Bandits Engaged (Battlegroup Z Book 4) by Daniel Gibbs (classic literature list .txt) 📗

got to trust the process. Run the grid search, ID groups of possible contacts, then run them down.

In the face of fear and doubt, Justin had a sudden inspiration. I say I believe in something. Might as well try to place my trust in it. “Hey, uh, God,” he began, feeling silly and strange. “I’m still learning how to do this. Please help me out here. I need to find these pirates, avoid being blown apart by gas clouds, and make it back to the Zvika Greengold.”

He glanced at the small picture of Michelle and Maggie stuck to an out-of-the-way portion of the flight control panel. “Just if You’re up there, help me get back to my family.” Justin closed his eyes. “In Jesus’s name, amen.”

Well, either I’m losing it, or maybe God heard me. Hey, it can’t hurt. The search continued as Justin stared at the sensor screen, marking down possible targets.

System XB-0813-C

Neutral Space

28 August 2434

Tehrani smoothed her black space sweater down as the Zvika Greengold emerged from its artificial wormhole through the void into the first waypoint on their patrol. She ticked off the five seconds it took for their sensors to come back online.

“Conn, TAO. Reading multiple contacts clustered around the in-system Helium-3 refinery. Freighters, mining vessels, personnel shuttles.”

“Populate the board with Sierra contacts, TAO.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

The tactical plot on Tehrani’s monitor sprang to life with dozens of green icons, denoting the vessels as nonhostile but not friendly Terran Coalition units. Exactly where they should be.

“We could do a high-speed pass and really freak them out,” Wright said and chuckled. “Thirty-minute cool down on our Lawrence drives has commenced, ma’am. No ill effects detected from the in-nebula jump.”

“Conn, TAO. Aspect change, inbound wormholes.” Bryan held his breath. “CDF signature, ma’am. Marcus Luttrell, Astute, Earnest Evans, and Vasco da Gama classified as Sierra Twenty-Six through Thirty-One.”

Tehrani’s mind went back to Justin Spencer, who was alone and trying to find a needle in the middle of a cosmic haystack of gargantuan proportions. Any rumination on the mission plan left her feeling guilty for leaving one of their best pilots behind. She assuaged it by reminding herself how important it was they dealt with the pirates.

“Conn, Communications,” Singh said, cutting into her thoughts. “I have a request for vidlink from the Raifuku Maru’s skipper. He identifies himself as the ranking captain on scene for the Nosamo Aerothermic Technologies corporation.”

Megacorps. The Terran Coalition detested few things more than corporations so large they aspired to be nation-states—aside from the League of Sol. A century ago, antitrust laws had forced most megacorps beyond the Coalition’s borders and into neutral space. Some neutral systems welcomed them with open arms, such as Hestia. Others fought tooth and nail to keep the corporations out.

Tehrani set her jaw. “Put him on.”

A few moments later, a man with a peculiar presentation appeared on the screen mounted above her head. “Hello, Terran Coalition vessel. Can you hear me?” While his hair and facial appearance were normal for a human, the man was dressed in what could almost be described as livery. It held lively colors of purple and teal, making for one of the oddest uniforms Tehrani had ever seen.

“This is Colonel Banu Tehrani, commanding the CSV Zvika Greengold and her battlegroup, Mister…”

“Sabastian Isais Nilo Ramires. Shipmaster Ramires of the Raifuku Maru. You’re in violation of our asteroid-mining and helium-refining operations. Leave at once.”

“Under the treaties negotiated between the Terran Coalition and the Organization of Non-Aligned Planets, Coalition Defense Force vessels have full right of passage throughout any nonsettled system in this region.” Tehrani crossed her arms. “We’re conducting freedom-of-navigation exercises and have no interest in your operations.”

Ramires paused, narrowed his eyes, and tried to puff out his chest. “I see. In that case, we have no objection to your being here. Do not come within one hundred thousand kilometers of our property.”

Or what? You’ll throw rocks at us? Based on the long-range scans the Greengold had already conducted, it didn’t appear most of the civilian ships could fight off a small band of determined pirates, much less a carrier battlegroup. “We’ll be jumping out in twenty-eight minutes, Mr. Ramires.”

“Raifuku Maru out.”

The screen went black.

“Pleasant fellow,” Wright remarked. “Surprising, since he looked like what I’d imagine a court jester did a thousand years ago.”

Tehrani snorted out a laugh. “His getup was quite interesting.”

“So, what’s the plan, Skipper?”

“Cool off our drive, jump to the next system, and hopefully rattle our pirate friends enough to make a mistake Spencer can exploit.” She turned toward him. “The same plan we had half an hour ago.”

“Touché. Just checking.”

As the minutes ticked away, Tehrani worried about Spencer’s safety. One thing was for sure: she doubted she would’ve volunteered for a solo mission in the middle of a star-birthing nebula. May Allah watch over him.

Sokratis Papoutsis strode onto the bridge of his command ship, the Argos. His first mate had requested his presence only a few moments before. The bridge had been reworked to rival a military vessel’s combat information center, and dozens of crew members lined consoles dedicated to sensors, fleet control, and weapons.

“Report,” he barked.

“Boss, we’ve got a CDF stealth recon fighter at extreme range. The thing’s going in and out,” Parish replied, pointing to the holographic projection of the nebula around them. “But it's conducting a grid-pattern search.”

A conclusion was easy to draw: either someone from the Panthir had talked, or the Coalition’s vaunted signals intelligence arm had come through again for them. Neither was positive. Papoutsis set his jaw. “How close to us?”

The hologram shifted to show a projected grid pattern based on the CDF craft’s position tracking. The craft’s path brought it steadily closer to the small fleet.

“I see.” Papoutsis clenched his fist. “Where’s the rest of their force? Specifically, the escort carrier?”

Parish touched the screen, and the holographic display shifted. “They’re making a lot of noise, jumping from system to system in the buffer region between Terran Coalition and human-occupied neutral space. Seem to be