Never In Vain (Lincoln's War Book 2) Read online

   “Almost there,” McBride muttered. “Almost there.” Finally, the lights winked to green, and he triumphantly raised a fist in the air, and said, “Got it!”

   Glancing down the passage again, Romano followed McBride back to Turret Control, the sensor display bursting into life as they slid back into the room, covered in filth from the unused tunnels, each racing to their stations. He glanced up at the wall clock, unable to believe that they’d only been out of the room for two minutes. The firing pattern was almost as projected, getting dangerously close to the hull, a series of amber lights indicating near-misses on Komarov, now leading the formation.

   “We’ve got to do something,” Romano said. “Can you increase our forward firepower, throw the reserve turrets into the mix.”

   “That’ll weaken our flanks,” McBride warned.

   “And Santos-Dumont will be worst affected, I know.” Romano looked up at the sensors, and said, “They can cover their backs better than Komarov. Switch Starboard Two to fire forward. That ought to help. I’ll try and alter the power distribution.” He looked at the trajectory plot, and grimaced, “We’re going to need all the covering fire we can get. Look at the enemy capital ships.”

   “Seventy seconds left in firing range,” McBride said, turning back to his console. “I think we regained control just in time. I’m adjusting Starboard Five.”

   Romano looked at the sensors, watching as the wave of fire grew closer and closer, turrets ranged against turrets as the enemy maser cannons grew in intensity. They didn’t have the firepower of the old PacFed pulsars, but they had a far higher rate of fire, enough that the targeting computers were having an increasingly difficult job of keeping up with them, struggling to alter their firing pattern in time.

   “Forty seconds,” Romano muttered. “Come on, just forty more seconds.”

   It was a race, dueling computer systems fighting it out. Lincoln had good hardware, but finally, the numerical superiority of the enemy made itself felt, and the final salvo of maser fire punched through, sending bone-shattering impacts ringing through the ship, warning alerts blaring from every speaker.

   “We’re out of it,” McBride said. “That’s the last of the fighters behind us. Looks like we managed to knock out three. Not too bad.” Tapping controls, he added, “No chance that they can come around on that trajectory. Our own birds will be back on board long before they can represent any sort of a threat.”

   “One hit to Komarov, nothing too serious. Three for Titov, eight to Santos-Dumont,” Romano said, looking over the reports. Shaking his head, he said, “She’s really taken a pounding. That ship must be tough as hell. She’s still got her primary armament, though.”

   “Let’s hope its enough,” McBride replied. Glancing across at the sensors again, he said, “Eight minutes before we get back into the action. I guess we’re about to find out just what this ship can take.”

  Chapter 10

   “Damage report, Commander,” Forrest said, turning to Singh.

   “Minimal,” he replied. “Two hits on our starboard side, no major breaches. We’ve lost one thruster and some of our sensor pickups, but auxiliary systems are filling in the gaps.” He swept his hand across the touchscreen, and said, “Komarov and Titov got hit a little harder, but both report that they are able to hold formation.”

   “Santos-Dumont?” Forrest asked.

   “Eight hits total, and I’m picking up hull breaches and what looks suspiciously like internal fires. No telemetry feed, so I’m piecing the puzzle together through communications intercepts, but I’d say that she’s taken a hell of a pounding.”

   “Fox, can you raise them?”

   “Trying, Captain,” the young officer replied, her hands dancing across the controls of her console. “Laser signals are out, ma’am, but I think I can punch through in the clear.”

   “If the Guilders manage to overhear…,” Singh began.

   “Then they’ll learn nothing they probably don’t already know, Commander,” Forrest snapped. “Make the call, Lieutenant, and quickly.”

   “Six minutes, ten seconds to firing range,” Merritt said. “Enemy formation is still closing on intercept course. The remnants of the fighter squadrons seem to be trying for the planet. They’ll struggle to make it down in one piece, and they won’t be able to get back up into orbit again without assistance. I think they’re out of the battle.”

   “That makes it nice and simple,” Forrest said. “Four against two. I like those odds. Lieutenant, have you got through to Commander Garcia yet?”

   “Working, ma’am. Lots of interference.” She paused, then said, “I’ve got him, but I don’t know for how long.”

   “Commander, this is Lincoln Actual. Report status.”

   “We’re still in the fight!” Garcia yelled. “I have forward weapons and can maneuver. No serious hits on forward armor. I am ordering non-essential personnel to the shuttles, and have warned my fighters to stay well clear, but I am not missing this battle! Forward pulse cannons are armed and ready, and we’re working on a firing solution.”

   “Commander, I asked you a question. This is no time for mad heroics.”

   “I heard what Commander Flynn said. There could be heavier ships out there, and our tankers are scheduled to arrive in a matter of hours. If we’re going to win, it has to be now, before those bastards can try and bring up any reinforcements. They’ve already thrown one surprise our way. I don’t want to be waiting around for another.” He paused, then pressed, “I know my ship, I know my crew, and I know what both are capable of. We’re still in the battle. End of story. Santos-Dumont out.”

   “Brave son of a bitch,” Singh muttered, shaking his head. “I think he’s probably right about his forward weapons, but his defensive turrets have been badly damaged. He’s going to take all kinds of hits on the attack. The Guilders are bound to have him marked.”

   Fox turned to Forrest, and said, “He’s riding our strongest offensive armament, Captain. If we’re going to make this attack work, he’s got to have a chance to fire.”

   “Then we’re just going to have to shield him,” Forrest replied. “Commander, I want Komarov and Titov to move into protective formation, and for all three of them to make for Target Beta. We’re going to take on Target Alpha.”

   Singh’s eyes widened, and he replied, “Our defensive armament...”

   “We don’t need to destroy the ship on this pass, Commander. Just keep them busy. Helm, have you got an intercept course for me?”

   “Right down their throats, skipper, ready to implement when you give the word.”

   “Then by all means, make it happen,” she replied.

   Lincoln’s trajectory track swung around, ranging towards her new target, the formation splitting in two. Target Beta belatedly realized what was happening, trying to tighten up on Alpha, but Major Volkov, leading the other half of the battle group on Komarov, quickly responded, moving over to the right, forcing Beta’s commander to swing back again or risk only being able to deploy a fraction of their defensive fire against the incoming vessel.

   Tactical information raced down the viewscreen as Forrest watched, the sensors gathering ever more data as they closed on their chosen target. The battle had simplified considerably again, all the smaller craft racing to safety elsewhere, sitting out the rest of the action for want of fuel and ordnance. One glance at Santos-Dumont’s launch bays suggested that at least some of her fighters were going to end up landing on Lincoln, the blackened aftermath of the damage inflicted by the enemy interceptors emblazoned across half the starboard hull.

   Fox turned from her station, and asked, “Do we go full defensive, Captain, or try and do some damage?”

   “Let’s not ride our luck any more than we absolutely must, Lieutenant,” Forrest replied. “Full defensive. Helm, at the last minute, pull away to port. Keep the range as distant as you can, and take any opportunit
y that presents itself to reduce our time under fire.”

   “Aye, Captain,” Merritt said. “Four minutes, thirty seconds to contact.”

   “Santos-Dumont will be in range at about the same time,” Fox added.

   Nodding, Forrest looked around the bridge, forced a smile, and said, “Stay loose, everyone. All we’ve got to do is hold Alpha back so that Santos-Dumont can finish off Beta with its primary armament. Then we can deal with the last ship at our leisure.” She settled down into her command chair, the bridge crew still working all around her, making final preparations for the firing pass.

   One minute, nine seconds. Sixty-nine seconds of vulnerability. Taking a carrier into harm’s way like this was against every rule of capital ship warfare she’d ever learned. If she’d attempted anything like this in an exercise, she would have deservedly been stripped of her command. That was one of the key differences about real war, and one of the marks of a good commander. A willingness to be ready to throw away the rulebook if needed, and to know when you had to take a risk, and when to play it safe.

   A dozen pairs of eyes were watching her every move in this battle, hidden representatives of the neutral governments she hoped to win over to their cause. They had to know that she and her crew would fight to the end for their allies, if they were to expect anything like the same dedication in return. This was a test case of a battle, a way for them to prove that the Guild could be beaten, with more publicity than had been possible at Enkidu. A single victory could be a fluke, but a second, or even a third, was proof that Lincoln truly was the most formidable fighting unit in space.

   Proof they desperately needed, if they were going to bring the other planets into the fight.

   “Three minutes to contact, Captain,” Fox reported. “All turrets ready, damage control teams on standby.” Glancing down at a monitor, she added, “Ensign Black and the other damaged fighters are back on board, ma’am, and requesting permission to use the standby interceptors.”

   “Negative,” Singh said, shaking his head. “They’d be torn to pieces out there.”

   Frowning, Forrest threw a glance at her subordinate, and added, “Nevertheless, have them on immediate notice for launch if the situation changes. They might have more fighters out there.”

   “Heat signatures detected on Target Alpha,” Fox added. “Their primary armament is tracking on us, ready to open fire.” She cracked a smile, and continued, “I think we can take them, ma’am. We did at Enkidu. And I’m not detecting any special modifications on this one.”

   “It remains a substantial warship, Lieutenant. Don’t take it lightly,” Singh chided.

   Forrest looked up at the screen, watching as the two enemy ships curved away, Target Beta moving into position to take on Santos-Dumont and the Zemlyan vessels, while Target Alpha seemed content to handle Lincoln. Somehow, she was getting the idea that they were dancing to the enemy’s tune, but she continued to press the attack, barely sparing a glance for the rest of the formation. On paper, they were winning. All that remained was to learn just how expensive their victory had been.

   Her eyes flicked between the sensor display and the slowly-building repository of information on the enemy ship, the sensors continuing to harvest precious data for the tactical computers, trying to find some weakness, a flaw in the enemy defensive fire pattern that they could exploit. She looked over the trajectory plot, trying to resist the urge to second-guess her decision, sparing only the briefest glance at the battlespace. No traps, no surprises. Everything appeared just as it should be, though she was well aware that everything could change in a heartbeat.

   “Sixty seconds,” Fox said. “All systems ready.”

   “Open fire ten seconds before we get into range,” Forrest ordered. “I want to make sure that we’ve got the best possible defense pattern. And make sure we keep the power feed nice and steady. I don’t want any nasty surprises when we get close.”

   “We’ll make it through, Captain,” Fox said. “Commander Brooks has run a complete diagnostic. We managed to get past the fighters without any serious strain on the power systems. Lieutenant Romano reports that he and Chief McBride will be monitoring the feed by hand during the engagement.”

   “Evasive course programmed in,” Merritt added. “Course computations have been fed to Turret Control, and all fire control systems have been readied to compensate.”

   “Very good,” Forrest said. This crew were new to battle, new to war, but they were behaving like seasoned veterans, each of them thinking a step ahead. The Guilders had been fighting, on and off, for decades. Lincoln might have the edge in technology and firepower, but they had the edge in experience. Even if, by all appearances, they weren’t making full use of it. If she’d be in the place of the enemy commander, she wouldn’t just be sitting there, ready to absorb the attack, not after losing two ships. Frowning, she tapped the controls again, and cold realization finally hit her.

   “Helm, alter course, five starboard, nine yaw, right now!”

   “Aye, ma’am,” a surprised Merritt replied, while Singh looked up at the screen.

   “Captain, our turrets...”

   “Target Alpha’s going to run. That’s why she’s holding course. If she gets past us without sustaining too much damage, she can burn hard for the gravitational threshold and get into hyperspace. There are a couple of dozen systems in range. They might end up anywhere.”

   Nodding, Fox said, “That’s possible on their current trajectory, Captain.” She paused, then added, “They’ve increased acceleration, right to the red line. I guess they’ve decided that we’re onto them.” Her hands moved swiftly across her controls, and she added, “I’ve worked out a new pursuit course to maximize their time in the firing line.”

   “And ours,” Singh said. “Captain, if we can’t take them down….”

   “All we have to do is get one lucky hit, Commander, and we get the clean sweep we wanted. Lieutenant Fox, all forward turrets are to prioritize offensive fire. It’s a long shot, but right now it’s the only one we have left.” She paused, then added, “What about the reserve fighters?”

   “Ready to go, skipper,” Singh replied, “but against that level of firepower...”

   “They’ll make it through as long as they stay within our defensive perimeter. I want them up, right away. Orders to hit Target Alpha with everything they’ve got.”

   “Aye, Captain,” Singh said, his eyes wavering as he tapped a control. “Reserve Flight, immediate launch, immediate launch.”

   “Coming around, ma’am,” Merritt said. “Target coming up. We should have a nice long run, right down their starboard flank.” Reaching across to a side panel, he said, “I’m locking my system into Turret Control. That should give our gunners a better chance of following my moves.” Turning back to Forrest, he added, “I’m going to have to improvise, ma’am.”

   “You go right ahead and make my lady dance,” Forrest replied.

   The guns on both sides opened up at the same moment, Lincoln’s three remaining fighters racing from the side of the ship, the reserve interceptors deployed with battle-weary pilots at the controls. None of them had the experience they truly needed for the fight, a truth proven as Ensign Drake’s fighter exploded, the pilot racing away from her doomed ship with seconds to spare, hurled out of the firing line by her ejector seat.

   Two fighters left, the best shot at hurting the enemy. As the monitor and the carrier traded fire, the defensive turrets desperately dancing from side to side to counter each incoming bolt of energy, they set up for an attack run, their missiles racing through the fire. Romano had spotted their move first, had ordered some of the forward turrets away from their attack pattern in an attempt to guide them through, and Forrest held her breath as her eyes followed the dotted trajectory track. For missiles. Then three, as a burst of energy ripped one from the sky. Then two. And finally one. One solitary missile, diving towards its targ
et, nimbly dancing underneath the enemy firing arc. It was heading right for the hyperspatial stabilizers, a shot that would force the ship to fight to a finish in this lost, nameless system.

   At the last second, the enemy helmsman fired his lateral thrusters, accepting the disruption to their attack pattern and letting the missile slam into a non-critical area of the ship. A blackened crater seeped air into space, a thin cloud escaping into the void, but still the enemy vessel drove onward, their best chance of stopping it taken from them. The two fighters lingered for an instant before turning away, engines burning at maximum in a desperate attempt to flee the scene, unable to contribute anything more to the fight.

   Now all was down to the turrets. Forrest had pulled six of them out of the defensive firing pattern, and the gunnery teams were doing their best to make use of their opportunity, hurling energy desperately into the void, only for the enemy ship to counter them. A few hits got through, one of them close to the primary engine feed, but none was hitting with sufficient force to hold them back, the Guilder’s desperate race for survival forcing them on.

   And then, at once, it was over, as the two ships flashed out of range, the enemy vessel speeding towards the safety of the gravitational threshold, Lincoln lazily curving around, moving into a position to pick up its fighters. The turrets were silent once more.

   “Signal from Santos-Dumont,” Fox said. “Scratch one.”

   Forrest glanced at the long-range sensors, just in time to watch Target Beta explode, ripped into a billion tiny fragments. A look at the damage reports flooding in from the rest of the fleet made it clear that victory had been expensive. They’d won the battle, forcing a path through to Lemuria, but the flight of Target Alpha risked them losing the war.

   Singh looked up from the tactical desk, and said, “No chance for any of our ships to intercept before they can escape, skipper. Our fighters are flying on fumes right now, and even if the escorts could make it that far, they don’t have the firepower to do any good.”