As the ten-second warning light flashed on, he clicked the control that committed his fighter to his planned course, a decision that he had really already made several moments before. Once he’d made that attack run on the surface, this was his destiny, and win or lose, he didn’t really mind at all. He glanced at the rank insignia on his uniform, pondering for a moment the likelihood that had he chosen differently, had he opted to remain in the Fleet, he would have found himself in the same place, at the same time.
But perhaps, without the skills that might yet win the battle for Lincoln and the Zemlyan fleet.
The fighter began to move, thrusters firing to send it racing to the side, and he unlocked the fire control mechanisms, the proton cannons charging to full power, ready to fire at any targets of opportunity. His sensors locked on to full strength, also. The more intelligence he could gather for their next battle, the better. First, though, he’d have to live through this one.
The enemy’s defensive fire was every bit as strong as he’d feared, and the sky lit up as though a million new stars had appeared, the green and red of tracer charges trying for their mark, ready to unleash greater streams of energy on his fighter. He kept his hands on the thruster controls, prepared to override them should it prove necessary, but his ship knew what it was doing.
Looming in his viewscreen, the first enemy fighter appeared, coming smoothly into range, and his cannons burst into life, hurling carefully calculated bursts of energy into key points on the side of the ship, too close to be intercepted by the enemy’s own defensive systems, seeking out any blind spots he could find. Angry black marks appeared on the side of the hull, and he permitted himself a triumphant smile as he swept past the first monitor, spiraling around towards the second.
Now he was into the heart of the defensive formation, his fighter running ever-lower on fuel as his thrusters completed the final stages of his attack, the nose of his ship sweeping across the enemy monitor, more bursts of light hammering into its side, savaging sensor pickups and communications antenna, a tiny insect digging into the hull, and hopefully just as irritating.
He ducked to within only a dozen miles of the second monitor before sweeping out to the third, but before the firing sequence could begin, he heard a dull wail from his ship, and looked at the flickering red alerts streaming into his systems monitor. A hit aft, just below his oxygen intake. A systems failure that was only going to worsen.
The thrusters stuttered to a stop, and he was only seconds away from death. Slamming his fists into the wall, the canopy opened above him, and he found himself propelled away from his fighter, the force of the oxygen in his cockpit pushing his ship in the other direction, curving down towards the third ship.
He wouldn’t have chosen to smash his ship into one of the enemy vessels, but given the limited alternative on offer, he didn’t think twice about making maximum use of the opportunity. A brief flicker of fire raced from the side of the third ship, the impact smashing into one of the turrets, the stored power resulting in a satisfactory explosion.
And then, almost before he realized, he was through, floating in free space, leaving the enemy ships far behind. He kicked in his suit thrusters, turning back to face the formation he had just passed through, his heads-up display recording data and streaming it back to Lincoln. His emergency beacon winked on unheeded, a distant wail that would summon help, if any could possibly make it in time. He looked at his sensor display, and smiled.
Lincoln’s recovery shuttle was already out. There might be a chance that they could snatch him. Assuming they could hear him through the chaos of battle, the electronic nightmare that encompassed the battlespace as warring systems officers fought for dominance. At any rate, there was nothing he could do. His battle was over, and he turned back to face the stars, marveling at the millions of lights beyond, uncounted billions of stars and worlds out there.
This had been part of the deal, right from the start. At worst, he still considered himself blessed. Not for him an instant death, instead a brief chance to savor life for one final hour, before falling towards the planet’s surface. Whether he would burn up entirely before impact was a purely academic question. His suit systems would painlessly bring him to an end before that could be an issue, with a sufficient safety margin to guarantee that he wouldn’t feel a thing. Even when it came to preparing for his own death, Tanaka didn’t believe in leaving anything for chance. Only one thing remained.
He raised his arm, scanning through the music files in his database, searching for the perfect accompaniment for his final moments of life. If he was going to go out, he’d go out in style. He’d earned that much.
Chapter 25
Flynn raced through the corridors, the sounds of battle still echoing around, though quieter than before. Some of the guards had evidently opted to try for a last stand somewhere in the compound, though the Marines were far more interested in rescuing the prisoners than anything else. Especially given Kuznetzov’s deadline, steadily counting down. He slid his helmet back into position as he approached the top-level airlock, barely paying attention to the winking green lights that raced across his heads-up display, and nimbly worked the emergency controls, stepping through the inner hatch and slamming it closed behind him.
Tactical updates began to race down his helmet, reports of Tanaka’s daring strike on the enemy ships, one more nail in their coffin, with any luck. The light above the hatch began to wink green, and he reached for the release, the door sliding open. Outside, he saw his goal, a Vulture fighter waiting for him on the launch pad, by all appearances, ready for launch. The ship didn’t respond to the electronic handshake of his suit, but with all the internal systems disabled, he hadn’t expected it to.
Firing his suit thrusters at maximum, he jumped to the surface, his fall broken by the boosters, and sprinted across the terrain. The canopy was open, waiting for him, and he climbed inside, reaching up to work the emergency locking mechanism, smiling with satisfaction as the auxiliary lights lit up. His smile turned into a frown as he saw the scrawled writing scribbled on the controls, the English translated into a language he didn’t recognize. Shaking his head, he pulled the datarod out of his pocket and slid it into position, the computer instantly booting up from the master files stored within, downloading the control software into the dormant system.
“Flynn to Yegorov,” he said. “Flynn to Yegorov, do you read me?”
“I read you loud and clear, Commander,” the Marine replied. “What is your status?”
“Ready for launch in one minute. With a little luck, I should be able to join the rest of our fighters for the attack. They’re going to get pretty close on the next pass. How are you getting on?”
“Nominal. The prisoners are all being transported across now. We’re stacking them in like crates, but they’re only going to have to be on board for a couple of hours. Your shuttle has been transferred across, and most of your people are on the freighter now. We estimate ignition in six minutes.” He paused, then added, “No sign of Kuznetzov, but the commander of the freighter reported a reduction in mass upon landing. About the size of one of our atomic mining charges.”
“Move as fast as you can,” Flynn said. “The man’s a fanatic, and I don’t think he’ll give a damn about whether you’ve cleared the surface or not.” He glanced at his controls, and said, “All systems go here. Good luck.”
“Good hunting, Commander,” Yegorov replied. Flynn reached for the launch thrusters, praying that the Guilders hadn’t caused too many problems to the internal systems, and mentally crossed his fingers as he brought the fighter to full power. Dust flew into the sky as the thrust of the boosters hammered into the ground, and he inched the throttle forward, bringing the nose high, the navigation computer bursting into life as it plotted a safe trajectory into orbit.
“Come on, old girl, let’s see what you can do,” he muttered, throwing his throttle full forward and feeling the familiar, o
ddly comforting kick of acceleration forcing him back into his couch, sending him racing into the sky. The fuel mix the Guilders had used was a little odd, but his engines seemed to be accepting it without any qualms, and he nodding in satisfaction as the speed began to build, higher and higher, the terrain racing past beneath him.
The rest of the formation was scattered above him, two fighters from Tanaka’s flight, their erstwhile escorts, curving around the far side of the planet while a second flight launched from Lincoln, three Cheetahs rearmed and returning to the battle. Some astrogator had worked a miracle to find trajectories to bring them into some sort of close formation, and his hand danced across the navigation controls to match them, his fighter twisting around as he implemented a series of careful course changes to bring him into line.
As he raced into orbit, he ran a series of quick diagnostics, checking his combat systems. There was some evidence that the Guilders had attempted to tamper with them, but hadn’t managed to do any evident damage. Both missiles were still in position, the proton cannons still charged. Romano’s quick work at purging all the control software had effectively protected the ship from intrusion, a bonus he was intending to take maximum advantage of.
“Flynn to Mendez, Flynn to Mendez, do you read me, over?”
“Mendez here. That you down there, Commander?”
“You think I’d miss this fight?” His squadron status display winked on as he flew into range, and he continued, “We’ll split into two attack formations. You keep the ones launched from Lincoln, and I’ll take Tanaka’s old group. Speaking of which, he’s done quite a bit of damage to the leading ship in that formation, and I think that needs to be our target for today. If it goes up first, then switch to the second ship, and concentrate on engines.”
“Sir,” Price replied, cutting in, “Wouldn’t it...”
“Lesson one, Ensign. Always finish off a wounded animal if you can. Lesson two is more important, and is along the lines of not questioning the orders of your commanding officer in the middle of a firefight! Daddy’s not here to bail you out this time. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” the pilot replied, ruefully.
“You’ve all seen the defensive fire patterns, but they’ll be more intensive than before with five ships instead of three in the firing line. Don’t fly level, keep them guessing. As soon as you’ve dropped your missiles, run for home. Lincoln won’t be lingering long before leaving the system, and I don’t want to be in a position where I’m leaving people behind. So hustle, gang. Flynn out.”
A red light winked out, alerting him that he had passed escape velocity. No matter what happened now, he wasn’t going to be returning to Enkidu. Tactical updates from Lincoln began to race across his monitor, guesses of battle damage to the enemy ships, recommended course changes to bring him and the other members of his squadron home safely after the battle.
He looked at the carrier, out in the distance, only a single escort remaining. A strange place to call home, but he longed to get back to her, perhaps because she represented the only remaining trace of his past. Everything else had been burned away, but he still had a war to fight, a war to win. Reaching up to his targeting computer, he hastily scanned the schematics of the enemy monitors, Komarov finally managing to send them the information they required to make their attack truly effective. Critical sub-systems, defensive turrets, sensor pickups. Pondering for the barest second, he stabbed his finger onto the touch screen, selecting the oxygen reservoir and auxiliary control. He looked quickly over the rest of the squadron, nodding with approval at their target selections, even Price apparently remembering the rudiments of his basic training for once.
At last, he caught up with the other members of his formation, moving into the familiar arrowhead shape, taking the lead at the cost of far too much of his fuel, more warning lights dancing across his display. If he’d fallen so low during an exercise, he’d have been called back to his homeship in disgrace, the subject of a prolonged lecture by his squadron leader in front of the rest of the pilots in the after-action briefing. Now, he didn’t have a choice.
“Sixty seconds to firing range,” he said, looking down at the planet. The transport would be launching at any second. Right now, the enemy formation was bearing down on Lincoln, Captain Forrest evidently making a deliberate decision to draw them away. With a little luck, the transport would have a clear run to orbit, escaping the gravity well and reaching a position where it could engage its hyperdrive with minimal risk. They were on the verge of a clean escape.
“Thirty seconds to go,” he said, switching his fire control discriminators off, giving his computer total control of his proton cannons, ready to take advantage of any opportunities that might arise. Though Tanaka had wrought impressive damage with his secondary armament, Flynn was only concerned with his missiles, two warheads that needed to get precisely on target if they were going to bring this ship down, a swarm of mosquitoes making a strafing run on a whale.
Up ahead, colored lights filled the sky as the enemy began a defensive fire pattern, his thrusters kicking in to throw him out of the way of a long-range salvo. He’d never seen such an intensive display, the gaps in the formation seemingly too small to exploit. Sweat built up on his forehead as he hastily plotted a path through the maelstrom, feeding tactical updates to the other ships in the formation as they followed.
They were through, and the battle would take only a handful of seconds. He raced towards his target, the singing tones of his targeting computer alerting him that they were close to a firing solution, his hands dancing across the thruster controls to send him weaving from side to side, dancing through the air in a bid to safely get into a position to fire his missiles.
The tone grew steady. He had a lock. He fired.
His fighter flew back from the recoil, quickly stabilizing as he began his escape path, keeping his throttle low to allow the rest of his formation to take the lead, making himself the target to give them the greatest chance to get away. As he wove a path through the hail of proton bolts, he looked down at the sensors, watching the six missiles dance towards their target, twisted tails on the screen that finally reached their goal.
Six shots, six hits, all on target. The oxygen reservoir, the goal of two of the missiles, fractured and cracked, the explosive force of the escaping atmosphere ripping and tearing its way through the decks, four other detonations hitting with enough strength to cripple the target, sending it falling back, out of formation, the second ship having to make a sharp course change in order to avoid a collision.
Then, Mendez’s force came into play. Flynn had been more successful than he could have hoped, so she employed a different strategy, focusing instead on the defensive turrets mounted at the front of each ship, one missile apiece. Only four reached their target, the rest shot down before they could make their mark, but the tip of the enemy spear had been well and truly blunted as the fighters turned for home.
A clean run. By some miracle, a clean run, and they’d managed to fight their way clear. He looked up at Lincoln, the carrier ahead, the rest of the squadron ahead of him on their path back to safety. He looked at the enemy formation with a smile, watching the brief chaos as the four remaining ships struggled to return to their defensive pattern, a few stray proton bolts racing through space after them in a final, desperate attempt to avenge the destruction of their ship.
“Lincoln Actual to fighters. Great job,” Forrest’s voice said, echoing through the cockpit. “All landing bays are open, ready and waiting, and we’ve got coffee and doughnuts standing by for you all.”
“Thank you, Lincoln,” Flynn replied. “Cream and sugar for me. I need the energy.”
He glanced back at the planet, and a white flash caught his eye, a nuclear warhead detonating, somewhere below. For a second, he panicked, looking up at the clock, then reached to adjust his midrange sensors. The transport was still there, rising from the
surface, only just in time to get away. Assuming it could outreach the shockwave. The base was gone, totally destroyed, no trace remaining, replaced by a fresh crater to join the others on the surface.
“You suicidal son of a bitch,” he muttered, shaking his head. Tapping a control, he said, “Right, people, nice and easy. Let’s not mess this up now.” He sat back in his couch, content to allow the autopilot to take him the rest of the way. He’d done all he could, and if nothing else, the Guilders would remember his visit to Enkidu for a very long time.
Chapter 26
McBride staggered onto the bridge, the transport rocking back and forth under the force of the explosion below, warning alarms ringing from half a dozen stations as damage reports began to flood in. Major Yegorov sat in the command chair, gesturing for McBride and Romano to come in, the engines whining at full power as the ship struggled to gain altitude.
“Two megatons,” the technician at the sensor station said. “Bigger than we’d expected.”
“Blast damage underneath,” another added. “We’ve lost the landing thrusters and a lot of the underside sensor inputs, Major.” Shaking his head, he continued, “There’s nothing down there. Nothing at all. The whole installation was destroyed.”
McBride looked at Romano, and asked, “You okay, Lieutenant?”
Romano nodded sadly, and replied, “My brother died five hundred years ago, and I don’t need words carved on a wall to remember him with pride.” With a sigh, he added, “Though I wonder what else we might have been able to salvage from that base.”
“There will be others,” McBride said, almost tenderly.
“Enemy ships are holding position,” Yegorov said. “Your people have done an excellent job, gentlemen. We have a nice clean run, all the way out of the gravity well. You should have your first sight of Zemlya in a matter of hours.”
Shall Not Perish (Lincoln's War Book 1) Page 20
