“Who, then?”
“Valdez.”
“The Chaplain?” she asked. “I suppose that makes some sort of sense, actually. He’ll keep his mouth shut, even if he doesn’t have much of a science background.” Looking at the door, she asked, “You’re worried about Clayton.”
“He’s got a wife and two kids back home. If he’s right, they all died centuries ago.” Pacing back and forth, he added, “I could say the same about a hell of a lot of the crew. They’re going to take this hard. Oh, some of them will be fine. Romano, for example. No close ties back home, young enough to adjust.” Shaking his head, he said, “And Gonzalez will probably see this as a new world to conquer. You’re going to have all sorts of problems with others, though.”
“And you?” she asked.
“I still don’t really believe it.” Taking a deep breath, he added, “I’ll be fine, though. One ex-wife I’m not on speaking terms with, parents dead, a sister I haven’t seen in years. I guess it doesn’t make much of a difference except that it postpones my retirement a bit. You?”
“Two ex-husbands, the first one I actually still like, but other than that, the story’s just about the same.” Frowning, she added, “I’d regretted never having children. You know that? Now I’m actually glad. I can’t quite imagine what it would be like to find out that they were dead, that they’d died generations ago.” Taking a deep breath, she said, “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. For the moment, this is just a theory, and an unproven one at that. Until we know definitively what’s going on, we’re still in the third decade of the twenty-second century, and we are still at war with the Pacific Federation.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Should I call Commander Kirkland to the bridge?”
“I suppose you’d better,” she said with a sigh. She walked to the door, and Singh held back for a moment.
“Captain,” he began, “When we are sure, you need to tell the crew right away. They’re smart. Smart enough that given a little time, they’ll work it out. I’ll make sure that Lieutenant Todd keeps poking at the interstellar transmitter, but that excuse will only hold for so long before it runs out of steam.”
“I know,” she said. “Let’s wait and see whether it comes to that.” She led the way back onto the bridge, Fox leaning over the communications station, frowning at the display. “What have you got there, Lieutenant?”
Her brief hope was dashed when she replied, “A signal from the surface, Captain. It’s strange. It’s some sort of distress beacon, but in Russian, and not matching any coding we have on file for the Remnant. It’s rather primitive, really. We cracked the encryption in pretty short order.”
“Civilian?” Singh asked.
“No, sir. Military. It’s a short message, nothing more than a beacon signal, but registered to the CSS Gagarin. I’ve checked, and there isn’t any ship of that name in our records. Not in service, anyway. I can’t explain it, sir.”
“Can you track it down?” Forrest asked
“Down to within a mile, ma’am. That’s the best we can do. And we can’t get any fine detail on the surface, either. Insufficient resolution in the short-range sensors. There’s a team out on the hull working the problem, but Commander Kirkland believes repairs will take at least six hours.”
Singh glanced at Forrest, who said, “Then someone’s going to have to go and take a look. Commander, we’ve still got that old assault shuttle, right?”
“I think we were able to hang onto it, ma’am. I doubt the Marines are going to ask for it back any time soon.” Pulling out a datapad, he said, “We might as well use one of the fighter pilots. The Chief’s got them patching holes in the lower levels right now, so we can spare them. I think Lieutenant Flynn is senior.”
“He’ll need a turret gunner, as well,” she replied, looking at McBride, the fire controlman doing his best to hide on the far side of the bridge. “One for you, I think.”
“Ma’am, I’ve never worked systems like that...”
“It’s just a smaller version of the ship-based proton turrets,” Forrest said. “You’ll be fine. And until the starboard turret deck is pressurized, there’s not much more you can do up here anyway. Go and stretch your legs for a bit.”
With a reluctant nod, he replied, “Yes, ma’am.”
“And if you see anything that looks like a bad guy, feel free to shoot first and ask questions later. We’re at war. But don’t forget that you’re supposed to be on a rescue mission. On your way. Commander, have Lieutenant Flynn report to me on the hangar deck in five minutes.”
“Will do, skipper,” he said, making for the elevator, McBride following. She looked at the viewscreen again, then turned to see the replacement sensor technician walking onto the bridge, making his way to Clayton’s vacated station.
“Clear the screen, Specialist,” she said, before he could notice what Clayton had been working on. “I want all your attention on the midrange sensors. If there’s anything in this system, we need to know about it, right away. Get a few of our probes up. Anything to improve our system resolution.”
“Aye, Captain,” Moran said. “There are a lot of moons in this system though, ma’am. Lots of blind spots, even at the best of times, but with so many of our sensor pickups destroyed, it’s going to be tough to clear them all.”
“Did the recruiter promise you that life in the Fleet would be easy, Specialist? Get to work. The clearer a picture of local space we get, the happier I’ll be.” Turning to Fox, she said, “You’ve got the deck again, Lieutenant. I’ll be back in ten minutes. When Commander Kirkland gets up here, please inform her that I expect the repairs to the exterior pickups completed in three hours, not six.”
“She won’t like that, ma’am.”
“Then be sure to say please,” Forrest said, stepping into the elevator.
Chapter 8
Flynn stepped back onto the hangar deck, wiping his greasy hands on his uniform trousers. The bay was surprisingly quiet, most of the duty technicians seconded elsewhere on the ship, trying to get her combat systems operational, only a pair of technicians working under the supervision of the gray-haired Chief to get an old Specter-class assault shuttle ready for launch. He looked over the lines of the sleek vehicle, and whistled.
“Nice,” he said.
“I’m glad you think so,” Chief Wong replied. “Now let me tell you something, kid. I went through hell to get this shuttle on my ship, and if you so much as scratch the paintwork, I’ll take it out of your hide. I’ve still got a crew working on that wrecked fighter in Bay Three, and I don’t think it’s ever going to be the same again.”
“Don’t worry, Chief. I’ve flown these girls before.”
“You flew for the Marines?” he asked.
“Two-year secondment, right out of the Academy.”
“How’d you draw that detail?” McBride asked, stepping out of the hatch.
“I volunteered.” Gesturing at the fighters, he said, “There’s nothing quite like riding fire, but you aren’t really flying.” Patting the shuttle’s hull, he added, “This is a pilot’s ride.”
Wong looked at him suspiciously, then replied, “You might not be so bad for a flyboy. Most of you rocket jocks don’t know how to appreciate classic rides like this.” Holding out his hand, he said, “Ray Wong. Command master chief. And that’s Johnny McBride, your gunner.”
“Temporarily,” McBride added. “Very temporarily.”
Taking the Chief’s hand, he replied, “Jack Flynn. Lieutenant.”
“Pleasure.” The doors opened, and an aristocratic woman, her red hair fading to gray, walked into the room, and both McBride and Wong stood to attention at her approach, Flynn following their lead a second later. “Captain on the deck.”
“At ease.” She walked over to Flynn, and said, “You led the fighter attack that covered our butts during that second pas
t. Probably about the only effective formation commander out there.” With a smile, she said, “Captain Catherine Forrest.”
“Lieutenant Jack Flynn,” he replied. “I was lucky, Captain. And I had some good pilots with me.” He looked around, and said, “Just our three birds left, ma’am? Don’t you have your own fighter wing?”
“It came in kit form,” Wong quipped. “We’ll be starting work on it as soon as we’ve finished patching the lower hull. Technically, they were heading out to Caledonia, but I think our need is greater than theirs, right Captain? We’ve got six more Jackals and a dozen Vultures.”
“Nine interceptors and twelve fighter-bombers,” Flynn said, nodding. “That’s a pretty decent mix for a ship this size. What about pilots?”
“We’ll handle that later, Lieutenant,” Forrest replied. “Right now, I need you to take a look at the surface. Our sensors are still scrambled to hell and gone, but we’re picking up a Russian distress signal down on the surface. We’ve got no idea whether they’ve picked sides in the fighting yet, but the Remnant’s been clinging pretty close to us lately, so there’s a good chance they’re friendly. Though of course, that might be wishful thinking.”
“So take a look, but proceed with caution,” Flynn said. “I understand.”
“Do a low pass first, check out the local area. Only go down if you’re certain you have a safe landing zone. We can’t afford to risk the shuttle, to say nothing of the two of you.” She pulled out a communicator, and said, “Unless it’s an emergency, your orders are to deal only with myself or Commander Singh. Nobody else. For all intends and purposes, this mission is classified level red. And no, I’m not going into details.”
“Whatever you say, ma’am,” Flynn said. “Though I’d love to take one of those old Vultures out when we get back. I haven’t flown one of them since Flight School.”
Wong beamed, and said, “I knew I was right about you.”
“Smart boy,” Forrest replied, shaking her head. “Getting on the good side of the Chief.” She looked up at the status panel, and said, “The only other atmospheric shuttle we have is damaged. Meaning that you’re on your own if something goes wrong. It’s not as if we have any Marines on board anyway. So watch yourselves down there. Both of you. Good luck.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said, saluting before turning into the cockpit, climbing through the hatch with McBride preceding him, the technician crawling into the cramped turret controls. “You got that all set up?”
“Piece of old…,” he paused, sighed, then said, “I’ll get it working. You just make sure you keep us flying straight and level, Lieutenant. That’s a pretty big ball of rock down there for us to smash into.”
“Relax,” Flynn said, running his hands over the controls. “My usual average is one crash-landing a day, and I’ve already filled my quota.” Sliding on a headset as the deck gang backed away, he said, “Shuttle, ah, Niner to Lincoln Actual, requesting launch clearance.”
“Wait one,” a clipped voice replied. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”
“Kirkland,” McBride muttered, barely loud enough for the pilot to hear. “Who let her back onto the bridge? I thought they’d learned from last time...”
“Actual, this is Lieutenant Flynn. I’ve got the Captain standing out here tapping her foot on the deck, and I’m pretty sure she wants me to take off at some point today, so why don’t you go ahead and open the launch doors for me?”
Shaking his head, McBride chuckled, and said, “You’re going to have fun around here, Lieutenant. When you and Kirkland finally meet, I’m bringing the popcorn.”
“Hell, as far as I’m concerned, you can sell tickets.”
“Actual to Shuttle Nine. You have launch clearance. Safe flight.”
“Thank you, Actual. Shuttle Nine out.” He turned to McBride, and asked, “Anything I need to know about the launch procedure?”
Frowning, McBride replied, “I was kinda hoping they assigned a pilot who knew how to fly this thing. There’s probably a manual around here somewhere.”
With a smile, Flynn said, “Main engine sequence start. Hang on.” The magnetic catapult engaged, far weaker than he was used to, the older design giving him less of a kick than Saratoga’s had, and he was forced to engage the engines almost before he was clear of the hull to get them on course. He looked over the controls, memories of flying shuttles of this design during his early years as a pilot, quickly getting the feel of the craft.
“You really spend two years as a taxi driver for jarheads?” McBride asked, throwing switches to feed power to the proton turret.
“What can I say, they gave good tips,” Flynn replied. “I’m throwing the short-range sensors to you. Sing out if you see anything.” He frowned, looking down at the planet below, and said, “That contact looks pretty close to a nasty patch of ground. Lots of rocks, ravines, all sorts of stuff.”
“Captain said you don’t have to land unless you’re sure.”
“If there’s someone down there needing help, I’m damn well going to bring them back to the ship unless I’ve got a pretty good reason not to.” He focused the landing sensors on the target area, and said, “Heat source. Fading quick, looks like the aftermath of an explosion. Check it out.”
“Got it,” McBride said. “You’ve got sharp eyes. Lots of debris scattered around, and what looks like the trails of a buggy. It’s about three miles from the distress beacon.” He paused, then said, “And that’s coming from a dome. Looks old, though. Really old. Like it’s been there for centuries.”
“That just means someone’s done a good job of hiding it,” Flynn replied. “Or they wanted to insulate it with rocks. What’s the radiation like around here?”
“Nominal. Nothing to worry about. There’s a pretty damned strong magnetosphere.”
He reached down to the throttle, something impelling him to accelerate, to dive towards the planet faster than before. The barren, featureless wasteland opened up ahead of him, the heads-up display slowing a dotted line towards his target. He glanced across at the readouts on the planet, nodding approvingly at the low gravity and lack of atmosphere. This was going to be nice and simple, just like landing on the Moon.
“Thirty thousand miles,” he said. Reaching over to his communications panel, he added, “Let’s see if we can pick up anything now we’ve got closer. Run a close-range sensor track, say within five miles of the dome.”
“Resolution won’t be good enough for a decent reading until we get within five thousand miles.” Throwing controls, he added, “Turret’s armed and ready, anyway. You want me to throw in the targeting sensors?”
“Do it,” he replied. As his shuttle continued to dive, gaining speed by the second, he carefully worked the communication controls, tightening his beam as much as possible, waiting patiently for the end locus to narrow down to the dome itself. “Shuttle to Dome. Shuttle to Dome. We read your transmission and are heading your way.” The only response was the same automated sequence, unfamiliar, garbled Russian echoing into the void.
“Getting a little more data now. I’m trying to get a feed back to Lincoln, but...”
“Don’t,” Flynn replied. “There’s something wrong here, and I don’t want to give anyone a chance to get a look at our encryption.” He glanced down at the image of the dome, gaining in strength moment by moment. “I recognize that, but it damn well shouldn’t be in Russian hands. It’s a new-model survival dome, designed for long-term habitation. One of my old Academy buddies helped design it. The Starbees only got their hands on it three months ago.”
“Prototype?”
“I don’t know. None of this adds up.”
As they soared past fifteen thousand miles, McBride said, “Hey, I’m getting some pinpoint heat sources. A couple of dozen of them, scattered all across the surface of the planet. Residual heat from the dome, and more from some sort of vehicle, a
pproaching at high speed. They’re going to get there about five minutes after we do.”
“As long as we beat them to the punch.”
“I hate to remind you, Lieutenant, but…”
“Shuttle to Dome, Shuttle to Dome, we are a friendly vehicle on our way to pick you up. You have a vehicle closing on your position at speed.” He paused, turned to McBride, and asked, “You know any Russian?”
“I can swear fluently in ten languages, but I’m not sure that’s what you are a looking for.”
Gritting his teeth, Flynn leaned over his console, saying, “Shuttle to Dome. I need to know your tactical situation, or there’s damn all I can do for you. We’re on the same side. Come in, please!” Shaking his head, he threw a switch, setting the controls on automatic, then turned the ship, beginning the deceleration for landing, his eyes locked on the readouts as the shuttle smoothly slid towards the surface, his hand staying close to the throttle at all times.
“Nothing in orbit, anyway,” McBride replied. “And I’m not picking up any flying vehicles on the surface.” He paused, then added, “They must have them, though. Those bases are hundreds of miles apart. I can’t imagine they use buggies to get from place to place.” He frowned, continuing, “Though they must be wildcat miners. This world’s supposed to be uninhabited, according to the charts.”
“Unless this was PacFed’s staging area for the attack on New Dover,” Flynn said. “Keep that turret primed and ready.”
“Don’t worry. All systems green, and I’m switching back the targeting sensors.”
“Five hundred miles, smooth descent, clean trajectory. Down on the deck in five minutes.”
“That buggy’s accelerating,” McBride said, gloomily. “We’re not going to have anything like the margin we thought.” He flicked a control, and added, “Want some more good news? It’s got a missile turret on the roof. Nothing big. Nothing I recognize, either. Someone’s playing with some new toys down there, and it sure as hell isn’t us.”
Shall Not Perish (Lincoln's War Book 1) Page 7
