Weapons Free (Battlegroup Z Book 1)

by Daniel Gibbs

  “Aye, aye, ma’am,” Mitzner replied.

  As the Greengold labored to get out of the way of incoming fire, more and more hits registered against the ship’s light-armor skin. Tehrani suddenly pitched forward and was only held back from flying out of her chair by the restraint straps. “Damage report, XO,” she barked.

  “That last impact got us good, ma’am,” Wright replied. He pointed at a blinking red indicator on the screen built into the XO’s chair. “Multiple power conduits lost amidships.”

  He didn’t have to tell Tehrani the rest of the story—enough were disabled that the secondary conduits and bypasses wouldn’t be able to route power to all systems. Eventually, something significant would quit functioning… like shields or their engines. She bit her lip. “Communications, order our fighters and bombers to return to home plate. Priority-one tasker.”

  “Aye, aye, ma’am,” Singh replied immediately. “Order transmitted.”

  “I take it we’re leaving,” Wright said quietly.

  She nodded. “Dead heroes don’t help anyone.”

  Another wave of plasma balls slammed into the Greengold, and Tehrani realized she’d waited too long as the lights on the bridge flickered and went out. It only took a moment for the emergency lights to turn on, bathing the area in red light. The CO’s chair and its integrated panel bank were nonfunctional. “Does anyone have power to their consoles?”

  “Conn, TAO. Negative.”

  “Conn, Navigation. Negative.”

  “Conn, Communications. Negative.”

  Well, that’s all the major systems. Tehrani brought her small hand comm up to her lips. “Conn, Engineering. Hodges, can you hear me?”

  “Aye, Colonel!” Hodges’s grainy shouts came through the speaker. “No power is getting forward of section fifteen. We’re working on it.”

  “Work faster, Major,” Tehrani replied. “Do you have engine control?”

  “No, ma’am. Most of our electronics are fried.”

  Yelling came from the background, but she couldn’t make it out.

  “Emergency power coming on now, ma’am.”

  Right on cue, computers and consoles came alive across the bridge. “Conn, TAO. I’ve got sensors back online.” Another series of weapons impacts jostled the crew. “Master Four Hundred Sixty-Nine continues to engage.”

  “TAO, do we have any weapons left?” Tehrani asked, her voice taut with tension.

  Bryan turned his head around. “No, ma’am. Neutron beams are offline, as is point defense.”

  Tehrani made eye contact with Wright. “Abandon ship?”

  “I’m sorry, skipper,” he said. “It’s time. A few more hits will probably see us off.”

  As Tehrani opened her mouth to give the order, Bryan spoke. “Conn, TAO. Aspect change… inbound Lawrence drive wormholes!” He paused. “They’re CDF signature, ma’am.”

  “How many?”

  “A lot, ma’am. It looks to be the balance of our reinforcements.”

  The tactical plot populated with dozens of new blue icons, many of them in close proximity to the Zvika Greengold. Hundreds of additional dots appeared as fighters and bombers streamed out of launch bays on the American carriers. Tehrani hummed a cheerful tune.

  “Conn, Communications. Inbound vidlink from the USS Saratoga.” The American-built carriers had reverted to nation-state control several years prior.

  “Put it through to my viewer, Lieutenant.”

  A few seconds later, her monitor came to life with the image of the Saratoga’s bridge, focused on a man in a khaki service uniform. He furrowed his brow. “Colonel Kevin Reynolds, commanding officer, USS Saratoga, at your service. We’ve extended our shields around you, Zvika Greengold.”

  Tehrani let out a breath. “It is a great relief to see you, Colonel Reynolds. We were getting worried.”

  “Better late than never,” Reynolds said. “Maneuver behind us, and our battlegroup will protect you, Colonel.”

  “I’m afraid our engines are down at the moment,” Tehrani replied. She looked at Wright. “ETA, XO?”

  Wright shook his head. “Damage control is reporting it’ll be hours before we’re able to move with more than station-keeping thrusters.”

  She turned back to her viewer. “I’m afraid the Greengold isn’t going anywhere for a while.”

  “Roger that. Hold position as best as you can. We’ve got the watch, Colonel. Saratoga out.”

  After the vidlink blinked out, Tehrani pulled up the tactical plot once more. The mass of blue icons continued to spread out, like a mighty rushing wind. Magnetic-cannon turrets fired, while bright-blue neutron beams crisscrossed space and lit up the blackness. Orange flame dotted the view in the Greengold’s windows, the telltale signature of an exploding warship. Meanwhile, the red dots representing the League vessels disappeared one by one.

  As it sank in, she bowed her head and whispered a prayer in Arabic, thanking Allah for His help.

  “Conn, TAO. Aspect change, all enemy contacts. They’re retreating, ma’am… straight toward the Lawrence limit at flank speed.”

  “It’s over,” Wright said. “Dear God, that was too close.”

  “More aptly, it’s just begun,” Tehrani replied.

  Across the board, the League ships streamed away from Canaan’s beleaguered defenders, pursued by swarms of bombers and every available capital-class vessel. They were still full of fight, though. The newcomers took losses, as did the remaining CDF vessels. One group of enemies seemed to focus their firepower square on the Victory. Her shields had taken a beating for a while and were close to collapse. One burst of plasma balls finished the deflector power off, and hits landed on her hull.

  Dozens of additional plasma balls slammed into the Victory. Tehrani glanced down at her tactical plot, hoping against hope that other friendly vessels were within range—anything that could shield the stricken flagship. A group of anti-ship missiles bobbed and weaved through multiple layers of integrated point defense, and while most were destroyed, one made it. It sailed through the shredded front armor of the mighty battleship and exploded within with a fiery blast of orange-and-blue flame. Secondary explosions blossomed across the forward hull and into the bridge tower. Tehrani could only watch in horror.

  Silence filled the bridge, and a feeling of dread so dense that one could cut it with a knife descended across the room.

  “Conn, TAO,” Bryan finally said. “Sierra One disabled.” He glanced back at her. “CSV Victory is transmitting a general distress call, and command of the fleet has transferred to General Saurez on the CSV Fernando Frontin.” A heavy cruiser, the Frontin was far less capable a warship than the Victory. “The fleet continues to advance.”

  While his last words were superfluous, Tehrani was thankful her young tactical officer had uttered them. Almost instantly, a wave of relief swept the bridge. At the current stage of the fight, morale was incredibly powerful. The outcome still teetered on a knife’s edge, and a perception that without Irvine, all hope was lost would quickly become fatal. Still, being unable to contribute anything further was galling. If only we had our engines and working weapons. “How long until the enemy can jump out, Lieutenant?”

  “We engaged them close to the limit, ma’am. No more than ten minutes, max.”

  So they sat, unable to affect the ongoing battle and watching as the Greengold’s remaining fighters and bombers attacked targets of opportunity and provided cover fire for the new fast movers from the American and British carriers. They destroyed hundreds of League vessels in quick succession, and eventually the enemy broke. First in pairs then in groups, the Leaguers abandoned their formations with their carefully crafted lanes of fire and ran. At that point, the battle was truly over. Mop-up continued, and the new arrivals made the most of their limited engagement time.

  “Conn, TAO. Aspect change… enemy contacts are charging Lawrence drives. Wormholes opening, ma’am. They’re jumping out.”

  Waves of red dots disappeared from Te
hrani’s tactical plot. A few, with serious battle damage and nonfunctional FTL drives, remained. “XO, I want a bow-to-stern damage report in fifteen minutes.”

  “Aye, aye, ma’am.”

  “Conn, Communications. Remaining League ships are requesting surrender terms.”

  Tehrani snorted. “Let the generals deal with that.”

  “Three hots and a cot for them, while we have a war to fight,” Wright groused.

  “According to the Canaan Alliance charter,” Tehrani replied. “We don’t have to like it.”

  “Just enforce it.”

  “Touché.”

  Wright shook his head and buried himself in his console, while Tehrani felt shocked to be alive. A few stray red icons representing enemy fast movers remained on her screen, but they dwindled by the moment as the overwhelming superiority of the nation-state reinforcements saw them off. “Recover our pilots as soon as practical, XO. Launch search and rescue… and may Allah have mercy on our lost and wounded.”

  “Amen,” Wright replied, looking up from his screen. “I’m still working on the damage report, ma’am, but it’s safe to say we won’t be moving for a few hours.”

  “Thank you, XO.”

  17

  In nearly stunned amazement, Justin watched as hundreds of friendly fighters swept the skies clear of enemy vessels. Mostly American and British designs, they were all variations on the Sabre he flew. For a moment, it felt as if the hand of God had reached down and exacted a price from the League. I remember my mother saying a miss is as good as a mile. But as the feeling of amazement faded, Justin examined the cost. Four of his squadron’s pilots showed red on his overview display—ejected or dead. Of the three squadrons from the Zvika Greengold, they had at least a thirty percent rate of loss. The statistic was sobering in the extreme.

  “CAG to all friendly craft,” Whatley said. “Return to home plate. We’re done here. The Americans can have their glory. I won’t risk any more of you in mop-up.”

  “Acknowledged, sir. Alpha is RTB.”

  Feldstein and Adeoye came up from behind him, falling into formation. Justin took notice and cued his commlink to the private Alpha channel. “Let’s do the missing man. To honor Mateus.”

  “Yes, sir,” Feldstein replied quickly. She sounded pained. “I’m going to miss her.”

  As the two other Sabres slid into a finger-four formation, the number-three position was empty. Honoring a comrade fallen in battle was a time-honored tradition, and the weight of losing Mateus hit Justin like a ton of bricks. I lost someone under my command. Combat produced a high unlike anything he’d ever experienced. But the certain knowledge that someone’s daughter wasn’t going home overwhelmed him.

  “Lieutenant Mateus was a fine pilot and a good friend,” Adeoye said. “I suppose on the bright side, she’ll stop cleaning us out at cards.”

  The joke, delivered in his rich timbre, was just enough to shake loose even more emotions.

  Justin blinked as a tear slid down his cheek. “I don’t know where we’re going from here, but it’s been an honor to serve with you.”

  “Same here, Spencer.” Feldstein’s voice almost broke. “Damn, what a day.”

  “And here you all are, carrying on.”

  For a moment, Justin’s heart felt like it had quit beating. “Mateus? Is that you?”

  “Of course it’s me,” she replied. “What? You think I’m coming to you live from the afterlife?”

  Silence reigned for more than a few seconds before Feldstein finally spoke. “What happened? We thought you’d bought the farm.”

  “Lowest-bidder tech again. Comms were down on my escape pod. I just rewired it myself.”

  Relief washed over Justin, and for a second, he felt guilty in his happiness that his friend wasn’t dead and he didn’t have to face losing someone close to him—at least not yet. “Well, I think this calls for a celebration.”

  “Drinks in the mess. Lots of drinks!” Mateus replied.

  “Hear! Hear!” Feldstein said with a chuckle.

  As the Zvika Greengold came into view, Justin felt stunned once more. The proud carrier had more holes in her than he could count. Vapor was escaping from several wounds, while half the ship’s point-defense turrets were simply gone, mangled metal in their places. He wondered how she was still in one piece after the visible beating taken. I guess they build those things to last.

  Despite it all, he grinned. These Leaguers took their best shot… and we’re still here. Our homes are safe, and they lost. He stared at the picture of his wife and daughter. And we’ll keep fighting.

  The maw of the flight bay beckoned.

  It took several hours of frantic repairs to the ion engines to get the Zvika Greengold ready to move under her own power once more. Tehrani thought about allowing another vessel to tow the ship, but she decided they’d earned flying home.

  Search-and-rescue operations continued throughout the battle zone. Many were confirmed dead. The battle had been the single most costly engagement the Coalition Defense Force had ever fought. The Greengold was lucky, Tehrani reflected. Only one hundred twenty-four were dead, eleven of those being Sabre and Mauler pilots. Still, for a woman who’d never lost a person under her command and never expected to, it was a rude awakening.

  Still on the bridge, Tehrani looked up from a damage report to see Wright staring at her with a somber expression. “What is it, Major?”

  “S and R just confirmed that General Irvine is dead.”

  “And the Victory?”

  “The hull’s intact, but she’s a complete wreck. Worse, the entire hulk is irradiated. The initial report here”—he waved his tablet—“says there’s virtually no way to decontaminate her.” He paused. “At least she lived to see the victory. The Victory’s bridge crew were insistent on that detail being shared.”

  With Irvine gone, Tehrani wondered who would lead them. Someone will step up. It’s the order of things. She turned and stared out the window at the front of the bridge. “TAO, how far away are we from the Victory?”

  “A thousand kilometers, give or take, ma’am,” Bryan replied. He sounded tired and weary.

  “Navigation, intercept course.” Tehrani glanced at the plot and zeroed in on the icon for the Victory. “Sierra One Hundred Eighteen. Bring us alongside.”

  Wright turned his head. “Manning the sides?”

  “Got it in one,” Tehrani replied. “It would serve us well to remember their sacrifice and our own.”

  He nodded. “Completely agree, skipper. Just don’t make the aviation deck force break out crackerjacks.” Wright winked.

  Tehrani laughed. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” She stared off into space. “Not today, at least. Someday, I could see ships rendering honors as they fly by. Perhaps when we’ve won the war.”

  “Yeah.”

  Minutes passed as the escort carrier turned around and headed back toward the destroyed hulk of the Victory. The atmosphere on the bridge was somber but hopeful. They’d been through hell and survived. Tehrani figured that counted for something. She realized they needed to fire something to render honors as the Zvika Greengold glided by. Does anything still work on this ship? “TAO, do we have any functional weapons?”

  “Um, two point-defense turrets, ma’am. That’s about it.”

  “That’ll have to do, then. Firing-point procedures on those turrets. Target a safe vector and stand by to fire a salute as we pass.”

  “Aye, aye, ma’am.”

  When they were about a hundred kilometers away and creeping along at the painfully slow speed of five hundred meters a second, Tehrani punched up the 1MC. “Attention, all hands. This is your commanding officer. We are passing the CSV Victory to port. Man the sides to render honors. I say again, man the sides.” She turned off the intercom and stood. “Attention on deck!”

  Everyone on the bridge except for Bryan and Mitzner—Tactical and Navigation—leaped to their feet.

  As the plot showed them coming alongside the Vi
ctory, Tehrani turned to Bryan. “TAO, shoot, twenty-one-gun salute.”

  “Aye, aye, ma’am,” Bryan replied.

  Streams of tracers erupted from the point-defense weapons in an age-old tradition.

  The moment passed, and the Greengold continued on her way, past the wreck.

  “As you were,” Tehrani said and sat back in her chair. “Navigation, lay in a course for Canaan’s primary shipyard and request docking instructions.”

  “Aye, aye, ma’am,” Mitzner replied.

  “Ma’am, I think you might want to see this,” Bryan said as he turned around. “Have a look at your monitor.”

  Tehrani’s eyes moved to the monitor above her head. After a few seconds, what he was talking about became apparent.

  Every ship in the fleet had taken a vector that put them on approach to the Victory, in a neat line abreast. As the vessels formed up, they fired off tracer rounds or neutron beams at low power, mimicking the salute the Zvika Greengold had already performed. It was a fitting send-off to the flagship of the fleet and the heroic general who’d delivered an unlikely victory. Though as Tehrani pondered it, she felt convinced that Allah had, at the least, smiled on their efforts.

  It took another hour for the carrier to slide into its berth. Tehrani had never seen so many vessels docked before or so much visible battle damage. Most ships had, at minimum, scorched hulls with pockmarks of armor damage and missing weapons emplacements, all the way up to holes cut clear through the internal structure. To say the fleet was heavily damaged was a significant understatement. Still, they’d survived, as had most of the CDF. It would take some time to get combat ready once more, but when they did, the League was in for a galaxy of hurt.

  As the umbilicals from the station locked into place, Wright leaned over. “We just got a request to organize the off-loading of our wounded and… deceased.” He bit his lip, and emotion crept onto his face. “I’ve never organized a coffin ceremony before. Have you?”

  Tehrani shook her head. “No. There was never a need.”

  “I’ll get it started by the book.”