Starfighters swarmed from the sides of the Mon Calamari cruiser Mon Remonda like insects from a deep-space nest. They formed up in four groups—two X-wing, one A-wing, one B-wing—and descended toward Levian Two, the world Mon Remonda now orbited. From this altitude, it seemed stony and orange and impossibly inhospitable, but the comm chatter the pilots were picking up suggested otherwise.
“Entering Delta Sector. More of the same. I’ll map-flag locations of survivors.” “Ravine Six here. Repulsorlift is out. I’m going to have to attempt a high-speed landing.” “Ravine Six, switch to ten-oh-three. You’ve got your own controller standing by.” “Beta Sector Base, this is Beta Ten. I read unknowns descending, four groups.” “Beta Ten, this is Base. There are some TIEs in the unknowns but they’re mostly friendlies.”
Wedge sighed and activated his comm unit. “Beta Sector Base, this is Rogue Leader. You’ve got Rogue, Wraith, Polearm, and Nova Squadrons in descent to your position. Looks like we’re a little late to the party.”
“ ’Fraid so, Rogue Leader. You’ve missed a Raptor raid. They blasted out of here half an hour ago. We’ve got settlements and facilities hit all over this hemisphere. Could we interest you in some search-and-rescue action?”
“Glad to oblige. Give us vectors for twenty search pairs and we’ll get on it.”
“Ships dropping out of hyperspace!” It was Mon Remonda’s sensor officer, Golorno, a human young enough not to be able to keep his voice level in times of stress. “I count four, five, six capital ships!”
Han Solo abandoned his armature-mounted chair and moved to stand behind Golorno. He turned to his communications officer. “Recall the starfighters now.” Then he leaned over Golorno’s shoulder. “Details, I need details,” he said.
“Uh, uh, two Star Destroyers, one Imperial-class, one Victory-class. One heavy cruiser, a Dreadnaught, I think. Two light cruisers—telemetry says probably Carrack-class. At the back of the formation …” The young officer’s voice dropped. “One Super-class Star Destroyer.”
“Iron Fist.” Solo straightened and slapped his hands together. “He’s finally decided to come in for a scrap.”
He calculated unit strengths. His flagship was Mon Remonda, one of the most powerful of the Mon Calamari cruisers, and its pilot complement, led by Wedge Antilles, couldn’t be better. Also in this portion of his fleet were Mon Karren, a Mon Cal cruiser of more normal strength, Tedevium, a frigate recently converted from a training ship back to a combat vessel, and Etherhawk, a Marauder-class corvette that was just one restoration job ahead of being dilapidated. Not nearly enough strength to handle the fleet Zsinj had assembled against him … but Zsinj didn’t know that Solo’s Group 2 was standing by outside the Levian system. One holocomm call and Solo’s strength would be doubled, making this more of a fair slugging match. “Call in Group Two,” he ordered. “How long before Zsinj’s force reaches us?”
“Three minutes, sir.”
“How long before the starfighters return?”
“They’re grouping. Four or five minutes, sir.”
Solo sighed. “Slugging match” was to be the correct phrase for it.
An impulse caused him to turn back to the door out of the bridge. As he’d suspected, Chewbacca was there, just outside, standing by. The Wookiee, who chose to have no official role in the anti-Zsinj group, but preferred to stay near the bridge and Solo, had come up as soon as the tenor of voices from the bridge sounded different. Solo gave him a confident grin.
“A second group is dropping out of hyperspace, sir!”
Solo whipped around to stare at the sensor screen again. It was broadening, updating—the data stream at the bottom indicated that the sensor screen was being supplemented by information from Tedevium.
It showed another force of capital ships appearing on the far side of Levian Two. Telemetry indicated that the new force included two Star Destroyers, two Dreadnaughts, a light cruiser, and a Lancer-class frigate—a vessel designed especially to assault swarms of starfighters.
“We’re in trouble,” Solo said.
Golorno turned to look up at Solo. He wasn’t able to mask his fear.
Solo gave him a reassuring half grin. “Don’t worry. I know when to dump my cargo and run.” He turned to the navigator. “Set us a course out of here. What’s the closest path to get us out of Levian Two’s gravity well?”
The Mon Calamari navigator consulted his board. “Directly through the Super Star Destroyer’s force, sir.”
“Figures. Make that our primary course. Pass it on to our group.”
“Done, sir.”
“Communications, revise my order to Group Two. Tell them to be on course and ready for a jump at any second, but to standby.”
“Yes, sir.”
He turned to Captain Onoma, a Mon Calamari male with salmon-colored skin. “Captain, take us out.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Third hostile group dropping out of hyperspace!”
Solo turned to look, disbelieving, at Golorno. “You have got to be kidding.”
• • •
Wedge Antilles stood his X-wing on its tail and blasted toward the sky.
He’d sent Polearm Squadron, the A-wing unit commanded by Captain Todra Mayn, on ahead. There was little tactical sense in keeping the faster craft back with the X-wings and B-wings. Now Wedge led Rogue Squadron and Wraith Squadron in escorting Nova Squadron, the B-wing unit.
Sensor data arriving from Mon Remonda showed Solo’s group closing slowly on a unit of six capital ships. The Mon Cal cruiser was already swarming with enemy starfighters, and defenders from Mon Karren and Tedevium.
Wedge added up the numbers on that. Those two ships could field five squadrons of starfighters between them. The enemy force ahead could field nearly twenty-two squadrons. And then there were enemies coming up from behind—as Wedge’s squadrons cleared the atmosphere, his sensors picked up two additional groups of capital ships chasing Solo’s force.
This was not going to be good.
Wedge wondered if Baron Fel was among the starfighter pilots assaulting Mon Remonda. Soontir Fel was one of the greatest pilots ever to emerge from the Imperial Academy, one of the greatest to have flown with Rogue Squadron—and a man who shared a secret with Wedge Antilles.
They were brothers-in-law. Only they and a very few others knew that famous Imperial actress Wynssa Starflare was also Wedge’s sister Syal Antilles. Since the disappearance of Fel and Syal several years ago, Wedge had had no news whatsoever of his sister. Now Fel was back, but flying for the wrong side, and there was still no word of Syal. It was a secret Wedge kept very close. One of his own pilots, Face Loran, had even starred in a holodrama with Wynssa Starflare, but Wedge had never confided the secret to him, even to obtain Face’s reminiscences about his sister.
And now, once again, Wedge was rushing into battle with a force that might include Fel, leading to the grim possibility that he might have to shoot down his own brother-in-law … and perhaps lose any clue Fel might offer to Syal’s fate.
Sensors showed that the Iron Fist force had, since the last communication from Mon Remonda, turned about and was now retreating before Han Solo’s force. Wedge nodded. If Zsinj maintained a course toward the planet, his force and Solo’s would blast past one another in a matter of split seconds, exchanging one low-accuracy barrage, and then Zsinj would have to turn his force around to pursue. By retreating before Solo on the shortest course to an area of space where the New Republic fleet could engage their hyperdrives, he prolonged the engagement.
Wedge’s squadrons caught up to Mon Remonda, but circled around several kilometers from the Mon Cal cruiser. At this distance, the swarming dogfight between starfighters near the cruiser looked like twinkling stars. A grim simile—Wedge reminded himself that some of those twinkles were explosions that had once been friends and allies.
“S-foils to attack position,” he ordered, and suited action to words by toggling the appropriate switch above his line of sight. H
is S-foils split and locked into the familiar profile that gave the X-wing its name. “B-wings, you may arm your weapons.”
His sensors showed Zsinj’s force spread out before the approaching Mon Remonda. Straightforward tactics; it meant Mon Remonda couldn’t expect to make a minor course change to elude a tight group of ships even temporarily. Any minor course change would still send Mon Remonda into the umbrella of enemy ships; any major course change would allow the pursuit ships to catch up.
But this tactic was about to work in Wedge’s favor.
They dove in toward Iron Fist’s stern. Sensors showed no starfighter response from the Super Star Destroyer—either the remaining squadrons were being slow to scramble, or all squadrons were engaged with Mon Remonda.
Then flashes of light emerged from the destroyer’s stern, congregating on Wedge’s force, and the ball-like detonations of concussion missiles began to fill the space around them. Wedge was rocked by a near miss. “Begin evasive maneuvers,” he said. “X-wings, ready torpedoes. Remember, port engines only.”
Pair by pair, his X-wings began a dance, juking and jinking to throw off the aim of the Imperial gunners they so rapidly approached. The B-wings hung back, allowing the X-wings to draw the initial fire.
Wedge’s range meter scrolled down below two kilometers, the maximum effective range for his targeting computer. Enemy turbolaser fire increased in intensity—and proximity.
At fifteen hundred meters, he said, “Launch one, launch two.” He fired, sending paired proton torpedoes toward one of Iron Fist’s stern engines. More blue streaks than he could count emerged from his X-wings, instantly crossing the distance to the destroyer, which was suddenly and brilliantly illuminated by their detonations against the port side of the stern.
He looped to port. “Novas, your turn.”
“Acknowledged, and thanks, Rogue Leader.” That was the voice of Nova One. “Novas, launch one and begin ion fire.”
Blue streaks leaped from the B-wings. Then the ungainly-looking craft continued their dive toward Iron Fist’s engines, their ion cannons sustaining fire against the destroyer’s stern.
Wedge wished them success. They were designed to hurt capital ships; their pilots knew what they were doing. But if Iron Fist called back its starfighters and the Novas didn’t notice in time, the entire squad could be lost.
Now it was time to meet the weak link of this force: Zsinj’s light cruisers.
Mon Remonda rattled under blast after blast from the attacking starfighters. Solo ignored the vibrations. Shield integrity was good, the hull was holding up—they still had a chance.
His communications officer said, “Nova One reports damage to Iron Fist’s engines.”
“How extensive?” Solo asked.
“Unknown.”
Golorno spoke up, his voice now more nearly normal. “A lot of the starfighters on us are in retreat. They just broke off to head for Iron Fist.”
“How many?”
“About half.”
“Ah, good. Now they outnumber ours only two to one.” Solo absently hammered the arm of his captain’s chair. If only he were out there, in the Millennium Falcon, making a direct assault on the enemy … here, all he could do was issue orders and hope they were so good that not many of his people died.
They were never so good that none of his people died. Never.
“Message for General Solo,” the comm officer announced. “From Warlord Zsinj!”
“Ignore it,” Solo said. “I’ll bet you a hundred Corellian credits he hates that. No, wait.” He stood. “Chewie, get in here.”
The Wookiee squeezed in through the bridge door, looking quizzical.
“Here, take my chair.” Han helped his friend into the seat, which was far too small for him. “All right, put that message through.”
The comm unit on the command chair lit up. Even from his angle off to the side, Solo could make out Zsinj’s florid features, bald head, and exaggerated handlebar mustache. “General Solo,” Zsinj said, “I’m calling to offer you an honorable—what is this?”
Chewbacca reached down and tilted the screen up so its built-in holocam would broadcast his face instead of just his chest. He grumbled something at the screen.
“It’s, ah, Chewbacca, isn’t it? Please put your owner on.”
Chewbacca offered him an extended speech, nearly subsonic, bone-rattling. Solo smiled. It was an eloquent discourse on the ingredients that made up Zsinj, and not one of the ingredients was the sort that should be mentioned in polite company or during any meal.
“Wookiee is not among my many languages, you extruded fur thing. Where is Solo?”
Chewbacca returned to his discourse and Solo moved to stand beside Captain Onoma, taking in the officer’s sensor readings, his mind once again fully engaged by the battle.
“This is Leader. Break by squadrons.”
“Wraith One acknowledges,” Face said. “Good luck, Rogues.” He began a long curve relative up and to starboard, taking him and the Wraiths toward one of the two Carrack-class cruisers in Zsinj’s group.
The Carracks were 350 meters long, looking like stubby metal bars with swells at bow and stern. Face knew them to be formidable opponents for capital ships; their batteries of ion cannons made it possible for them to disable much larger vessels. But the comparatively light number of turbolasers they carried gave the starfighters a chance at them.
The Wraiths approached their target from the stern. At Face’s command, they split into two units, Wraiths One through Six going to starboard, Seven through Eleven going to port. Stern turbolasers opened up on them even before they were within range.
“Fire at will,” Face said, “but make ’em count.”
Runt and Donos were the first of his half squad to fire, the blue streaks of proton torpedoes drawing an instantaneous line from the X-wings to the flanks of the cruiser. Face watched their explosions balloon against the cruiser’s side. He ignored the pure tone of his own target lock, twitched his pilot’s yoke over so his targeting brackets fell within the center of one of the torpedo detonation clouds, and fired his own remaining torpedoes. Then he looped away from the cruiser’s side, Lara tucked in behind him and to port. “Report,” he said.
“One, this is Seven.” It was Dia’s voice, barely recognizable through the usual comm distortion. “We have port-side penetration.”
“Ten is hit! Ten is hit!”
Face felt his gut go cold, and a quick check of his sensor screen showed that Janson, Wraith Ten, was no longer present. “Calm down, Eleven. Detail damage to Wraith Ten.”
“He’s not destroyed, One. An ion cannon hit him. He’s got no power, he’s ballistic.”
Face sagged in relief. “Ballistic toward or away from the cruiser?”
“Away, One.”
“Keep clear of him, Eleven. You’re active, you’ll draw fire toward him. Squad, continue report.”
“One, Five.” That was Kell; the sensor board showed him lurking closer to the cruiser than the rest of the squad. Face supposed that Kell, maneuvering in a captured TIE interceptor, considered himself harder to hit than the X-wings … and he was right. Too, the TIEs had no proton torpedoes, so Kell had probably chosen the role of close observer in order to contribute to this battle. “Starboard impacts damaged the hull but did not, repeat, did not penetrate.”
“All Wraith X-wings,” Face said, “form up for a run on the starboard. TIEs, strafe the port side to keep their shields divided. Keep them honest.” He toggled his comm unit to the fleet frequency. “Mon Remonda, Wraith One. Please dispatch a shuttle with a tractor for pickup of disabled snubfighter.”
Face brought his X-wing around slowly, allowing the other pilots with functional X-wings to form up on him. Kell, Shalla, and Elassar, in their interceptors, were already beginning their strafing run against the port side. “Once more into the gauntlet, Wraiths,” he said, and nudged his yoke forward.
They dove toward the cruiser in loose formation, X-wings spread far
enough apart that their evasive juking didn’t bring them in danger of collision. Streams of turbolasers and concussion missiles sought them, and Face heard a cry of surprise or pain from someone on his squadron channel.
Their proton torpedoes spent, at a half kilometer they opened fire with quad-linked lasers and continued firing and diving until the cruiser’s flank was almost all of the sky. Face hauled up on his yoke, felt the high-performance turn drag him deeper into his chair despite the best efforts of the acceleration compensator to protect him from the consequences of his maneuver. He saw the cruiser’s hull flash beneath him, saw columns of laser fire on either side—then he was clear and headed out to space again.
He spared a look at his sensor board. Ten Wraiths were still on the board. He breathed a sigh of relief—no additional losses. “Wraith One to squadron. Report damage. Ours and theirs.”
“One, Five. Starboard side also breached. I think we’ve gotten both power generators and I think some of the reserve cells. Parts of the ship are going dark. They’re not maneuvering.”
“Thanks, Five. Now get your rear end away from that hulk before some gunner with a little power left decides to make fireworks out of you.”
“Acknowledged, One.”
“One, this is Four.” Tyria’s voice, level and calm. “I took a turbolaser hit, I think at maximum range. I have some wing damage.”
Face checked her position on the sensor board, then maneuvered to sideslip past her. She was correct; her port S-foils both showed laser scoring on their trailing edges. “Any system failures, Four?”
“Not so far, chief.”
“Keep me updated.” He toggled over to fleet frequency. “Wraith One to Rogue Leader. Target secure.”
Wedge’s voice came back instantly. “Good work, Wraiths. Rogue target destroyed. Iron Fist showing difficulty maneuvering. Stand by.”
“Acknowledged.” He switched back to squadron frequency. “Wraiths, form up on me. We’ll stay near Ten for the time being.”
On the bridge of Iron Fist, the Warlord Zsinj stood on the command walkway above the crew pit. He did not stare out the forward viewports, which showed only starfield along his enemy’s exit vector, but down into the screens of his bridge crew.
Star Wars: X-Wing VII: Solo Command Page 4