A rousing cheer went up from the Marines.
“Move out!”
After Justin confirmed that the Marines were safely aboard the League installation, he looped back around and skimmed the surface of the oddly shaped torus, which was larger than he’d expected. How many years did it take them to build this thing? He grinned. It’ll only take us an hour to destroy it.
The overall battle remained in flux. Waves of League small craft launched from the station, though so far, the Greengold and its aviation wing were holding the line.
The Boars had acquitted themselves quite well. They’d taken out most of the automated defense satellites and performed exceptionally against the League’s bombers. That left Justin to focus on the fighters. A couple zoomed into space close by and made the most logical next target.
Feldstein’s voice filled his helmet. “Spencer, how’s that Leaguer piece of crap holding up?”
“It still flies,” Justin replied with a chuckle. “How about Alpha?”
“We’re all in one piece. I’ve got more pockmarks for the chief to fix, but I’ll take it.”
“Be careful.”
“Back at you, Flyboy.”
Justin grinned as he tightened his fingers around the flight stick. Through the canopy, he watched the fight ongoing. Dots of red plasma-cannon fire were everywhere, coupled with blue bolts from the friendlies. Explosions blossomed every so often, either from small craft blowing up after a hard kill or impacts on capital-class vessels from anti-ship missiles by either side.
Settling behind one of the Leaguers who’d just launched, Justin squeezed his firing trigger. Plasma balls raced away and battered the enemy’s shields before the craft disintegrated.
“You think you good, capitalist dog,” someone said with a Slavic-sounding accent. “Make ruse with fake fighter. Come fight like real pilot.”
“Like you guys did by attacking us out of the blue with no declaration of war?” Justin replied.
“I kill you before battle over,” the same person spat.
“Better pilots than you have tried.” Justin quickly searched his targeting scanners for the nearest Leaguer. “And I’m still here. They aren’t, by the way.”
After a string of what Justin assumed were Russian curses, the other pilot went silent. The inbound-missile alarm sounded, and he determined two warheads were tracking him. So he’s backing up his threat. It took a moment for him to figure out the type of threat he faced—heat-seekers—and adjust his tactics accordingly. Justin triggered the flare launcher and pulled up hard on the flight stick, moving off at a different vector in hopes of confusing the weapons.
Justin kept his eyes on the threat display, expecting the heat-seeking warheads to veer off. They didn’t. Instead, both pressed on, heading directly toward his fighter. What the hell? Again, he pressed the flare-release button, and nothing happened. A kernel of fear crept up. Work the problem. He kicked the afterburner up, typically counterintuitive, since it only helped improve tracking for the enemy, but the tactic gave him a precious few seconds to dodge. With a series of violent maneuvers, Justin made one missile miss. The other dogged him turn for turn. He smiled as a solution hit him.
Meanwhile, the League fighter flung hundreds of plasma balls at Justin as he methodically followed his quarry. All of it combined to put him on the defensive.
I’ve got to regain the initiative. Justin rotated his captured fighter toward the Leaguer and poured on the speed. He reset every engine override and pushed the craft far past what its designers had intended as safe. Justin filled space with the deceptively small red balls of death. He killed all engine power at the last possible moment and let his velocity carry him past the enemy, who continued at full speed.
The heat-seeking missile that was tracking him homed in on the target putting out the highest energy signature—the other League craft—and blew it apart.
Justin let out a sigh of relief. That was too damn close. As he caught his breath, his HUD came alive with new contacts. A few seconds later, as the CDF tactical network updated, the unknown vessels were classified as League of Sol Cobra-class destroyers. The kernel of fear returned. We’re barely holding our own. How can we possibly survive until the Marines finish the job?
Sparks showered from the overhead above a bank of subsystem terminals in the back of the Zvika Greengold’s bridge, sending a couple of enlisted ratings scrambling. The deck shook, testing the chairs’ safety harnesses.
Tehrani gripped the sides of the CO’s chair tightly and turned to Wright. “XO, get more damage control parties up here. And a medic.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am.”
Another wave of enemy fire slammed into the Greengold, shaking them up yet again. Tehrani gritted her teeth in frustration. “TAO, time to energy-weapon-capacitor recharge?”
“Thirty seconds, ma’am,” Bryan replied, his tone clipped.
Tehrani grimaced. Ten seconds less than it was ten seconds ago. “TAO, designate Master Four as the priority target for our bombers.” The Maulers had disengaged from attacking station defenses to engage the League warships, while the Boars pressed the attack against the remaining hardpoints around the station—especially the defense satellites.
“Aye, aye, ma’am.”
On Tehrani’s tactical plot, the bombers shifted formation and accelerated, gaining distance from the destroyer they were instructed to attack. Good. This should come together nicely. “TAO, firing point procedures, forward neutron beams, Master Four.”
“Firing solutions set, ma’am,” Bryan replied.
In what had become an almost-signature tactic for her, Tehrani waited until the bombers loosed their anti-ship missiles, then continued to close in to their energy weapon range. “Match bearings, shoot, forward neutron beams.”
Blue spears of concentrated neutrons raced out of their mounts on the bow of the Greengold and instantly connected with the shields of the enemy destroyer. They created a red skid effect on much of the port side of the ship. Unlike the frigate in the battle’s opening minutes, the Cobra seemed to have a more competent crew. It accelerated as the blue beams lashed away and opened up on the approaching warheads and bombers with every point-defense
