“Quite sure, Lieutenant. And be sure to use sufficient force to leave a mark. I admit to a level of curiosity about the efficiency of your unarmed combat training.”
Romano grimaced, then swung at Sinaga’s head with the butt of his pistol, twisting it at the last second to send a gash running down his check, blood streaming down his face. Somehow, the PacFed officer stayed on his feet, his head pale as his fingers reached for his wound. Romano gestured with his pistol, and Sinaga struggled through the door, the two guards waiting outside, their eyes widening as they saw the state of the prisoner.
“Good God, sir,” the bigot said, looking over him. “I figured...”
“Stow it, Spaceman. I’m taking the prisoner for interrogation. He’s finally decided to tell us about the saboteur.” Forcing a leer to his face, Romano added, “By the time we’re finished with him, he’s going to be singing like a canary.”
“I will not talk,” Sinaga said, nervous eyes looking at the guard. “Please, Spaceman...”
“Quiet,” Smith replied. “I figure you’ve earned just about everything that you’re about to get. I’m not going to say a damned word. You go ahead and do what you have to do, Lieutenant. We’ll make sure nobody asks too many questions.”
“This way,” Romano said, urging his prisoner towards the elevator. He glanced back at Smith, spotting the guard’s hand sliding into his pocket. It had been just as he had expected, just as he had hoped. Or feared. Grogan hadn’t chosen the guards for their competence, but their attitude, hoping to find those most likely to have involved themselves in the riot. On the principle that the news would quickly find its way to the traitors who had undoubtedly roused the crew to action.
Just as the doors slid shut, he caught a glimpse of the guard’s face. He knew. The elevator jerked into life, and he tapped a control sequence to send it down to the lower decks, hurtling towards its hidden destination. Lincoln was an old ship, had been refitted countless times in her long service, and several parts of the ship were almost disused. For a time, the ship had carried a marine contingent, and the barracks area was still there, converted into a seldom-used storage bay, a home for materials that would rarely be needed, tucked away in an inconvenient part of the ship.
The door opened onto a darkened corridor, Grogan standing at the threshold, rifle in hand. She looked over the wounded Sinaga, nodding as she turned down towards the single illuminated room at the far end, as the elevator closed again, heading towards a new destination. The trio walked into the barracks, Kirkland waiting inside, as another beam of light opened up, a maintenance hatch sliding open.
A gunshot echoed around the walls, the three of them dropping to the ground as Romano returned fire, a wild shot that ricocheted from the ceiling, hammering into the deck plating. Grogan’s shot was a second slower, but far more certain, catching their attacker in the shoulder, sending him dropping to the ground. Struggling to his feet, Romano raced forward, Grogan warning him back, as a final shot sounded in the air.
The would-be assassin had shot himself, rather than face capture.
“Damn it, Lieutenant, are you OK?” Grogan asked.
“I wasn’t the target,” Romano replied, kneeling by the dead man. “Smith. He must have followed us down, stopped just short and used one of the shafts to surprise us.” Looking back at Grogan, he added, “I don’t he’d have stopped with Sinaga.”
“You realize that they’ll know precisely where we are,” Grogan said. “We know that he wasn’t working alone, and as soon as he fails to report, they’ll send reinforcements. They can’t afford to leave any of us alive.” Looking around, she added, “And we’re far enough from the usual traffic that it could be hours before anyone finds us.”
“All true,” Romano replied. “Which just means that we’re going to have to handle this on our own. Commander, are the surveillance cameras working?”
“Everything’s being recorded for history, Lieutenant,” she replied. “Now get in here right away, before their reinforcements arrive.”
Nodding, he followed Grogan and Sinaga into the barracks, Kirkland rolling a heavy trolley into position, toppling it at the entrance to the room to block the door open. She and Grogan had been busy in the last hour, a pair of sniper rifles positioned to cover the corridor, placed carefully to allow the gunners to fire without exposing themselves to enemy fire. It was rough and ready, but it had to be enough. Grogan ripped a medical kit from the wall, pulling it open to snatch a bandage, carefully putting it into position on Sinaga’s face.
“Keep still,” she said, before turning to Romano. “Pistol butt?”
“You did that?” Kirkland asked. “I...”
“It was my idea,” Sinaga said. “I thought it best to look as though I was being coerced, and that it had to be as convincing as possible. Nothing is broken.” He paused, then said, “Am I to be permitted to defend myself?”
“I don’t think we’re quite ready to go that far, Captain,” Kirkland said. “You can monitor the surveillance gear. I’ve got pickups set to cover every corridor. Not the maintenance shafts, though. I ran out of time.”
“They’d be able to cut them, anyway,” Grogan said, sliding into position behind the nearest rifle. “You know how to handle one of these, Lieutenant?”
“I think so,” he replied, settling into position behind the other. “Sights set?”
“I checked them myself. You’re ready to go. And we’ll get a record from their camera pickups, as well, just for a little insurance.” Glancing at her watch, Grogan said, “They won’t wait around for long. I’d say we’re going to have some company in a little while.” Looking around, she said, “And there’s damn all we can do about it until they get here, so you might as well sit back and relax.”
“Relax?” Kirkland asked.
“No point dying all tensed up.”
Chapter 18
Tanaka sat cross legged on the deck, looking down at the datapad placed before him, the image flashing through projections of the coming battle. He’d scrolled through the simulations for a hundred times, to the point that they were washing through him, that he could predict every move. He reached down with a finger to turn off the display. If he’d reached the point that he was going through the battle by rote, then he’d gone too far.
All around him, the rest of the squadron attempted to occupy their time as best they could. This was the worst part of war. Waiting. Knowing that in a matter of moments, he’d be placing his life on the line once more, and that whether or not he survived would be determined by a cosmic roll of the dice. The death of Mendez had been illuminating on that score. No skill, no action on her part could have saved her life. She was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.
The pilots were different now than they had been before the last battle. Then they had rejoiced in the ignorance of inexperience, most of them raring to go, desperate to enter their first firefight. Some of the loudest had failed to return, and exuberance was replaced with grim determination. It might be different later on, should the fighting grow worse. He could already, in his mind’s eye, see the pilots fall, one by one, replacements coming into the line to take the place of the dead. Until perhaps every member of the squadron might be a newcomer, and yet the squadron itself remaining much the same.
He’d flown more combat missions than he could remember, but none of them had ever been like this. More usually they had been simple escort duty, flying alongside a covert transport as it smuggled black market goods from world to world, nation to nation. Items that the customs patrols would not have approved of, had they known of their existence. There had been the occasional strike mission, taking out the facility of a rival syndicate, the only time he had worked with more than a single wingman.
Nothing like this, though. This was a full fleet action, or as close as they were likely to get, eighteen fighters working together to take on a superior force, in the
desperate hope that they might pick their way through the debris field in time to destroy the enemy before they could react. The simulation results had not been promising, but as far as he was concerned, their backup plan was still less so. Nevertheless, they had little choice but to try. Not unless they wanted to face even greater odds. He looked at his fighter, slender and sleek, the deck gang carefully mounting her armament under the winglets, two missiles designed specifically for the enemy they were up against.
“Five minutes!” Chief Wong said. “Five minutes, people. Mount up.”
Tanaka rose, snatching his datapad from the deck as he walked slowly towards his fighter, the technicians stepping clear as he climbed into the cockpit. His flight helmet was waiting for him, and he carefully slid it on as he settled on the couch, the canopy locking down, lights winking as the final stages of the pre-flight sequence began. The engineers had done their job perfectly. Almost too perfectly. He had nothing to do, except to wait for the word to launch.
“All fighters, log status,” he ordered, watching as the telemetry channels winked on. He’d almost forgotten that he was commanding the squadron now. Flynn was riding with the bombers, taking Benedetti’s second seat, running the battle from the rear. He glanced at the readout, then said, “Estrada, what’s the holdup?”
“Malfunction,” the young pilot replied.
“Where, Ensign?”
“Communications circuit, ah, C-Niner.”
“Try the auxiliary,” Wong said, cutting into the channel. “E-Four. That should work. We don’t have time for a full strip-down.” There was a pause, and he added, “Looks like an intermittent problem. It’s just the telemetry channel, Lieutenant. If you’re willing to let him fly without, his fighter is still good to go.”
“Everything else is working fine, Lieutenant,” Estrada said.
“Fine,” Tanaka replied. “Sign him off on my authority, Chief. Anything else?”
“The rest of the squadron looks good,” Wong said. “All systems green. We’re two minutes, forty seconds from arrival. Good hunting, everyone.”
Tapping a control, Tanaka said, “Leader to squadron. Listen up, and listen good. You all know the mission, and you all know what we have to do. Our job is simple. We keep the enemy off the backs of the bomber squadron for long enough for them to release their payloads, then race for home. Take your time getting through the debris field. I need all of you at the target, and if it takes a little longer, then it just takes a little longer. Watch your proximity sensors, and keep a light finger on your thrusters. And if in doubt, follow me through the field.” He paused, then added, “You’ve all seen battle now, and you all know what it means. Remember your training, trust your instincts, and we will be victorious. Good hunting.”
He turned off the communicator with a click, listening for a second to the squadron channel. None of the usual chatter. Everyone focused on the mission. He glanced across to the monitor covering Benedetti’s bombers, all ready to launch right behind them. Slow and lumbering, he still marveled that her pilots were willing to chance the debris field, knowing that they would find it a hundred times harder to forge a safe path than the interceptors. Another problem. Either his squadron would have to leave their escorts behind, or they’d be stuck at reduced acceleration, giving the enemy more time to prepare their assault.
“I’m not going to do it,” he muttered to himself. “We’re a decoy. That’s all we are. That’s not something any of these kids deserve to die for. We’ll push as deep as we dare, but I’m doing nothing more.”
“What was that?” Wong said. “I didn’t quite catch it.”
“You still listening out, Chief?” Tanaka asked.
“Force of habit. I always like to listen when my birds leave the nest, especially for the first time.” He paused, then added, “You’ll do fine, Lieutenant. You’ve got what it takes. Just remember that the ship and the mission come first. Everyone flying with you today is a volunteer. You couldn’t hold them back if you tried.”
“None of them really knew what they were signing up for.”
“Then call the mission off,” he replied. “You’re the squadron commander. You can call an abort, right now. You’ll have to answer to Commander Flynn and Captain Forrest, but that’s for tomorrow. For today, you’d save their lives. And condemn hundreds of millions of people to servitude and slavery. That’s the choice you’re making today. And you are making a choice.” He paused, and said, “I know you’ve got a lot of flying experience. Not much command experience, though.”
“No.”
“It probably wasn’t fair to send you into the fire on a mission like this, but life isn’t fair. This is your squadron, your mission, and your command. You know what you have to do, Lieutenant, and you know what your people are capable of. That’s the most important thing. We break hyperspace in thirty seconds. Lieutenant Fox is going to be asking for your flight status. What do you want me to tell her?”
For a long moment, Tanaka paused, then said, “We’re cleared for immediate launch.”
“Attaboy. Give ‘em hell, Lieutenant. And good hunting.”
“Roger that,” he replied. “Will do.”
He sat back in his couch, running one final check over the launch systems, waiting for the word to come down from the bridge. Finally, he felt a queasy sensation, and the sensors burst into life, data feeds streaming into his tactical systems as they got their first look at the system ahead. Everything was just as advertised, a cluster of six ships huddled deep in the debris field between the two slowly rotating asteroids, with two more monitors on patrol at the perimeter.
More contacts appeared as the sensors resolved. A fighter squadron, ten planes in all, heading right for them. Something they should have seen coming. Under normal circumstances, they’d have been held back, but evidently the Guilders had little regard for the life of their pilots, were willing to throw them away to disrupt the coming assault. He spotted two more clusters on the far side of the rocks, and a pair of ships that had to be tankers, burning for all they were worth to clear the battlespace.
They’d kept them out there long enough to require on-orbit refueling. He looked around the cabin, and grimaced. He’d once spent twelve hours in a cockpit, and that had been one of the more uncomfortable experiences of his life. If his guess was right, those pilots might have been locked in their fighters for far longer than that. Their edge would have been well and truly blunted. An advantage his pilots could exploit to the full.
Suddenly, seeing the battlespace, everything snapped into place in his head. He could see his fighters sweeping through the sky, seeking out their targets and winning the victory they needed. It was almost as though it had already happened, somewhere deep inside. Now, he was eager to go, ready to get the mission underway, and his hand inched towards the launch control, waiting for the orders from the bridge.
“Lincoln Actual to Tanaka. Report status?”
“Ready to go, Captain, as soon as you give the word.”
“Consider it given, Lieutenant, and good luck.”
The force of the magnetic catapult hurled him back into his seat as he raced into the void, half the squadron launching in the first wave, the remainder following a few seconds later. The bombers were third, moving into position behind him, and Tanaka eased his throttle forward. He looked at the attack vector, a smile on his face as a plan formed in his mind.
“Actual, Flynn, this is Tanaka. If we go full-burn, we can get past those fighters and into the debris field. If I leave three fighters behind as cover, can Lincoln handle them?”
“Good idea, Lieutenant,” Flynn replied. “I approve.”
“That’s affirmative, Lieutenant,” Forrest added. “Proceed with the mission. We’ll handle the home front. Get moving.”
Throwing a switch, he said, “Armstrong, I want you and two others to hang back to deal with the enemy fighters. Sta
y inside the carrier’s defensive arc. The rest of us go full-burn into the debris field, but cut your acceleration way down as soon as we get inside.”
“I don’t know if we can handle ten fighters on our own,” Armstrong protested.
“Not likely you’ll have to, Lieutenant. They’ll probably split their formation. At any rate it’ll even the odds a little. All fighters, proceed as ordered. Estrada, come onto my wing.”
“Roger, Leader,” Estrada replied. “Moving up.”
Armstrong and her two chosen pilots curled away, moving back towards the carrier, while Tanaka pressed forward, his afterburners now full-open, roaring towards the debris field. He kept his eyes on the fighter formation, knowing that the enemy commander had a difficult decision to make. He made the wrong one, six of his fighters continuing towards Lincoln while the rest stayed on Tanaka’s tail. A smile spread across his face. Lincoln could weather the coming storm, and now he had a free ride all the way to the enemy fleet.
Reaching for the short-range sensors, he started to probe the field, millions of pieces of debris flying around, their courses complicated enough that his navigational computer flashed warning lights, the data inputs threatening to overload the system. He hunted around, trying to find a way in.
There. A little to port. A path that would get them at least a third of the way through. From there he could burrow deeper, refine his trajectory. Taking a deep breath, he sent the course computation to the rest of the squadron, and tapped the control to commit to the flight path. For better or for worse, they were on their way.
Chapter 19
“Fighters incoming, standard approach pattern, turrets ranging,” Fox reported.
“So much for giving our gunnery crews an easy battle,” Singh said, leaning over his station. “They’re flying right down the manual, Captain. I’d say we’re dealing with some pretty green pilots out there.”
“Good,” Forrest replied. “Damned good. If you’re right. Don’t count on it. A smart attack commander will try and trick us, fool us into playing the game his way. I have no intention of letting him get away with it. Have Armstrong move into defensive pattern. It’s more important not to let them get a single damned shot home than to shoot those fighters down.”
Never In Vain (Lincoln's War Book 2) Page 15