Romano walked over to the sensor station, peering at the display, and said, “Spaceman, could you focus on the top right quadrant, and amplify that signal?” Turning to McBride, he added, “A distress beacon. One of ours.”
“Confirmed,” the technician replied. “Based on the information from Lincoln, that’s one of your fighter pilots.” Shaking his head, he continued, “I don’t see any realistic way of picking him up, though. Your rescue shuttle is already on its way home, and nothing launched from your carrier could possibly get there and back in time.” Throwing controls, he added, “In any case, it will almost certainly be academic before long. He’s on a trajectory that will see him reenter the atmosphere of Enkidu in about thirty minutes.”
Glancing at McBride, Romano said, “What about our shuttle, the Specter?”
“I thought that didn’t have enough fuel…,” Yegorov said.
“The hardest part, getting into orbit, is already behind us,” McBride replied. “Can you plot a course to give us an assist? You’re going to be well clear of the enemy formation in any case.”
“We’ve sustained damage to a lot of systems,” the engineer protested.
“And if I’m reading this right, that’s the pilot that took out the defensive installations on the surface that made this mission possible, Corporal,” Yegorov replied. “Helm, alter course to give our friends as much assistance as you can.” Turning to them, he said, “Elevator will take you all the way down to the hangar deck. I can’t linger too long in the system, though. You’ll probably have to take a ride home on Lincoln. You understand?”
“It’s worth the risk, sir. We owe that pilot a lot,” Romano replied.
Cracking a smile, Yegorov said, “If I didn’t have a job to do up here, I’d probably be going with you. Good luck.”
The two of them stepped into the elevator, Romano reaching into his pocket for a datapad, only belatedly realizing that it had been stripped from him by the Guilders. A thin smile on his face, McBride handed his device over to him, sliding his finger across the display to bring up the latest suite of tactical updates from Lincoln.
“Thanks,” Romano said. He looked at McBride, and added, “You don’t have to go, you know. I can handle the ship by myself.”
“Not the guns, though,” McBride replied. “You’re going to need me for those, Lieutenant, and I can read a trajectory plot just as well as you can. We’re going to be skirting the outer edge of trouble on our way back from the pickup, and without a defensive barrage, you might as well just shoot yourself now and save the Guilders the trouble.”
“You don’t pull your punches, do you,” Romano said.
“Never do, sir,” McBride replied, as the elevator skidded to a stop, the doors opening into a small shuttle bay, the Specter almost filling the entire volume of the room, barely room for the two of them to squeeze past to get into the airlock. Romano raced forward to the controls while McBride charged the proton cannons, both hurrying through the prelaunch sequence to prepare the ship for takeoff. Reassuring green lights flashed on the status board, and Romano hastily secured his straps, waiting for the expected kick.
With a rush of escaping atmosphere, the shuttle launched into the void, engines firing as soon as they were clear of the hull. Romano glanced back, a smile on his face, knowing that Yegorov had risked damage to his ship to give them the edge they might need to rescue the pilot, a few extra centimeters per second that might make all the difference.
“On course,” he said. “Contact in four minutes, ten seconds. Approach velocity will be about eight meters per second. I don’t know how much juice he’ll have in his thrusters, so you’d better get suited up and ready to go.” Glancing at the trajectory plot, he added, “Best guess gives you an overwhelming twenty-two seconds to get him inside.”
“All the time in the world,” McBride grumbled, sliding his helmet into position.
Romano looked up at the sensor plot, taking in the battlespace, now filled with clumps of debris that would slowly settle into orbit over the next few weeks, most of it destined to finally reenter the atmosphere at some point in the future. A million shooting stars, and as far as he knew, there was nobody down there to see it.
Lincoln and Komarov were together now, barely a mile apart, close enough to integrate their firing pattern. On their current course, they’d be swinging worryingly near the Guild monitors on the last run, just within the range of their proton cannons. One more thing to worry about, but they had to complete their pickup first.
Tanaka’s beacon was still signaling strong, loud and clear through the void, and Romano reached for the communications controls, flicking through frequencies in a bid to make contact. Tanaka’s suit sensors wouldn’t warn him of the approach of the shuttle until he was almost in the airlock, and any advantage they could get with the final stages of their rendezvous might make all the difference.
“Romano to Tanaka. Romano to Tanaka. Reply at once. Reply at once.”
“Tanaka here,” the pilot said. “If you’re planning to break some bad news to me, I’m already aware of my current situation, and I’m...”
“We’re coming to get you, pilot,” Romano replied. “I’m in the Specter right now, on a close approach vector, with contact estimated in a little under two minutes. Track our signal, and try and get a lock with your sensors if you can. Contact won’t be as close as I’d like, and you’ll only have a few seconds to get onboard before we have to boost for Lincoln. We don’t get a second chance at this. You read?”
“I read,” Tanaka said. “Lieutenant, you don’t have to do this. I’m quite resigned...”
“We’re rescuing you, pilot. Period. Just get ready for the pickup. See you in a minute. Out.” He looked at his course plot again, trying to work out if there was any way of trimming his trajectory, giving a little more time for the wayward pilot to reach the airlock, even a second. He fired his port thruster for the shortest possible time, a quick pulse that bought him a small additional margin at the sacrifice of increased exposure to the enemy ships. That didn’t matter. He’d deal with that when they got there.
“Red light!” Romano yelled, and McBride stepped into the airlock, cycling the system, outer hatch swinging open to admit Tanaka. He looked at the course plot, gritting his teeth at the small margin of error, and rested his hands on the thruster controls, ready for a second course change if it was necessary. He could clearly pick up Tanaka on the short-range sensors now, the suited figure easily visible, and waited impatiently for the word from McBride, seconds slowly ticking away as they passed closest approach.
Tanaka’s thrusters fired now, a long, lazy pulse that sent him diving towards the airlock, easily into the grasp of McBride. Not waiting to tempt fate, Romano hit the emergency control to seal the outer door, and began the repressurization sequence.
“We’re in!” McBride said, tumbling through the inner door as Romano threw the throttles full open, burning with every ounce of acceleration he could muster to return to Lincoln. McBride staggered over to the weapons systems, strapping himself in as the pressure rose, while Tanaka slid into the co-pilot’s seat with surprising grace, snapping off his helmet and sliding it beneath the couch.
“Watch the sensors,” Romano said.
“Cannons coming on-line now,” McBride added. “Start-up sequence is running true. How long before we hit the enemy formation?”
“About a minute and a half, for twenty-two seconds.” Romano looked at the fuel gauge, doubt beginning to build inside him as he glanced across at the trajectory plot. He’d used more propellant than he’d have liked making the link-up, and there was now barely sufficient for a return to Lincoln. Certainly not enough for any sort of evasive action worth mentioning.
The shuttle swept forward, smoothly gliding through space, the enemy formation holding its course, not interested in any move that might jeopardize the battle that was to come. Th
ey had only a single enemy now, Lincoln herself, and that was the only thing the Guild commander cared about. Taking down the shuttle would be a nice bonus, but certainly not worth a greater risk.
Which did not mean that the familiar green and red of the proton cannons didn’t burst into the sky as they flew past. Romano did everything he could, playing the thrusters back and forth, McBride pounding energy into the air in a bid to knock down the salvos as they came in, two combat computers warring against each other in a desperate fight for survival. They were almost out of danger, almost clear of the enemy formation, when a dismal crack sounded on the upper hull, red lights racing across the systems status board.
“Topside thrusters, sensor pickups, emergency airlock,” Tanaka said, reading the reports as they flooded in. “Hull’s weakened in that area as well. I think it’ll hold long enough to get us home, but you’re going to have to be careful.”
“Got it,” Romano said, his eyes locked on Lincoln, the carrier now up ahead, landing bays open and ready to admit them. The fuel gauge was flashing now, a sign that they were almost out of thrust, and they hadn’t quite matched velocity. He fired the last of his thruster fuel in a desperate bid to kill some velocity, then settled back for the run in, the carrier seeming to race towards him at the final moment.
The shuttle slid smoothly through the gap, nets deploying to restrain their forward momentum and bring it to a halt well clear of the crash wall, the outer hatch sealing behind them as, with a second, ear-shattering crack, the upper hull finally gave, the stress of the near-crash too much for the battered hull plating. The whine of escaping atmosphere lingered for less than a minute before the oxygen flooding in from outside made up the difference, and Romano pulled off his restraints, wiping his forehead as he rose to his feet.
“Good landing,” McBride said, nodding in approval.
“That was a good landing?” Romano asked.
“We’re walking away from it, aren’t we?” the gunner replied with a smile, the elevator snapping into life to raise them to the level of the deck, wide-eyed technicians standing around, inspecting the damage to the upper hull.
Stepping through the crowd, Chief Wong looked over the lines of the shuttle, and said, “What the hell have you done to my ship? I’ll have you patch the hull yourselves!”
“Sorry, Chief,” Romano said, climbing through the airlock. “I guess we did scratch the paintwork.”
“Scratch the paintwork!” Wong yelled. “When I’m through...”
“Attention,” Forrest’s voice said. “Lieutenant Romano, report to the bridge.”
“Saved by the bell,” Romano said, racing for the elevator, leaving Wong staring dumbfounded at his half-wrecked pride and joy.
Chapter 27
“They’re in, Captain!” Singh reported, looking up at Forrest with triumph in his eyes. “Hangar deck secured. All decks report that we’re ready to jump as soon as we clear the enemy formation.” Looking down at the tactical table, he added, “Course for Zemlya is computed and on the screen.”
“Signal from the transport, ma’am,” Kirkland added. “They’re ready to leave the system, and wish us the best of luck in running the gauntlet.”
“Very good, Commander,” Forrest replied, a smile on her face as she looked at the incoming enemy formation. The Guild commander had pushed his ships to the limit to get a second try at them, had lost three of his seven ships in the battle and sustained damage to all but one of the rest. So far, Lincoln had come through comparatively unscathed, but it seemed unlikely that they’d continue that run of good luck indefinitely.
“Helm,” she said, leaning forward, “Don’t wait for the order. As soon as you can jump, do it. We’ve done our job. Now we go home.” She looked at the tactical display, Komarov moving ever closer in a bid to provide Lincoln with the cover she needed, nodding in approval at the flight path. It was simple now, a race against time, Merritt at the helm forcing his engines as hard as he could to minimize the duration of their contact with the enemy.
The elevator doors opened, and Clayton, obviously unshaven, stepped through, and asked, “Can you use another rating, ma’am?”
She looked up at him, and asked, “Are you up to this?”
“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t Captain.”
“Then take the secondary sensor station, Specialist, and thank you.” Another one who could easily have taken the same path as the late Lieutenant Todd. As Lincoln closed for contact, she couldn’t stop thinking about what still lay ahead of them. It was a struggle to focus on the battle, and felt oddly strange to be leaving Enkidu, as though she was saying a last farewell to home.
“Enemy ships are opening up, Captain,” Fox said, standing behind the two sensor technicians. “Going to be pretty damned close, ma’am.”
“All defense turrets, open fire,” Forrest ordered, their own barrage starting up, augmented with the heavier but numerically inferior support from Komarov, a desperately-needed support to their firing pattern. On paper, Lincoln was meant to go into battle supported by at least three escorts, as well as a fighter wing. While her sole destroyer could compensate for her still-damaged starboard section, it couldn’t fill all the gaps.
“Here we go,” Singh said, as the two firing patterns began to mesh, merging with each other as the warring gunners attempted to outmatch the others, each bidding to outsmart their opposition, to get the key shots home, sneak past the defensive pattern of the other and cause critical damage to their foe. Immediately, the numerical superiority of the Guild ships began to make itself felt, the swirling curtains of energy closing in on Lincoln by the second.
“Ninety seconds to go,” Merritt reported. “We’re almost there, ma’am!”
A loud report echoed from the outer hull, damage reports flooding in from the unlucky impact, a single cannon blast beating its way through their defenses. Forrest looked up at the monitors, grimacing as she saw red lights returning, communications arrays wiped out across the lower hull, a pair of hull breaches spewing atmosphere into the void. Merritt’s hands flew over the panel as he struggled to keep the wounded carrier on trajectory, to keep her on course to escape the system in time.
The hull rattled again, this time on the port side, more warning lights as a burst of green proton fire ripped through the armor, severing conduits and water lines, ice instantly freezing as it was exposed to space, creating a host of strange, frozen fountains that twinkled in the starlight. Komarov was sliding from side to side, trying to escape impacts, a pair of new markings on its hull testament to the momentary failure of the helmsman.
“Evasive!” Forrest said, the ship lurching to the right in a desperate attempt to throw off the enemy firing pattern, Komarov struggling to compensate as the intense burst if fire rained down upon the ship, more rattling from the hull as individual bolts found their mark. Lincoln struggled through space, staggering to the side as thrusters failed, the Guilders finally working out the critical targets, swinging around to take advantage of the increasing weaknesses in the carrier’s defenses.
“Damage reports coming in from the starboard section,” Singh said. “Repair teams on the way. Hull breaches on four decks.”
“Keep it together,” Forrest replied, stabbing a control. “Engineering, I must have more speed, right away!”
“There’s no more power to give, Captain,” Brooks protested. “If I put any more juice into the main engines, we’ll blow all the relays we have left.”
“Do whatever you can!” Forrest said, as sirens continued to wail all around, her crew struggling at the controls. They’d only been in contact with the enemy for a matter of seconds, but it felt more like hours, her ship struggling to fight its way through, the trajectory track seemingly reaching out for an eternity.
“Five seconds,” Merritt said, and Forrest felt herself tense up, knowing that it made no sense, knowing that there was nothing she or anyone
else could do. She felt the hyperdrive field build, the familiar queasy sensation deep within her stomach as the systems tore open the familiar hole in the fabric of spacetime, this time working normally.
At least, she hoped.
Belatedly, fears began to creep inside, doubts of the reliability of the strained system. Last time they’d been thrown forward five centuries. Would that happen again? Or by some miracle, might the situation reverse, Lincoln miraculously returning to her home time?
“Transition!” Merritt yelled, and the carrier smoothly slid through the portal, racing across the light-years. He looked up, and said, “Normal transit pattern, Captain. All systems green.”
“Damage report,” Forrest asked, turning to a dour Singh.
“Not good, ma’am. They’ve got a hell of a rate of fire on those ships. I don’t think we could have taken more than a few more seconds in the firing line.” He looked down at the monitor, and added, “Primary power’s on-line, though, and the hangar deck is clear. No damage to life support, engines are mostly intact, though we lost some of the relays in the last few seconds. Lots of damage to the sensors and communication systems, though. We’re going to be operating on emergency backups for both as soon as we emerge. I’d hate to have to fight another battle, Captain.”
“How long before we complete transit?”
“About four minutes, thirty seconds, Captain,” Merritt replied, his hands smooth on the controls. “Everything feels right at the moment. Nothing noticeably different to any other transit I’ve experienced. Aside from the obvious, of course.”
Moving over to her, Singh said, “I know what you’re thinking, Captain, but all the laws of celestial mechanics state that it’s impossible.”
“We know so little about the hyperdrive, Commander. Though according to those same laws, cracking open a dimensional portal should be equally impossible.” Looking around the bridge, she added, “I just hope the crew haven’t had the same idea.”
Shall Not Perish (Lincoln's War Book 1) Page 21
