Never In Vain (Lincoln's War Book 2)

by Richard Tongue

   His heart sank as he saw the three flashing indicators that indicated destroyed fighters. One of them displayed a green light, an indication that the pilot had safely ejected. Two did not. Two dead pilots. And at that, the battle was progressing better than he had expected, than he had feared. They’d torn through the middle of the enemy formation, scattering it across space, and Mendez had swung around to lead Benedetti’s bombers through the gap.

   “Price, Black, Drake,” Flynn said, looking at the worst-damaged fighters in the formation, “Get back to Lincoln right away. No arguments, no protests. Your battle is over. If you push your throttles as hard as you can, you ought to be able to get back on board before the shooting starts over there.”

   “Sir…,” Price began.

   “I said no protests, Ensign!” Flynn barked. “You’ve done your job, and if you stay in the firing line, we’re going to lose a perfectly good fighter. This isn’t going to be your last battle. Unless you disobey my orders. Get going. The rest of you, form on me. We’re going to take on the enemy defensive perimeter.”

   The three damaged fighters pulled around, Black leading the way as they moved onto a trajectory to take them well clear of the remnants of the PacFed formation. Flynn nodded approvingly as he ran his eyes over the course, Lincoln adjusting its flight path just sufficiently to allow them to land. He looked at the rest of the squadron, the news considerably more depressing. Few of them had any missiles left, and all of them were struggling on fuel. They’d have one chance to make the attack work, and if they failed, the odds of them making it back to the carrier were not promising.

   “Keep the formation tight,” he ordered. “Tight and fast. Don’t worry about fuel consumption. Lincoln will be able to vector in some tankers if it has to.”

   “Tanaka to Flynn. I’m reading unusual energy buildup on the point-defense turrets. Looks like they’ve managed more upgrades than we thought.”

   “I guess they got more help from the PacFeds.” Mendez replied, breaking into the conversation. “If they’ve managed to crack our tactical codes...”

   “Nevertheless,” Flynn interrupted. “We’ve got to press the attack. Tanaka, take two pilots, red-line your throttle and get ahead of us. Go for Target Gamma. You’re going to have to punch a way through the defensive fire. Set your cannons to close-proximity, rapid-fire, and targeting to automatic. Don’t try and be smart and second-guess the computer. As soon as we’re through the arc, take any targets of opportunity you can find. The rest of you, follow me to Delta.”

   “Roger, Commander,” Tanaka replied. “Armstrong, Estrada, you’re with me.”

   “I’m on your tail, Lieutenant,” Armstrong said, as the three fighters raced forward, each of them settling into position a dozen miles ahead of their chosen pilot, escorts to guide them through the firestorm that was about to erupt all around them. They were in the riskiest position, but their battle would be over sooner, their time in the firing line drastically reduced by their excessive speed.

   Flynn reached for the thruster controls, tapping in a series of quick commands to alter their onward trajectory, carefully aiming for the optimum approach path. All of this would be over in a matter of seconds, assuming they got their job right. Had to be, with the bombers closing so rapidly behind them.

   “Target coming up,” Benedetti said, breaking into the frequency. “Here we go!”

   Space between the fighters and the capital ships erupted in a rainbow display of fury as the enemy turrets opened up, firing bursts of maser light all around them in an attempt to bring down the squadron. Immediately, the first wave of the squadron began to fire in response, carving a hole in the defensive pattern, matching fire with fire as they sped through the sky, shielding the fighters behind them from attack. Flynn pulled back on his throttle, allowing the others to move ahead, waiting to see where he would be needed.

   Behind him, the bombers moved up, taking advantage of the protection from the fighters to push their attack. He saw an explosion to his right, his wingman catching a slew of proton bolts, enough to tear him apart. Sliding to the right, he took his place in the formation, his guns bursting, spending the last of their energy in a desperate attempt to hammer a path through the hellstorm, keeping one eye on the bombers behind him.

   As one, three points of light raced from the bombers, ranging towards their targets. Benedetti’s flew straight and true, a half-second ahead of the rest, a time that seemed to stretch into eternity as Flynn waited for the missile to strike home. His patience was rewarded by a brief blossom of light, the deadly pulsar destroyed, the resultant explosion wreaking havoc across the surface of the target.

   There were two more left, slower than the first, and while the bombers made their escape, Flynn pushed on, deeper into the defensive fire, knowing that his formation was the only thing preventing the missiles from being shot out of the sky. He cursed the Lemurian missile designers, his eyes locked on the display, waiting for the moment when he too could evade. Finally, the second hammered home, just ahead of the engine manifold, and the ship began to list to the left, spinning out of control as thruster misfires ran up and down the starboard flank, angry hull breaches cracking through the armor.

   One left, and he couldn’t wait for it to score a hit, had to immediately swerve to get out of firing range, to get some clear distance away from the enemy ship. Mendez was behind him, close astern, her move to protect him costing her seconds of precious acceleration. The enemy turrets were still pounding into the sky, waves of fire flooding over them, and he weaved from side to side, trying to throw off the enemy targeting computers, hoping to get sufficient distance to clear the battlespace.

   A third fountain of flame erupted from the Guild ship’s hull, catching it square into the oxygen reservoir, and the ship began to crumple, the superstructure wrecked beyond repair, the crew attempting a desperate, doomed battle to save their vessel. Their mission had been more successful than he could have dared to hope, but his elation was ripped from him as a light winked on his squadron monitor, and he craned his head to the right just in time to watch Mendez’s fighter explode, caught by a stray maser bolt just as they raced out of range. She’d danced in behind him while attempting evasive action. One microsecond more, and that bolt would have hit him.

   He’d never know whether she had done it deliberately, or whether it had just been a simple fluke. As he watched, a flash of light caught his eye, and Target Gamma erupted in flame, the bombing group completing their devastating attack, the ship torn into a tangle of twisted metal as a cloud of debris swept through space.

   “Scratch one!” Tanaka triumphantly yelled, his voice echoing through the cockpit.

   Benedetti added, “Target Delta’s no better off. I’m picking up multiple internal heat sources, hundreds of hull breaches. They’ve lost all attitude control. If they don’t…” Before she could finish, a second explosion filled the sky, and she continued, “I guess they didn’t. Two for two. Not bad.”

   “No,” Flynn replied. “I guess not.” He looked across at the status monitor again. Three of his pilots dead. And one of the bombers, taken out by flying debris on its escape pass from Target Gamma. A high price to pay for the destruction of the two ships, yet still better than he could have hoped. With a deep sigh, he swung his fighter around, looking at his fuel gauge and shaking his head.

   “We’re not going to get back to the carrier on the fumes we have now. Make one-twenty by fourteen. That should take us well clear of the fighting and give Lincoln’s tankers a chance to catch up with us when the battle’s over. We’ve done our job, and we’ve got a front-row seat for the rest of the fireworks. We might as well enjoy them. They came with a high enough price tag.”

  Chapter 9

   Investigation or no, Romano still had to man his battle station for the duration of the firefight. In his first battle, he’d been responsible for only the starboard turrets. This time, the growing shortage o
f officers meant that he had to handle the port turrets as well, supervising from an improvised control room that Lincoln’s harried engineering teams had carved out of an unused office. He raced down the corridor, trading salutes with the weapon crews as he hurried to his position, the hatch slamming shut behind him.

   McBride looked up from his console, grimaced, and said, “This is your fault, Lieutenant.”

   “Huh?”

   Tapping the fresh rank insignia on his sleeve, he said, “Making me a Chief. Commander Singh just told me it was your dumb idea. Now I’ve got three dozen various-grade morons asking me what to do. I swear some of them would forget to go to the head if I didn’t remind them.”

   “Attention,” Fox’s voice said, booming over the intercom. “Ten seconds to firing range. All turrets commence firing. I repeat, all turrets commence firing.”

   The status panel flickered into life as the power distribution network labored under the increased load, the rhythmic sounds of the turrets pounding energy into the void all around them echoing through the decks. McBride’s hands were a blur his console, issuing an endless stream of orders to the gunnery crews under their command, one instruction after another designed to ensure that their weapons fire went where it was most needed, covering every part of the ship.

   Romano moved to the sensor station, watching as waves of enemy fire began to hurtle towards them, forming a halo of blue and green as particle beam collided with maser, the turrets making the microsecond-to-microsecond adjustments required to defend the ship from the death hammering all around them.

   Lincoln was diving towards the escorts, already under fighter attack, the other ships attempting to alter their trajectory to move into defensive formation. That the carrier should be taking such a risk to protect its own defensive screen was crazy, but none of those ships had been designed to face a fighter attack, even Santos-Dumont struggling to cope under the intensive fire. He could see angry gashes down the side of Titov’s hull, as Lincoln finally entered firing range, her turrets opening up on the attacking fighters.

   Now Komarov started to return the favor as the fighters turned towards the carrier, hoping for greater game than they had hoped for, and the tone of the turrets became more urgent as the volume of fire increased, the targeting computers trying for a lucky shot on the attackers. A missile raced through the screen, hitting the Zemlyan destroyer astern, sending it lazily drifting to the side as her thrusters struggled to compensate for the damage.

   “Can you cover Komarov?” Romano asked, turning to McBride.

   “Not without pulling fire from somewhere else. We don’t have much in the way of reserves.” He glanced at the young officer, and said, “I know it seems harsh, sir, but that’s what escorts do. They put themselves into harm’s way to defend the capital ships. The Major knows what he’s doing.” Reaching for a control, he said, “I think we might just get through this. We’ll be at closest approach in a little over three minutes, and the wolf should be kept from the door for that long, at least.” He looked across at the sensor display, and said, “It’s like trying to crack a walnut with a sledgehammer. You’re going to get a lot of collateral damage.”

   And then, without warning, the sensor display flickered out. Romano raced to the controls, working the override sequence, furiously trying to bring the master controls back online, but nothing he tried worked. He looked at McBride, panic in his eyes, and the veteran gunner shook his head in response.

   “We’re screwed without the master board, Lieutenant.”

   Romano slammed his hand on a communications panel, and said, “Turret Control to Bridge. We’ve lost forward sensors.” He waited a second for a reply, then repeated, “Turret Control to Bridge. We’ve lost forward sensors. Respond, please.” Tapping in an override code, he said, “Nothing. Someone’s isolated us from all systems.” Turning to McBride, he said, “Can the ship fight its way through without us?”

   “They’ll have to run it from the bridge, assuming the console jockeys up there know what they’re doing.” McBride rose to his feet, and added, “Might just be a relay malfunction. They were really flying when they put this setup together. Someone probably put in the wrong conduit. Pass me a Number Three toolkit, Lieutenant, and I’ll see what I can do.” As Romano fumbled in the storage locker, McBride went to the door, tapping to release the pressure hatch. He tapped again, growing increasingly frustrated as the controls refused to respond.

   “Let me guess,” Romano said. “We’re stuck in here.”

   “Someone’s locked us in,” McBride replied. “This isn’t an accident, and it isn’t random. Your friend the saboteur is playing his games again.” He took the toolkit from Romano, and said, “I might be able to trip the emergency system. Release the hatch manually, but that’s going to take time.”

   Looking up, Romano said, “What about the cable junction?”

   “Are you out of your mind?”

   “This isn’t a hardened control room. Just an old office, and if I remember the layout of this deck, there was a maintenance shaft right above us.” Climbing onto a chair, he felt along the seams of the ceiling, and said, “Got it. The old hatch, painted over. Pass me a sonic wrench. I think I can release it.”

   Reaching for the tool, McBride said, “You realize that if you’re right, whoever locked us in here is probably up there somewhere. I doubt he’s going to just sit around and let you undo whatever he’s done.”

   Glancing at the gunner, Romano replied, “This isn’t sabotage, Chief. It’s just like the hyperdrive. Enough to cause us problems, but not enough to actually cost us the ship. This is assassination. Someone’s decided that I know more than they’d like, and they’re trying to take me down.”

   “And I’m the collateral damage,” McBride said. “Beautiful. We don’t even have a gun.” He paused, then said, “We could just wait here. Someone will be along to let us out as soon as the battle is over, and we do have respirators.”

   “Not an option, Chief,” Romano said, working the wrench into position, a low hum whining from its tip as he began to dislodge the recalcitrant hatch. “If there’s someone up there working against us, I want to catch the bastard before he decides to do something worse.” The hatch dropped free, and he looked down at McBride, asking, “You coming?”

   “Do I have a choice?” he replied, as Romano pulled himself nimbly into the tunnel. The space was cramped and confined, barely wide enough for him to crawl along, covered in dust and decay. He felt something sticky on his hand, and a quick sniff of his fingers confirmed that he’d learned the hard way that the ship had a rodent problem. Cobwebs tugged at his hair as he scrambled along the little-used shaft, struggling around a corner just in time to hear a loud crack, the unmistakable sound of a gunshot, somewhere up ahead.

   “I knew this was a bad idea,” McBride said.

   “No argument with that,” Romano replied, scampering onward, trying to keep as low as he could, knowing that he was filling too much of the shaft for safety. In the dim light, he could see a shadow in the distance, moving down a side passage. He increased his pace, wincing as a sharp surface ripped though his sleeve, blood trickling down his arm. No time to wait, not now.

   They were deep inside the bowels of the ship, a faint tang of ozone in the air from aged capacitors, the pounding of the particle beams louder than ever before. The passage weaved up and down, dodging around critical systems, some limited evidence of activity finally apparent as he tumbled to the side, falling into a mass of crates in a forgotten storage unit, most of them freshly labeled.

   “Don’t look now, Lieutenant, but I think you’ve found one of Gonzales’ hiding places.” McBride reached an arm down, pulling Romano back to the shaft. “You think he might have something to do with it?”

   “He might sell Lincoln to the Guild, but I don’t think he’d betray us in battle,” Romano replied, sliding back into position. The shadow was loitering at the e
nd of the passageway, and a second crack echoed from the walls, the bullet rebounding from the ceiling just ahead of him, narrowly missing McBride.

   Romano looked at the sonic wrench, still clutched in his hand, and turned the power setting to maximum as he stumbled towards the waiting figure. He could see the gun in his hand, ready to fire, and at the last second, raised his tool to the ceiling, throwing the switch to send a painful whine through the air, an ear-splitting hum that cut into their heads. He struggled to resist the futile temptation to clamp his hands over his ears, instead scrambling down the passage way, arms outstretched, hoping to catch the figure before he could escape. He lunged forward, but the would-be assassin was a heartbeat too quick, sliding down a shaft. Romano moved to follow him, but McBride stopped him with a yell.

   “I’ve found the cut-out! I think I can patch it! Give me that wrench.”

   “He’s getting away,” Romano protested, tossing to tool to McBride.

   “I know, I know, but he obviously knows these tunnels better than we do. If we can get Turret Control back on-line, it might make the difference between life and death for the escorts!”

   Reluctantly, with one last glance back at the passageway, Romano turned to help McBride, tugging an obsolete toolkit from the wall and sliding it across the floor to the gunner. He pulled a flashlight from his belt, shining it on the broken section of conduit, and watched impatiently as the technician frantically worked to clip the two ends together, rigging a bypass that had only to work for a matter of minutes before Lincoln would be safely out of firing range once again.

   The pounding of the guns was growing louder by the minute, somehow more urgent, and McBride cursed as he struggled to make the required connections, doing by hand work meant to be done by machine, sparks leaping into the air that yielded burns on the tips of his fingers, while the grim red lights continued to flicker over the damaged relay connection.