words. Mom always said to think before I used my mouth. It hadn’t stuck as a kid or as an adult.
Tehrani spoke. “Especially when there’s a good chance we won’t be coming home.” At sharp glances from all of them, she shrugged. “Gentlemen, I’m only admitting what we’re all thinking. And yes, I’d like to be able to say goodbye.”
Justin thought about the last time his daughter, Maggie, had ridden on his shoulders in the park or when he’d felt the loving embrace of his wife, Michelle. He closed his eyes briefly, willing away a tear. “Thank you, ma’am.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” Tehrani replied. “Okay. We’re obviously not leaving next week. What’s next, gentlemen?”
“Outfitting and training with the new fighters at a classified weapons-test facility.” MacIntosh touched the holoprojector, turning it off. “Once Major Whatley and you are satisfied, ma’am, we’ll be off. The battlegroup is forming up in the same system—so we can practice maneuvers as a unit.”
Who knows how long this is going to take. Justin leaned back. The giddiness he’d felt at the prospect of attacking Earth and extracting some payback on the League had evaporated. I’d do anything to hold my little girl again. The war had helped put so many things into perspective and reordered his priorities. I should’ve been focused on them more before all this.
