Shall Not Perish (Lincoln's War Book 1) Read online

   “You want to abort?”

   “Hell no. Not when I have something to shoot with these lovely guns you’ve loaned me.”

   “Guess I don’t need to ask how you picked your service specialty.” He looked up with a start, and said, “Signal just changed. I think they might be deciding to reply.” Throwing a switch, he continued, “Shuttle to Dome, I am three minutes from landing. What is your situation?”

   A babble of Russian flooded the speaker, followed by a voice in hesitant English, saying, “Who are you? We will not surrender to the Guild!”

   Flynn looked back at McBride, who shrugged in response, then said, “We’re not with the Guild. I can promise you that.” He paused, then said, “I can’t disclose details. You aren’t the only ones listening. What I can tell you is that an armed buggy is minutes away, and we’re your only ticket out of town. If I don’t get some information on your situation at once, then I will have no choice other than to abort and return to my baseship.”

   There was a long pause, and the voice asked, “You’re from that ship in orbit? The one that just arrived in our systems?”

   “I am indeed, and I’ll be glad to give you a personal tour once we get up there. Now, I need landing instructions, and I need to know how many people we’re picking up.”

   “Two of us. The people on the buggy have friends who shot us down.”

   “Christ,” McBride said, throwing his sensors to long range. “I’m not picking up anything on this side of the planet, Lieutenant, but there could be damn near anything on the far side. Should we call Lincoln?”

   Shaking his head, Flynn said, “We don’t dare. Can you fire a warning shot with those popguns of yours? Scare the hell out of our incoming contact without giving them a face-to-face with Old Nick?”

   “Say the word, sir, and I can make these babies sing.”

   “Dome, this is Shuttle,” he said, leveling off, playing the landing thrusters around as he prepared for terminal descent. “Get out onto the surface and stand by for immediate departure. Take only what you need. I don’t intend to be on the deck for any more than a minute. Understood?”

   “Understood, and thank you,” the voice replied.

   Turning to McBride, Flynn said, “As soon as you get a shot, take it.”

   “Damn, Lieutenant, you’re going to start two wars in one day.”

   “I’m working on loyalty points.” He turned back to the descent, spotting the dome in the horizon as he swooped towards it, killing his speed with a carefully calculated sequence of thruster blasts. Then the turret fired, two quick shots that sent fountains of dust high into the air, the buggy rolling onto its side, unable to compensate in time. For a second, Flynn’s heart sank, but he saw a cluster of suited figures scrambling out of the wrecked vehicle, all of them armed, racing towards the dome. It didn’t look like he’d killed anyone. Just smashed their buggy. He could live with that.

   He worked the controls, bringing the shuttle smoothly gliding to the surface, keeping one eye on the approaching figures as the dome’s airlock cracked open, two people exiting in oddly archaic spacesuits, lumbering towards him as the clouds of dust rose. McBride moved from his turret, working the outer airlock, and impatiently tapped his toe as they stepped inside.

   Flynn didn’t even wait for the inner hatch to open before working the launch sequence, sending the shuttle racing into the sky, then tapped a control to lock the ship on course back to Lincoln. He turned to face his guests, belatedly conscious of his disheveled appearance, and rose to his feet as the inner door opened, two figures, a man and a women wearing unfamiliar uniforms stepping out onto the deck.

   “I’m Lieutenant Jack Flynn,” he said, “and Dead-Eye over there is Petty Officer McBride.”

   “Senior Lieutenant Natalya Volkova,” the woman said. “And Sergeant Boris Petrov.” Looking around the shuttle, she added, “Both of the Zemlyan Aerospace Force. Now that we’re on our way, can you tell us where we’re going?”

   “The Carrier Abraham Lincoln,” Flynn replied. “Complements of the United States Space Force.”

   Her eyes widened, and she said, “Bozhe moi! That’s impossible.”

   “Why?”

   “That ship was lost, destroyed. Centuries ago!”

   “Centuries?” McBride asked, eyes wide. “What year is it?”

   “2634. AD. Day 110, to be precise, on Earth standard,” she replied.

   A winking light flashed on Flynn’s screen, and he turned back to his console, saying, “We can exchange calendars later. We’ve got two contacts coming at us from the far side of the planet, both on an intercept course. Friends of yours?”

   “Hardly,” she spat.

   “Get on your guns, Mac,” Flynn said, diving back into his cockpit. “I think we might as well break communications silence now.” Reaching for the communications console, he said, “Shuttle Nine to Lincoln, Shuttle Nine to Lincoln, request immediate escort. Get Lieutenant Mendez up as fast as you can. We have bandits inbound, repeat, bandits inbound.”

   “I knew this was a bad idea,” McBride muttered, as the engines roared to maximum acceleration. “All this way to rescue two crazy people.”

   “We’re not crazy,” Petrov pressed. “I swear.”

   “That’s what they all say,” McBride said.

   “Strap down!” Flynn said. “And hold onto something. This is going to be rough.”

  Chapter 9

   “Action Stations. All hands, Action Stations. This is no drill. This is no drill,” Kirkland’s voice echoed through the corridor, and Forrest sprinted for the nearest elevator, almost knocking a hapless maintenance technician off her feet in her haste to reach her destination. The doors slid shut behind her, and she tapped the wall communicator control.

   “Forrest here. What the hell is going on?”

   “Our shuttle has come under attack, Captain,” Kirkland said. “I’ve called all senior officers to their stations, and am bringing the ship into position for a rescue.”

   “Attack?” If the shuttle was already under fire, then about all they’d be able to do would be arrange the memorial service. “Are they under fire right now?”

   “No, Captain, but there are two presumed-fighters on an intercept course. I have a signal from the shuttle, and they’re requesting immediate assistance.”

   She paused, then replied, “Get us into a lower orbit, and get Chief Wong on the horn. Try and get as many defense turrets as possible working, and inform the duty helmsman that he’s to favor our port side until further notice. I’ll be up in a minute. Out.” Pulling out a datapad, she tapped for the bridge tactical display, waiting impatiently for the images from outside to appear. At least they were sharper than they had been, the first crews getting the sensor relays working again, but they still lacked the details she’d have liked.

   Her nimble fingers slid across the display as she zoomed into the approaching ships. Kirkland, for once, was probably right. They did look a lot like fighters, though of no design she was familiar with. The shuttle was keeping ahead of them, but they were going to be shot down long before they could get back to the carrier, no matter what tricks Flynn had up his sleeve.

   The doors slid open, and she stepped onto the bridge, Kirkland standing to attention and saluting as she walked inside. She returned the salute, then walked over to the Operations desk, reaching for a handset before glancing over at the helm.

   “Merritt? You’re still up here?”

   “My relief didn’t make it, Captain,” the helmsman replied. “I can handle it for a while longer, ma’am. I’m more familiar with the current state of the ship than anyone else.”

   “As soon as this is over, go back to your quarters and get a few hours of rack time. Consider that a direct order, and don’t force me to make Doctor Holland sedate you.”

   “No, ma’am,” he replied, his hands gently guiding the wounded Lincoln
down towards the planet. They’d give the shuttle more of a chance, but were opening themselves up to the risk that the enemy fighters were more powerful than they first appeared. She slid her headset in place, and punched for the hangar deck.

   “Chief, this is the Captain,” she said. “How are you coming with the fighters?”

   “We’ve got the three Jackals that managed a safe landing, and I’ve managed to get them refueled and rearmed. I’ve had to use older-spec missiles, though. We didn’t have any of the latest designs on hand. I’ve also got a couple of the Vultures up and running, but I haven’t had a chance to run a full diagnostic check.”

   “How the hell did you manage that?”

   “We actually had them mostly complete, it turns out. Commander Gonzales was working on inventory, and apparently he wanted a pair of them assembled for testing.” He paused, then added, “I don’t buy it either, ma’am, but I don’t think we can afford to look this particular gift horse in the mouth. I’m going to guess that you want them all up, on the double.”

   “Lincoln can’t do much without her teeth, Chief.”

   The doors slid open, and Singh walked onto the bridge, saying, “We’re short on pilots, Captain. I’ve already checked the crew roster, and I’m afraid we’re looking at a handful of retired officers, some shuttle pilots, and a few who washed out of Flight School for one reason or another.”

   Romano, standing by the flight engineering console, stood to attention and said, “I’ve logged some flight time in Vultures, ma’am.”

   “That’s not on your record, Lieutenant,” Singh said.

   “It was before I joined the Academy, sir. My father bought a couple of them, and converted them for civilian use. I helped him test them, logged a lot of simulator time.”

   “Is there no limit to your talents, Lieutenant?” Forrest asked with a smile. “On your way. Have we got anyone for the other one?”

   “Ensign Price,” Singh said. “Flight school washout, but he got pretty far.”

   “Fine, get him down there,” Forrest said, as Romano made for the elevator. Before he left the bridge, she said, “Lieutenant, let the pilots from Saratoga take the lead. Don’t try anything you can’t handle.”

   “Aye, Captain,” he said, as the doors slammed shut.

   Kirkland turned to Forrest, and said, “Captain, I must formally protest this decision. Sending unqualified pilots into a combat zone is asking for trouble, and is only likely to result in the loss of crewmen and fighters.”

   “Noted, Commander,” Forrest snapped. “Vik, try and raise the shuttle again. I want them logged into whatever sort of Tac-Net we can manage.” Lieutenant Fox raced onto the bridge, wiping the remains of her lunch on her jacket, and Forrest continued, “Lieutenant, work with whoever’s commanding our fighter wing, and make sure they’re briefed about the tactical situation.”

   “That will be Lieutenant Mendez, ma’am,” Fox replied, nimbly sliding into her station. “I’ll get on it right away.” She looked up at her sensor display, and added, “Flynn really knows his stuff. I’d say we’ve got at least five minutes before he comes under attack.”

   “He has the proton cannons,” Kirkland said. “That ought to help.”

   “They’re only intended for surface targets, Commander,” Singh said.

   “Any port in a storm, sir. At least they’re better than nothing.” Looking across at the operations board, she added, “All decks report cleared for action, Captain.”

   “I have the shuttle, Captain,” Singh said.

   “Flynn, this is Lincoln Actual. What the hell’s going on down there?”

   “I’ve got two people on board who are…,” he paused, then said, “Captain, are we on a secure channel? I don’t think the rest of the crew should hear this, not for the moment.”

   “Stick to the tactical situation, Lieutenant. We’ll handle the rest after you get back home.”

   “I have two bandits on my tail, Captain, unfamiliar design, closing fast. McBride’s spotted under-slung missiles. You should probably speak to one of my passengers, ma’am. She’s familiar with the ships we’re facing.”

   There was a pause, and an unfamiliar, heavily accented voice said, “This is Senior Lieutenant Natalya Volkova, Captain. Zemlyan Aerospace Force.”

   “Where?” Kirkland asked. “I’ve never heard...”

   “Later, Commander,” Forrest said. “I read you, Lieutenant.” Throwing a switch, she added, “I’m patching you thought to our fighters. Make it quick.”

   “We are facing two Guild Mark Nine Interceptors, Captain, primarily designed to operate in suborbital situations. They’re fast, but with only limited fuel capacity, and unable to make orbit without booster tanks that are not currently in evidence. They carry two missiles, working on image recognition, with a self-contained design that makes them impervious to jamming, as well as a pair of light meson cannons.”

   “Meson cannons?” Singh asked.

   There was a brief burst of fast Russian, and Volkova said, “Perhaps particle beams? You’ll have to forgive me, my English is not good.”

   “You’re doing fine, Lieutenant.”

   “You also need to know that there are three Guild monitors in the system, that were responsible for the destruction of my ship. I have looked on the shuttle’s midrange scanners, and I cannot see them at the moment, but they will be out there, watching and waiting for any weakness. Once the interceptors are destroyed, I would strongly advocate a close orbit, out at around three hundred miles. That should be out of range of anything on the surface, and provide ample warning of attack from one of the sensor blind spots.”

   “Thank you, Lieutenant. I’ll see you in a few moments. If you think of anything else, let me know right away. Lincoln out.” Turning to Merritt, she said, “You heard her. Can you punch for that sort of orbit from here?”

   “Not a problem, skipper,” the helmsman said. “Computing course change now.”

   Kirkland turned to Forrest, and said, “Captain, I’ve never heard of Zemlya, or this Guild either. What sort of a fight have we got ourselves into?”

   “Third planet out from 36 Ophiuchi,” Fox said. “Snowball world, fifth planet out. Uninhabited according to our charts, but there’s a notation that a Siberian expedition was planning to head out that way, so that might have changed.”

   Turning to her, Kirkland protested, “Even if they’ve constructed some sort of an outpost, Lieutenant, that’s a long way from establishing their own independent military.”

   “Fighters away, Captain,” Singh reported, moving over to the desk, working the controls to bring up the tactical hologram, local space flickering into life. Forrest joined him, looking over the display, the five fighters from Lincoln diving towards the planet, heading on an intercept course for the two unknown interceptors.

   “Going to be close,” she said. “They might even get those missiles up before our people can reach them.” Glancing at Singh, she added, “Never thought we’d be running a battle from this bridge ever again.”

   “She’s still got what it takes, Captain,” Singh replied, a new vigor in his voice, a look in his eyes that Forrest hadn’t seen in a long time. He was back into the game, and it was good to see.

   Lincoln was sliding into her new orbital track, the shuttle somehow finding more acceleration as Flynn raced for home, shaving every millisecond he could find to keep ahead of the enemy. Mendez was riding her fighters just as hard, bringing them in towards the target, preparing for the surgical strike that would be required to save the shuttle.

   Kirkland walked over to the desk, and said, “Mendez should tighten her formation.”

   “She knows what she’s doing, Commander.”

   “But she’s well off regulation spec, and there’s a risk that she’ll waste a missile that way.” Gesturing at the hologram, she added, “And she’s exposing the Vultures to more risk than ne
cessary on the attack. I suggest...”

   “Chief Wong should have another fighter ready in about half an hour. I’d be happy to assign you as its pilot,” Forrest said.

   “Captain, I’ve never...”

   “Then quit back-seat driving, Commander.” Walking over to her, she added, “I know how frustrating it can be to do nothing but sit back and watch, but Lieutenant Mendez is an experienced officer who knows the abilities and limitations of her fighters and her pilots a lot better than we do, and as far as I’m concerned, her decision goes. We make the grand strategy up here. The tactics we leave to the squadron and flight commanders.”

   “I understand, Captain,” she said, returning to the table.

   “Specialist,” Forrest said, “Any sign of activity from the outer areas of the planetary system? Those ships Lieutenant Volkova warned us about?”

   “Not yet, Captain, but our probes won’t be in position to monitor every blind spot for a couple of hours. You could park a task force behind some of those moons and we wouldn’t know anything about it until it was all over.” His hands darted across the controls, and he added, “We’re getting some telemetry from the shuttle now, though. Lots of hot points on the surface, one of them pretty big. A full-size settlement, with a...” The technician paused, then said, “That can’t be right.”

   “What are you reading, Specialist?”

   “A dome a mile across, Captain. I don’t believe it, but that’s what those readings indicate. We might have a problem with the diagnostic software.”

   Turning to Kirkland, Forrest said, “Take a look, Commander, and see what you can make of it. If anything. If someone is playing games with our sensors again, we need to know about it.”

   “Two minutes to contact,” Singh said, looking at the readouts. He shook his head, and said, “If we had a couple of escorts, another squadron...”

   “We use what we have,” she replied, moving back over to the table. “Besides, we already have odds of five to two. I’ll live with that.”

   “Contacts, Captain!” Moran said. “Probes, not ours, moving from behind the fifth moon. Heading into a high polar orbit. I think someone else is trying to make sure they can’t get surprised from any blind spot.”