Bandits Engaged (Battlegroup Z Book 4)

by Daniel Gibbs

“I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

  Justin shook his head. “You didn’t.” He swallowed. “It’s been a long day.”

  “In combat?”

  “Yes. We sortied out against those…” Justin narrowed his eyes. “Pirates. Lost another pilot.”

  “You feel responsible?”

  “Why do you say that?” Justin asked.

  “Because I’m a soldier too. And if someone under my command had died in combat, I’d feel as if I failed them.”

  “I struggle with it, Father. We’re supposedly the best of the best, yet far too many of us don’t go home. It’s bad enough when the enemy is the League of Sol. But… pirates? Seriously?”

  “You mean criminals aren’t good enough to die in combat against?”

  “Yeah. Exactly.” Justin chuckled. “Probably a silly sentiment.”

  “Not at all. At least the Leaguers, as bad as they are, fight for something they presumably believe in. These pirates want a payday and are willing to kill innocents to get it.” Elliott narrowed his eyes. “They’re scum. But remember, they’re still God’s children.”

  Justin snorted. “I’m having a hard time getting my head wrapped around the idea of God—if He exists—caring about people who do so much wrong.”

  Elliott sat down on the pew next to Justin. “And what, pray tell, would you be doing if you had the misfortune of being born to a citizen of the League?”

  The priest’s question caught Justin off guard. He pondered for a few moments before realizing the point the man was trying to make. “I might be doing some pretty distasteful things in the name of my country.”

  “Yes. Worse, you wouldn’t have the benefit of learning a better way, as we do.” Elliott smiled. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”

  “No.” Justin shook his head and sighed. “Father, I’m still struggling. Frankly, I don’t know what I believe. The door’s been opened to something larger than us in control, but I want to grab it. If God’s really in control, I’d love to lift Him by the lapels of His shirt and give Him a good shake.”

  “I see.” Elliott started laughing. “Well, if I see Him, I’ll let Him know what you have in mind.” He sucked in a breath. “Not that I expect either one of us would ever get that chance.”

  Justin turned his head and stared at the cross that stood at the front of the chapel. “My wife is expecting. We’re going to have a baby boy.” He fought to keep from showing emotion, but a tear fell down his cheek.

  “Congratulations! That will give your daughter someone to play with,” Elliott replied. “And double the amount of mischief occurring in your home. But there’s something else there, isn’t there?” The priest stared at him. “It's bothering you somehow.”

  “What’s bothering me is that my wife has no idea how…” Justin stared at the cross.

  “How close you came to cheating on her?”

  The way the priest summed things up was both direct and comforting. Justin could tell by his tone of voice there was no condemnation in his words—only a desire to make him face his emotions. “Yeah. That.”

  Elliott smiled warmly. “Tell me something. Michelle, she’s a nagging woman that never lets you forget about anything, recounts your faults every time you speak with her, and makes you feel like the lowest of the low?”

  For a moment, Justin couldn’t believe what he was hearing. His jaw dropped. “Uh, no. Anything but. Why would you even say that?”

  “Because you’ve repeatedly told me how afraid you are of being vulnerable and discussing your feelings with her. There’s got to be a reason you feel like that.” Elliott stared at him with a piercing gaze.

  “Michelle is the kindest person I’ve ever met. She never meets a stranger, and if I let her, she’d give every cent we ever made away to help others. She’s far better than I deserve.”

  “Then why don’t you try telling her what you just told me, in those exact words, Justin? You’re letting guilt eat you up.” Elliott folded his arms. “This is somewhat more difficult than I’m used to, because I can’t quite give you purely secular advice or go all-in on the religious instruction.” He made a show of rolling his eyes.

  Justin chuckled. “I’m sorry, Father. Us flyboys do tend to make things difficult.” He licked his lips. “So, just tell her the truth?”

  “Best idea I’ve heard out of you all night. From what you’ve told me about Michelle, I suspect you’ll find she’s far more inclined to forgive you than you’ve been to forgive yourself.” Elliott pointed at one of the Bibles in the pew in front of them. “If you forgive others their sins, your heavenly Father will forgive you. If you don’t, neither will He. Start by forgiving yourself, Justin.”

  If only it were that easy. Images flashed through Justin’s mind—of exploding fighters, lost comrades and friends, and things he knew he’d done wrong. He stared at his feet. “Whenever I stop to let myself think, Father, I feel this overwhelming condemnation for my many failures… and sins.” Adding the religious label to his actions felt strange.

  “Haven’t read much of those verses I gave you, have you?”

  “I suppose not.”

  “‘All things work together for good to them that love God, and are called according to His purpose.’ That’s in Romans. Read it. It’s not just words, Justin. It’s something to live by. Even when we can’t see it, we have to hold on to the idea there’s a plan bigger than us.”

  “Then why have so many of my pilots died, Father?” His eyes grew wide and filled with tears. “If God really exists, then why doesn’t He do something about the League of Sol?”

  Elliott was quiet for some time. He stared intently at Justin and put his hand on his shoulder. “Maybe He did. Perhaps He put a group of warriors on a ship together so that they would fight against all odds—against everything the League threw at us. Led by a young man with a decent heart, who cares about those under his command and doesn’t waste their lives. Would you consider that?”

  Justin kicked the priest’s words around in his mind. I suppose if I were to accept the concept of a higher being, it makes sense. He nodded and chose his words carefully. “I’ll try. Consider me a work in progress.”

  “Ha. So am I, young whippersnapper.” Elliott laughed.

  “I wasn’t expecting to find anyone here at this hour.”

  Both of them turned to the newcomer and found Major Kosuke Nishimura, the Greengold’s Marine commander, standing there. He was out of uniform and wearing athletic clothes.

  Elliott spoke. “It seems there’s always someone here, these days.”

  “I can believe that.” He took a few steps toward a pew. “Fancy seeing you here, Spencer.”

  Justin chuckled. “Yeah. I’m not quite here regularly yet.”

  “Nothing wrong with sporadic appearances, Captain.” Nishimura sat. “Don’t mind me.”

  “I guess I’d better get going,” Justin said as he stood. “Oh-dark-thirty comes early.”

  “Come over to Marine country, and we’ll get you some real PT,” Nishimura replied good-naturedly. “None of that sissy officer-country stuff.”

  “Perhaps I’ll take you up on that sometime, Major.” Justin chuckled. “Thank you, Father. I’ll, uh, see you soon.”

  “I hope so, my son,” Elliott replied.

  Justin turned and strode out of the chapel. The hatch shut behind him. He walked through the ship's passageways and back to the officers’ quarters deck where his cabin was located. All the while, his mind churned. Justin was unsettled, and it was starting to show. I’ve got to hold it together. My pilots depend on me, and the war’s not going to stop for one man to consider his beliefs. Resolving to soldier on, he entered his stateroom, stripped off his uniform, and climbed into bed.

  The nightmares returned.

  8

  CSV Zvika Greengold

  Deep Space—Terran Coalition Border Zone 12

  25 August 2434

  A few hours earlier, a string of cryptic messages came in via the flash tr
affic system. After decryption, Tehrani had pieced together that they were supposed to meet Grant and his Q-ship in an out-of-the-way area of space, far beyond the reaches of any solar system. So there they sat. The Greengold, sans her battlegroup, was parked and running on EMCON Alpha to reduce the already-minimal chances of being found by League sensors.

  “I’d rather do something besides work with this CIS spook,” Wright grumbled as he adjusted his cover. On the bridge, everyone wore Zvika Greengold ball caps. It was an old wet navy tradition that the control center was treated as if it were outside, and therefore a cover was worn.

  “Such as?”

  “Root canal, visit my in-laws, listen to a League of Sol propaganda video, clean out a dumpster. Literally anything.”

  “You’ll get no argument from me, but we need him.”

  Wright closed his eyes briefly. “I know. The Q-ship is inspired, and hey, it’ll probably work. A shame the CDF doesn’t have more combat vessels out here, though. I’d rather take my chances with a heavy cruiser or two backing us up.”

  “I suspect in this activity, stealth and guile will go further than brute force.”

  “As you say, ma’am.”

  “Conn, TAO. Aspect change, inbound wormhole,” Bryan announced. “Five thousand kilometers off our bow.”

  Tehrani sucked in a breath. “That’ll be Grant or the Leaguers.”

  “Not sure who I’d rather face,” Wright replied darkly.

  “Careful what you wish for,” Tehrani murmured.

  “Conn, TAO. Lawrence drive signature shows as a freighter registered out of Lusitania, ma’am,” Bryan said in amazement. “Contact designated as Sierra One. IFF is showing ISV Dumaran.”

  On the tactical plot, Tehrani zoomed in to get a bird’s-eye view of the newcomer. As her tactical officer had noted, the ship appeared every bit the independent cargo freighter. Right down to the wear and tear on the hull from micrometeorites. Military vessels and ships owned by large import-export firms had extensive maintenance schedules performed regularly. Independent bulk haulers generally had more worn appearances because they couldn’t afford the same level of support. The unofficial motto of CIS sprang into her mind. By way of deception, thou shalt do war.

  “Conn, Communications. Incoming vidlink request from Agent Grant, ma’am.”

  “Put it on my monitor,” Tehrani replied and cast her eyes upward.

  Grant’s smiling face appeared on the screen. “Greetings, Colonel. Beware of CIS officers bearing gifts.”

  Tehrani forced a neutral expression to her face. This guy gives me the creeps. From the moment she’d met him, something in the back of her mind screamed, “Run—don’t walk—away as fast as you can.” Each encounter only furthered the feeling. “I take it this is the Q-ship you mentioned.”

  “Got it in one. CSV Farnborough at your service… as I explained, she has several legends. We’re using one out of Lusitania for the time being because they’re shipping a lot of lithium to our shipyard complexes. With your permission, I’ll shuttle over, and we can hold a council of war.”

  Isn’t that cute… the civilian playing war. “Granted. We’ll see you in the conference room in thirty minutes.”

  “Grant out,” he replied.

  The screen cut out, and Tehrani could’ve sworn she felt a chill go through her.

  “That guy creeps me out,” Wright said. “Something about him.”

  Tehrani glanced at her XO out of the corner of her eye. “Truth.” She turned to the bridge chronometer. “I have just enough time to jog down to my mess, get a sandwich, and be back in time for our resident spy. You have the conn, Major.”

  “This is Major Wright. I have the conn. Aye, aye, ma’am.” He grinned at her. “Don’t be late.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” she replied before springing up from the CO’s chair and heading out the hatch in the aft of the expansive combat information center.

  Much as she’d predicted, it took about twenty-five minutes to get a bite to eat, consume it, and head back to the conference room. Tehrani allowed herself the time it took her to scarf down the sandwich to stare out the windows in the officers’ mess, into the void. Something about the stars and visible nebulas helped soothe her soul. The beauty of the universe was something that had always spoken to her.

  It’s as if Allah drew a giant painting in the sky. She lamented that instead of exploring the wonder and beauty of the universe, her section of humanity was fighting for its existence. Will we ever learn? After a sip of water, Tehrani stood, smoothed her uniform, and headed back to deck one.

  An uneventful gravlift ride later, she emerged into the passageway that led to the bridge along with her conference room and day cabin. With a curt nod toward the Marine sentries standing guard at the hatch to the bridge-slash-CIC, Tehrani entered the conference room to find everyone present and accounted for. Even Grant was early.

  “Colonel on deck,” Wright called out as they all stood and came to attention.

  “As you were,” Tehrani replied. She sat at the head of the table, while Wright, Whatley, and Justin took the right side. Nishimura and Grant were seated opposite them.

  “First off, Colonel, I want to assure you I have full sign-off from CIS on using the Farnborough.” Grant’s one-hundred-watt smile never faded. “Your direct observations have piqued my superiors’ interest, up the chain to the director of interstellar intelligence.”

  “A pity we can’t get more ships,” Tehrani replied.

  “Well, I did shake loose a few toys for you.”

  Wright leaned forward and narrowed his eyes. “Like what?”

  “Oh, another EMP device like the one we used the last time we worked together.”

  “I take it you have everything figured out already?” Wright replied.

  Grant leaned back. “As a matter of fact, I do. We’ve filed false cargo manifests with the interstellar spacers union and made sure they were leaked on social media by a fake account associated with one of the known crew members of the Dumaran. When the pirates take the bait, because it's too good to pass up, we’ll be ready.” He glanced at Whatley. “One of your fancy pilots can drop the EMP on the first ship they send in. We’ll mix it up with their small craft and wait for the Greengold to ride to our rescue.”

  “Wait a minute,” Wright interjected. “If we drop off a flight of Sabres, the pirates will know something’s up the moment they jump in. If I were them, I’d hightail it outta there with a double jump.”

  “Oh, I suppose I forgot to mention we can store and launch eight small craft in two of our cargo holds. There’s also a set of breaching pods, and I believe you have Marines aboard for a VBSS team.”

  Nishimura turned to Tehrani. “Pods would be a lot better than our assault shuttles, ma’am.”

  Having a spook come in and tell them how to do things troubled Tehrani, but she had to admit the spy seemed to have thought of everything. “And what’s the plan if the pirate carrier returns and catches you without us or the battlegroup?”

  “Then we will be a living personification of the adage that discretion is the better part of valor.” Grant crossed his arms. “I’m not dying at the hands of a bunch of pirates.”

  Justin snickered, as did several others.

  “I’ll be sure to write that on your tombstone,” Wright replied darkly.

  “Since it will take a few hours to transfer the small craft, Marines, and everything else over to the Farnborough, I suggest we get started, Colonel. Time is of the essence to avoid raising any suspicions among our criminal friends.”

  Justin stuck his head forward in front of Whatley. “I volunteer to lead the flight element. In the last engagement, I picked up some insights into how they fight and the technical specifications of the enemy craft.”

  “Shush,” Whatley said with a nasty look toward him. “We’ll send four Sabres and four Boars. I expect both to be effective.”

  “Major Nishimura, gather a VBSS team.” Tehrani set her jaw. “I
’d like you to personally lead the assault.”

  “Wouldn’t have it any other way, ma’am,” Nishimura replied.

  “Good. You have your orders, gentlemen. Dismissed.” A nagging thought at the back of her mind was that if the Q-ship was close to being overwhelmed, she had no doubt Grant would abandon her people without a moment’s hesitation.

  Accommodations on the CSV Farnborough were nothing to write home about. On the outside, the ship was an old tramp freighter. On the inside, it was packed to the gills with shields, armor, and weapons. Several of the former cargo holds were cleverly designed to absorb incoming rounds, with mixtures of alloy-based and liquid armor. After taking the nickel tour, Justin and the other pilots huddled in what had once been another one of the eight cargo holds the vessel once sported.

  Four Sabres and four Boars sat on their landing gear, side by side. A few crew chiefs huddled together, talking, while the pilots kept to themselves.

  “This waiting is worse than on the Greengold,” Mateus groused. “My butt is sore.”

  She’s got a point. “It’s the chairs,” Justin replied. “There’s a reason we get nice leather easy chairs in our ready room.” He took a sip of water. “Don’t give the crew of this tub a reason to dislike us more. They already think we’re pampered flyboys who can’t rough it to save our lives.”

  Feldstein made a show of rolling her eyes. “I’d love to see any of these CIS pukes get into the cockpit and battle it out.”

  “Yet we needed to turn to them for help in dealing with common pirates,” Adeoye said. “Perhaps we should show them the respect we expect ourselves.”

  “Do unto others before they do unto you,” Mateus interjected.

  “I don’t think it goes like that.”

  The rest of them turned to face Justin, making him somewhat uncomfortable with the sudden attention. “Was it something I said?”

  “Not your speed, Spencer,” Lieutenant Green, the squadron leader for the Black Hogs, replied. “Maybe you should go down to the doc shack and get checked out.”