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

“Master Guns, decompress the airlock and send the next team.”

“Yes, sir. We’re on it.”

Now is the moment of truth. Will a dozen Leaguers appear with heavy weapons and slaughter us before reinforcements can get inside? Or is the freighter precisely what it seems to be—a lightly armed civilian ship with a limited crew? Tension built, and even Nishimura had beads of sweat falling off his forehead. Every so often, the groan of a metal alloy rang out.

“You hear that, Major?” one of the privates asked.

“Steady, Marine. It’s just operating sounds. Something this big is bound to make some noise.” What he didn’t say was that it appeared to be getting closer. Worst-case scenarios went through his mind. Maybe the crew detected us and is going to blow its holds off or something like that. Training kicked in. Screw ’em. We’ll work through it if they try.

The groaning grew closer as the seconds slowly ticked down. “Major, we’ve got another four in the airlock. Beginning pressurization sequence now,” O’Conner reported.

Nishimura thought he saw movement down the passageway, which was blocked by a bulkhead door twenty-five meters away from them toward the ship’s bow. “Eyes front, Marines.” He brought his battle rifle up as the hatch opened.

Four human figures emerged, all wearing distinctive dark-gray jumpsuits emblazoned with a red star and a fist superimposed over it. They clutched unfamiliar black rifles, which they raised and fired, sending several bolts of red energy sizzling down the corridor.

Muscle memory kicked in as Nishimura and the other three Marines squeezed the triggers on their weapons. Three-round stun bursts hit three out of the targets.

“Drop that rifle and put your hands in the air!” Nishimura shouted to the remaining Leaguer, keenly aware of a need to obtain intelligence on the freighter’s layout.

Screams in a foreign language and more bolts from the black rifle were the only response. One of the enemy’s rounds hit Nishimura square in the center of his power armor chest plate.

The corporal to his right put the Leaguer down with another burst of stunners. “You okay, Major?”

“I think so.” Other than a scorch mark, there was no evidence of damage to his armor. He ran a quick diagnostic to confirm. “Whatever they were shooting at us is low-enough power that it doesn’t do much to our heavy suits.” After a deep breath, Nishimura took stock of the situation. “Police those weapons, Corporal Armstrong.”

“Yes, sir!”

The airlock opened, and four more Marines surged through.

“We heard shooting, Major,” one of them announced.

“They sent a few guys to challenge us,” Nishimura replied. He jerked his finger, pointing down the corridor. “Didn’t end well for them. The four of you, post security ten meters aft of our position. We’re going to hold here until the rest of the team gets in then press forward. If the League builds its ships remotely like ours, our objective is one hundred fifty meters ahead.”

“Sir, yes, sir!” the youngster replied then immediately turned on his heel and marched down the passageway.

Nishimura sucked in a breath. Okay. We can do this. They sent four lightly armed rent-a-cops after us, and that’s probably all they have. A lot could still go wrong and probably would, but he remained convinced his small force of Marines had a chance. We must succeed. I’m not spending the rest of my life in some commie labor camp, moving rocks.

The next group entered the airlock.

On the other hand, when the idiots we just stunned don’t report in, whoever’s in charge will get antsy. We might have to move out before everyone’s inside. Nishimura’s mind churned on a tactical plan as the minutes ticked down.

13

“Can you believe this? We’ve been flying through Sol for hours, and no one’s found us,” Feldstein remarked.

Justin took another glance at the sensor systems on his Ghost recon fighter. He’d repeated the action every five or six seconds. While the coast was still clear, he felt like they were on borrowed time. “Well, that’s going to change in a bit. When we start taking out targets.”

“I can drink to that,” Mateus interjected.

They’d jumped in about an hour away from the fuel depot, doing their best to avoid being caught by surprise while being as stealthy as possible. Saturn and her rings loomed ahead. Justin found it one of the most beautiful sights he’d ever seen. I can’t get over being in the cradle of humanity. Earth, beyond every other planet, is our home. Sad to know it's in the hands of people who want to erase us from the universe. “Adjust heading by .2 degrees to starboard.”

As the eleven other fighters fell in behind him, Justin noted with satisfaction that the minor course correction would put them on track for a fuel refinery in the upper reaches of Saturn’s atmosphere. The closer they got, the better their sensor resolution was. Dozens of installations dotted the gas giant’s moons, and it appeared as if a permanent settlement had been built into a moon labeled as Titan by the onboard computer.

“Final weapons check.”

One by one, green lights appeared on Justin’s squad-readiness display, confirming their onboard weapons systems were fully functional and ready to fire. SM-14C Javelin anti-ship missiles had a range of nearly five hundred kilometers but in practice were rarely fired anywhere near that far out. Combat experience taught them that up close and personal was the only way to defeat mass point-defense systems. But not when the enemy doesn’t know you’re here.

“Captain, I’m getting suggested targeting information for weak points,” Feldstein said. “Do you concur with the computer’s suggestions?”

“I’ve never liked letting a computer decide what and where to shoot,” Justin replied. He realized how much like Whatley that sounded and stifled a chuckle. “But we’re dealing with unknowns here. I don’t have a better idea, so let’s go with it. Red Tails, pick a weak point and deconflict your targets via our tactical network. One Javelin per fighter.”

“Wilco, sir.” Adeoye’s voice rang out above the rest.

Onward they pressed, each second bringing