Hostile Spike (Battlegroup Z Book 2)

a bright multicolored artificial wormhole sprang into existence. Its maw opened, and the Zvika Greengold blazed through at maximum sublight speed. Dozens of other pinpricks of light engaged simultaneously, generated by the other ships in their convoy.
Suddenly, as quickly as it had started, they were on the other side.
“Conn, TAO. Sensors coming back online. We’re within ten thousand kilometers of our jump coordinates. No contacts. All merchant vessels confirmed on my board. CSV Marcus Luttrell and CSV Glasgow designated as Sierra One and Two respectively.”
So far, so good. “Thank you, Lieutenant. Communications, order all vessels to follow our lead.” Tehrani paused. “Navigation, bring us to heading zero-eight-zero and maintain z-axis at present elevation. Ahead half.”
Wright leaned in. “We could just sit at the jump-in point. Rather than taxing the freighter’s engines.”
“And if the Leaguers have somehow pinpointed our location?” Tehrani asked with a grin. “Always keep them guessing.”
“Valid point, Colonel.”
Hurry up and wait. That seemed to be how life worked since they’d left space dock, but Tehrani had a hard time relaxing in any way, shape, or form. Every sense she had felt heightened, and the hair on the back of her neck stood up and wouldn’t go down. I’m being irrational. There’s no evidence that the League has intelligence on our convoy routes.
After a few minutes passed without incident, her level of unease eventually settled.
“Conn, TAO. Aspect change… LIDAR effects, bearing two-seven-eight, mark positive fifteen. Range fifty-thousand kilometers. Multiple inbound wormholes.”
Tehrani sucked in a breath. Damn it. Why’d I ignore that sixth sense? I’ve brought us all into peril. “Classification of contacts, TAO?”
Bryan didn’t respond for a moment. He tapped something on his console before turning toward the CO's chair. “League-of-Sol-signature confirmed, ma’am. Two Lancer-class frigates designated Master One and Two.”
Tehrani punched the button for 1MC on her chair. While civilian and even some alien militaries preferred fancy touch screens and neural-integrated computers, the CDF had stuck to the tried and true: buttons and knobs. They didn’t fail in combat. The shipwide intercom came on with an audible click. “Attention, all hands. This is the commanding officer. General quarters, general quarters. Man your battle stations. This is not a drill. I say again, this is not a drill.” Almost immediately, the lights on the bridge dimmed and turned a deep blue. “Set condition one throughout the ship and raise our shields.”
“Condition one set throughout the ship, ma’am,” Bryan replied. “Shields at maximum. Point-defense online and in automatic mode.”
“XO, launch the alert fighters.”
“Aye aye, ma’am. That’ll be Beta and Epsilon respectively.”
Tehrani nodded curtly. “TAO, designate—” She glanced at her tactical plot. “Master Two as the priority target.” The frigate was the closest to their formation of nearly defenseless freighters.
“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Bryan replied.
Two clusters of blue icons separated from the Zvika Greengold on the screen in front of Tehrani. One was quickly labeled as Beta and the other Epsilon. Groups of red dots appeared around the enemy vessels and accelerated away.
“Conn, TAO. The enemy has launched fighters, ma’am.”
“XO, get the next fighter element from our Red Tails squadron on deck and ready to launch.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Wright replied.
The Marcus Luttrell turned sharply and sped toward the enemy interlopers. Its magnetic cannons sent a wave of high-explosive shells at ten percent of the speed of light toward the closest League frigate. Coupled with neutron beams and a volley of missiles, it made a significant dent in the Lancer’s shields.
“Navigation, intercept course, Master Two,” Tehrani ordered as the Greengold’s fighters and bombers merged into the mass of red dots denoting League Shrike fighters.
Wright leaned in. “Are we mixing it up again?”
“That we are, Major,” Tehrani replied with a grin. “The sooner we neutralize this enemy, the sooner we can get out of here.”
“We’re still two hours away from a safe jump.”
Wright’s words registered in her mind, and she knew those two ships weren’t the last Leaguers they would see. Again, she cursed the poor planning of their civilian leaders. “TAO, firing point procedures, Master Two, forward neutron beams.”
“Firing solutions set, ma’am.”
It took a few minutes for the lumbering carrier to close the distance enough for their primary armament to be effective. As the Greengold moved forward, the Marcus Luttrell raked the frigate with another alpha strike before darting out of range. Tehrani noted that the destroyer’s shields were below fifty percent.
The moment they got to their median range, she spoke. “Match bearings, shoot, forward neutron beams.”
Twin blue beams erupted from the Greengold’s bow, moving at the speed of light. They slammed into the protective screens of the League frigate, which failed after only a few seconds. Against a capital ship or heavily armored opponent, their assault wouldn’t have worked. But the Lancer had a brittle hull and limited armor plating. The neutron beams speared the hapless warship, blowing through its superstructure like it wasn’t even there. The vessel's bow blew off, and it started to tumble through space, out of control.
“Conn, TAO. Master Two has been neutralized.”
Tehrani didn’t allow herself to savor the victory. The only objective was the next target. “TAO, firing point procedures, Master One, forward neutron beams. Designate it as the primary target for our battlegroup.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am. Firing solutions set. Two minutes to energy armament recharge.”
Wright touched her shoulder. “Colonel, we just lost another fighter from Beta element. Recommend launching our next group of Sabres.”
So intent on the ship-to-ship portion of the battle, Tehrani had lost track of the fast movers. She scanned her screen and confirmed her XO’s report. “Do it.”
On the flight deck, Justin’s Sabre sat in readiness along with the other three craft of Alpha element. Since the scramble alarm sounded in their ready room, they’d raced to their fighters and completed the preflight checkouts. While Alpha was supposedly on ready-thirty alert status, it was actually closer to ten minutes.
“Spencer, Beta’s gotten worked over pretty bad,” Whatley said over Justin’s commlink. “I show Alpha ready to launch.”
“Yes, sir. We’re locked and cocked,” Justin replied enthusiastically. His mind was clear of all distractions. The