Hostile Spike (Battlegroup Z Book 2) Daniel Gibbs (classic book list txt) 📖

the fully fueled fighter, which was the only possible way out because when armed combatants arrived, he was as good as dead or worse—captured.

Sprinting as fast as his legs would go, Justin closed the distance quickly. A woman appeared from behind a bomber and scrambled away as he pointed the pistol at her. More shouting came from behind him, but he didn’t dare turn his head to see what was happening.

The Shrike fighter that was his goal had a portable ladder pushed up to the cockpit, which Justin ran up two steps at a time. He jumped into the pilot’s seat and pushed the ladder away. Much like CDF craft, there were numerous dials, panels, and knobs along with a flight stick. It wasn’t the same as his Sabre, but the basic idea seemed to be there. How do I close the canopy? He scanned the area, looking for something that screamed, “Press me! I close the canopy so you can escape!” When nothing was in evidence, he started pressing buttons at random. Various panels lit up, and at least one alarm blared, but the canopy finally slid shut.

The sharp report of weapons fire rang out so loudly that Justin could hear them even within the cockpit. Armed figures in black uniforms rushed up to the side of the fighter and banged the stocks of their rifles on the transparent alloy that made up the canopy. Oh shit. One of the soldiers fired point-blank, sending a red energy bolt directly at his head. The material stopped the shot, but it left a burn mark. If I don’t get moving, I’m dead.

One of the plastic handles reminded him of a throttle, and it had a series of numbers on it. Justin gambled and slowly moved it forward. He was rewarded with the craft jerking forward. Okay, now I’m cooking with gas. Justin pushed the handle down, and the fighter gathered speed. The two soldiers fell over as the portable ladder careened backward. He wrapped his fingers tightly around the flight stick and found a trigger on the front.

When Justin squeezed the trigger, bright-red plasma balls erupted from the fuselage of the League fighter. They slammed into the far wall of the flight deck, and at the impact points, the bulkhead melted into the passageway beyond. If I could only hit something vital.

He kept tentatively trying to maneuver the craft. A slight movement of the stick almost ended his flight prematurely, as the wing clipped another fighter, but aside from the sickening sound of grinding metal, there seemed to be no ill effects.

Justin stared at the flight panel for several seconds. This looks like weapons control. Justin tapped a series of buttons. Several beeps greeted him, but when he pressed one of the buttons, the screen changed to show what appeared to be a missile.

The fear that had gripped Justin only a few minutes before evaporated as he focused on the situation. Hoping his next course of action would result in the launch of a live missile, he turned the fighter slightly, aiming for what looked like a group of hoses coming out of the bulkhead at the far end of the hangar bay. “Alpha, Mike, Foxtrot.” With a grin, he pressed the button again.

A League anti-fighter missile dropped out of the bottom of the fighter. It hit the deck in a shower of sparks before its rocket motor ignited. Flames shot out of the exhaust nozzle, and the warhead skipped across the alloy surface then slammed into the general area Justin had targeted and blew up. Shit. As a wall of fire headed toward him, time seemed to stop. Vaguely aware of his surroundings as muscle memory took over, Justin rammed the throttle as far forward as possible, with the craft pointed toward the force field leading to the void.

The Shrike fighter accelerated rapidly, throwing him backward. A few seconds later, he exited the hangar bay with a ball of fire on his tail. The flames dissipated immediately in the void, as there was no oxygen to fuel them.

As he flew away from the League heavy cruiser, Justin finally caught his breath. How am I still alive?

11

Tehrani wiped a stray hair from between her eyes and squinted at the tactical plot. The word desperate rolled around in her mind as she searched for any possible advantage. Around her, the bridge crew did its duty as best they could, while the hopelessness of the battle produced an almost visible weight. So far, nothing had worked, and they hadn’t been able to try Wright’s neutron-beam trick because the Greengold’s forward shields hadn’t yet recharged.

“Conn, TAO.” Bryan turned in his seat. “Ma’am, something exploded in Master Four’s primary launch bay.”

“Explain, Lieutenant.” Tehrani’s heart skipped a beat. Allah, please, help us.

“Thirty seconds ago, there was an explosion in Master Four’s shuttle bay, during which a fighter exited into space. Since then, nothing else has emerged, and my scans show severe internal damage in the area around their flight deck.” Bryan paused and checked something on his console. “If you take a look, the volume of weapons fire coming from that vessel is significantly reduced from what it was a few minutes ago.”

“Maybe whoever launched accidentally set off a fuel line or something,” Wright mused. “I say we file this one under divine intervention and press our attack. Lieutenant, what’s the shield status on Master Four?”

“It’s fluctuating, sir.”

Wright cocked his head. “Might be time to hit hard, Colonel.”

“I completely concur,” Tehrani replied. “TAO, status of forward shield recharge?”

“Eighty percent, ma’am.”

“That’ll do. Raise forward shields.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

Tehrani turned her attention to Mitzner. “Navigation, intercept course on Master Four. All ahead flank.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

“You know, skipper, this is kind of weird.” Wright pointed at a single red dot on the tactical plot. “The fighter that launched from the Rand—it’s not engaging anyone. It’s trying to avoid our fighters and isn’t going near the freighters.”

“A defector?” Tehrani asked with a raised eyebrow. “That seems unlikely.”

“Yeah. You’re right.”

Tehrani stared