Sol Strike (Battlegroup Z Book 3) by Daniel Gibbs (red novels .txt) 📗

second before a bullet that would end his life is fired. To explain that, the Jalm’tar see a force behind the chaos.”

“That sounds a whole lot like God,” Nishimura interjected.

O’Conner shrugged again. “They and I don’t put a name to it. It just is what it is. The best translation I can give you is fortune. Their culture has a lot of pageantry around it too.”

“How do you know so much about these aliens?”

“A few nights of drinking with an old spacer friend.” O’Conner grinned. “His hauler had a run out to one of their colonies. They’ll let outsiders in for the right price. Anyway, they think that some people are touched by fortune, and it would be wise for everyone else to avoid angering them or trying to harm them, lest they be affected by bad luck.”

“Well, Master Guns, that’s gotta be one of the more interesting things I’ve heard in a while.”

“What about you, sir?”

“Oh, I’m a Christian, but I never saw the need to advertise it with a patch. Honestly, I haven’t lived up to my faith most of my life. I thought I’d get things straightened out one of these days, but you know how the Corps is. We do a lot of—”

“Sinning?”

“Got it in one, Master Guns,” Nishimura replied with a belly laugh. “But the war has sobered all of us up.” His smile faded, and he pursed his lips. “Now we don’t know if we’re waking up tomorrow. And it made me think about where I would end up if I died.”

Awkward silence broke out for a few moments.

“I hear you, sir,” O’Conner said finally. “There’s not much reference to an afterlife in the Jalm’tar faith.” He narrowed his eyes. “As I said, I realize it’s odd, but it works for me.”

Nishimura felt like he was standing in the middle of a minefield. Part of him wanted to point out to a fellow Marine he respected that maybe there was more to faith than the alien religion O’Conner had related. Nah. That won’t get me anywhere and will just offend a friend. Better to live the sermon than try to preach it. I’d probably blow the delivery, anyway. “Hey, I can respect that. Back to my original question, though—what’re the iron dice?”

“The crucible of war,” O’Conner replied. “That’s what the Jalm’tar word for war translates into roughly. It stuck with me over the years.”

“Well, Master Guns, you are the first person I’ve ever spoken to who converted to an alien religion. That’s worth a round of shots on me down in the mess.” Nishimura smiled. “Now, whaddaya say we go yell at our VBSS wannabes and rerun this scenario?”

“Oh, I’m looking forward to it, sir.” O’Conner grinned in a way that would’ve made Nishimura’s blood run cold if he were a junior enlisted.

“Hoorah.”

Nishimura stood, and they exited the control area. With another month or more to the Sol system, the Marines would have plenty of time to become experts, but Nishimura hoped they wouldn’t be needed.

Much like everyone else on the Zvika Greengold and throughout the fleet, Justin had long since run out of things to do. Utter boredom was life—day in and day out. He spent a good four hours a day in the hyperrealistic flight simulators, practicing his skills with the SFS-4 Ghost, as prescribed by Major Whatley. Between squaring off against AI-generated opponents and his fellow pilots, Justin felt he had a decent proficiency level with the fighter though nowhere near as good as his familiarity with the Sabre. He still had to think about movements with the Ghost, while in a Sabre, Justin didn’t—he was one with the craft.

The day began like every other in recent memory. A jog around the hangar several times with a ten-kilogram pack, equaling a five-kilometer run, was followed by a space shower, breakfast, and a review of all Red Tails squadron paperwork. One of the inside jokes about being a pilot in the CDF was that flying spacecraft was only about fifty percent of the job and less for a squadron commander. Most of it was paperwork and ensuring the various machines and people were working at peak efficiency.

By the time he’d wrapped up the forms and evaluations, Justin was ready for a break. Simulator time represented the only engaging activity on the ship and was perhaps the closest thing to fun they had going for them. When he entered the sim room, it appeared he was the only person there, so after climbing into a pod, Justin selected a mission with computer-generated enemies and settled in. He strapped into the chair, as the simulator pod offered a three-hundred-sixty-degree range of motion and responded precisely to how one controlled their fighter. Flip upside down—the pod did too.

Before Justin could toggle the system online, Whatley’s voice filled his cockpit. “Fighting AIs, really? Come on, Spencer. You can do better than that.”

“I didn’t see anyone else in a simulator, sir.”

“Well, how about a one on one, then?”

Justin grinned. He’d been wanting to duel the CAG for months but hadn’t asked for fear of coming off as cocky or grandstanding. “Oh, that sounds good to me, sir.”

“Good. You take a Ghost, and I’ll configure myself for one of those Leaguer Shrike fighters. May the best man win.”

“Rules of engagement, sir?”

Whatley chuckled. “One-on-one, no capital ships, no reinforcements. Standard war loadout for both of us. Shoot on sight. That clear it up for you, son?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, stop yakking and start flying.”

The holographically generated screens flashed into life, showing the blackness of space with stars in the background. Justin’s sensor screen contained a single League fighter three kilometers away from his craft, at heading zero-zero-zero. Simple and direct. He couldn’t use a lot of finesse for the approach. Instead, Justin turned his Ghost directly toward Whatley and accelerated to maximum speed. For the time being, he held off on using the afterburner and focused on obtaining a missile lock.

Whatley’s approach was similarly predictable. He flew in a