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

“Eh, one of my guys had a Leaguer fly into the path of a Javelin once. Looked like an accident. Bugger messed up a perfectly good attack run on one of those Cobra destroyers.”

Laughter rippled across the room.

“That’s lovely.” Whatley snorted. “But it doesn’t solve the problem of how poorly the updated Ghosts perform.” He pivoted to MacIntosh. “Captain, what’s your get-well plan?”

MacIntosh’s face was bloodred, and he almost stammered as he spoke. “I don’t understand. The maximum speed is within parameters supplied by Space Fighter Combat Command.”

“Mate, it’s not the max speed that’s the problem. It’s how fast we get there. Those things accelerate like a drunken pilot going to church.”

Justin laughed again, along with the rest of them. There’s something to be said for Martin’s aww-shucks routine. It helps lift our spirits. “My observation was the reactor and engines aren’t powerful enough to handle the new weapons systems and the weight from a full combat loadout. Yes, it’ll eventually get to its highest-rated speed, but the weight throws everything off.”

“We could try disabling the inertial dampers and go straight Newtonian physics,” Green interjected. “They wouldn’t see that coming.”

“If we had a year to retrain our minds and muscle memory, sure,” Justin replied. “We don’t.”

Feldstein stood from her perch in the front row. “Major, could we project a schematic for the modified Ghosts up on the holoprojector?”

“Sure,” Whatley said, his voice as raspy as ever. A few moments later, a sizeable 3-D projection of the SFS-4 Ghost appeared in the center of the ready room, presented in a wireframe format, with significant systems highlighted and color coded.

“The modified internal stores bay along with the wing-mounted pylons for missile hardpoints represent the majority of increased weight.” MacIntosh gestured to a series of purple markings on the display. “We could remove half the interior missiles and save several thousand kilograms.”

“Yeah, mate. Bloody great idea. We’re already going to attack Sol with one arm tied behind our backs, because my bomber has three times the Javelins as this thing carries, and you want to cut it further?” Martin’s voice took on a stern tone. “Not the best idea.”

MacIntosh held up his hands. “I’m trying to help, Lieutenant. It’s called give and take.”

Before a verbal scrum could break out, Justin interjected, “How about installing additional engine thrust nozzles or increasing the ion expulsion rate of the ones already there?”

“We thought about it,” MacIntosh replied, his brogue becoming thicker. “Not enough reactor power. The next reactor up is larger and won’t fit.” He looked down at his hands.

Justin stared at the fighter’s internals for a bit and moved the projection around while others discussed the shortcomings of their test flights. After a few minutes of playing around with the controls, he realized, There’s three shield generators on this thing.

“Can’t wait three months for another set of engines—”

“Wait,” Justin said. “Captain MacIntosh, why does the Ghost have three redundant shield generators?”

Conversation ground to a halt, and all eyes moved to MacIntosh.

“One fore arc, one aft, and the third is a backup in case of failure or sustained enemy fire. Recon craft have to get home to share intelligence, so they’re overengineered.”

Whatley, Green, Martin, and Justin locked eyes at the same time.

“You guys thinking what I’m thinking?” Green asked with a broad grin.

“Get rid of two of them. Run with a single generator for both arcs,” Justin replied. “By these specifications, that’s six thousand kilograms. More than enough on paper to get us back up to decent Delta-V.”

MacIntosh’s eyes bulged. “You’re willing to fly them with minimal protection?”

“Give me a choice between shield strength and maneuverability, and I’ll take maneuverability any day. So will everyone else here. It doesn’t matter how much protection a small craft has if the enemy can get behind it and stay behind it for a missile or guns solution. Ask the Saurians how their uber-armored bombers worked out for them in the wars.”

“Speak for yourself, mate,” Martin interjected. “I’m happy to fly something that doesn’t handle like a space whale.”

“Very funny, Lieutenant.” Whatley crossed his arms. “How long to make the changes, MacIntosh?”

“Give me twenty-four hours.”

“You’ve got eighteen. Good work, people. Take a break and get some grub, and we’ll reconvene tomorrow for additional testing. Dismissed.”

Filing out with the rest, Justin took a few moments to consider what he’d suggested. Paper-thin shields are a recipe for getting shot up quickly. Still, they had no other alternative than a months-long reengineering process, and for some reason he couldn’t readily explain, that wasn’t an option. Something deep within his soul said they had to execute the attack on Earth, and it had to be right then.

4

Another day, another lunch in the officers’ mess.

Tehrani had spent the morning going through readiness reports from the four stealth raiders assigned to Battlegroup Z, as the Zvika Greengold’s battlegroup was known. In service since the end of the Saurian Wars, older Templar-class boats had up-to-date stealth coatings and the latest anti-ship missiles, including the Starbolt. She was thankful for that, at least. We still have little information on how well our stealth technology matches up to League sensors. In place of solid mission planning, many question marks remained. Against the backdrop of being in a system that didn’t exist officially, with a fleet of ships beyond their visual range, paperwork was a welcome distraction.

“Mind if I join you, skipper?”

Tehrani looked up to see Wright standing in front of her table with a tray full of food. “Of course.” She flashed a grin. “Please, join me.”

“Thanks.” Wright slid into the chair across from her and set his tray down gently. He bent over the food and prayed quietly. “Well, it’s nice to have fresh everything this many days in a row.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

Wright grimaced. “Oh, I know. We’ll probably be eating field rations by the end of the mission.”

Tehrani sighed. She’d been picking at her food and still had most of a sandwich to eat. “You know what I miss?”

“What?”

“Bacon.”

“There’s no shortage of