Sol Strike (Battlegroup Z Book 3)

by Daniel Gibbs

  O’Conner shrugged again. “They and I don’t put a name to it. It just is what it is. The best translation I can give you is fortune. Their culture has a lot of pageantry around it too.”

  “How do you know so much about these aliens?”

  “A few nights of drinking with an old spacer friend.” O’Conner grinned. “His hauler had a run out to one of their colonies. They’ll let outsiders in for the right price. Anyway, they think that some people are touched by fortune, and it would be wise for everyone else to avoid angering them or trying to harm them, lest they be affected by bad luck.”

  “Well, Master Guns, that’s gotta be one of the more interesting things I’ve heard in a while.”

  “What about you, sir?”

  “Oh, I’m a Christian, but I never saw the need to advertise it with a patch. Honestly, I haven’t lived up to my faith most of my life. I thought I’d get things straightened out one of these days, but you know how the Corps is. We do a lot of—”

  “Sinning?”

  “Got it in one, Master Guns,” Nishimura replied with a belly laugh. “But the war has sobered all of us up.” His smile faded, and he pursed his lips. “Now we don’t know if we’re waking up tomorrow. And it made me think about where I would end up if I died.”

  Awkward silence broke out for a few moments.

  “I hear you, sir,” O’Conner said finally. “There’s not much reference to an afterlife in the Jalm’tar faith.” He narrowed his eyes. “As I said, I realize it’s odd, but it works for me.”

  Nishimura felt like he was standing in the middle of a minefield. Part of him wanted to point out to a fellow Marine he respected that maybe there was more to faith than the alien religion O’Conner had related. Nah. That won’t get me anywhere and will just offend a friend. Better to live the sermon than try to preach it. I’d probably blow the delivery, anyway. “Hey, I can respect that. Back to my original question, though—what’re the iron dice?”

  “The crucible of war,” O’Conner replied. “That’s what the Jalm’tar word for war translates into roughly. It stuck with me over the years.”

  “Well, Master Guns, you are the first person I’ve ever spoken to who converted to an alien religion. That’s worth a round of shots on me down in the mess.” Nishimura smiled. “Now, whaddaya say we go yell at our VBSS wannabes and rerun this scenario?”

  “Oh, I’m looking forward to it, sir.” O’Conner grinned in a way that would’ve made Nishimura’s blood run cold if he were a junior enlisted.

  “Hoorah.”

  Nishimura stood, and they exited the control area. With another month or more to the Sol system, the Marines would have plenty of time to become experts, but Nishimura hoped they wouldn’t be needed.

  Much like everyone else on the Zvika Greengold and throughout the fleet, Justin had long since run out of things to do. Utter boredom was life—day in and day out. He spent a good four hours a day in the hyperrealistic flight simulators, practicing his skills with the SFS-4 Ghost, as prescribed by Major Whatley. Between squaring off against AI-generated opponents and his fellow pilots, Justin felt he had a decent proficiency level with the fighter though nowhere near as good as his familiarity with the Sabre. He still had to think about movements with the Ghost, while in a Sabre, Justin didn’t—he was one with the craft.

  The day began like every other in recent memory. A jog around the hangar several times with a ten-kilogram pack, equaling a five-kilometer run, was followed by a space shower, breakfast, and a review of all Red Tails squadron paperwork. One of the inside jokes about being a pilot in the CDF was that flying spacecraft was only about fifty percent of the job and less for a squadron commander. Most of it was paperwork and ensuring the various machines and people were working at peak efficiency.

  By the time he’d wrapped up the forms and evaluations, Justin was ready for a break. Simulator time represented the only engaging activity on the ship and was perhaps the closest thing to fun they had going for them. When he entered the sim room, it appeared he was the only person there, so after climbing into a pod, Justin selected a mission with computer-generated enemies and settled in. He strapped into the chair, as the simulator pod offered a three-hundred-sixty-degree range of motion and responded precisely to how one controlled their fighter. Flip upside down—the pod did too.

  Before Justin could toggle the system online, Whatley’s voice filled his cockpit. “Fighting AIs, really? Come on, Spencer. You can do better than that.”

  “I didn’t see anyone else in a simulator, sir.”

  “Well, how about a one on one, then?”

  Justin grinned. He’d been wanting to duel the CAG for months but hadn’t asked for fear of coming off as cocky or grandstanding. “Oh, that sounds good to me, sir.”

  “Good. You take a Ghost, and I’ll configure myself for one of those Leaguer Shrike fighters. May the best man win.”

  “Rules of engagement, sir?”

  Whatley chuckled. “One-on-one, no capital ships, no reinforcements. Standard war loadout for both of us. Shoot on sight. That clear it up for you, son?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now, stop yakking and start flying.”

  The holographically generated screens flashed into life, showing the blackness of space with stars in the background. Justin’s sensor screen contained a single League fighter three kilometers away from his craft, at heading zero-zero-zero. Simple and direct. He couldn’t use a lot of finesse for the approach. Instead, Justin turned his Ghost directly toward Whatley and accelerated to maximum speed. For the time being, he held off on using the afterburner and focused on obtaining a missile lock.

  Whatley’s approach was similarly predictable. He flew in a straight line at maximum speed, rapidly closing the distance. Two missiles flew away from the Shrike, headed directly for Justin’s Ghost, while the enemy fighter pivoted away at a forty-five-degree heading.

  The missile-lock-on tone buzzed in Justin’s cockpit as he pressed the launch button for a Vulture active LIDAR-tracked warhead. It dropped out of the weapons bay underneath his craft and zipped toward the enemy. Simultaneously, he dropped several chaff canisters and violently turned his fighter while engaging the afterburner and roaring away from the incoming fire.

  None of the warheads loosed by either of them connected. The opening round was a draw.

  “We’re not going to decide this contest with long-range missile launches, Spencer. Show me what you’ve got in a dogfight,” Whatley dared him.

  “I thought you’d never ask, sir.” He rotated his craft, lining up the CAG’s fighter in his sights. For a moment, he chased his quarry, then Whatley quickly executed a one-hundred-eighty-degree turn and headed straight at him.

  “You’re too predictable.”

  Exchanging simulated energy-weapons fire, they rocketed past each other with few hits.

  Justin cued his commlink. “How so, sir?”

  “I’ve watched your nose-camera footage. You use the same tactics repeatedly, using the technological advantages of the Sabre to your benefit. That works against junior pilots and especially on a foe with little imagination.”

  Waiting for an opening, Justin watched as Whatley looped around. He bristled at the critique. “It’s worked so far, sir.” At the last second, he pulled hard to the right with the flight stick, avoiding a direct firing pass, and instead passed the simulated League fighter, intending to close in on its six o’clock.

  “Better, Captain. Now, watch and learn.” Whatley accelerated and gained some distance from Justin as his Ghost struggled to keep up. He flipped around and decoupled the Shrike from its inertial dampers, causing the fighter to continue forward while it gimbaled around. Dozens of red plasma bolts shot out of its nose-mounted cannon barrels.

  Justin juked out of the way but not before losing almost all of his craft’s shield strength. Think. You’re playing his game. He decided on a risky tactic, looped his fighter around, then sent two heat-seeking missiles straight at Whatley, who
rushed forward with full afterburners on. Barely avoiding another barrage, Justin pulled away again and disabled his inertial dampers. He grinned with satisfaction and fired another two heat seekers toward the Shrike.

  Bracketed between four missiles, Whatley sent a wave of high-energy flares and killed his afterburner along with all forward momentum.

  I’ve got him now. Justin turned toward the nearly stationary enemy and raced onward. The moment he entered neutron-cannon range, he pressed the firing trigger and held it. To his complete surprise, Whatley’s fighter turned and closed the gap between them, on a direct intercept course.

  One thousand meters… eight hundred meters… onward the simulated League craft rushed, firing plasma balls, with two heat-seeking missiles that hadn’t gone for the flares tailing it. Whatley made small adjustments in his flight path, throwing off Justin’s attempts for a kill shot with his neutron cannons.

  “What the hell are you doing, sir?” Justin blurted out on the commlink as he tried in vain to finish off the wounded Shrike. Is he going to ram me? The idea of it was ludicrous, but as Whatley closed to fifty meters, he had to take the concept seriously and tried to twist the flight stick away from the onrushing enemy craft.

  It didn’t work. Whatley’s simulated League fighter hit Justin’s Ghost in the wing and disintegrated in a fireball. Hull integrity dropped like a stone and hovered at two percent. The master alarm sounded in his cockpit, and Justin slammed his hands onto the controls in frustration. He shut the pod down and climbed out to find Whatley standing there with a smug expression.

  “What the hell was that, sir?”

  “Unconventional tactics, Spencer.”

  “A suicide run?”

  “Do you seriously think we’re the only ones committed to our cause, Captain? Let me disabuse you of that right now. Some portion of the men and women we’re fighting are doing it because you have to conform in a communist system, and there’s probably a draft. But many love their country just as much as we love ours. They’ll fight and die for it, the same as us.”

  Justin hadn’t even considered the concept. As far as he was concerned, the League’s government was a faceless evil, and he didn’t see how anyone—especially another human—could support trying to impose their will on others. “I, uh, I guess I see your point, sir.”

  “Never crossed your mind, did it?”

  “No, sir,” Justin admitted, somewhat ashamed of himself.

  “This is what I mean by you’ve got a lot to learn, son. A committed enemy will sacrifice himself like I just did. Yeah, if that were real life, I’d be dead, but so would you. Don’t forget it.”

  A bit of cockiness welled up in Justin. “Actually, sir, I had two percent hull left. I won the duel.”

  Whatley’s eyes narrowed, and he stared Justin down. “If I hear a peep around the ship about it, I will PT you until your feet bleed. Are we clear?”

  “Crystal, sir.” Justin gulped. Okay, I’m not pressing my luck. Glibness aside, he felt the imprint of a lesson learned: never underestimate an opponent.

  “Don’t you have paperwork to do?”

  “Finished it early this morning, sir.” Justin offered a smile. “Worst part of the job.”

  “Well, you’ll have more tomorrow.” Whatley pointed at the simulator pod. “I’m going to make some tweaks to the AI for the League, and I want you to keep running your people through around the clock. We’ve only got a few more weeks to prepare.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  “Carry on, Captain.” Whatley turned on his heel and walked out.

  Justin stood quietly for some time, pondering his commanding officer’s words. If he had to eject during the mission, landing in the hangar bay of an enemy heavy cruiser and stealing a fighter wouldn’t be an option. I’d be a POW or worse. That led him to think of never seeing his wife or daughter again, which brought fiery steel to the surface. I’m going home. We’re all going home, and we’re going to kick the Leaguers’ asses before we do.

  8

  CSV Zvika Greengold

  Deep Space—Orion Arm

  16 May 2434

  Seven weeks since leaving New Washington, the crew still did its daily work without fail, but even Tehrani was restless. They’d avoided jumping into any solar systems for fear of tipping off the League, instead moving from point to point in interstellar space. It made for a tedious journey. According to the navigational maps, Battlegroup Z had entered the Milky Way's Orion arm a few days prior. Tension rose in Tehrani, and from the short, snappy interactions with the rest of the senior officers, it had infected everyone else too.

  The morning watch had so far gone without incident as they prepared to jump sixty light-years closer to Earth.

  Tehrani pulled her black space sweater down absentmindedly. “Navigation, confirm Lawrence drive readiness and coordinates.”

  “All drive systems green, coordinates triple-checked, ma’am,” Mitzner replied.

  “Communications, confirm fleet is ready to jump.”

  “All ships show green, ma’am,” Singh said. “They are ready on your command.”

  With a last glance at Wright, Tehrani stared through the windows at the front of the bridge. “Navigation, activate Lawrence drive.”

  The lights dimmed on the bridge as the artificial-wormhole generators drew every bit of available power without compromising life support or the ship’s vital functions. First, a blue-gray cloud formed directly in front of the vessel, then it expanded in size and range of coloration. After a few seconds, it was a beautiful kaleidoscope of red and blue, with orange and purple sweeping out from the center.

  “Navigation, take us in and signal the fleet to engage.”

  “Aye, aye, ma’am.”

  The Greengold began to move, flying directly at the entrance to their artificial tunnel through the stars. In the space of a few moments, it entered one side and went out the other. Open space lay before them, with thousands of stars as a backdrop. Tehrani counted down the seconds mentally until their sensors were back online.

  “Conn, TAO. LIDAR sweep complete. No contacts.”

  Tehrani let out an audible breath. One more down.

  “Conn, Communications,” Singh interjected. “I’ve got a faint transmission, Colonel. It’s in Russian.”

  “Directed at us?” Tehrani asked in alarm.

  “No, probably an automated buoy, from the range and dispersion of signal.”

  “Let’s hear it, Lieutenant.”

  “Aye, aye, ma’am.”

  A rough-sounding voice emanated from the bridge’s speaker system, focused on the CO’s and XO’s chairs. Tehrani didn’t understand the language, at least until the universal-translator program kicked in. “You have entered the territory of the great Democratic People’s Republic of the League of Sol, under the direction of our glorious Social and Public Safety Committee. League citizens, rejoice at returning home! To alien trading partners, present your vessel for inspection at the nearest trade post. Failure to comply will result in confiscation of ship and reeducation of your crew.”

  “It repeats, ma’am, in several different languages,” Singh said.

  “Well, it appears we’ve found the League.” Tehrani forced a grin. “XO, make a note in our log. Lieutenant Singh, have our stealth-raider friends start plotting out the possible borders of the enemy. Someday, when we come to liberate the humans in the Orion arm, that information will be quite useful.”

  “Aye, aye, ma’am,” Singh replied.

  Wright leaned in and whispered into her ear, “No going back now, skipper.”

  “There never was.” Tehrani leaned back. “Since we’re in League territory, time to change our comms profile, Lieutenant Singh. Instruct all vessels to switch to tightbeam transmissions only. EMCON Alpha is in effect until further notice.”

  “Aye, aye, ma’am.”

  Tehrani stared at the navigation plot, which showed another sixteen jumps to Earth. It would take them a week, being careful with the La
wrence drive and not stressing the system. She felt time was on their side. Only one more week to get in range, run recon on the Sol system, conduct our raid, and get out of here before they know what hit them. Then the Zvika Greengold and her ragtag battlegroup would ride into the annals of Coalition Defense Force lore. The thought brought a smile to Tehrani’s face.

  CSV Zvika Greengold

  Deep Space—Orion Arm

  22 May 2434

  Mechanical devices constructed by humans or any other race were fickle things. Engineers assigned timelines for machines’ useful lives, but random events occurred with them on a nearly constant basis. Such was the daily toil of Major Carlyle Hodges. In a nutshell, his job was to stay one step ahead of the randomness and keep the Greengold functioning at peak combat efficiency. But that was easier said than done on an escort carrier built at the end of the last major war fought by the Terran Coalition but updated with newer generations of technology. Design teams raved about how modular a vessel’s hull was, but any real engineer assigned to her knew otherwise.

  Hodges felt certain a significant overhaul was needed when they returned to Coalition space but, for the moment, was content to nurse the Lawrence drive along. It had been strained by jump after jump, and several times, they’d detected minute numbers of exotic particles—pentaquarks—in and around the drive. Sustained use of the artificial-wormhole generator sometimes released ever-higher pentaquark levels and eventually caused a mass-casualty event, thanks to interaction with ordinary matter.

  “Major, I’m showing an increase in pressure in our hot liquid lines,” an engineering rating called from the control console of their central fusion reactor core.

  Hodges dropped the tablet he was working on, which contained a report on their Lawrence drive performance, and stood. “What about the cool lines?”

  “Normal, sir.”

  Cold liquid went into the reactor torus, and hot liquid came out. The solution was simple and effective. Moreover, it had stood the test of time.