Sol Strike (Battlegroup Z Book 3) by Daniel Gibbs (book recommendations for young adults TXT) 📕

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 Lawrence 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.

Hodges climbed down a ladder and looked over the shoulder of the rating. The heated-liquid return lines were indeed spiking and at an alarming rate. “Reduce fusion output by twenty percent and run a diagnostic on the outflow pump.”

The young woman tapped away on her controls. “Fuel injection reduced, sir. Fusion plasma reaction is down to eighty percent of normal, but the pressure in the hot line is increasing.”

It’s beyond increasing. Hodges stared