“Well, nobody’s crashed into anything, which isn’t bad for a first hop. By the way, my mission chrono’s acting flaky, Red Leader. It’s telling me we’ve been out here for an hour fifty-three. What’s yours say?”
Wedge glanced at his console. “Hour fifty-eight.”
“Ah. See you at home, then.”
Wedge wondered why Janson sounded amused. Two minutes later, he sniffed the air in the cockpit curiously. Then he sniffed himself.
“Nothing, Arfive. Smells bad in here is all. Almost like…oh no. No no no.”
That was tauntaun musk he smelled, and it was getting worse. Wedge fumbled under the console, searching for Janson’s little device, the one intended for Hobbie’s X-wing.
R5-G8 squealed in alarm.
“Yes, it’s a contaminant. No, it isn’t dangerous. No, Arfive. Do not open the cockpit to vacuum. Yes, I am sure. In fact, this is the least ambiguous order I have ever issued.”
Wedge suspected the two hours back to the rebel fleet might be the longest of his life. On the other hand, when they were over, he’d get to throttle Wes Janson.
* * *
—
But his anger drained away when he climbed down from his cockpit to find all eleven pilots waiting for him—variously applauding, holding their noses, or grimacing comically. They were all there, brought together courtesy of the twisted mind of Wes Janson.
Kott was the only one who didn’t seem amused. As the group broke up, Wedge inclined his head for her to follow him.
“What’s wrong, Red Three?” he asked, reaching into his pocket to touch the dispenser he’d found affixed to the underside of his flight console.
“Why play pranks?” Kott asked. “They endanger the mission.”
“When going into combat, sure. And if Janson did that, I’d throw him in the brig. But he wouldn’t have. He knew the operational phase of the mission would be complete by the time his little present unwrapped itself.”
“But something can always go wrong. Why introduce a new risk?”
“Because there are other risks. Such as falling into a routine. You get used to being behind the stick, so you get complacent, and then you get killed. Pranks force you to look over your shoulder, and that might be the thing that keeps you alive. Make sense?”
“Maybe. I need to think about it.”
“Fair enough. But I’m giving you a demerit for making me defend Wes while I smell like I came out of a garbage masher.”
“Demerit accepted,” Kott said, and actually smiled.
* * *
—
“Looks like they’re using an old asteroid mining station as a base,” the Contessa said.
“That’s what I thought, too,” Wedge said, looking down at the intel from his recon mission. “I count six fighters and gunboats on the ground.”
“There might be others,” the Contessa pointed out. “See this shadow and scarring? Could be an interior hangar, doubling as a ready room.”
“We’ll rig proton torpedoes. If visual scanning confirms, we hit it. I’m more worried about all these craft IDs. Besides the bandits on the asteroid, I counted fifteen ships in the area. That’s a lot for a brand-new squadron, and we don’t know what else they might have.”
“So what do you propose?”
“I dropped sensor buoys. I’d say give them two days to record comings and goings, so we can get a better confidence interval on the enemy’s strength. But you’re going to tell me I don’t have two days.”
“None of us do,” a woman said.
Mon Mothma was standing in the doorway. As always, the Alliance chancellor looked calm, and her white robes were clean and crisp. But he also saw the hollows below her eyes.
“Madame Chancellor,” he said, coming to attention and wondering if that was the proper form of address. And was he supposed to salute?
“No need for all that,” Mothma said. “What have you found?”
Wedge stepped back so she could look down at the datapad, listening as the Contessa went over what they’d discovered.
“Any hyperspace wakes?” Mothma asked. “Where are these pirates coming from and where are they going?”
Wedge called up the relevant parsecs of space.
“Their origin is probably the Vosch Cluster, here. They’ve blazed a hyperspace lane to the trade worlds around Caldra Prime and Caldra Tertius. We’re right here in the middle.”
Mothma nodded. “The Vosch worlds were always poor, and then their economies were hammered by the Clone Wars. I helped craft a relief bill in the Republic, but it got voted down—and of course the Emperor never cared. Little wonder they’ve turned to piracy. If our scouts had spotted the pirate traffic, we would have chosen a different rendezvous point. Bad luck, when we didn’t exactly have a shortage. What do you think, Commander Antilles? Can your squadron destroy them?”
“Yes,” Wedge said after a moment, but Mothma had heard the hesitation in his voice. “It would be a straightforward mission for an experienced squadron. But we’re not an experienced squadron. A lot could go wrong. And even if it doesn’t, we’ll lose pilots.”
“Because your squadron isn’t ready.” Mothma said. “That’s a statement of fact, Commander, not a criticism. ‘Miracle worker’ isn’t part of your job classification.”
“No, they’re not,” Wedge admitted.
“Then we should jump,” Mothma said, her lips a tight, thin line.
“Chancellor, don’t give that order,” Wedge said. “Luke will find us. The princess will find us. I’d never bet against either of them.”
“The risk is too great,” Mothma said, and Wedge could hear the pain in her voice.
“This entire rebellion is a risk that’s too great, yet here we are. One day. Give me just one day.”
“And how will one day make a difference?”
“It’ll give us sensor data from the buoys, and an attack plan to test in the simulator. If my squadron can’t destroy the pirate nest tomorrow, we jump.”
“But you’ll still lose pilots,” Mothma said.
“I will. But my pilots knew that the day they signed on, Chancellor. It didn’t stop them. It can’t stop us.”
Mothma looked from Wedge to the Contessa, then nodded gravely. “Then may the Force be with you, Commander.”
* * *
—
Few pilots liked simulator training, considering it a criticism of their flying abilities. But Red Squadron assembled on time, with minimal grumbling. Even the rookies guessed that the frantic pace of preparations meant imminent action.
“At ease,” Wedge said. “The pirates have compromised our security at a time when we’re still waiting for high-value Alliance personnel to arrive. That gives us two alternatives. The first is we jump to the backup muster point and hope the missing can find us. The second is we destroy the pirates.”
Zowlie was staring at him eagerly, while Frix and Tarheel had their arms crossed. Kott was chewing her fingernails, eyes wide.
“We’ve chosen to destroy them,” he said, to nods and murmurs of approval. “Tomorrow at oh-eight-hundred.”
Elar and Scotian exchanged a quick glance.
“These mission parameters aren’t ideal,” he said. “But nothing is right now. It’s our job to give the chancellor some breathing room so she can fix that.”
He paused, giving the pilots a chance for objections. But they stayed quiet.
“We’re going to sim a pincer maneuver,” he said. “Two flights of three birds coming from each direction, converging on their base. Our mission objective is straightforward: total destruction.”
* * *
—
When the Contessa found Wedge, the weary members of Red Squadron had departed for their quarters, leaving the tactical suite empty—except for one tank tumbling wildly on
its gimbals, from which muffled yells could be heard.
“I thought the exercise was over,” the Contessa said.
“I asked Janson to run a quick additional sim.”
“With what mission objective?”
“The parameters changed mid-exercise,” Wedge said. “Now the goal is to see if Wes can locate and deactivate an aerosol dispenser emitting tauntaun musk while experiencing heavy g forces.”
The Contessa just blinked at him before turning away.
“Pilots,” she muttered.
“Anyway, let’s leave Wes to it,” Wedge said. “You were watching the exercise?”
“I was. You’ve picked good flight leaders, and your plan is sound. My advice? Talk a lot. Keep the rookies listening to you and watching what’s around them. Once the blood starts pumping, they’ll lose situational awareness, and tunnel vision will kill them.”
Wedge nodded. “I will. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. And you’ve earned something else, Red Leader.”
Wedge cocked his head at her.
“I come from a world you’ve never heard of,” the Contessa said. “My family ruled it for centuries. I’d like to think we were benevolent rulers, but our word was still law. When the Empire sent an ambassador, we refused her and thought that would be the end of it. Five years later everyone in my family was dead and our subjects who’d greeted the Empire as liberators were enslaved. I no longer use my birth name, but I still call myself the Contessa. It’s to remind me of everything I thought would protect me and didn’t.”
She put her hand on Wedge’s shoulder. “We all have something like that, Commander. Remember it’s no better than a charm around your neck, or crossing your fingers. Protect your people, pick your targets wisely, and hit them hard. It’s all you can do.”
* * *
—
Wedge’s X-wing came out of hyperspace with a bump and a squeal from R5-G8. A moment later the starfighters flown by Sila Kott and Tomer Darpen arrived to port and starboard—in perfect formation, he noted.
“All wings report in,” Wedge said.
The pilots ran through their call signs, from Keyser Salm (Red Two) to Cinda Tarheel (Red Twelve). Zowlie was breathing so hard that his words dissolved into static.
“Red Nine, take five deep breaths,” Wedge said. “Better. Now stick with your flight leader.”
“Copy that, Red Leader. Deep breaths!”
“Red Eight, we’ll make the target run,” Wedge told Scotian. “Cover us.”
That was the plan they’d simmed—his flight and Janson’s would hit the targets on the landing field, with Scotian’s and Elar’s flights running interference. But he knew plans only survived until the first laser blast.
“Ix, Cinda, tighten up,” said Scotian. “Keep them off Red Leader’s back.”
“Landing field’s locked in,” Wedge said. “Watch your vectors—Wes’s and Bela’s flights will be coming in at twelve o’clock. Stay out of their flight path.”
An alert buzzed in his ears.
“Commander,” said Kott. “Three bandits at point two-seven. Looks like Z-95 Headhunters.”
“I see them—stay on target. Scotian? Engage.”
Laserfire flashed around him, the brightness making him blink before his viewport dimmed to compensate. Kott’s X-wing bucked and swerved to port.
“Stay with me, Sila,” Wedge said. “Red Eleven, any signs of a hangar on the landing field?”
“Too far out to tell,” Janson replied. “But torpedoes are armed.”
“Red Leader, multiple bandits incoming from below,” Scotian warned.
A Z-95 shot past Wedge’s bow, followed by an ungainly fighter cobbled together from patchwork parts. Wedge banked smoothly away from them, peppering the pirates with laserfire to keep them honest, then swung back onto his approach vector.
“Stick with your wings,” he said. “Engage, but don’t get lured away. Sila, Tomer, on me.”
Within another minute the engagement had devolved into a brawl, with pilots talking over one another and space lit up with explosions. Wedge tried to make sense of the alerts and shouted warnings, then gave up—as with any dogfight, there was too much to track. All he could do was talk to his own wings and rely on the other flight leaders to do the same.
His screen flared crimson, warning of a weapons lock. Wedge rolled to starboard, throttled back his engines, and then snapped his fighter back to port. The pirate who’d been chasing Wedge found himself dead in his sights instead, and a moment later Wedge flew through the bright cloud that was all that remained of him.
“I got one, I got one!” yelled Zowlie. “Gonna take out his buddy!”
“Penn, maintain formation,” warned Elar. “Get back here now.”
“Almost there,” Zowlie said, and Wedge could hear his excitement. “Oh! Wait—”
“We lost Penn,” Elar said. “Grizz, do not engage. Stay with me.”
“Stay focused,” Wedge said. “Wes, time to target?”
“Thirty seconds,” said Janson, and Wedge heard the strain in his voice. “We lost Red Ten.”
“Red Six KIA,” Scotian said grimly.
Red Ten was Barlon Hightower. Red Six was Ix Ixstra. Wedge forced himself not to think of their faces.
Flashes dotted the asteroids. Wedge spun his X-wing through a corkscrew turn, throwing off a bandit’s aged interceptor. A moment later Darpen’s laser cannons reduced the pirate to scrap.
“Nice shooting, Red Seven,” Wedge said.
“Red Leader, positive ID on the hangar—and lots of scurrying around on that landing field,” said Janson. “Torpedoes locked. Watch my six, Salm—it’s a lot of demerits if you get your flight leader killed.”
“I’ve got you, boss,” said Salm.
“Sila, down!” Wedge yelled.
Wedge spun out of the path of an onrushing Nighthawk fighter, juking to port and then catching the craft amidships with a barrage of laserfire. He could hear Kott’s breaths coming short and fast over the comm.
“You’re okay, Red Three,” he said. “We’re almost there. Wes?”
“Torpedoes away,” Janson said. “Bela, get me a damage assessment.”
“Hangar’s a crater. But looks like one bandit got out. Some kind of modified freighter—and her engines are hot.”
“We can’t let that bandit jump,” Wedge said. “Sila, Tomer—full throttle and follow me.”
Acceleration pressed him back into the pilot’s seat, briefly dimming his vision as his X-wing shot forward. He kept his hand steady on the control yoke, knowing his body would adjust and the disorientation would pass. Kott’s and Darpen’s X-wings hurtled along behind his.
R5-G8 shrilled an alert—a minute to target.
Wedge’s eyes flicked to his sensors. The pirate mothership was definitely some kind of modified freighter. His lasers would take it apart—provided it didn’t have a course locked in that allowed it to make a quick jump to hyperspace.
“Commander, incoming,” Darpen warned, and a moment later Wedge’s X-wing was kicked sideways by an impact. Two starfighters streaked past in front of him, R5-G8 squealed in indignation, and red lights lit up across the console.
“Arfive, patch the starboard deflectors,” he ordered.
Thirty seconds to target.
Darpen had barrel-rolled his X-wing to chase down one of the fighters, but where was the other one?
An alarm wailed—it was behind him, in the kill zone.
Wedge juked the X-wing left, right, and then left again, lasers sizzling past his cockpit.
“Sila?”
“On it, Commander,” Kott said, but her voice quavered.
Wedge kept dodging and weaving, but he had to stick close to his trajectory or risk missing his shot at the freighter. Another hit ratt
led his starfighter.
Ten seconds.
“Sila! Take the shot!”
Five seconds.
Wedge forced himself to keep the X-wing steady. The starfighter’s sensors blared a warning—his pursuer had a lock. Wedge felt the hair rise on the back of his neck.
His targeting computer flashed red and he mashed down the trigger, sending bolts of destructive energy hurtling toward the pirate mothership. At the same moment his X-wing bucked and he heard a roar in his ears.
Then all was still.
Was he dead? He closed his eyes experimentally. It felt about the same.
“Great shooting, Red Leader,” said Janson. “You too, Kott.”
Wedge opened his eyes and saw nothing but stars ahead of him. His targeting indicator blinked—the freighter had been destroyed.
“Still with us, Commander?” asked Kott.
“Thanks to you,” Wedge said, then switched to a private channel. “You all right, Sila?”
“No,” Kott said. “But I will be.”
Which struck Wedge as both halves of the right answer.
* * *
—
Nine X-wings returned to Home One. The Contessa was waiting in the hangar, next to the chancellor. When the pilots recognized the slim figure in white, they stopped chattering and got into line, without Wedge or Janson having to give an order.
“We will mourn those we’ve lost,” said Mothma. “I will always be grateful to them for their sacrifice, as I will always be grateful to you. Your bravery has given us something precious in wartime—time. To gather those who have yet to find us. To recoup our strength. And to ensure that those we’ve lost will not have died in vain.”
Mothma walked among the pilots, taking a moment with each of them. She spoke quietly with Kott, who listened intently and then nodded repeatedly, and reached Wedge and Janson last.
“You and your pilots have done far more than anyone could have fairly asked of you. Thank you. And now please get some rest.”
Wedge had been trying to think of something to say, but found himself too tired to form words. Janson had no such difficulties, though.
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