Never In Vain (Lincoln's War Book 2)

by Richard Tongue

   She waited for a second, and a clipped voice replied, “This is Commandant Paul Leiter, commanding Task Force Nine. You claim to represent the government of the United States?”

   “That is correct.”

   “Are you also about to claim that you represent the Spartan Hegemony or the Antarctic Republic? I am aware of the abilities of your ship, Captain, but your government is gone with Nineveh and Tyre, and should you choose to seek conflict with our forces, you will share that fate.”

   “We’ve fought you at Enkidu, Commandant, and if we must, we will fight you here as well. The Lemurian convoy is going to successfully transit to its homeworld. The only question is whether you will be alive to see it.”

   An audible sigh echoed over the speaker, and Leiter replied, “I will offer you one final chance to withdraw at once, Captain, or I will be forced to issue the order to swat your ship and the fighters it carries from the sky. I am aware that you represent a formidable threat, but mine is the superior force.”

   “Then take your best shot, Commandant, because I have no intention of leaving this system today.” She closed the channel with the tap of a control, turned to Singh, and said, “Have fighters prepare for launch.”

   “Aye, Captain. All fighters on standby for scramble.”

   “Merritt, full speed ahead. Place us on an intercept course with the enemy formation.”

   “Engines engaged, maximum thrust,” the helmsman replied. “Close fighter range in three minutes, ten seconds, mark. Standby evasive course is locked into the navigation computer.”

   “Enemy force is closing,” Fox warned. “Moving at three-quarter speed, assuming our specifications are correct.” Turning to Clayton, she ordered, “I want a close-range scan of the nearest enemy ship, Specialist. A full comparison between their vessel and the information we have in our databanks.”

   “Aye, ma’am. Focusing scanners now.”

   Singh turned to Fox, and said, “I doubt the Zemlyans would have given us false data.”

   “They might have given us incomplete information, sir, even if they didn’t realize it. They’ve had six weeks since Enkidu, and have an agent on board. Which means they’ve had time to implement some modifications to their ships.” Glancing at Forrest, she added, “We’ve got to assume they realized that a confrontation with Lincoln was a possibility, ma’am.”

   “Quite correct,” she replied. “Though I very much hope you’re wrong.”

   “As do I, Captain.” Looking across at her sensor pickup, she added, “Enemy formation is still on intercept course, just as we expected. I think they’re taking the bait.”

   “I hope so,” Merritt said. “It’s pretty lonely out here at the moment.”

   “Picking up dimensional interference now, Captain,” Clayton said, a triumphant smile on his face. “Escorts entering the system, right on schedule.”

   Three new contacts appeared on the sensor display, over to starboard, Santos-Dumont leading the two Zemlyan destroyers into the fight. Immediately, the Guilders altered their course, breaking their formation into two pairs, the first continuing towards Lincoln, the second turning to intercept the newly-arrived hostiles. A smile danced across Forrest’s face, her plan working just as she had hoped.

   “Two minutes to fighter deployment,” Fox reported. “Santos-Dumont is launching their bombers now, heading for the rendezvous point. That ought to give them something else to think about.” Turning to Forrest, the exuberant junior officer said, “I bet Commandant Leiter is wishing that he’d been a little less aggressive, Captain.”

   “He might be, but I’m not,” Forrest said. “We need a big victory here, Lieutenant, and the battle hasn’t begun yet. Helm, stand by to alter course, evasive pattern as projected. I want a nice killing zone between Lincoln and the enemy. Clayton, launch probes, starburst pattern.”

   “Aye, Captain,” the technician replied, tapping a control to send a series of new contacts onto the sensor display, a swarm of tiny sensor probes designed to provide maximum coverage of the battlespace, information already flooding into the tactical computers of the fighters in the launch bay, impatiently waiting to be ordered into the air.

   Forrest’s eyes never wavered from the sensor display, watching as the enemy forces moved to what appeared to be her tune. The Lemurian fighters were slower than hers, though with far greater fuel capacity, and had been forced to launch early in order to take their place in the battle line. Benedetti’s formation was speeding towards Lincoln, burning fuel recklessly to ensure that they made it to their target, and she made a mental note to have tankers on standby for launch after the battle, knowing that at least some of them wouldn’t be able to make it home to their baseship without support.

   The enemy formation continued on course, holding trajectory, the sensors reporting power buildup from their turrets as they prepared for battle. Forrest frowned, checking the perimeter of the battlespace again. On paper, she had the advantage now, in terms of sheer mass of firepower. The most the Guilder force could realistically do was hurt the carrier and her escorts, but Zemlya was only a single jump away, a safe haven for repairs. The tankers were still sitting safely in Zemlyan orbit, out of the firefight. As it stood, the Guild commander was committing suicide.

   As though reading her thoughts, Singh said, “We don’t know how they treat defeat, Captain. For all we know, he’s simply picking a more honorable way to die.”

   “That doesn’t make sense, sir,” Fox replied. “They’re a mercantile empire, and four capital ships is a pretty substantial investment to throw into a battle they can’t win. Taking Lemuria might be a long-term goal, but any firefight on these terms is only going to hinder that objective, not help it.” Looking across at Forrest, she added, “I’m not picking up anything on long-range sensors either, ma’am. A few beacons and mining outposts, but nothing that has any real military value. And no blind spots close enough to make any sort of a difference.”

   “Keep checking,” Forrest said.

   “We should be launching our fighters in twenty seconds, Captain,” Singh noted. “Should I issue the scramble order, or should we abort? If we’re going to leave the system, we need to make that decision now.”

   “This could just be a mistake,” Merritt said. “We can’t pass up a chance like this, Captain, and we can’t turn and run at the first suspicion of trouble, not with all those people back on Zemlya watching.”

   Nodding, Forrest replied, “I agree. Launch fighters, Commander.”

   Tapping a control, Singh said, “Thirteenth Intercept, immediate launch. Immediate launch.”

   “Roger that, Lincoln,” Flynn replied. “We’re on our way.”

   A distant rumble echoed through the ship, the magnetic catapults engaging, tossing the fourteen fighters of their complement into the sky, the new tracks appearing on the screen as Flynn urged them into formation, their engines lighting to hurl them towards the enemy.

   “Our fighters are moving onto their planned trajectory, and the Lemurian force is moving to match,” Singh reported. “Enemy formation is holding course.” Glancing across at his screen, he added, “Targets Alpha and Beta will make contact with Santos-Dumont and the Zemlyan formation in four minutes, ten seconds, mark. All three ships report that they are clear for action and raring to go.”

   Fox looked across at Clayton, and barked, “Specialist, is this accurate?”

   “Double-checked, Lieutenant.”

   “What is it?” Forrest asked.

   “Modification to Targets Alpha and Gamma, Captain. New hatches on the outside of the ship that look an awful lot like improvised launch doors. I thought the Guilders didn’t use fighters?”

   “Could they be for boarding shuttles?” Singh asked.

   “Unlikely, Commander,” Clayton replied. “They look too small for that, and I’m picking up power readings that look a lot like magnetic catapults.” He paused, then
said, “Threat warning! They’re launching, ma’am! They’re launching fighters!”

   Rising to her feet, Forrest said, “Analysis, Fox, and make it quick!” Twelve points of light were appearing from each of the two modified ships, racing into formation to face the incoming forces. Flynn’s interceptors were already responding, drifting into a new attack pattern to counter the attack.

   “Signals from Santos-Dumont, Titov, Lieutenant Mendez,” Singh said.

   “Fox, tell me what we’re facing,” Forrest said, her voice low.

   “I don’t believe it, ma’am, but unless I am very much mistaken, those are PacFed fighters. Listed as Tango class in our database. Equivalent to our own interceptors, ma’am.”

   “How the hell did they get two squadrons of PacFed fighters?” Forrest asked.

   “Maybe the same way we got here, Captain,” Singh suggested. He looked up at the board, and added, “We’ll be in contact with the enemy in less than a minute, ma’am. We’ve just got time to disengage and withdraw to Zemlya.” Shaking his head, he added, “They’ve loaded the deck, Captain. There’s no shame in putting down the cards and walking away.”

   Forrest looked up at the monitor. Singh was right, at least to an extent. Now the odds were at best even, and they’d managed to spring their surprise at the worst possible time. Santos-Dumont and the Zemlyan ships were turning, trying to open the range and buy time, Commander Garcia apparently hoping to exhaust the fuel reserves of the incoming attack craft. A good strategy, but he’d left it too late.

   They could get clear of the system. There was still time for that, and somehow she suspected that Leiter would be all too pleased at their departure, sufficiently that he would almost certainly just let them go. No need to risk a battle when the enemy was already in retreat. And yet, they’d only have to return, sooner or later. Probably sooner. There were no other preparations they could make, no other forces they could draw into the battle. Everything was already on the table.

   Essentially, the decision had already been made. She just had to resist the temptation to second-guess it.

   “Instruct Commander Flynn to engage the enemy fighters,” she ordered. “All batteries to point-defense fire. Helm, alter course. We’re proceeding to assist Santos-Dumont and the escorts. Increase to maximum acceleration.”

   “I thought the escorts were here to protect us?” Clayton said.

   “We live in strange and uncertain times, Specialist,” Forrest replied. “Look at it this way. We’ve got a more target-rich environment than we expected. Remember that every problem is an opportunity.”

   “Aye, ma’am,” Singh said. “I just hope that we haven’t found ourselves an insoluble opportunity.”

  Chapter 8

   “Enemy fighters inbound,” Flynn said, not quite believing the readings flooding in from his forward sensors. “We know how to deal with these bastards, people. This is why we’re out here today. Our job is still the same, to protect the bombers and allow them to complete their attack runs. That’s not changed. All fighters, form on me, line abreast formation, and switch to target discriminators.”

   “Mendez to Flynn. What about the defensive fire from the capital ships?”

   “First things first, Lieutenant. We’ve got to punch through their fighter formation before we can worry about the gun turrets.” He paused, then added, “However, I want you, Armstrong and Estrada to hang back a little. Position yourselves as a ready reserve, and only use your missiles if you don’t have a choice.”

   “Roger that, Leader. Throttling back.”

   Flynn glanced at his sensor display, a worried frown spreading across his face. His pilots were smoothly moving into the planned formation, but that was easy compared to what was coming. Engaging enemy capital ships was one thing, but now his inexperienced pilots were going to have to go toe-to-toe with enemy interceptors. Six weeks training was woefully insufficient for the task, and his eyes hunted around the battlespace, trying to find some alternative, some other option that might keep his pilots safe.

   There was none. Not with Benedetti’s bombers moving behind them, less than three minutes from joining the formation. They’d have no chance at all against the enemy fighters. If the PacFed ships cracked through his defensive screen, the battle was over. He looked back at Lincoln, veering away to port, breaking formation to join the escorts, adding its defensive fire to theirs. The battle plan was falling to pieces as he watched, but it could still be salvaged if he could just press his attack home.

   He looked at the incoming formation, memories of the battles that brought them here flooding unbidden back into his mind. At least on paper, the odds were even, his force of equal strength to the opposition. Glancing at the readouts again, he reached across to his short-ranged sensors, focusing on the approaching attacks, trying to get a clear image of the designs they were up against. His suspicions were confirmed when he caught a glimpse of one of the serial numbers.

   They’d already fought these fighters once before. Back in the battle that had brought them here. At least he’d solved one mystery. They’d assumed that the hyperspatial rupture Lincoln had ripped into the fabric of space-time had destroyed the enemy cruisers. Instead, it had obviously thrown them forward in time as well. His eyes widened as the implications of that thought hit home, and he fumbled for the command frequency, hastily working the controls on his communicator.

   “Flynn to Lincoln Actual, priority!”

   “Actual here,” Forrest replied. “Go ahead.”

   “These aren’t just a few stray fighters, Captain. I’ve confirmed the identity of one of the incoming interceptors, and it matches the enemy force we fought before we were thrown forward in time. We can assume that there are multiple PacFed cruisers in close proximity.”

   There was a long pause, and Forrest said, “We’re not picking up anything else in the battlespace, Commander, and I’ve got all our sensors sweeping the sky. Are you requesting permission to abort?”

   Flynn looked at the sensors again, trying to picture the chaos that would ensure if they attempted to withdraw. There was no way to stop the two fighter squadrons from clashing, not at this stage of the fighting, and once the battle began, it would be all but impossible to disentangle them.

   “Negative, Captain,” he replied. “I think we’re too late for that.”

   “I agree. Watch your back, Commander. I’m putting you in command of the attacks on Targets Gamma and Delta. Get those bastards out of my sky. Lincoln out.”

   Somehow, deep down, a part of Flynn wasn’t unhappy about the battle they were fighting. There had been a sense of unfinished business about those PacFed cruisers and their fighter crews. They had been responsible for the death of hundreds, thousands of his comrades and shipmates. That he was getting a chance to avenge their loss, even five centuries later, seemed only just.

   “Thirty seconds to contact,” he said, throwing a control. “All targets allocated. Stick your your designated enemy fighter if possible, but if you’re throwing proton bolts at the enemy, you’re probably doing the right thing. Just don’t get in each other’s way, and for God’s sake, keep clear of all friendly firepower. I don’t want any blue-on-blue today.”

   “Roger, Leader,” Tanaka said.

   “All fighters weapons free,” Flynn ordered. Taking a deep breath, he added, “Break and attack.”

   All along the formation, afterburners flared into life, hurling the pilots at the incoming enemy formation, their proton cannons lighting up as the charging sequences began. Their firepower was limited by their batteries, but the enemy forces faced the same limitations. Flynn looked over their attack pattern, and a thin smile began to creep across his face. It was right out of the PacFed manual, almost perfect in its precision. The mark of an inexperienced strike commander, not yet able to trust his instincts when overriding the doctrine from the tactical manuals.

   He’d taken the squadron leade
r for himself, assuming that he was engaging one of the most experienced pilots in the enemy squadron, and reached across to his tactical controls to fine-tune his attack pattern, setting target discriminators to carefully husband his fire onto the targets he wanted to bring down. Engines, weapons, communicators. If he struck as he hoped, he’d leave the enemy commander drifting in space with nothing but his life-support system.

   Tanaka fired first, a second ahead of the rest of the squadron, his proton cannons catching the enemy by surprise, lancing out into space. The shots were wasted, the range too great for full effectiveness, but the pilot of his target had no way to know that, and started to spiral away, breaking formation, allowing Tanaka to switch to an alternate target, his thrusters throwing him into a hard turn to catch a second fighter, this time ripping into its engine manifold, causing a satisfactory explosion.

   Flynn was next, just ahead of the battle line, and he ducked from side to side, swinging through space on his thrusters as the enemy attempted to bring him down, trying to match him shot for shot. Occasional bolts of blue flame raced into space, and Flynn reached across to launch his missiles just as his intended prey made the same decision, the four warheads completing mutual annihilation in the space between the two ships, each recklessly burning fuel to put themselves into the best possible position, jockeying for the advantage that might win the battle.

   “Come on,” he muttered, easing his fighter around, playing her thrusters back and forth. “Hold still, you bastard, hold still!”

   Finally, the two fighters lined up perfectly, and a volley of bolts raced from his cannons, ripping into the rear section of the PacFed interceptor, neatly tearing it in twain. At the last second, a new contact appeared on his sensor display, the pilot ejecting just in time, a brief fountain of flame flickering on his screen. He dived through the newly created debris crowd, then looked back at his squadron status display. The dogfight had felt as though it had lasted for days. It had lasted for a total of thirty-one seconds.