Shall Not Perish (Lincoln's War Book 1) Page 16

   “Understood. Watch yourself down there. Lincoln out.”

   “Let’s hope the Guild doesn’t have any military historians on hand,” Singh said.

   “Tell me, Commander, what was the first major battle of the Seven Years’ War?” she asked, a wry smile on her face.

   “Plassey. Fought about a hundred miles from where I was born.” He grinned, and added, “I take your point, though, skipper. Not everyone has my level of education.”

   “Any second now, Captain,” Moran reported.

   “Fighters moving into position,” Singh said, looking at the tactical display. “So are our two ships. Nice to have escorts again.” Reaching for the monitor controls, he said, “Standard combat posture. Except that we really ought to have twice as many fighters.” Frowning, he added, “I still don’t like reducing our strength.”

   “We’ve got to maintain a reserve, Commander.”

   “Signal from the surface, ma’am,” Kirkland said. “The Governor of Enkidu wishes to speak to you again.”

   “Patch him through,” she replied. Before the Governor could begin, she said, “Surrender or die, Governor. I’ll make it that simple. I haven’t got time to waste to listen to meaningless, empty threats. I’ve raced through five centuries to come here with the express purpose of kicking your butt straight to hell, and it’ll take a lot more than your worthless buckets of rust to convince me otherwise, so either call it quits now, or get off the channel!”

   Kirkland looked up at her, mouth wide, then back at her display, saying, “Looks like he’s hung up, ma’am.” She glanced down at her controls, and said, “Looks like that might accidentally have been piped through the ship, Captain. Sorry.”

   “There might just be hope for you yet, Commander,” Forrest said.

   “Here they come!” Moran said, and the tactical display flickered as updates flooded through the sensor network in an eerie echo of their last engagement. This time, the ships were smaller, strange designs that Forrest didn’t recognize, the warbook rapidly giving up on even the attempt at profiling them.

   “Four, correction, six, correction, seven ships inbound, Captain!” Moran said. “Four minutes, thirty seconds to contact.”

   “If Leonov and Komarov had gone ahead with their intended battle plan, they wouldn’t have had a chance,” Singh said. “They’d be wide open for an attack.” Dotted lines raced through the display, initially heading towards the planet before altering course towards Lincoln and the rest of the flotilla. “Not too late to bug out of the system, Captain. We could probably execute an evasive course, get clear. I’m sure Lieutenant Romano would understand.”

   “He might, but I wouldn’t,” Forrest said. She looked around the bridge, and said, “We weren’t expecting to find ourselves here, and we weren’t expecting to find ourselves in a firefight so soon, but the enemy are upon us, and there are hundreds of people on the surface, including one of our own, waiting for rescue and relief. I have no intention of letting them down, not while this ship has a single shot left in its locker.” Turning to Singh, she said, “Commander, execute the battle plan has instructed. Phase One is go.”

   “Marine formations, immediate launch,” Singh said. “Lieutenant Tanaka, Second Flight, immediate launch. Good hunting.”

   More contacts appeared on the screen, and a smile appeared on Forrest’s face. Now the battle was beginning in earnest, and somehow, it felt good.

  Chapter 19

   Tanaka settled in his cockpit, throwing switches and controls with familiar ease, no longer concerned with hiding his skills from the rest of the crew. The cover story that he and Commander Flynn had hastily put together had thus far gone untested, everyone too relieved to learn that they had a third qualified fighter pilot on their roster to ask any questions about how he’d ended up shipping out as a humble Electrician’s Mate.

   “Drake, Price,” he said, tapping a control to put himself over the squadron communications circuit, “Keep close to the shuttles at all times. We’ve got to protect them all the way down to the surface at all costs. Don’t use missiles unless you have no other choice, and watch your fuel readings. If we’re going to play any sort of role in the battle after the first pass, we’ve got to have at least sixty percent fuel remaining to do it. If you run lower than that, make for home. No questions, no arguments. That’s an order.”

   “Yes, sir,” a relieved Drake replied.

   “Lieutenant,” Price asked, “What if we try for a gravity swing around the planet, tight-in. We might be able to knock out a few surface installations that way, and we’d get a lot of extra boost for our attack on the enemy formation.”

   “We’d also reduce our time in the firing line to damn near nothing, Ensign. This isn’t about raw speed, it’s about maintaining speed relative to the target, and they’re going to be doing their damnedest to dodge as it is. Let’s not make it too easy for them.” A green light winked on, and he said, “That’s our cue, people. Immediate launch!”

   Usually, he’d flown out of converted transports, light scoutships, anything that could carry a fighter or two in its cargo bay without sacrificing too much space. Usually, that had simply meant being released from clamps and drifting into the void, perhaps with a puff of atmosphere to guide him on his way. For the first time, he felt the force of the magnetic catapult kicking in, pushing him hard back into his seat as his fighter was propelled into space. Beside him, the other two ships of his formation followed at quarter-second intervals, easily drifting into his chosen arrowhead formation.

   The shuttle came after them, moving more slowly, lumbering into position, and he spotted the Zemlyan assault craft moving towards them, pinpoint touches from its thrusters to get them on course. He gritted his teeth, begrudgingly waiting the thirty seconds for the two shuttles to assume their place, watching the midrange sensors to make sure the enemy weren’t trying anything.

   Seven Guild monitors. The only information they had was the description given them by Lieutenant Volkova, and there were far too many vague details for his liking. The scanners played across the hulls of the enemy ships, identifying possible weak spots, but a strafing run of any sort would be a dangerous gamble. And one that the rest of the squadron would be making in a matter of moments.

   “Flynn to Tanaka,” a voice crackled in his helmet. “We’re ready when you are, Lieutenant. And this is your show while we’re in orbital space. I’ll follow your lead.”

   “Roger,” Tanaka replied, a smile on his face. “All ships, full thrust, now!”

   He was keeping his throttle down, holding back at only three-quarters thrust, the shuttles able to spend fuel with far greater abandon than he dared. Already his levels were dropping faster than he liked, but they had to get clear of the battlespace before the monitors could decide to make a move. He found it impossible to believe that they wouldn’t attempt some sort of pursuit, but as they gained speed, their acceleration kicking in, they seemed to be pulling clear.

   Tanaka sighed, knowing far too well what that must mean. The enemy commander didn’t need to worry about them, because there was something else down there waiting for them. There had to be, or he’d have altered course to prevent their attack. He called up the surface images they’d gathered of the terrain around the processing station, scanning the display once again. No sign of anything dangerous, but that only meant the defensive installations were well-camouflaged. If this world was that important, they’d never leave it unprotected.

   He looked at their course track, trying to spot any possible shadows on the surface, not coming up with anything conclusive. Volkova had told them that the Guild didn’t use fighters, but that didn’t mean that there wasn’t anything waiting for them down there. Reaching up to the controls, he switched relays to throw power to his infrared sensors, carefully adjusting the systems to provide him with the maximum possible resolution of the surface of the planet below.

   There i
t was, hiding behind a rocky outcrop. A power reading, slowly building. They’d done a fantastic job of concealing it. Thirty degrees off their angle of entry, but they’d be passing within fifty miles of it on their descent. He couldn’t get a clear picture of it, couldn’t make out what it was armed with, but there was something there preparing to take a shot at them, and he had to find a way to stop it.

   His face fell as he spotted another, this time on their exit path. There were almost certainly several positioned around the base, surface installations to defend it from attack. And dug in deeply enough that he couldn’t even bring them down with a missile strike. Certainly his proton cannons would be completely ineffective. That wasn’t an option, either.

   The installations were small. Far too small to be self-contained. Which meant that there had to be some sort of power conduit, and given the distances involved, he couldn’t imagine that they would be deeply buried. That was the weak spot, and that was what he was going to attack. He made more careful adjustments to his sensors, ignoring the rest of the battle as he searched for the thin, gossamer heat traces of the power conduits, snaking across the surface below.

   Got them.

   Both running along ravines, slightly out of their way but in a good enough position to make this difficult. He wouldn’t be able to hit them from orbit, that much was certain. This was going to be old-fashioned flying, and he was the only one even remotely qualified to pull it off. His hand danced across his navigation computer as he plotted a new approach path, warning lights flashing on the console to alert him to the excessive fuel expenditure on the course he was planning to implement. That didn’t matter now. He’d have enough to get back to Lincoln. Probably.

   “Tanaka to Drake,” he said. “I’m going to be heading down ahead of you. You’re in command of the formation. Reduce to sixty percent thrust, and make sure the rest of the ships match that acceleration. I’m not worried about anyone chasing us at this point, but they’ve left a little trap on the surface that I’m going to have to handle. Don’t come after me, and don’t try and help me. I can pull this off. You can’t. Understand?”

   “Hold back and watch the shuttles,” she replied. “Lieutenant, are you sure...”

   “That’s an order, Ensign!” he barked, with a voice that surprised even him.

   “Aye, sir. Reducing thrust. Good luck.”

   Maybe he could get used to being an officer. It certainly hadn’t been like this in the Lunar Mafia. Either he’d been operating on his own, no other pilots to worry about, or they’d been forced to come up with some sort of mutual understanding about the command before they launched, and it had never been anything he had really sought out. He flew fighters. That was it. The internal politics of the lunar criminal syndicates didn’t interest him in the slightest, and it was generally considered far safer to sit out those internecine battles.

   The navigation computer finally accepted the course, another dozen overrides required, and he reached down to the throttle, running the acceleration over the red line as he dived towards the surface, bringing up his targeting display. It was only going to be harder for him to find his mark at the speeds he was reaching, but he had to avoid whatever forms of death the Guilders had waiting for him on the surface, and to do that, he had to be able to move fast.

   He looked at the displays again, the sensors gathering more and more data as he approached, but still unable to tell him just what sort of defense system he was facing. The installations were dug in, nice and deep, only a low dome on the surface that provided no obvious clue. A missile silo was most likely, but there was no sign of a targeting complex, no evidence of sensors tracking him down. There was something less obvious taking place down there, something that was likely to shoot him down if he couldn’t recognize it. He threw on his countermeasures for form’s sake, knowing that five centuries of divergent technological development would likely render them as good as useless, but determined to make the attempt in any case.

   Behind him, the rest of the formation seemed to fall back as he raced ahead, red lights flashing to warn him that he was pushing his fighter too hard, the thinnest traces of atmosphere from Enkidu heating his outer hull. More warnings lit his heads-up display, the surface installations finally aiming their sensors in his direction, locking on as they prepared to shoot him out of the sky. The power readings were rising exponentially now, building to a crescendo. It couldn’t be missiles. That much was obvious. They wouldn’t need anything like that much power for a simple launch sequence.

   He slid smoothly through the atmosphere, leaving a faint ionization trail in his wake, and began to fire his thrusters to swing from side to side, beginning his evasive pattern. If some sort of energy weapon was being deployed against him, the only possible defense was not to be there when it hit, and he knew that he had to press his attack home. The enemy installation was less than a thousand miles away now, and his target only a few miles beyond. Turning his control key, he switched over to the targeting computer, letting it fire the missiles for him. There was no way that he’d be able to do it himself, not with the millisecond accuracy it would require.

   His fighter dived for the surface, now weaving from side to side around jagged peaks, sharp talons reaching from the ground to snatch at him, one brief contact more than enough to destroy him. Rocks tumbled down the slopes, sliding to the surface as his fighter raced past.

   Then the enemy installations finally opened up, spitting green death into the sky all around him. Heavy proton cannons, larger than anything he’d ever seen. And fast, as well, fast enough to give him serious headaches on his approach. As he raced closer, their aiming grew better, missing only by a matter of meters. The second turret warmed up to fire on the far side, but his targeting computer was now giving him a solid tone, locked on his prey, ready to fire at the optimum range.

   The fighter rocked back twice as the missiles raced away, entering their own evasive pattern as they swooped towards their target, the defensive installations belatedly realizing the danger they were facing, the enemy that was diving towards them at speed. He pulled on the throttle again, trying to find any extra push he could, adopting Price’s suggestion of trying for a gravity swing to save fuel, as a pair of small explosions erupted beneath her, clearing a path for the shuttles as the defensive turrets suddenly found themselves without power.

   “Tanaka to Flynn. You’re clear for landing. Good luck. Out.”

   He looked at his fuel gauge, the numbers intensely depressing, but he had to complete this pass, had to get around the planet at full acceleration if he was going to have any chance at all. The trajectory track curved around, and a smile returned to his face as he saw the course plot intersecting with the enemy ships. He was racing above orbital velocity now, on a path that would hurl him into the deep system if nothing stopped him.

   Within the next few seconds, he had to make a choice. Hold to his intended course, which would take him back to Lincoln with fumes in his tanks, or push on, out to the enemy ships, knowing that he’d have no ability to alter his trajectory, only a little fuel left for his thrusters. But with a chance to put his two missiles precisely where they were needed.

   It was no choice at all. He killed his thrusters, the terrain still flashing beneath him, and settled into the new flight path, swinging around the tiny innermost moon to dive right into the heart of the enemy formation, nine minutes into the future. Now it was victory, or it was death. No other options remained.

  Chapter 20

   “Omaha and Juno?” Kuznetzov asked. He paused, smiled, then said, “D-Day. Of course. Then the invasion is on the way, and we can expect reinforcements to arrive at any moment.”

   “The Guild up on their military history?” Romano asked, looking nervously up the shaft. There was no sound of anyone creeping around on the uppermost level, but without drone sensors or sonic detectors, it would be all too easy for prepared troopers to conceal themselves.


   “Let’s hope not. I’ll take point.” The agent climbed onto the ladder, pulling himself hand over hand, while Romano nervously waited below. After a few seconds, he followed, swinging his rifle over his shoulder, the weapon bouncing back and forth as he climbed. “All clear, Lieutenant,” Kuznetzov said. “That’s strange. It’s as though they’re all pulling back.”

   “Battle stations drill? There are troops on the way.”

   “Maybe, but even so, I’d be astonished if they didn’t hold someone down here to face us off.” He turned to Romano, and said, “Watch for traps.”

   “Yeah,” Romano replied, pulling himself up the ladder, rolling onto the corridor beyond. Without waiting for him, Kuznetzov raced towards the nearest hatch, leaving Romano struggling to keep pace, his eyes darting around, looking for any sign of a trap. Almost before he could react, Kuznetzov abruptly halted, and he skidded on the floor, almost colliding into him in his haste to proceed, barely spotting the laser beam playing across the ground in time.

   “Detonator,” Kuznetzov said, unnecessarily. “Charge is over there by the side.” He looked around, and said, “There’s another way, but it’s a little longer...”

   “No,” Romano said, kneeling down. “I recognize the design. Bastards must have managed to break into our own electronics store. The charge has been spliced into a Mark Seven detonator-laser. Tell me you have some sort of a toolkit.”

   “Sure,” his comrade said, reaching into a pocket and pulling out a distressingly small pouch. “As long as you don’t need a sledgehammer, I think I can help you.”

   Nodding, Romano took the tools, ruffling through the pouch to find an eyepiece, fitting it into position and looking over the instruments. They’d done a textbook job of setting it up, and that would be strongly to his advantage. The textbook was flawed, a minor error that had been accidentally worked into the latest edition. If you used the manual to disarm it, the result would be a rather satisfactory explosion. Using it to install a detonator would provide a handy little flaw that allowed for a painless disarming process. Naturally, anyone qualified in demolitions had been well-briefed about the error. All of the manuals he’d found in the armory dated from his time, so it seemed reasonable that the flaw would remain. As far as he could tell from first inspection, it certainly was. Though if he was wrong, he had an excellent chance of bringing the roof down.