Shall Not Perish (Lincoln's War Book 1)

by Richard Tongue

   Bluntly, Lincoln wasn’t.

   It wasn’t the fault of the crew. Not really. Though the ship had become a place where careers went to die, at least for the senior staff, that hadn’t stopped them from doing their best. Unfortunately, nobody else had, not for a long time. She was years overdue for a refit, always at the back of the line for shipyard time, replacement crew, spares, ordnance. He looked down the corridor, at the covered hatch that had once accessed Number Four Turret. Cannibalized last year, to provide spares for his Number Three and Jess Stevens’ Number Five.

   “Attention. All hands, attention. Stand by for the Captain,” the overhead speaker buzzed, a low whine interfering with the broadcast, just another defect that the maintenance crews hadn’t manage to get around to fixing.

   “Christ,” Caldwell said, her eyes wide. “This is really serious, isn’t it. I mean...”

   “Quiet,” McBride said.

   “This is the Captain,” Forrest began. “As most of you know, we are about to go into battle with a squadron of ships flying the flag of the Pacific Federation. It’s no secret that tensions between our two governments have been growing, and it looks like they’ve decided to try for a second Pearl Harbor.” McBride looked at his two subordinates, trying to steady them with his gaze.

   “Third Fleet has been caught by surprise, and they’re scrambling to get to battle stations. They’re going to need time to get into the fight, and Lincoln is going to do its damnedest to buy them that time, no matter what it takes, no matter what it costs. This old girl has fought in two wars. She knows what to do. And so do you. Good hunting.”

   “You heard it,” McBride said, gesturing at the controls. “We get to fire some of the first shots of the war. Get us into the history books. You’re going to be famous.” Clapping Butler on the back, he said, “But only if we manage to fight our way through those bastards. You keep those sensors locked onto the targets. We mess this up, those pulsars will smash into the heart of the ship, and we’ll end up floating home.”

   McBride settled into position again, his eyes locked onto the turret pickup, ranging through space as Butler’s sensors guided him to the target. While he maintained his outward confidence, inside, he felt nothing but dread at the battle to come. The enemy formation had broken into two echelons, perhaps expecting that Lincoln would be launching its nonexistent fighters at short range, hoping to spare themselves the full fury of an attack run. The Captain was playing a smart bluff, buying time, but every second they remained in the firing line was one more impact that could wipe Lincoln from the map.

   The fleet of the Pacific Federation had been their unofficial ‘enemy’ in wargames for years, so he knew the lines of the enemy ships well. Too well. The carrier ahead bristled with defenses, a more advanced version of Lincoln itself, and it was moving to screen the first of the three cruisers, four heavy pulsar cannons at its heart, able to deliver savage blows of energy to the target. Unless the proton turrets could intercept them in time.

   Despite decades of work, nobody had yet bettered the point-defense systems they were using. Each impact would bleed some of the energy from the incoming projectiles, either destroying them completely or reducing their strength to something the hull armor could handle. It would take dozens of well-placed shots to make it work, and each individual duel would be over in a matter of seconds, almost before the turret operators could respond.

   If they’d had a fighter wing, that would have helped immeasurably, the pilots able to add the force of their rail-guns to the fray, either distracting the pulsar gunners or knocking down some of the burning balls of plasma. Lincoln had fighters, technically. Boxed and crated in the bowels of the hold, ready for shipment to the outpost at 70 Ophiuchi. A defense force that would likely never arrive.

   Footsteps raced towards him, and he turned to see Lieutenant Romano, a JG right out of advanced training, sliding into position behind the turret. Nominally, he was the Training Officer, but he was also responsible for the starboard turrets while at battle stations. Including his. Another officer operating under the delusion that he was in charge, one that the senior enlisted had yet to properly educate.

   “Everything nominal here, McBride?” Romano asked.

   “All systems go, sir. You don’t have to worry about Turret Three.”

   “We’re less than thirty seconds from contact.”

   Butler nodded, and said, “I have a positive target track, sir. Enemy pulsar cannons are charging, ready to fire. We’re locked onto their projected trajectory plots.”

   “Power feeds are nominal, sir,” Caldwell added. “All systems green.”

   “Thank you, Spaceman,” Romano said. McBride looked at the young officer’s hands, clenched into fists, knuckles white, and a wave of sympathy briefly washed over him. He had a battle station, something to do, and he’d seen battle before. All the kid could do was sit back and watch while others did the work.

   “We’ve got this, Lieutenant,” McBride said with what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “Lincoln is as tough as my old boots, and she’s done this before. We won’t let a single one of those pulsar blasts get through our screen. Count on it.”

   Nodding, Romano said, “I’ll be forward if you need me, up by Turret One.” As the officer walked off, McBride shook his head. Chief Warren had taken the leading turret for his own, and his attitude towards rookie officers was a legend across four fleets and nine planetary systems.

   “Ten seconds to contact,” Butler said. “I have a firm firing solution.”

   “Maggie,” McBride said, briefly glancing at Caldwell, “Keep that power feed stable no matter what it takes. I’ve got to have a steady flow of energy, and I’ve got to be able to put each shot where it needs to be. Steal it from anywhere you have to when the shooting starts, and be ready to implement bypass sequences if you must. Butler, keep those sensors online. Is your auxiliary circuit working?”

   “Already checked.”

   “Good. Don’t wait for the order. Switch across at the first sign of trouble.” Cracking a smile, he added, “And stay loose. No point dying all tensed up.”

   A red light winked on, and Lincoln swept into firing range of the nearest ship, the carrier first, spitting fire from its defensive turrets. Seconds later, the hull started to rattle from the force of the impacts, but with an effort that McBride hadn’t expected, he managed to ignore it. They couldn’t do any serious damage with their point-defense rail-guns, though perhaps a few lucky shots might take out some of the sensor pickups.

   They were trying to goad them, trying to force Lincoln to waste energy and computer time on repelling an attack that couldn’t damage them. A rookie commander might have fallen for it, but the orders from the bridge kept their turrets silent. They’d be into the full fury of the battle soon enough, as the cruiser ranged towards them. He risked a short glance at the midrange sensors, spotted the other two cruisers hanging back, allowing their comrades to make the first pass. A smart play. Let their comrades take the worst of the hits, and either move in to finish off Lincoln or alter course to head straight for the station.

   And for the carriers, only just lumbering free of the confines of the orbital spaceport, still unable to properly maneuver. That stung him. Lincoln was making this sacrifice, and as far as he could see, the rest of the fleet was wasting the opportunity they were risking their lives to offer them.

   Then the first cruiser was in position, and all was chaos as the proton turrets opened up, the first of the huge green balls of plasma racing through space towards them, gigawatts of energy in every one, enough to melt and rend huge holes in the hull if they were permitted to make contact. McBride had no intention of allowing that to happen.

   Most of the systems were computer controlled. Had to be, to allow the microsecond adjustments required to guarantee maximum efficiency. That didn’t mean he wasn’t furiously busy, monitoring the sensor feeds to the firing computer, ch
ecking the distribution feeds to ensure that both of his cannons were working as they should, and monitoring the local environment to determine firing priorities. All four enemy cannons were working now, each of them discharging a pulsar bolt every two seconds. And they were going to be in firing range for more than a minute.

   The first wave of enemy bolts dissipated under the concentrated fire of Lincoln's starboard turrets, but the second were growing closer by the second as McBride switched targets, moving the focus on the newly launched plasma projectiles. This was a familiar game, and one that he knew they would struggle to win. The enemy had no expectation that its first, second or even sixth volley would reach their target, but they didn’t have to. The seventh, tenth, twentieth would do the job, and each volley got closer and closer before being wiped from the board.

   An amber light winked on, and he barked, “Caldwell, watch that damned power feed!”

   “Overload on junction five. Attempting to bypass. We’re getting systems failures up and down the networks!”

   “Ten years of maintenance screw-ups hitting us at once,” McBride muttered. Every other turret was having the same problem, and the volume of defensive fire began to diminish just when it was needed the most. The battle had been raging for only twenty seconds. It seemed like decades. He reached down to the emergency systems, an old trick he remembered from his long-ago training, feeding auxiliary power from the gravitation systems into the turret controls. They could manage with queasy stomachs from reduced gravity for the rest of the battle, if they had to.

   Now the plasma balls were getting close enough to the hull to scorch the paintwork, and another five volleys were in the air, barreling towards them at speed. The enemy cruiser was past closest approach, but they were still well within range, and now the decisions got tougher. Some of the incoming plasma balls were going to strike home. The key was to make sure they hit unimportant areas of the ship. Lincoln began to dance around as the helmsman, up on the bridge, began a complex evasive sequence, hoping to throw off the projectiles, force them to impact where they wanted them too. Once launched, there was nothing the enemy could do to alter their course, but any evasive pattern could be predicted given time.

   Sirens wailed as the first projectile struck the hull. It didn’t have enough remaining strength to do serious damage, but the outer armor buckled and broke under the strain, the metal bubbling under the excessive heat as the impact made itself felt. Then another, down at the far side of the ship, dangerously close to the engine manifold. Then a third, and this time, a dreadful wail echoed down the corridor, a noise bitterly dreaded by any spacer. The decompression warning. The enemy had breached the hull, precious atmosphere leeching out into space.

   Only five more volleys left. They were almost through this nightmare. The proton turrets up and down the hull continued to fire, continued to hurl energy into the void in a desperate attempt to protect them from the devastating barrage. The first was knocked out short of the hull, the second hammering into the side, without sufficient force to penetrate the armor. More long repairs for the engineering teams, but they’d have a time to worry about that later.

   Then the inevitable happened. Up on the bridge, taking the decision from him, someone made a choice. Let one plasma bolt through, in order to concentrate maximum firepower on the rest. The toughest call he could imagine, and he didn’t envy the Captain the decision. Even when he realized that the bolt that they were permitting through the defensive perimeter was targeted directly at his position.

   “Out! Right now!” he said, pushing himself free of the turret. The automatic systems could manage without him for a second, and he grabbed the too-slow Caldwell by the scruff of the neck, half-dragging her along the corridor, Butler recalcitrant staying at his post. “Move it, Butler!”

   “Got to maintain the track for the others, sir.”

   “Don’t be a damned fool!”

   He had to make a choice. He made it. McBride sprinted down the corridor, Caldwell just behind him. Butler finally turned to leave his post, lingering a second too long as the plasma bolt hammered into the hull, one deck above them. A shower of molten metal rained from the ceiling, the screams of dying crewmen burning into his heart. Butler hadn’t had a chance. The blast door started to slam shut, Caldwell still on the far side, the desperate whine of escaping air slowly overwhelming the fading klaxons. McBride’s hand hammered on the override, while Romano, racing towards them, grabbed the stumbling crewman and dragged her over the threshold, McBride releasing the controls to allow the heavy hatch to slam closed before collapsing on the ground, back to the wall.

   He looked up at Romano, the young officer’s face red, burned from the heat, and said, “Thanks, Lieutenant.”

   “Any time,” he replied, looking through the viewport. “We’ve lost two damned decks to one hit. Two damned decks. I can’t believe it.” He looked down at Caldwell, weeping on the floor from the pain, and McBride reached to rip a medical kit from the wall, rifling through the contents until he found the strongest painkiller in the pack, injecting her with practiced ease.

   “That’ll hold you for a while, Spaceman,” he said. “Though you’re going to regret it tomorrow. Can you make it down to Sickbay on your own?”

   “Think so,” she said, staggering to her feet, lurching towards the elevator. “My duty station….”

   “Right now, your place is in Sickbay. We don’t get you patched up, how do you expect to get back into the fight?” The overhead lights switched from red to amber, and he continued, “We’re out of the firing line for a few minutes. Get moving while you can. That’s an order.”

   “Aye,” she replied, struggling through the doors. Romano was scanning a wall monitor, his face fixed in a frown.

   “We’ve only got power to the after two turrets. I don’t think either of us can get back there anyway.” Looking at the exhausted McBride, he said, “We should be able to make the bridge. Are you up to it?”

   “You need to ask?” he asked, forcing himself back to his feet. “Lead on, Lieutenant.”

  Chapter 4

   Flynn carefully guided his fighter into position, keeping a wary eye on his fuel gauge. They’d burned far harder than was wise on their fast approach to the enemy fighters, and what was left would barely be enough to get them back to one of the carriers. Assuming there was anywhere left to land when the battle was done. He looked down at the sensor display again, shaking his head at the mess running down the starboard side of Lincoln, the aged ship taking a greater pounding than any vessel he was ever seen.

   “Saratoga’s on the move!” Horton yelled. “Heading towards us, Lieutenant, full acceleration. They must be trying for a high-power launch.”

   “Risky,” Flynn muttered, under his breath. His eyes widened as he looked at the trajectory plot, at the enemy fighters still swarming through space, many of them close enough to get an easy run on their baseship. His fumbling fingers flicked frequencies, and he said, “Flynn to Saratoga Actual. Recommend immediate course change. You have enemy fighters inbound, thirty seconds.”

   “Actual to Flynn,” the gruff voice of Commodore Mitchell replied. “Mind your station, Lieutenant. Our fighters and turret defenses are more than up to handling them. We’ve got to get into the fight. Alter course nine-three by one-niner, and come around to provide escort to our squadrons once we get them into the air.”

   “Sir,” Flynn protested, “those fighters aren’t slowing. I think they’re planning to ram.” The channel went silent, and he said, “Sir. Saratoga. Anyone!”

   He had a front row seat for the death of a thousand of his friends, a dozen fighters accelerating to full speed, likely drones designed specifically for this action, their noses loaded with all the explosives they could muster. They hammered into the side of the fragile carrier, tearing vast gouges into her hull, and the rest of the fighters followed with the release of their missiles, forty-eight warheads racing throug
h space. A handful of his comrades did make it out of the launch tubes, but none of them survived the shock wave that followed the detonation of Saratoga’s power core, an expanding cloud of debris where one of the proudest ships in the Fleet had been, bare moments before.

   “My God,” Mendez said. “I can’t...”

   “A few shuttles got away,” the dazed Flynn said. “That shock wave’s going to hit the station in a matter of minutes. They’ll have to evacuate most of the outer ring.” He looked at the sensors, nodding in approval as he saw the other carriers finally gathering speed, racing for the temporary safety of the far side of the planet below. “That’s more like it. They’ll have a chance to rally, catch their breath and put their squadrons into the air.”

   “Where does that leave us?” Ensign Drake, another orphan from Saratoga. “We’ll never make it that far, and if we try and coast, we’ll be slaughtered when those fighters come around for another pass. Assuming they make it at all. Those cruisers have a lot more speed built up.”

   “Ensign,” Flynn said, “Try looking on the bright side of life. Consider that an order.” Cracking a smile, he looked at the tactical display, and added, “Lincoln is the key. Right now she’s the only thing standing between victory and defeat. I don’t think she can survive a second pass without our help.”

   “Lieutenant,” Horton protested, “Without missiles, what can we do?”

   “A fast pass on the nearest cruiser,” he replied. “That course will allow us to land back on Lincoln. She’s got enough room for us. I hope. Follow me in, and keep loose. They don’t have any fighter cover out there, but they’ll have plenty of point-defense to throw at us, and they’re going to be able to guess exactly where we’re going. Don’t fly level, keep them guessing, and don’t rely on your combat computers for your evasive patterns. If those bastards have managed to hack into our networks, they might be able to predict every damned move we make before we can make it. Let’s try and steal back the initiative.”