Hostile Spike (Battlegroup Z Book 2) by Daniel Gibbs (best pdf ebook reader TXT) 📕

weapon available. While the tactics employed resembled what a Marine would refer to as “spray and pray,” they were effective. Half of the Javelin missiles were destroyed, and two Maulers took damage. The bombers scattered, going into guns-D maneuvering to avoid further point-defense fire.

“Gamma Three is declaring an emergency and ejecting, Colonel,” Wright interjected. His statement corresponded with one of the blue icons disappearing from the tactical plot.

“Damn,” Tehrani muttered and bit her lip.

“Conn, TAO. Moderate shield damage to Master Four,” Bryan began as yet another wave of plasma balls and missiles raked the Greengold. “We’re losing deflector-generator cohesion in the forward and starboard quarters, ma’am.”

Tehrani stared at the tactical plot, running different scenarios through her head. If we turn aside and recharge the shields, our most potent weapon is off the table. She wished whoever had designed the Greengold in the first place had put more anti-ship weaponry on her. But I must make do with what I have at my disposal. As she opened her mouth to give an order, Bryan interrupted.

“Conn, TAO. Aspect change. I’ve got a sensor ghost coming in fast, on a direct-intercept bearing with Master Two.” He turned to face her. “It sure looks like artifacts I’ve seen before during stealth-raider hunting exercises.” Bryan turned back to the console. “Way to go, Astute!”

Before Tehrani could chide her tactical action officer on his unprofessional turn of phrase, a new blue icon appeared on her plot. Its IFF synched up as the Astute, and almost immediately, six new blue dots erupted from it. Starbolt missiles. They raced toward Master Four, bracketing it and forcing the League destroyer to divide its point-defense fire between several arcs simultaneously. Through the bridge windows, Tehrani watched in satisfaction as five miniature suns burst into being on the shields and hull of the enemy vessel. Several seconds later, it exploded into meter-sized chunks.

“Conn, TAO. Master Four destroyed, ma’am.” Bryan barely suppressed his excitement. “CSV Astute now designated as Sierra One. She’s moving off at flank speed.”

“Communications, send the Astute my compliments, and ask them to reengage Master Three as soon as possible.” Tehrani leaned forward and turned to Wright. “Thoughts, XO?”

“Rotate away from the last destroyer, recharge our forward deflector generators, and finish them off once our Marines are off that station,” Wright said. He furrowed his brow. “I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop, though.”

“Oh?”

Wright frowned and crossed his arms. “Come on, skipper. They’re sending everything they’ve got here right now.”

He’s right. It’s only a matter of time until whoever’s in charge drops a battle group on top of us—heavy cruisers or worse. Tehrani set her jaw. It wouldn’t do for anyone on the bridge to remotely suspect she had any doubt in the outcome. “Then let them come,” she replied and flashed a grin at him. “We’ll take all comers.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Tehrani turned to Mitzner. “Navigation, come about to heading zero-six-five. Maintain even Z-axis flight. All ahead two thirds.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

“TAO, stand by to lower our forward shields once we’re clear of Master Three’s weapons.” Tehrani stared out the window as the station swung by its view. Hurry up, Major Nishimura. We don’t have all day.

17

Grigory Bogdanov was almost always the man who imposed fear on others rather than the other way around, but he felt overwhelming terror at that moment. The political commissar for League of Sol Forward Outpost Seventeen, he was feared and hated by every member of the League Navy on the station. Tasked with enforcing compliance with orders, Bogdanov made sure they followed the protocols of society and weren’t sliding toward individualism—the bane of the communist party’s existence. He stamped out any evidence of such activity immediately.

“There are too many, Colonel,” a young rating blurted out. “They’re cutting through our security force with ease.”

“Steady,” Bogdanov replied. He forced iron into his voice. “The individualist thugs of the Terran Coalition cannot defeat the champions of society. All we must do is hold fast until the fleet arrives.” Though Bogdanov shared the young man’s outlook on their prospects, all his life, he had been a man who got by. He had few real skills, aside from shifting blame to others. Somehow, he’d always prospered by worming his way out of the consequences for failures while taking credit for whatever successes happened to occur around him. In short, he was the consummate political officer.

“Colonel, we’re down to one platoon. They’re falling back to directly outside of the control room.”

Bogdanov had no experience with combat. Having never fired a shot in anger or at a real, live target, he was at a complete loss about what to do next. I suppose I’d better improvise and make it sound good. “Lieutenant,” he began, glancing at the tactical officer, one of the few who’d made it to the control room before the Terrans overran most of the station. “Open the emergency small-arms cache.”

Enlisted ratings stared at one another.

“Colonel, there’s eight of us.”

The words had been spoken as if they were all that was needed to be said. Bogdanov felt like a cornered animal. Part of him yearned to surrender and try his hand at slithering out of another messy situation. But fear that a true believer would shoot him if he didn’t resist until the end pushed Bogdanov on. “And in the name of Lenin, eight must be enough to hold.” When no one moved, he marched over to the locker built into the bulkhead near the back of the room. A palm print scan later, the locker popped open. He removed a sidearm. “Come, comrades. Arm yourselves.”

Bogdanov’s words seemingly inspired the others to draw upon a well of courage. Each drew a sidearm and took up positions in cover, with a clear view of the hatch out of the control room. The sounds of battle grew closer—high-pitched whines of League energy rifles along with the reports of a ballistic weapon.

Probably whatever these religious fanatics are using for guns. Bogdanov crouched behind a console, pointing the small pulse-laser pistol toward