By his best guess, he had about thirty seconds until impact. Thirty seconds to get an inoperable X-wing started . . . assuming it could be.
And he couldn't participate in the start-up. Only Thirteen, his R2 unit, could reach the damage.
He switched on his helmet comlink, heard the hiss indicating that the interference from the relay dish was still in effect, heard fuzzy voices of the pilots involved in the fight. With his left heel, he yanked at a small, innocuous tab extending from the cockpit hull by his foot. "Thirteen, can you hear me?"
The astromech responded with a whistle.
"Can you get at the damage? Can you bring us on-line?"
Thirteen's next whistle was a low, mournful one.
Kell's tub popped out a short metallic bar. With his foot, he began pumping it, manually generating the current necessary for an emergency deployment of his landing gear. "Are you sure? Not even one engine?"
Thirteen's answer was the same, a sad trill.
Kell heard the landing gear pop open and into place. But there was no power-up of the repulsorlift landing engine, not even its emergency backup power. "Repulsorlifts?"
Again, the low tones of a negative answer.
"Wraith Five to Narra. Can you get me? Repeat, Five going down. Can you grab me?"
No answer. Kell's helmet comlink didn't have the range of his fighter's comm unit, didn't have enough power to pierce the interference from the dish.
Kell counted the seconds as the ground came closer and felt a heaviness settle on his chest. He turned to look through his aft viewport at his astromech; the R2 unit regarded him steadily. "I'm going to go now, Thirteen. Thanks for everything."
A trill of good-bye. Then Kell faced forward and yanked the handle for his ejection seat.
The explosive bolts in his canopy blew, sending it up ahead of him, and the thruster under his seat fired off. He felt a blow to his rear as he was launched up and away, momentarily defying the moon's weak gravity. The pressure sensor in his suit registered the sudden drop in atmosphere and activated the small personal magcon field that would protect his body from vacuum exposure.
He watched his fighter speed away ahead, locked in its fatal descent.
He felt almost as though he were losing a fellow pilot. He'd never known, no one seemed to know, just how alive droids were, just how much of their behavior was programming and how much was true personality.
His X-wing hit the far lip of an impact crater and instantly became flattened garbage and flying shrapnel. It did not explode.
Coldness gripped at Kell as his body heat fled his inadequately insulated pilot's suit and the magnetic containment field around it. But for the long moments while he still rose on that rocket thrust, he had an incredible vista of the flaring lasers and bright explosions of the fighter battle before him, of the battle-scarred Star Destroyer beyond.
Wedge's sensors officer said, "Implacable's silhouette is expanding."
Wedge gave the officer a puzzled look. "How again?"
"She's falling, sir."
"Sithspit! Tell Wraiths Three and Four to get out of there." Wedge pulled back on the control yoke, leaning Night Caller over at a steep backward angle that, if it continued, would result in the corvette's crash. "Cut the tractor, now."
A moment later Night Caller lurched upward, accelerating smoothly but slowly at an angle that would carry it out from under the Star Destroyer. "Drop all shields. Put everything into thruster power."
"Yes, sir!"
The corvette's rate of speed increased.
So did Implacable's rate of descent.
Grinder's last proton torpedo vaporized more mass of the Star Destroyer's increasingly widening power center.
The illumination from that blast also showed Falynn something else.
"She's dropping!" Falynn inverted her TIE fighter, goosed the thrusters—but before she could dive something hit her from the rear. Her ion engines fired, but the thrust merely made her swing to starboard, then back again, and to starboard once more.
She swore. Her starboard solar wing array was hung up on something flexible. "Grinder, get out of here."
"Not without you."
"You moron, if you don't get clear of the way out, I can't get out. Go!"
She watched as, dozens of meters below, the silhouette of Grinder's X-wing rotated, then its thrusters lit off, pushing the snubfighter down toward the way out.
She waited until she was lined up again with the hole in the keel, then she brought her engine thrust up to full power.
She swung to starboard, hit a bulkhead hard, and swung back again.
This time, her front viewport was starred with cracks.
As Grinder shot through the hole, his starboard laser cannon clipped a piece of wreckage. His X-wing tumbled, uncontrolled, as it exited.
The Bothan struggled with his stick and brought his fighter back in line.
The instant he was back in control, one of Implacable's turbolaser blasts washed across him, engulfing him cleanly.
When the beam faded, Grinder was gone.
Janson saw Implacable's blast hit Wraith Four.
Janson climbed, firing. His first shot pinged the turbo-laser turret. It rotated to target him— And Piggy's shot punctured it, the Gamorrean's linked blast hulling the turret. The emplacement went still, its lights ' dead.
Janson sent his X-wing into a tight, irregular circle around the hole in Implacable's keel. "Gray Two, this is Gray Three. Do you read?"
"I'm here."
"Get out of there. Implacable is falling."
"I'm hung up. Get clear."
"I'm coming in."
"You can't do anything. If I see your profile, I'll fire on you, sir. I promise."
"Dammit, Falynn—"
A bracket of laser fire suddenly erupted from the hole in the keel, burning four neat holes in the lunar surface.
Janson bit back a curse and rolled away from Implacable's underside. Piggy followed, mercifully silent.
As Implacable descended, throwing off escape pods by the score, she broadcast one last message. The voice was female, but as distorted as if it had come through a New Republic fighter comm system. "Attention, New Republic forces. The pilots of the three Interceptors who launched one minute ago included Admiral Trigit. If you want him, that's where you'll find him."
The Star Destroyer fell at what looked like a leisurely pace—an illusion fostered by its great size and by the moon's four-tenths gravity. The Wraiths not actively engaged in combat kept their desperate attention on the gap in the hull, waiting for one last TIE fighter to emerge.
It didn't.
Night Caller shot from beneath the descending capital ship like a bar of soap squirting from under a foot, its stern engine array missing the Imperial vessel by a few tens of meters.
Implacable hit stern first, its great mass causing the stern to shatter and deform as it settled. Whole bulkheads and sections of keel blew out the sides and top surface of the Star Destroyer as the ship's atmosphere suddenly compressed.
Even before the bow came down, the vessel's stern detonated, her fuel cells all igniting in an instant. Implacable's command pylon leaped up as if it were a separate ship, suddenly separating for a desperate flight to safety. But it, too, disintegrated as it rose and was consumed by the growing fireball beneath it.
The ship broke at its midsection, its bow spinning almost gracefully before it set down on the crater-pocked surface of the moon.
The Wraiths heard a cry over their comm systems. Wedge and Janson had heard it once before, on the tape of Donos's one and only Talon Squadron mission, the sound of Donos's pain as he realized his squadron was gone.
Wedge rolled Night Caller upright. "Divert—" His throat shut down over his voice. Grinder, Falynn dead within seconds of one another. "Divert all guns to fire on the TIE fighters. Weapons, resume control of my turbolaser. Communications, give me the enemy's starfighter channel and our channel both."
"You're ready t
o go, sir."
"Attention, forces of the Implacable. This is Commander Wedge Antilles of New Republic Starfighter Command. Recommend you break off hostilities now."
He got an answer instantly. "Antilles, are you demanding surrender?"
"Negative. Here's the deal. You break off hostilities, we do, too. Go wherever you care to. We've won this round. Neither one of us gains from continuing this battle."
"Not correct. You die, we gain. Prepare to eat vacuum."
Then a new voice, words spoken with biting precision. "Captain, accept the commander's offer."
Wedge went cold. He knew that voice.
The captain's voice returned. "You're only an observer here. You don't issue orders to—" Then a scream.
Face's voice: "Sithspit, he's vaped his own man."
The precise voice returned. "I apologize. A slight question of chain of command. Commander, you have a deal. All Implacable forces, break off now. Come to heading two-seventy."
Wedge said, "All New Republic forces, break off combat. Form up on Night Caller. If you consider yourself in good shape and have sufficient fuel, fly by on downed fighters and escape pods to report their condition." He drew his finger over his throat and the comm officer cut the wide-channel transmission.
Wedge's weapons officer stared wide-eyed. "You looked like you knew him."
"You might say that. That was Baron Soontir Fel."
The officer paled and returned his attention to his weapons board. Baron Fel, since the death of Darth Vader, was accounted the best Imperial pilot living, and his elite 181st Imperial Fighter Group was the most accomplished fighter unit the Empire could field.
What was he doing as an observer on Admiral Trigit's ship?
On the sensor board, most of the dots obeyed the orders of their respective commanders.
Five dots did not. Three reds headed away from Ession's moon on a straight, out-system course. Two blues pursued. The sensors identified the faster one as Blue Leader, the slower as Wraith Nine.
Squeaky drew Kell in through Narra's emergency airlock. "So glad you are among the living, Tainer. Now that I have you trained to proper manners, I would hate to lose you."
Kell shivered uncontrollably and ignored the 3PO unit. Atril, herself swathed in a blanket, threw another one across his shoulders. Phanan was lying on one of the passenger couches, a blanket over him, his face pallid, but he managed a faint smile for Kell. Squeaky returned to Phanan's side.
"We lost Grinder and Falynn," Atril said.
Kell sat beside her. "Tyria?"
"She's not hurt."
Kell relaxed. He tried to sort out his thoughts, his feelings. Relief about Tyria. Sadness for the loss of Falynn, Grinder, and Thirteen. And an odd sort of jubilation at the loss of a part of himself. He knew that something in him had died and he did not miss it.
"Kell."
"Yeah, Cubber."
"Night Caller sends you congratulations. They say this combat was like your first simulator run with the Wraiths."
Kell blinked at him, confused. "Runt gets all my points?"
"No, stupid. One mission, five kills, instant ace. Congratulations."
"Oh."
Cubber snorted. "Much more behavior like that and I'm going to doubt your dedication to the mechanic's profession, boy." He turned back toward his controls. "Narra lifting. More packages to pick up."
"Leader to Wraith Nine."
Donos sat stiffly, his whole body cold, his hand holding the control stick in a death grip.
"Leader to Wraith Nine."
"Nine here."
"Report your condition."
Falynn is dead. I don't have a condition. "I'm functional." Automatically, Donos checked his fuel reading, his weapons and shield status. All in the green. He had several more minutes worth of dogfighting power available to him.
Three enemies and one ally ahead.
Commander Antilles probably meant his mental condition.
He'd almost gone away again when he heard Falynn die. But he hadn't. He knew the Wraiths wouldn't let him stay gone.
Best just to keep moving and kill the man who'd killed her. The man who'd killed Talon Squad. "I'm in pursuit of three enemies who are not part of the pacified force."
"If they surrender, you're obliged to accept it."
"If." Donos was silent a long moment. "Please instruct that A-wing ahead of me not to vape Trigit. That's my job."
A new voice came over the comm. "Commander Antilles doesn't instruct a general to do a damned thing, Wraith Nine."
"Recommend you not get between Trigit and my lasers, General."
"On any other day I'd consider that a threat, sonny. For now, I recommend you just shut up. Blue Leader out."
Donos shut up. Nothing the general could do to him worried him. He just didn't feel like spending energy on an argument.
Donos watched the sensors as General Crespin gained on the interceptor flight. They weren't flying as fast as true Interceptors; the personal vehicles of an Imperial admiral and his favorite bodyguards, they were probably loaded down with hyperdrives and even shielding systems, and that weight would count against them. Even Donos's X-wing, slower than a standard Interceptor, was gaining steadily on these three.
A few more minutes and they'd be far enough from Ession's gravity well to enter hyperspace. But maybe the general was canny enough to stop them.
When the sensor screen showed three klicks distance between the A-wing and the interceptors, Donos's comm board lit up with a cross-frequency transmission. "Blue Leader to outbound interceptors. This is General Edor Crespin. I'm giving you this opportunity to surrender."
The reply came in a dry voice: "Thank you, Blue Leader. I notice a certain disparity in our numbers, though. Perhaps you'd better go home."
Donos heard no reply from Crespin. That exchange had been enough for both leaders.
Moments later, when the range meter showed two kilometers between the Interceptors and General Crespin, Donos saw the Interceptor group change formation. The starboard TIE dropped back and fell into position immediately behind the center one. The port TIE rolled out and turned back toward the A-wing.
Why? Then Donos knew what had happened. General Crespin had gotten a laser lock on Trigit's craft. One Interceptor had moved in the way of the general's lasers. The other was going back to destroy the A-wing ... or die trying.
For once, Donos prayed for the success of an A-wing pilot. "Gadget, can we put anything else on acceleration?"
NO.
Donos began rocking in his seat, forward and back, as though the action would coax just a little more acceleration out of the X-wing.
On screen, the rearmost red dot and the blue closed on a head-to-head course.
Donos frowned over the maneuver. What was General Crespin doing, playing head-to-head with a pilot who was doubtless willing to give up his life to buy the admiral a little extra time?
They were far from the mass shadows of Ession or her biggest moon. In moments, the Interceptors would be able to jump to hyperspace.
Donos calmed himself. The general isn 't an idiot. He has a plan. If I can figure out what it is, maybe I can figure out what he's going to do to Admiral Trigit—what direction he'll make the admiral jump.
If he, Donos, were in an A-wing closing with an Interceptor while two other, more important Interceptors were headed away at a slight angle, what would he do?
The A-wings had laser cannons that traversed up and down, giving them a generous arc of fire—something else the drivers of those tiny speed machines were always bragging about. In Crespin's place, Donos could keep his current course but rotate ninety degrees rightward and elevate his guns, bringing Trigit and the other escort back into his sights.
Donos brought up his visual sensor and saw that the general had indeed rotated—in fact, his rotation was continuous, a spin designed to make the A-wing's narrow profile an even more difficult target, and laser blasts from the Interceptor were streaking harmlessly pas
t him. But Donos saw the general had indeed elevated his guns. He wouldn't be able to use them to fire on the Interceptor. He had to be planning for an angle of attack on the other Interceptors.
Donos almost slapped himself. He had it. In Crespin's place, he'd close until he had barely enough time to maneuver out of the head-to-head death trap, then fire the A-wing's concussion missiles. The other pilot, more likely to be locked into a suicide ramming course, would not be likely to maneuver out of their way. That would eliminate the suicide pilot and immediately give Crespin a clear laser shot at the other two Interceptors.
Which way would they jump? Currently, Trigit was in front, his bodyguard trailing immediately behind, Crespin vectoring away from them at a slight angle to port. As soon as they sensed a laser lock, Trigit would have to go to starboard—because that would keep his bodyguard right behind him and in the path of Crespin's lasers.
Donos almost smiled. He switched to proton torpedoes and aimed visually toward empty space to the Interceptors' starboard. He wasn't in range for a torpedo lock yet . . . but was well within the torpedoes' strike range. If he fired at the correct angle, with the torpedoes set to follow any heat source, and the Interceptors broke across the torpedoes' path . . .
He waited, and rocked in his seat for more speed. Falynn, are you watching?
When the Interceptor and A-wing were a quarter klick apart, Crespin angled away, but twin streaks of light continued down his original course. The Interceptor he was jousting with reached the point they'd both been aiming for and exploded, victim of twin concussion missiles and bad tactics. Crespin stopped his A-wing's rotation and had his guns directed at the other two vehicles in a bare second.
Immediately, as Crespin's laser lock found them, Trigit's Interceptor and its pursuit vehicle broke away. To starboard. Donos fired. "One for Falynn. Two for Talon."
Crespin's lasers found the engines of the pursuit Interceptor, stitched them with bright red fire. The Interceptor vanished in a bright ball.
Donos's comm unit popped. Trigit's voice. "Crespin, I'd like to reconsid—"
Donos's first torpedo shot between the slit in the Inter- ceptor's starboard wing and hit the Interceptor where the round forward viewport met the hull. The Interceptor detonated in a brilliant flash. Donos's second torpedo entered the cloud but did not emerge from it.
Wraith Squadron Page 38