by Daniel Gibbs
Justin chuckled. “So you can close in on my kill count when we get this party started? I think not.”
“Good. There is a true-blue CDF pilot in there.” Green gave a wicked smile. “I still think this op is half-assed.”
“Enlighten us, oh fearless brrrrrrt one.” Feldstein made the trademark Boar pilot noise with a straight face.
“Come on. Eight fighters in here? We’re a one-shot deal, if we make it out of the hold without hitting the sides. The Greengold’s off patrolling, and if that damn pirate carrier shows up again, we’ll be overwhelmed.”
“I thought Boar pilots were under the impression they could take out anything,” Justin replied.
“Within reason.” Green narrowed her eyes. “You’re telling me you can’t see the fifty different ways this can go sideways?”
Justin shrugged. “I can, but I choose not to dwell on them. We’re about to engage the enemy, and this is an enemy that particularly disgusts me. Criminals.” He set his jaw. “Look at it this way. The sooner we dispatch these idiots, the sooner we can be fighting the real enemy—the Leaguers.”
“Valid point, Captain.” Green took a swig of coffee. It had to be cold, but no one wanted to venture up to the galley and risk being caught in case of a scramble.
Feldstein tilted her head. “I’m amazed we have this thing. It’s so cloak-and-dagger. The CDF typically operates in the open.”
“Not CDF, though,” Adeoye interjected. “CIS. They stick to the shadows.”
Justin felt uneasy. Waiting was always the most challenging part of the job, but something about the ship was oppressive, and the sooner they were off it and in the void, the better. “Anyone bring a deck of cards?”
Green leaned forward and grinned mischievously. “I’m sure we can rustle something up. Red Tails up for some friendly intrasquadron action?”
“I’ll see your action and raise you,” Mateus said with a flourish. “Seven-card stud is the game.”
“Done.”
Like two sharks circling each other, Green and Mateus swapped card decks and shuffled them. Justin sat back in his chair, wincing as he felt his leg go numb from sitting on a nerve. He tried to shift in such a way that it would relieve the pressure and pain. Well, at least I get a ringside seat to see if Mateus has finally met her match.
The bridge of the Farnborough, at first glance, appeared to be the type of ordinary control center one would find on a civilian freighter. The consoles were by no means high-tech, the sensor tank lacked the polish and resolution of a military model, and there was far fewer crew present than would be on a warship. Looks were deceiving, however.
Thomas Grant had planned the operation himself meticulously—dotted every I and crossed every T. The Farnborough carried an actual load of lithium ore, and they’d been careful to ensure traces leaked from the holds, just enough not to arouse suspicion but enough to bait the pirates. Their flight plan mimicked the hundreds of independent haulers making the runs in and out of Coalition space, down to jumping into Lagoon nebula, as so many others did to throw off would-be trackers. It all has to be perfect, and it is. Confidence wasn’t something he lacked.
Playing the part of a bulk ore carrier to the hilt, the freighter had jumped in at the edge of a system and was slowly traversing the outer bands of its planets. Minutes stretched into hours, and Grant started to doze off.
“Captain, I’ve got a wormhole opening within twenty thousand kilometers,” the tactical officer announced. She was officially the ship's third mate, and the Farnborough specifically used standard spacer terminology rather than follow CDF procedures. It helped to sell the cover and avoid slipups if noncleared personnel were aboard.
Grant leaned forward. “Signature?”
“Lawrence drive comparison shows as Lusitanian, sir.”
Anticipation crept into Grant’s mind. Most of the drive scans the Greengold took had a Lusitanian signature.
“Small freighter on sensors, Captain. Hole has closed, and she’s moving off to the helium-3 mining orbital around the third gas giant.”
Not our target. Grant stretched his neck to the left. “Could be a scout,” he mused. “Maintain present heading and speed. No need to put on a show.”
The commanding officer of the Farnborough was nowhere to be found, as Grant had had the man removed from the ship before they got underway. He didn’t want anything going wrong and, above all, couldn’t afford to have someone in the way of what it took to accomplish the mission. No matter what happens, we will capture these pirates and obtain the information needed.
Another thirty minutes passed. The tactical officer kept a close watch on the lone contact on their scopes as it made its way farther in-system. The freighter never deviated from its course or speed. In another two hours, they would be ready to jump to the next solar system, Grant calculated. The farther away from the border we go, the less chance of being intercepted.
His thoughts were interrupted by the tactical officer. “Another wormhole, Captain. Five thousand kilometers, bearing zero-five-one.” She glanced at him. “Lusitanian signature as well.”
“Care to take bets on the type of ship to emerge from that wormhole?”
“Not in the slightest, sir.”
He chuckled. “I probably wouldn’t either.”
“New arrival matches the description of the pirate corvettes to a T, sir.”
Grant sat up ramrod straight. “All hands to battle stations. Raise the deflectors and charge our plasma weapons. Notify the Greengold of our situation.”
“Corvette is on a direct intercept course, sir. Sixty seconds to weapons range.”
At the call of battle stations, everything on the bridge shifted. In seconds, displays changed their configuration while auxiliary consoles slid out of the walls. Two fire-control technicians appeared, taking substations to relieve some of the workload of the third mate. The one concession to CDF operational doctrine was the blue lighting throughout the room. Supposedly it helped calm the nerves and encourage focus, but Grant had little patience for such things. “Keep the energy-weapons capacitor at half charge.”
“Sir?”
“We don’t want to show off yet. These pirates need to be slowly pulled into our web.” Grant offered a small smile. “Before we squish them.”
If the tactical officer was disturbed by his obvious relish for what was to come, she didn’t show it. “I’ll keep the neutron beam on standby along with our magnetic cannons.”
“Yes,” Grant replied. “Comms, get me the fighter element. Spencer.”
“One moment, sir.” One of the ratings, who occupied the communications station, turned toward him. “I’ve got him for you, sir.”
“Spencer, this is Agent Grant. Can you hear me?”
“I hear you, sir. Getting bumpy down here, and the alarms going off are hard to miss.”
“Our friends have arrived. Are you clear on your mission?”
“Crystal.”
“Good.” Grant smirked. “We’ll see how good you CDF flyboys really are. Bay doors are opening in ten seconds. Good hunting out there, and remember—nothing matters if we don’t disable and capture a pirate vessel. Do whatever it takes.”
“Understood, sir. Alpha One out.”
“Captain, fighters are launching from the corvette, consistent with previous models observed.”
The bridge rocked as xaser and plasma-cannon fire from the pirate ship raked their port shields. Grant scanned the tactical summary to see their deflectors were holding but taxed. Civvies would be taking hull damage on the next pass. They’ll soon figure out we’re not easy prey.
Return fire composed of plasma charges from the Farnborough raced through the void and caught the pirate vessel as it circled around for another strafing run. The effect was mostly for show. Grant gripped the sides of his chair. What a rush. He looked forward to what came next.
9
Launching from the cargo hold of a converted freighter was among the scariest things Justin Spencer had done in
his life. He came within five centimeters of hitting the hull on his way out—which would probably have resulted in instant death. Clearing the hold and accelerating into the void, Justin glanced at his HUD sensor overlay. Eight heavy fighters, one corvette designated Master One. The odds weren’t awful, but he had to believe the enemy would try to escape once they realized the ship they’d attacked was no ordinary civilian ore hauler. With one last glance at the small printed picture of his wife and daughter, Justin cleared his mind for the fight to come.
A stream of orange plasma bolts from the Farnborough crossed the battle space and smacked the pirate vessel. Its shields held and crackled with energy while the corvette gamely returned fire with its plasma cannons, muon turrets, and xaser emitters.
Justin cued his commlink. “Alpha One to Alpha and Beta. Assume finger-four formation and stack at three thousand meters apart.”
The idea was to blow by the pirate craft and let everyone else engage the enemy in dogfights. At the same time, Justin would accomplish the primary mission, then they would eliminate anything left so that the Marine transports would have no issues getting on target. No plan survives first contact with the enemy.
The range between Alpha, Beta, and the pirates rapidly decreased. Justin’s missile-lock-on alarm sounded. “Bandits, bandits bearing three-one-one, range two hundred kilometers. Everyone, spike a bandit and launch at max range.” He settled on a vector that put him on a direct course for the closest enemy.
Seconds ticked by, and Justin’s targeting reticle turned green. He’d preconfigured his missile-launch system to send two warheads at the enemy. “Alpha One, fox three.” The Vultures dropped from his Sabre’s internal stores bay, as they had so many times before, their motors flaring blue in the void.
All combatants expelled chaff as they sought to avoid the incoming missiles, while Justin focused on flying his way through. He added a few perfunctory bursts of neutron-cannon blasts but quickly rolled away from a pirate craft that attempted to obtain a guns solution on his Sabre.
While Alpha and Beta tangled with the bandits, Justin rushed toward the corvette as fast as his fighter would go. He seemingly escaped the enemy's attention and had clear space ahead. Better not jinx myself. He scanned the HUD, an almost religious action ingrained into him during flight school and later in advanced flight-combat-tactics training. Every couple of seconds, he checked the scanner to see if an enemy had taken notice.
So far, so good. Missiles from both sides crisscrossed the battle space, hitting a bit more often than would be expected. Some of the pirate craft didn’t seem to bother with avoiding incoming, instead relying on their superior shields and armor to shrug off the blows. That won’t pay off for them in the long term. Justin thoroughly planned to exploit the seemingly novice flight skills once he was done with the primary mission.
Directly ahead, the corvette filled the cockpit canopy. Justin toggled his stores selector to the anti-ship EMP warhead attached to a pylon under his right wing. One hundred kilometers out, the missile-lock-on tone sounded, filling his ears with a loud buzz. Determined to get to point-blank range, he pressed onward as point-defense fire from the pirate vessel found his Sabre.
Amid multiple hits on the fore shields of Justin’s fighter, he rolled away before adjusting his course. Maybe it’s less effective on the ventral arc.
“Captain, can you hear me?” Grant’s voice filled the commlink.
“Go ahead, Agent. I read you loud and clear.”
“The pirate ship is charging its Lawrence drive. It's imperative you get in there now and disable them.”
“Understood.” Justin clicked the commlink off and locked his eyes on the HUD scanner. Fifty kilometers. He engaged the afterburner and began a roll maneuver that made him dizzy. Each lateral spin brought him closer to the enemy.
“Alpha Two to Alpha One. Watch out, sir. You’ve got two bandits incoming. I think the secret’s out.”
It struck Justin as odd that the enemy wasn’t trying to retreat to the corvette and get back aboard before it jumped out. He pushed the thought to the back of his mind and focused on the ever-closing distance. With sudden breaks and course reversals, the continued spinning motion was effective at making the point-defense fire miss. It was also about to make him throw up. At five kilometers, he’d had enough. “Alpha One, fox four.” The moment his finger squeezed the launch button, Justin pulled away.
At full afterburners, the Sabre zoomed into the void with a barrage of plasma in its wake. Justin counted down the seconds to impact as he watched the progress the EMP warhead made on his scanner. The close range he’d released it at made counterfire virtually impossible, especially since the pirates kept trying to blow him out of space.
The blue icon representing the missile merged with the corvette’s red icon, and a few seconds later, the blast wave hit Justin’s fighter. It felt like the hand of God reaching out and tossing the Sabre to and fro. As the craft tumbled end over end, his head collided with the headrest of his pilot’s chair with a jarring thud. As he teetered on the verge of a blackout, Justin triggered his thrusters to slow the tumble and pull out of the uncontrolled maneuvering. Pull out, dammit. Pull out! As his actions started to succeed, he willed himself to stay conscious and get back into the fight.
“Captain, pirate corvette’s Lawrence drive is showing as disabled. She’s down to fifty percent thrust.”
Grant scanned the tactical plot. The EMP device had done significant damage but hadn’t scored a knock-out blow on the enemy. The Farnborough rocked from repeated plasma-ball impacts as if to underscore that point.
“Missiles inbound… two, four, six anti-ship missiles inbound,” the tactical officer called out. “Sensors detect high-yield fusion warheads.”
“Point-defense to automatic.” Grant had served for years as a clandestine case officer and noncovered operative. Along the way, he’d picked up many valuable skills.
The pirate missiles were of a type not recognized by the Farnborough’s database, which probably meant they were altered civilian models or something from a neutral system. The salvo spread out in the void and appeared aimed for the weakest portion of their deflector grid. Projectile-based autocannons on the Q-ship came to life, flinging thousands of slugs into the projected path of the incoming warheads. Three were destroyed in quick succession.
“Astrogation, all ahead full. Channel the auxiliary reactor power to the thrusters.” Grant held on tightly as the freighter bucked. “I think we’ve let them shoot at us long enough without the use of our complete weapons complement. Pull back the covers, Ms. Douglas.”
The third mate, Aleshia Douglas, nodded. “Yes, Captain.”
Covers on several of the cargo pods lining the sides of the freighter slowly retracted. Four held twin-barrel magnetic-cannon turrets. Others contained high-yield neutron beams, the type mounted on a light cruiser. All were cleverly concealed by trapdoors and false hull plating.
“Ready, Captain.”
“Lock on to their engines with our neutron beams and mag-cannons.”
“Locked and ready to fire, sir.”
“Aim to disable.”
She nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Fire.”
Neutron beams in all their bright-blue glory coupled with a burst of mag-cannon shells lashed out from the Farnborough. The pirate vessel dodged most of the shells, its high-speed engines accelerating just enough to juke out of the way. Directed-energy weapons were another story. Since neutron beams moved at the speed of light, there was no getting away from them. They smacked the already-weakened shields of the enemy ship before slicing through the corvette’s hull.
A small explosion dotted out of the starboard-side thruster assembly on the corvette, and the ship began to drift.
“Target disabled, Captain,” Martin said with a tone of triumph. “No incoming weapons fire.”
“What about their fighter screen?”
“Six units combat effective. All ours are alive and well.”
It was only a matter of time. The moment the Greengold arrived, they would deploy the Marines and capture the ship. If Grant was fortunate, they might even be able to tow the corvette into the carrier’s hangar. Probably too much to hope for. As a spy, he’d learned to take what he was given and always try for a little more but never get greedy. Greed got good spooks killed.
“Wormhole opening, five hundred kilometers to starboard,” Douglas said suddenly. “Same signature. Exact same silhouette as the pirate corvette.”
A stream of plasma fire and a neutron beam from the newcomer removed any doubt about their intentions.
Grant barely kept from being thrown into the overhead as the Farnborough rocked. He grabbed the sides of his chair. “Shield status?” he barked.
“Port deflectors close to failure, Captain. Aft is showing stress.”
While the Farnborough had overpowered protective energy screens, it lacked a reinforced and armored hull. As a result, it couldn’t handle a straight-up slugging match. The Q-ship was designed to hit hard, hit fast, and win quickly.
“Comms, where the hell is the Zvika Greengold?” Grant’s calm, unflappable exterior began to unravel. He could see the writing on the wall.
“The last message I received, sir, was they were one jump away.”
Grant studied the plot. It showed the icon for the pirate vessel looping around, presumably for another attack run. “Redirect all weapons to the new hostile.”
“I’ve got a firing solution, sir. Neutron beams and plasma cannons. The mag-cannons will take a few minutes to reload.”
“Fire.”
Plasma bolts raced away from the Farnborough’s nose and two turrets mounted amidships. They tracked the corvette. Some hit its deflectors, while others harmlessly overshot. Much as with the attack on its stricken consort, the Q-ship’s neutron beams struck fast and true. Their energy lashed against the pirate vessel’s shields, creating a bright-green skid effect. Simultaneously, the deceptively small ship matched everything the Farnborough threw at it and then some. Plasma bolts peppered the freighter’s weakened port shield quarter, followed by the coup-de-grace: a full-power blast of a cruiser-sized neutron cannon.
