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

the few enemy craft left seemed to have figured out that, at the least, he was a traitor. I wonder if whoever’s flying the other bird knows I’m a CDF pilot. Justin didn’t know why, but the thought amused him. I’m on borrowed time here. Try as he might, he couldn’t get over being alive. I think I’m going to show up at Mateus’s poker game. With luck like this, I oughta win some credits.

Another burst of red energy zoomed past Justin’s craft, jarring him fully back into the present. He pulled back hard on the flight stick, still exploring the limits of the League fighter. To his surprise, it seemed as if it was more nimble than a Sabre but not as technologically advanced. Without his HUD integrated into the onboard sensor system, he was forced to rely on an old-school method of finding the enemy: the mark one human eyeball. It took Justin several seconds to locate his quarry, a familiar black fighter with red markings.

Trading interlocking scissors maneuvers, Justin used his superior piloting skill to close to a guns solution on the enemy craft over the course of several turns. He squeezed the integrated firing trigger on the flight stick, stabbing at the Leaguer with a flurry of plasma bolts.

“Alpha Two to Alpha One. Come in.” Feldstein’s voice crackled, barely audible on the short-range communications gear built into his suit. “Can you hear me?”

“This is Alpha One. I’m in the League fighter that’s shooting at the other Leaguer. Good to hear your voice, Lieutenant,” Justin replied as he weaved and bobbed, matching the enemy turn for turn. “I could use a little bit of help here.”

“I’ve got you marked as a friendly,” Feldstein said. “Hold on.”

Justin continued his deadly dance with the enemy. While he landed a few shots, the opposing pilot went into guns-D, turning wildly to throw off Justin’s aim. In turn, most of the red plasma balls missed.

“Alpha Two, fox three.”

The biggest problem with the so-called guns-D defensive maneuver was that, as a pilot, you rapidly lost situational awareness. The Leaguer didn’t see the LIDAR-tracking missile launched from Feldstein’s Sabre until it was far too late. The warhead exploded against the enemy craft’s already-weakened shields, shredding its hull and causing a catastrophic reactor explosion. After a brief orange flash, nothing was left of the fighter except dust.

“Alpha Two, splash one.”

“If you keep this up, you’ll make a habit out of rescuing me,” Justin commented with a laugh. “I think that’s the last one.”

“Affirmative. The scope is clear. Zvika Greengold Actual asked me to relay her compliments. I’ll escort you in, sir,” Feldstein replied. “I don’t know how you pulled that off, sir, but there’s a lot of civilian merchant spacers that owe you their lives.”

“I was just doing my job.”

But Justin’s words rang hollow. Do I believe that? Or am I taking insane risks for some reason I can’t put my finger on? His emotions were a jumble. Caught between joy for the victory and a feeling of giddiness for the spectacular stunt of stealing a League fighter, he also felt remorse and sadness. Too many people died today for me to feel good about it.

“Well, you’re headed toward regular-hero territory in my book.” Feldstein chuckled. “I’m coming up on your wing, sir.”

Her Sabre was only a few dozen meters away.

“I see you, Lieutenant. I’m still figuring out how to fly this thing, so we’ll be going slowly.”

“No worries. We’ve got all day. The Leaguers seem to have given up after their cruiser exploded.”

The rest of the flight back to the Zvika Greengold was uneventful. While foreign in the extreme, Justin had gotten enough feel for the Shrike fighter to avoid crashing into the carrier and getting himself killed in the process. Feldstein stayed close, relaying communications from the air boss to him, and he executed a nearly picture-perfect landing on the flight deck. As the stolen craft set down, Justin popped the canopy open and peered over the side.

A platoon of Marines greeted him, their battle rifles at the ready. “Halt! Hands in the air and identify yourself!” the sergeant in charge shouted.

Justin quickly put his hands up. “First Lieutenant Justin Spencer, CDF. Easy there, Marine.”

“That’s him. Lower those weapons,” Whatley barked, his voice as gruff as ever. “Get down here, Lieutenant.”

As he breathed a sigh of relief, Justin swung over the side and climbed down the ladder that appeared next to the fighter. Even though his legs shook, he brought himself to attention. “Sir.”

Whatley’s face broke into a grin. “Damn good show, Lieutenant. Damn good show. At ease.”

Justin relaxed. “Sorry about losing my Sabre, sir. But I brought a replacement.”

Laughter rippled across the flight deck, and a chant broke out. “Spen-cer! Spen-cer! Spen-cer!” Crew chiefs and enlisted ratings in different-colored jackets—brown, blue, purple, white, and green—mobbed the captured fighter and Justin. They cheered wildly, and a group started to pick him up, ostensibly so that he could crowd surf the flight deck.

“Colonel on deck!” The sharp voice of a senior chief carried across the flight deck, even above the tumult. Immediately, everyone ceased their activities. The chant stopped, and all came to attention.

Tehrani cut a path through the masses of soldiers and space-aviation ratings. A rarity on the flight deck outside of inspections, her presence surprised Justin.

She came to a halt in front of the captured League fighter. “Lieutenant Spencer,” Tehrani said with a smile. “I’m glad to see you again.”

“Likewise, ma’am.” Justin stood ramrod straight, like he’d learned all the way back in boot camp.

“As you were, everyone,” Tehrani called loudly.

The assembled company relaxed into parade rest.

“The convoy is spinning up for a Lawrence jump to our deep-space way station for resupply and rearmament, but I wanted to shake the hand of the man who saved a lot of lives today,” Tehrani continued and extended her hand.

Justin took it and squeezed warmly. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“Please join me tonight, with the rest of your flight element, in the senior officers’ mess on