Shall Not Perish (Lincoln's War Book 1)

by Richard Tongue

   “Our fuel...”

   “Kick in your reserves, Horton, and you should have just about enough to make this work.”

   He closed the channel, firing more of his precious thruster fuel to guide his fighter onto trajectory, checking the midrange sensors once more to check that none of the enemy ships could reach him. Unless their projections were completely off-base, they’d be running about as low on fuel as he was, would have to make it back to their carrier to rearm and refuel before long. The difference was that, at least for the moment, they had space superiority. They could afford to run dry and wait for pickup. He couldn’t.

   Saratoga’s flaming corpse slowly dimmed as her fighters raced on towards their goal, moving into an arrowhead formation, single this time, his ship at the apex. For a brief moment, the battle had almost halted, the two fleets inching into position, seeking maximum advantage as they attempted to overwhelm the enemy.

   Now the two cruisers, lagging behind the others, moved into the center of his viewscreen, the targeting display streaming data almost too fast for him to read, providing him with a modified course that would take them directly towards the pulsar cannons. No capital ship could dodge the bolts in time, as Lincoln had recently demonstrated, but a fighter squadron could easily duck the balls of plasma, as long as the pilots moved quickly enough.

   The trajectory plot snapped into position on his heads-up display, showing a smooth path that would take him all the way to the carrier, though there would be no margin for error, no second chance if they failed to make contact, or their target ship had to make a surprise course change. And Lincoln would be going into battle with the two cruisers a handful of moments later. Mentally, he calculated the time it would take to refuel, rearm, and get back into the fight, and the result was depressing enough that he opted to ignore it. They had one shot. It just had to be a good one. It was as simple as that.

   “Fifteen seconds, people,” Flynn said. “Watch for enemy fire, and for God’s sake, press your attack home! You’ll have to be damned accurate with the rail-guns, but you can do some serious damage if you get close enough!”

   No sane pilot would attempt a strafing run. Not with the speed differential between the fighters and the cruisers. One mistake, one error, and the result would be similar to that which had befallen Saratoga. For a brief second, he was almost tempted to make the attempt, went so far as to look at the schematics, trying to work out where he could impact to do the most good, but he shook his head, dismissing the idea as he settled down to his attack run. The PacFed fighters had been designed with suicide runs in mind. His hadn’t, couldn’t do anything like the damage required to justify the sacrifice. He had to complete this run, rearm, then get out again, back into the fray.

   The barrage of defensive fire opened up as they swept into range, the five fighters dancing back and forth in a desperate attempt to avoid the attack. The enemy were playing a smart game, shooting more to throw off their attack run than in a serious attempt to destroy them, saving energy and ammunition for the later attack on Lincoln.

   It was working. Two of the fighters, Drake and the solitary survivor of the Nineteenth Strike Squadron, a rookie pilot named Armstrong, were already diving away, unable to press their attack on the pulsar cannon and understandably reluctant to risk their lives for a lost cause. That left just three of them in position to make the attack, and he was first in line to take his shot. He unlocked the fire controls again, and recklessly spending thruster fuel, kicked his fighter around to line up on the target, the rattle of fire from his rail-guns hammering into the enemy hull as he flashed past.

   He’d missed by ten feet. Enough that he’d knocked out a backup sensor relay, damage that the cruiser was unlikely to even notice. Mendez was next, and he could almost sense her fury as her shot went wide, missing the enemy ship entirely. Finally came Horton, and the rookie pilot had obviously taken the example of the others to heart, his fighter lining up for a perfect strike, one that reduced the pulsar cannon to so much scrap metal.

   A second later, one of the enemy point-defense turrets found its mark, and the triumphant smile that was creeping across Flynn’s face turned into a deep sigh, Horton dead almost before he could have realized that he had accomplished his mission. He’d taken eleven pilots into the air. He was down to four, all out of fuel and ordnance.

   “Form on me, if you can,” he said, looking at his status panel, a horribly familiar rattle echoing from the rear of his ship, warning lights winking on. Damage to his aft engine. That was going to hurt. “Mendez, take the lead, burn for Lincoln, and make sure to leave some room on the landing deck for me. I’ll take the rear.” All around, point-defense fire was still filling the sky, but he and the rest of the formation were rapidly flying out of range, racing to a safe distance.

   They weren’t the problem now. A small pack of enemy fighters, part of the group he had managed to disrupt before, were turning back towards him, racing at high acceleration. For the rest of the American forces, this was an advantage. Four fighters out of the fight, racing towards a target that for all intents and purposes was no longer able to take part in the battle. For him, personally, this was a problem. His best calculations put him on Lincoln's hangar deck thirty seconds after they were in firing range. For a second, he looked for an alternate landing site, but it was futile. Lexington and the other two carriers were out of range. Debris from lost Saratoga was raining down on the station, and the odds of a search and rescue shuttle finding him were remote. It was Lincoln or nothing. And at that moment, nothing was in the lead.

   All the safety systems were disengaged with the tap of a control, unlocking all the acceleration his wounded fighter could provide. He wouldn’t need most of his thruster fuel, either. If he didn’t make Lincoln on the first try, it wouldn’t matter how much boost was left in his tanks. He did quickly check that he was on a safe orbit, though he doubted that the PacFed forces would give him much of a chance to complete it. Another control fired all of his thrusters aft, saving just a fraction of fuel for last-second adjustments. A brief burst of acceleration that gave him another second’s grace.

   Up ahead, he took some satisfaction in the other three members of his formation, diving for the safety of the carrier. Even if he didn’t make it, they would. And the rest of the fleet was finally getting its fighters into the air, a screen of a hundred fighters that should be able to protect them from attack, if Lincoln could give them a few moments more to get into defensive formation.

   “Lincoln Actual to Lieutenant Flynn,” his speaker barked. “Lieutenant Mendez warned us to expect you. We’ve opened Bay Three, ready and waiting. You can go right in. Don’t bother waiting for clearance, and there’s a landing crew standing by if you need them, blast shields all raised.”

   “Thanks, Actual,” he replied with a smile. “That’s the best news I’ve heard all day.”

   “And don’t be surprised at what happens when you get close,” the voice enigmatically concluded. “Lincoln out.”

   Frowning, Flynn looked at the ship, the old carrier sailing through space, somehow wearing her battle scars with pride. Behind him, the PacFed fighters closed, sweeping menacingly towards him, settling into an attack formation. Two of them still had missiles under-slung on their emplacements, and their battle plan became clear. To do to him what he had done to their ship, cause as much damage as possible to Lincoln, as well as wiping out any chance of the veteran vessel putting up a fighter screen as his own.

   Just as he was about to use the last of his fuel to reverse course, to spin around to engage the enemy, Lincoln rolled, her port side now facing the enemy, and all of her turrets opened up, getting their first shots of the battle, pounding into space all around him as they swept across the enemy fighters, wiping them out with four swift explosions. Lincoln's helmsman was an artist, continuing the maneuver to line the landing bay up with Flynn’s course, stabilizing at the final second to give him an easy run to
the target.

   One quick course change, a quarter-second burst on the thruster, and he spun around, firing his engines at maximum acceleration, killing his relative velocity rapidly enough that he almost fell unconscious from the pressure, spending the last of his fuel as he slid nimbly into the port, the hatches slamming shut in front of him. He’d left it too late, and his fighter slammed into the rear hull, an angry, grinding whine as metal scraped into metal. His overhead canopy popped open automatically, and he took a deep breath, tugging his helmet free as he surveyed the wreckage of his fighter, shaking his head at the damage he’d done.

   “God damn, Lieutenant, you really know how to make an entrance!” Mendez said with a smile.

   “You know me. The galaxy’s greatest showman.” He scrambled up the ladder, a halo of angry technicians all around him, and looked at the three pilots, all that remained of his formation. A grim-faced man with the insignia of a Senior Chief Petty Officer looked down at him, then at the wrecked fighter.

   “Christ, kid, you’ve done more damage than those PacFed bastards!”

   “Sorry about that, Chief,” Flynn said, climbing up to the deck. “Is there any news on my ship? Or the rest of the Fleet?”

   “Old Sara?” he replied, his face if anything grimmer than before. “Looks like you’re the only ones who made it out. Might be a few others that made it to the station, but it’s getting pounded to hell right now, and those fighters are doing a pretty good job of shooting up anything that moves out there. Third Fleet seems to be pulling it together on the far side, but they sure as hell haven’t bothered telling us about it. We’re just the poor damned bastards throwing ourselves into the barbecue to save their butts.” He paused, then added, “Most of that squadron from Lexington’s flown west as well. Not many friendly faces in the sky right now.”

   A siren sounded, and Armstrong looked up, and said, “Decompression alarm?”

   “Starboard plating was strained in a couple of thousand places. Damage control can’t keep up.” Looking at the four of them, he asked, “You guys remember your basic engineering course?”

   “Like it was yesterday,” Drake replied.

   “You sure it wasn’t, kid?” the Chief said. “We’ve got nothing for you to fly, and we’ve got no way of refueling your ships, so unless you’ve got dinner plans, I want you down on the sensor decks on the double. Grab maintenance toolkits and respirators from the locker, and,” he glanced at his watch, and added, “I’d find something to hold onto in about five minutes from now.”

   Armstrong looked at Drake, and said, “Shouldn’t we...”

   Shaking his head, Flynn replied, “Ensign, when a Senior Chief tells you to do something, best you consider it orders from the Almighty.”

   “Finally, an officer who understands the meaning of life. Spaceman Rogers will show you where to go.”

   “Fine,” he said. “Chief, if there’s any news of survivors from Saratoga...”

   “I’ll see you’re informed right away,” he said, tenderness in his voice for the first time. “I’ve been where you are. Twice. Constitution and Corpus Christi. Hurt like hell both times.”

   “Does it ever get any better?”

   “No.” He paused, then said, “But you do learn to live with it, Lieutenant. I did.” Gesturing at the corridor, he said, “On your way, sir. Those bulkheads won’t seal themselves.”

   “Thanks, Chief,” he replied. He snatched a toolkit from the locker, hefted it in his hands, and smiled. They’d done everything they could. In a few minutes, they’d find out if it had been enough.

  Chapter 5

   “Fighters are on board, Captain,” Singh reported, a finger pressed to his earpiece as he struggled to make out the reports streaming in. “Four pilots, all well. Three fighters.”

   “Out of eleven,” Forrest said, shaking her head. “Have you got a damage report yet?”

   “All starboard turrets out of action. Three and Five are destroyed, the rest out of power, and that whole section of the ship is exposed to space. We’re not even going to be able to get at the turrets for an hour. We’ve lost about fifteen percent of our sensor pickups on that side of the ship, and we’re getting power distribution failures scattered across a dozen decks.”

   Stabbing a control, Forrest barked, “Bridge to Engineering. What can you do about the power grid? Why the hell is it frying out on us now?”

   A harried Gorgas replied, “We’ve not run her at combat overload for years, ma’am, and as far as I can figure, we got given some substandard conduit during our last overhaul. Not everywhere. Someone did a pretty good job of hiding it. I’d have words with my predecessor, but for the moment, I think I’ve got a fix, but you’re not going to like it.”

   “Firing range in four minutes, ten seconds,” Fox said, looking up at the sensor display. “Helm, turn the ship to keep our port side facing the enemy, no matter what. We’ll have to take the impacts on our side if we can. And have all hands not engaged in critical combat operations move to the core of the ship, including the damage control teams.”

   “On it, Lieutenant,” one of the technicians said, racing to the master systems board.

   “Tell me, John,” Forrest pressed. “What am I not going to like?”

   “I want to shunt an overload charge into the hyperdrive capacitor. It’s the only system on the ship capable of holding enough power. I think I can feed the rest of the ship manually using it as a relay switch, as long as I don’t mess anything up.”

   “And if you do?”

   “Then we’ll almost certainly lose the ship, Captain, but if I can’t get our systems working reliably, I guess we probably will anyway. I’ve already trimmed us down as much as I dare. If I turn the gravitation down any further we’re all going to start floating.”

   “I don’t think we’ve got a choice, skipper,” Singh said. “He’s right. And it’s not as if we’ve got to hold everything together for long. In ten minutes, it’ll all be over.”

   “Get to it, Commander,” Forrest said. She looked up at the tactical display, and said, “Any change to the enemy formation?”

   “Still heading right for us, Captain,” Clayton said, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “They’re in a perfect position to destroy the station if they get past us. I don’t know what the hell the carriers think they are doing!”

   “Specialist,” Singh warned, “take it easy.” Looking at the panel, he added, “They’re trying to get into some sort of attack formation. Getting their fighters mobilized. If they can complete the maneuver, we still win this battle. We’ve just got to give them time to pull it off.”

   Randolph Todd, the Communications officer, looked up from his panel with a frown, and said, “I can’t get anything conclusive from the Admiral, sir. The Tac-Net's a mess. Conflicting orders, chaos. Last coherent signal I got told me to hang on for five minutes.”

   “In five minutes we’ll be sending them smoke signals,” a bitter Clayton said.

   “Mind your station, Specialist,” Singh said, moving over to Forrest, quietly saying, “If they can’t get their formation together...”

   “Then all of this will be for nothing, and we’ll just be wasting our time. See if you can work out a vector to take us around the far side of the planet. This last stand of ours is getting just a little lonely.”

   “You think they’re planning to pull out?”

   “I think the Admiral might, but I don’t think the commanders of the carriers would go along with him. Though right now, I think Captain Chaos is in charge back there, not Admiral Hancock.”

   “Three minutes to contact,” Fox said. She paused, then said, “Captain, by now they’ve probably worked out that we’re not going to be launching fighters any time soon. I think our bluff has been called. There’s a good chance they’ll just let us go past.”

   “Agreed,” Forrest said, taking a deep b
reath. “Helm, alter course one degree starboard, two degrees positive pitch, and put everything you’ve got into the engines. Those ships are flying in a tight enough formation that we can play chicken. Either they change their flight path and give our carriers the time they need to get their act together, or we ram them, and end the battle that way.” She paused, then added, “Sam, if you get a chance to knock one out, take it.”

   There was silence on the bridge, and the young helmsman turned to her, nodded, and said, “Aye, ma’am. Initiating course change.”

   Singh looked up at the tactical display, then back at Forrest, quietly asking, “Are you sure about this, skipper?”

   “We’re down to the wire, Commander. Nothing left. They might smash hell of us with their pulsars, but there’s going to be enough mass remaining to tear them to pieces.” With a thin smile, she added, “I think we both knew going in that this was going to be the old girl’s last fight. I didn’t expect it to end quite like this, but if we can knock out the enemy formation, then we might go a long way towards winning the war.” Looking up, she asked Clayton, “Any other contacts, Specialist? Anyone wanting to gatecrash our little party?”

   Shaking his head, he replied, “No, Captain. The rest of the enemy fighters are staying clear.” Turning to her, he asked, “Isn’t there anything else we can do, ma’am?”

   “I’m open to suggestions, Specialist,” she said, moving to the command chair. She looked around the bridge at her crew, all of them working furiously to keep Lincoln moving. The Fleet hadn’t been kind to her over the last few years. She’d been stripped of her classification, downgraded to a fleet auxiliary, her fighter wing taken from her, and she was still putting up more of a fight than ships a third of her age. The door opened, and two men, Romano and McBride, staggered onto the bridge, their faces reddened, burns on their hands.