Hostile Spike (Battlegroup Z Book 2)

by Daniel Gibbs

  The wrench swung in an arc, mere centimeters from Justin’s eyes. He flung himself backward, narrowly avoiding the alloy tool smashing his skull in. The pistol cleared its holster, and he brought it up in what seemed like slow motion. His training kicked in as he squeezed the trigger once, twice, three times. Bright-red stains slowly spread out across the chest of the Leaguer.

  Oh my God. Oh my God. Justin stared, almost in a stupor, as the enemy soldier collapsed to the deck. Angry shouts rose, and half the Leaguers on the deck were staring straight at him and the man on the floor. As a gurgling noise came from the fallen enemy’s mouth, two crew chiefs rushed forward.

  Justin snapped out of it and raised his sidearm. He fired again, hitting one of the men in the shoulder. The impact of the bullet spun the Leaguer around, and he collapsed, bleeding profusely and crying in pain. The other man with him paused, standing his ground with a large wrench held over his head as if it were a sword.

  It’ll only take a few minutes for whatever passes for the master-at-arms on this ship to get here. He was only twenty meters from what he hoped was the fully fueled fighter, which was the only possible way out because when armed combatants arrived, he was as good as dead or worse—captured.

  Sprinting as fast as his legs would go, Justin closed the distance quickly. A woman appeared from behind a bomber and scrambled away as he pointed the pistol at her. More shouting came from behind him, but he didn’t dare turn his head to see what was happening.

  The Shrike fighter that was his goal had a portable ladder pushed up to the cockpit, which Justin ran up two steps at a time. He jumped into the pilot’s seat and pushed the ladder away. Much like CDF craft, there were numerous dials, panels, and knobs along with a flight stick. It wasn’t the same as his Sabre, but the basic idea seemed to be there. How do I close the canopy? He scanned the area, looking for something that screamed, “Press me! I close the canopy so you can escape!” When nothing was in evidence, he started pressing buttons at random. Various panels lit up, and at least one alarm blared, but the canopy finally slid shut.

  The sharp report of weapons fire rang out so loudly that Justin could hear them even within the cockpit. Armed figures in black uniforms rushed up to the side of the fighter and banged the stocks of their rifles on the transparent alloy that made up the canopy. Oh shit. One of the soldiers fired point-blank, sending a red energy bolt directly at his head. The material stopped the shot, but it left a burn mark. If I don’t get moving, I’m dead.

  One of the plastic handles reminded him of a throttle, and it had a series of numbers on it. Justin gambled and slowly moved it forward. He was rewarded with the craft jerking forward. Okay, now I’m cooking with gas. Justin pushed the handle down, and the fighter gathered speed. The two soldiers fell over as the portable ladder careened backward. He wrapped his fingers tightly around the flight stick and found a trigger on the front.

  When Justin squeezed the trigger, bright-red plasma balls erupted from the fuselage of the League fighter. They slammed into the far wall of the flight deck, and at the impact points, the bulkhead melted into the passageway beyond. If I could only hit something vital.

  He kept tentatively trying to maneuver the craft. A slight movement of the stick almost ended his flight prematurely, as the wing clipped another fighter, but aside from the sickening sound of grinding metal, there seemed to be no ill effects.

  Justin stared at the flight panel for several seconds. This looks like weapons control. Justin tapped a series of buttons. Several beeps greeted him, but when he pressed one of the buttons, the screen changed to show what appeared to be a missile.

  The fear that had gripped Justin only a few minutes before evaporated as he focused on the situation. Hoping his next course of action would result in the launch of a live missile, he turned the fighter slightly, aiming for what looked like a group of hoses coming out of the bulkhead at the far end of the hangar bay. “Alpha, Mike, Foxtrot.” With a grin, he pressed the button again.

  A League anti-fighter missile dropped out of the bottom of the fighter. It hit the deck in a shower of sparks before its rocket motor ignited. Flames shot out of the exhaust nozzle, and the warhead skipped across the alloy surface then slammed into the general area Justin had targeted and blew up. Shit. As a wall of fire headed toward him, time seemed to stop. Vaguely aware of his surroundings as muscle memory took over, Justin rammed the throttle as far forward as possible, with the craft pointed toward the force field leading to the void.

  The Shrike fighter accelerated rapidly, throwing him backward. A few seconds later, he exited the hangar bay with a ball of fire on his tail. The flames dissipated immediately in the void, as there was no oxygen to fuel them.

  As he flew away from the League heavy cruiser, Justin finally caught his breath. How am I still alive?

  11

  Tehrani wiped a stray hair from between her eyes and squinted at the tactical plot. The word desperate rolled around in her mind as she searched for any possible advantage. Around her, the bridge crew did its duty as best they could, while the hopelessness of the battle produced an almost visible weight. So far, nothing had worked, and they hadn’t been able to try Wright’s neutron-beam trick because the Greengold’s forward shields hadn’t yet recharged.

  “Conn, TAO.” Bryan turned in his seat. “Ma’am, something exploded in Master Four’s primary launch bay.”

  “Explain, Lieutenant.” Tehrani’s heart skipped a beat. Allah, please, help us.

  “Thirty seconds ago, there was an explosion in Master Four’s shuttle bay, during which a fighter exited into space. Since then, nothing else has emerged, and my scans show severe internal damage in the area around their flight deck.” Bryan paused and checked something on his console. “If you take a look, the volume of weapons fire coming from that vessel is significantly reduced from what it was a few minutes ago.”

  “Maybe whoever launched accidentally set off a fuel line or something,” Wright mused. “I say we file this one under divine intervention and press our attack. Lieutenant, what’s the shield status on Master Four?”

  “It’s fluctuating, sir.”

  Wright cocked his head. “Might be time to hit hard, Colonel.”

  “I completely concur,” Tehrani replied. “TAO, status of forward shield recharge?”

  “Eighty percent, ma’am.”

  “That’ll do. Raise forward shields.”

  “Aye, aye, ma’am.”

  Tehrani turned her attention to Mitzner. “Navigation, intercept course on Master Four. All ahead flank.”

  “Aye, aye, ma’am.”

  “You know, skipper, this is kind of weird.” Wright pointed at a single red dot on the tactical plot. “The fighter that launched from the Rand—it’s not engaging anyone. It’s trying to avoid our fighters and isn’t going near the freighters.”

  “A defector?” Tehrani asked with a raised eyebrow. “That seems unlikely.”

  “Yeah. You’re right.”

  Tehrani stared straight ahead, through the window. Hope built within her. They might yet save the convoy and escape to fight another day. “Communications, ensure all ships are ready for an alpha strike on my command.”

  “Aye, aye, ma’am,” Singh replied. Even the Communications officer sounded far more buoyant than he had mere minutes before.

  Justin had done the only sensible thing he could think of: avoid combat and direct contact with any other fighters while he tried to figure out the controls of the utterly foreign craft. Most of the knobs, levers, and buttons had lettering underneath them, but the language was some combination of what Justin thought was French and Russian. It’s got to be Russian, because I recognize some of the Cyrillic symbols. But none of that helped him understand how to fly the craft. He settled for testing each thing and seeing what it did. He’d located the flare launchers and the energy-weapon trigger but not communications. Undeterred, Justin pressed on.

  A cracking sound came from his helmet’s integrated short-range com
mlink. Several bursts of static later, Justin caught half a word. “Ease.”

  “This is Lieutenant Justin Spencer, Coalition Defense Force. Can anyone hear me?”

  More static and ear-piercing screeches answered him.

  Justin turned his attention back to the control panel. He moved on to a group of knobs and pressed a button in their center. Immediately, the sound of people speaking in Russian filled his ears. It’s coming from speakers inside the cockpit. While it was enemy communications, at least he’d made progress.

  A bright flash erupted outside of the canopy, coupled with an immediate increase in comms-traffic volume. Even though Justin couldn’t understand a word, the tone was unmistakable: panic. He turned his head to see the Rand in serious trouble. Explosions blossomed out of its port side, around the area of the hangar bay. While its hull integrity held, the mighty warship was crippled. The rate of fire from her plasma-cannon turrets dropped precipitously.

  With a smile, Justin went back to trying to contact the rest of his element and the Zvika Greengold. Maybe I’ll get out of this alive just yet.

  “Conn, TAO. Aspect change, Master Four. Contact has slowed to ten-meters-per-second thrust. She’s almost dead in space.”

  Tehrani leaned forward. Between the reduction in speed and rapidly decreasing volume of fire, it seemed as if the heavy cruiser was finally down for the count. “TAO, firing point procedures, forward neutron beams, Master Four.”

  “Firing solutions set, ma’am. Energy-discharge modification is complete.” Bryan glanced back at Wright. “I’ve got lunch down on it frying the neutron emitter.”

  “Oh ye of little faith,” Wright replied with a grin.

  “Match bearings, shoot, forward neutron beams.”

  Twin spears of blue energy shot out from the bow of the Zvika Greengold. Moving at the speed of light, they connected almost immediately with the depleted deflectors on the League heavy cruiser. Simultaneously, the Marcus Luttrell and a few civilian vessels opened up with everything they had—including the Holden-Nagata MkII freighter with its enhanced weaponry. Had the Rand’s shields been at more than ten percent power, or if it hadn’t been crippled from the series of internal explosions, it probably would’ve been able to shrug off the combined attack.

  The powerful deflectors held for a few moments then failed. Magnetic-cannon shells, neutron beams, missiles, plasma cannons, and xaser fire hit the monster of a warship from all sides. The blue spears from the Greengold, enhanced by the extra power throughput, proved particularly lethal. They punched through the heavy cruiser’s hull and out the other side, turning entire sections of the vessel’s exterior molten. Chunks blew off as secondary explosions spread, then in the blink of an eye, the whole ship blew apart in a spectacular display of pyrotechnics.

  Wild cheers broke out throughout the bridge. Officers and enlisted personnel all joined in, and dropping decorum for a few moments, Tehrani clapped loudly and pumped her fist into the air in triumph. She allowed the tumult to continue a good fifteen seconds before clearing her throat. “Okay, people, back to work. We’ve still got hostile fast movers to deal with.”

  The victory lap ended immediately, and a hush descended across the bridge of the Zvika Greengold.

  Bryan turned around. “Three enemy fighters and one bomber left, ma’am.”

  Tehrani nodded. She glanced at the XO’s chair. “Land the bombers and Boars. Have our remaining fighter elements clear the board and get SAR birds prepped for launch.”

  “Aye, aye, ma’am,” Wright replied quickly.

  The sudden turn of events shocked Tehrani to her core. The Leaguers had them dead to rights. Sometimes in battle, an unexpected stroke of luck changed the result. At least, the military history books said so. Perhaps a miracle? Regardless of the why, she felt an enormous wave of relief. I think I owe the mosque a visit as soon as we jump. Tehrani suddenly realized she had spent more time in prayer and attending services in the last six weeks than in the previous six years.

  “Conn, Communications,” Singh said excitedly. “Colonel, it’s Lieutenant Spencer. He’s flying a League fighter! He stole one from their hangar deck.”

  “What?” Wright exclaimed. “Do his security codes check out?”

  “Yes, sir,” Singh replied. “Along with the biometrics from his flight suit.”

  Tehrani let out a chuckle. “You realize that, however he pulled it off, it’ll be a story for the ages, right?” What are the odds of Spencer stealing a League fighter out of a cruiser’s hangar bay during combat? Her amazement grew the longer she pondered it. Allah fought at his side today.

  “Oh, yes, ma’am.” Wright laughed. “There might even be a medal in there somewhere.”

  “TAO, ensure the Lieutenant’s fighter is redesignated as friendly.”

  “Aye, aye, ma’am,” Bryan replied.

  “Now, let’s finish this. Twenty minutes until we jump.” Tehrani sat back and finally relaxed. The pent-up stress flowed out of her as she watched the last few enemy contacts disappear—chased down by her pilots.

  The blinding flash from the destruction of the League capital ship had barely faded when red plasma balls narrowly missed Justin’s fighter. He’d tried to avoid contact, but one of the few enemy craft left seemed to have figured out that, at the least, he was a traitor. I wonder if whoever’s flying the other bird knows I’m a CDF pilot. Justin didn’t know why, but the thought amused him. I’m on borrowed time here. Try as he might, he couldn’t get over being alive. I think I’m going to show up at Mateus’s poker game. With luck like this, I oughta win some credits.

  Another burst of red energy zoomed past Justin’s craft, jarring him fully back into the present. He pulled back hard on the flight stick, still exploring the limits of the League fighter. To his surprise, it seemed as if it was more nimble than a Sabre but not as technologically advanced. Without his HUD integrated into the onboard sensor system, he was forced to rely on an old-school method of finding the enemy: the mark one human eyeball. It took Justin several seconds to locate his quarry, a familiar black fighter with red markings.

  Trading interlocking scissors maneuvers, Justin used his superior piloting skill to close to a guns solution on the enemy craft over the course of several turns. He squeezed the integrated firing trigger on the flight stick, stabbing at the Leaguer with a flurry of plasma bolts.

  “Alpha Two to Alpha One. Come in.” Feldstein’s voice crackled, barely audible on the short-range communications gear built into his suit. “Can you hear me?”

  “This is Alpha One. I’m in the League fighter that’s shooting at the other Leaguer. Good to hear your voice, Lieutenant,” Justin replied as he weaved and bobbed, matching the enemy turn for turn. “I could use a little bit of help here.”

  “I’ve got you marked as a friendly,” Feldstein said. “Hold on.”

  Justin continued his deadly dance with the enemy. While he landed a few shots, the opposing pilot went into guns-D, turning wildly to throw off Justin’s aim. In turn, most of the red plasma balls missed.

  “Alpha Two, fox three.”

  The biggest problem with the so-called guns-D defensive maneuver was that, as a pilot, you rapidly lost situational awareness. The Leaguer didn’t see the LIDAR-tracking missile launched from Feldstein’s Sabre until it was far too late. The warhead exploded against the enemy craft’s already-weakened shields, shredding its hull and causing a catastrophic reactor explosion. After a brief orange flash, nothing was left of the fighter except dust.

  “Alpha Two, splash one.”

  “If you keep this up, you’ll make a habit out of rescuing me,” Justin commented with a laugh. “I think that’s the last one.”

  “Affirmative. The scope is clear. Zvika Greengold Actual asked me to relay her compliments. I’ll escort you in, sir,” Feldstein replied. “I don’t know how you pulled that off, sir, but there’s a lot of civilian merchant spacers that owe you their lives.”

  “I was just doing my job.”

 
; But Justin’s words rang hollow. Do I believe that? Or am I taking insane risks for some reason I can’t put my finger on? His emotions were a jumble. Caught between joy for the victory and a feeling of giddiness for the spectacular stunt of stealing a League fighter, he also felt remorse and sadness. Too many people died today for me to feel good about it.

  “Well, you’re headed toward regular-hero territory in my book.” Feldstein chuckled. “I’m coming up on your wing, sir.”

  Her Sabre was only a few dozen meters away.

  “I see you, Lieutenant. I’m still figuring out how to fly this thing, so we’ll be going slowly.”

  “No worries. We’ve got all day. The Leaguers seem to have given up after their cruiser exploded.”

  The rest of the flight back to the Zvika Greengold was uneventful. While foreign in the extreme, Justin had gotten enough feel for the Shrike fighter to avoid crashing into the carrier and getting himself killed in the process. Feldstein stayed close, relaying communications from the air boss to him, and he executed a nearly picture-perfect landing on the flight deck. As the stolen craft set down, Justin popped the canopy open and peered over the side.

  A platoon of Marines greeted him, their battle rifles at the ready. “Halt! Hands in the air and identify yourself!” the sergeant in charge shouted.

  Justin quickly put his hands up. “First Lieutenant Justin Spencer, CDF. Easy there, Marine.”

  “That’s him. Lower those weapons,” Whatley barked, his voice as gruff as ever. “Get down here, Lieutenant.”

  As he breathed a sigh of relief, Justin swung over the side and climbed down the ladder that appeared next to the fighter. Even though his legs shook, he brought himself to attention. “Sir.”

  Whatley’s face broke into a grin. “Damn good show, Lieutenant. Damn good show. At ease.”