A cantina on an impregnable battle station, or one next to the spacedocks in the slums of Imperial Center? Put that way, it didn’t seem too hard a choice. Certainly this one was a lot safer than any she’d ever run before. Nobody was going to set it on fire by “accident,” and from what she’d heard no Rebel ship could scratch the paint, much less really damage it.
Staying on was definitely something to consider. She was having a pretty good time, all things considered, and Green-Eyes being around didn’t hurt much, either.
Memah smiled and hummed a tune as she began to mix more drinks.
49
TWO HUNDRED KILOMETERS OFF SECTOR N-FOUR, EQUATOR, DEATH STAR
Vil slewed into a drifting turn to port, engine and pressors working hard to compensate for the “slide,” and his pursuer, one of the newbies in Beta Two, wasn’t quick enough to stay on his tail.
He jinked again, this time to starboard, and again the newbie was a hair slow to react. Understandable; this wasn’t a move they taught in basic flight school, it was one you learned from somebody with a lot more cockpit time than the instructors had to waste on trainees.
The newbie said something excited that Vil didn’t quite catch, but prayer or curse, it didn’t help him: Vil had reversed their positions, finishing the loop lined up on the newbie’s rear.
Gotcha, kid …
Vil thumbed the firing control and painted the newbie’s backside with the scoring lasers. If his guns had been at full power, the kid would be dodging debris now, and both of them knew it.
“No big, kid,” he said over the comm. “We all got to slide down the learning curve—”
“Attention, all squadrons, attention! Break off your drill immediately, I say again, break off all maneuvers immediately! Arm your laser cannons to combat mode, defensive pattern Prime, and stand by!”
What the kark?
The order was completely out of the black, but Vil was too well trained to question it. He swerved away and toggled his op-chan to his squad’s frequency.
“Alpha One, on me, pyramid formation, green and blue, one, one, two!”
He punched the control button, and the signal diodes on his fighter began flashing in the sequence he’d given them, so that his squad would know his fighter and get to their positions. Green, one count. Green, one count. Blue, two counts, then repeated. Dit-dit-dah … dit-dit-dah …
“What’s up, Loot?” That was Anyell, of course.
“How should I know? Stow the chatter and listen!”
The other pilots quickly assembled and moved into the pattern. It was the most basic of fighter maneuvers, practiced hundreds of times, and it didn’t take more than a few seconds for all twelve to line up properly.
Vil switched to the main operations report-in channel: “Alpha One is ready.”
Other squads logged on. There were 10 of them out there, 120 fighters in all.
After a moment, Command Channel took over:
“All units, this is Grand Moff Tarkin. We have detected an enemy carrier shifting into realspace from lightspeed in Sector Seven, at two thousand, two hundred kilometers’ distance from the station, repeat, enemy carrier in Sector Seven. The vessel is identified as the Fortressa, a Lucre-hulk-class carrier. Star Destroyers are moving to engage, but we expect the enemy to launch fighters. They pose a risk to the station. Stop them.”
The local op-chan sig flashed, then overrode the main:
“All fighters, all squadrons, this is Flight Commander Drolan, Dee Ess One One. We are deploying in Zone Defense Delta, I say again, Zee-Dee-Delta. We are about to get our feet wet, boys, and I’m buying for the pilot who shoots the most of the fatherless scum out of the vac.”
Vil’s mind was awhirl. Lucrehulk-class vessels were originally Trade Federation ships, mostly modified commercial freighters. They were huge, circular craft, the biggest three thousand meters in length. After the Clone Wars, some of them had fallen under Rebel control. Unless the Alliance had done some major refitting, they weren’t heavily armed, nor were they well shielded compared with a Star Destroyer, but they could carry a lot of fighters. Originally they’d spaced vulture droids, but the Rebels would have no doubt switched to X-wings. There might be a thousand of them in that ship, maybe more.
Vil swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. This was it—the real thing, a full-scale engagement, and his squad was going to be among the first ones to arrive at the party.
It was both exciting and terrifying. This was what all the training had been for: not some police action on a back-rocket planet but an actual battle with Rebel pilots, some of whom were vets who had flown TIE ships before they defected. This wouldn’t be like shooting targets on a range or painting newbies with low-powered beams; this was do or die.
This was why Vil Dance had signed on.
Now it was time to see who had the right stuff and who didn’t.
COMMAND CENTER, OVERBRIDGE, DEATH STAR
“Our first wave of TIE fighters will arrive on zone station momentarily, sir. We have scrambled an additional thousand craft from the station.” Admiral Motti didn’t seem disturbed, but then he didn’t have the primary responsibility. Tarkin did, and he was most aware of that as he looked at the hologram shimmering over the operations theater projection. He wasn’t really surprised, however. He had halfway expected something like this for weeks, ever since they had lost the Undauntable to sabotage. The Rebels—some faction of them, at least—knew they were here, else they would not have been able to blow the ship up. Strategically, it made sense to attack the station now, before it was fully finished and operational. Tactically, a carrier was the smartest way. It would cost much, if not most, of the entire Rebel fleet to get past the Star Destroyers posted here in order to engage the battle station directly. But out of a thousand fighters or more, some might get by the TIE squads and inflict damage, even if the mother ship was taken out. Maybe not enough to destroy it, but if they could slow construction, that would be a victory of sorts.
The lieutenant running the sensor array said, “Sir, the first wave of enemy fighters has left the carrier. Two hundred and fifty X-wings.”
As Tarkin nodded, the comm tech said, “Sir, I have a coded message incoming on your personal channel.”
Tarkin blinked. Who could that be? “Put it on my personal screen.”
Their TIE fighters were holding at a thousand klicks out, and it would take a few minutes for the X-wings to get that close to the station. The Star Destroyers were en route. There was nothing more to be done at the moment. Tarkin activated the message.
Daala’s face appeared on his screen.
He tried not to let his surprise show. “Admiral?”
“Grand Moff Tarkin. We’re en route to the station, and it seems there is some interesting activity out there.”
“Nothing we can’t handle,” he said. “Though you might want to circle around and avoid it.”
“By it, you mean that enemy carrier and all those X-wings pouring out of it?”
“Yes. That area is about to become inhospitable.”
“You’re sending in Star Destroyers?”
“I was, but as of this moment, I have a better idea.”
“Ah.”
“Precisely.”
“Well, I’ll move away from—blast!”
“Daala?”
“We have company. Disconnect.”
She broke the connection, and Tarkin frowned. Daala was an excellent commander, and her ship was fast and well armed; she could deal with a few X-wings. Still …
“Sir, the enemy has disgorged a second wave. That makes five hundred fighters,” the sensor technician said.
“We’ll put a stop to that.” To Motti, he said, “Admiral, have the Star Destroyers stand down. Break off their intercept.”
“Sir?” Motti looked at him as if he had just turned into a purple-dyed Wookiee. Tarkin smiled. He moved his hand over his comm.
“Superlaser Control,” came the response.
Mott
i’s expression changed. Now he smiled, too.
“Commander,” Tarkin said to the comm. “I have a target for you.”
SUPERLASER FIRE CONTROL, THETA SECTOR, DEATH STAR
The CO said, “You heard the man, Chief. Can you do it?”
“Sir, no problem.”
“Two thousand, two hundred and nine kilometers. Not an easy target.”
“If we have the power to reach that far, I will hit it, sir,” Tenn replied.
The CO checked a readout. “We have four percent in the discharge capacitors.”
“More than we need,” Tenn said.
The CO looked relieved. “Go, Chief.”
Tenn nodded, turned to the console, and opened the speakers.
“We have an order to commence primary ignition,” he said to the crew. “All right, boys, let’s pull the hammer back and cock this sodder! Report!”
The various sections reported each operation’s status, quickly and enthusiastically:
“Hypermatter reactor level one twenty-fifth of maximum.”
“Capacitors, four percent available.”
“Tributaries one through eight, green for feed.”
“Primary power amplifier, green.”
“Firing field amp is … green.”
“We are go on induction hyperphase generator feed.”
“Tributary beam shaft fields aligned.”
“Tributary beam shafts one through eight clear.”
“Targeting field generator, ready.”
“We have primary beam focusing magnet at ten-sixteenths gauss … now fourteen-sixteenths … now at full.”
Tenn scanned his board. All green. Twenty-eight seconds. Not their fastest time, but not bad. “We’re good to go,” he told the CO.
The CO nodded and said to the comm, “Grand Moff, superlaser is primed.”
The Grand Moff’s voice over the comm was calm but crisp: “Then fire.”
The CO nodded at Tenn.
As he had hundreds of times in simulated practice, Tenn thumbed the safety button on the shifter above his head and pulled the lever down. He counted silently:
Four … three … two … one—
“We have successful primary ignition,” the computer’s voice said.
Tenn waited. The target was two thousand klicks away, so the time would be only—
“A hit!” the targeting tech said. There was a pause as he scanned his scopes.
“Well?” Tenn asked tensely.
“It—it’s … gone, Chief. Nothing left.”
Tenn blinked at the report. He looked at the CO, who looked just as dumbfounded.
They had vaporized a carrier three kilometers across—with four percent power on the beam. Just like that.
A cheer went up from the men in the room. The CO thumped Tenn’s back. Tenn grinned in response, but inside, he was still having trouble believing it.
Four percent. The total destructive potential was nothing short of astronomical. The power of a star, at his command.
50
COMMAND CENTER, OVERBRIDCE, DEATH STAR
“Well,” Motti said, “it appears that the superlaser works.”
Tarkin smiled. “So it does. But there are still five hundred enemy fighters out there and they have no place to go, so they have nothing to lose.”
“And we already have them outnumbered more than two to one, with TIE pilots itching to shoot them down, and plenty more where they came from,” Motti said. “It’s a cleanup operation now, Governor. They can’t run, and they can’t hide.”
Tarkin nodded. “Give the order,” he said. “Tell our fighters to hit them hard and fast, while they’re still reeling from what they just saw.”
“Sir? Your private channel again.”
Tarkin nodded and took the call.
The man who appeared before him seemed upset. After a moment, Tarkin recognized the man as Daala’s ship runner.
“Yes, Captain Kameda?”
“We were attacked by a squadron of X-wing fighters, sir. We destroyed them, but we took damaging fire.”
“Why isn’t Admiral Daala telling me this herself?”
“Sir, we lost shielding on the bridge. There was an explosion. Admiral Daala was injured.”
Tarkin felt his belly clutch tightly. “How bad?”
“Not life threatening, sir. The medics have stabilized her.”
Tarkin let out the breath he was holding.
“But she sustained a head wound and is … disoriented. There is a piece of shrapnel in her skull. We need a surgeon.”
Tarkin nodded. “Get her to the station immediately.”
“We’re on our way, sir, should be arriving in a few minutes.”
Tarkin broke the call, then activated the station intercom.
Captain Hotise answered. “N-One MedCenter.”
“Admiral Daala has been injured in the attack and is on the way in with a head wound. Have your best team of surgeons standing by.”
“Yes, sir.”
Tarkin sundered the connection. This was not good news. It mitigated his triumph at the success of the super-laser’s first firing. He did not want to lose Daala—that would sour the taste of victory.
And of course, he did care for her …
A THOUSAND KILOMETERS OFF THE DEATH STAR
The first wave of X-wings outnumbered the line of TIE fighters two to one, but they were flying nonevasive—hoping, Vil guessed, to blow right past the defenders.
That wasn’t going to happen. Vil targeted the first X-wing to get within range, fired, and blew it apart, just like that. The enemy pilot never got a pulse off.
With zone defense, you moved around, but you held a certain position within specified limits. The X-wings were trying to get past, not engage. They shot if a TIE was right in front of them to clear a path, but they didn’t deviate from their trajectories. They were intent on the Death Star. That made them easy targets.
What kind of lunatic strategy was that?
Vil quickly took out a second ship, then a third.
Behind him, the battle station had scrambled more TIE ships, and behind the X-wings the Star Destroyers were sending out even more. Very soon the odds would be even, if not in the Empire’s favor.
The flight commander’s voice crackled in his ears: “Alpha One, Beta One, Gamma One, Delta One—break zone and pursue, targets of opportunity!”
Drolan intended for his units to collect as many of the kills as possible, Vil knew. The next wave would stop any who got past, but folks late to the game weren’t going to have anything to shoot at when they got here.
Vil shrugged. If the Rebels were intent on suicide, then his men would be glad to oblige them. He blipped his squad: “Alpha One, you heard the man. Fan out and take ’em apart! Ten-klick global pattern; don’t get too far away.”
He heard the chorus of “Copy, Lieutenant!” as he pulled his TIE around and started chasing the X-wings.
It wasn’t a battle; it was a massacre. The X-wings were so intent on hitting the station that they didn’t fight back. The eighty or so that Vil’s wave couldn’t collect were cut to pieces by the next wave of TIEs coming from the Death Star. The second wave of X-wings didn’t get a single fighter past the Star Destroyers’ TIE squadrons.
When it was done, Vil had ten kills, duly recorded by his nose cam and logged into his file.
Five kills made you an ace. Just like that, Lieutenant Dance had become a double ace, as had more than a few others. The total number of TIE fighters lost was fewer than a hundred.
It had been his first real battle against the Rebels, but Vil took no pride in it. It had been easy.
Far too easy.
51
COMMAND CENTER, OVERBRIDCE, DEATH STAR
“Sir?” Motti said.
“You heard me, Admiral. We are moving the station. The Rebels knew where to find us, and I won’t allow that to happen again.”
Tarkin had that look on his face that brooked no argument. It was a l
ook that Motti knew well. Nevertheless, it was his duty to point out impediments. “Sir, we aren’t really ready for full lightspeed maneuvers yet.”
The Grand Moff looked impatient. “I know, Admiral. We don’t need to go far; the other side of Despayre will do for now. The Rebels will know that their attempt failed, so they won’t try the same tactic again. No one but the commanders of the Star Destroyers and their chief navigators are to be given the new coordinates—and aside from you and our chief navigator and myself, no one else on this station is to be given that information, either. There are spies among us, Admiral, and while we will eventually hunt them down and remove them, I will not risk this station in the meantime. Understand?”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
“Within the hour, Motti. Leave two Star Destroyers here.”
“By your command, sir.”
Tarkin turned away. “I’m going to Medical. Admiral Daala’s surgery is in progress.”
After Tarkin was gone, Motti considered his task. It made sense to move, there was no questioning that. If a Rebel armada showed up and there was nobody there … well, it was a big galaxy. They wouldn’t know where to start looking, and it likely wouldn’t occur to any of them that their enemies had gone to all the trouble of powering up just to lumber around to the other side of the planet. Every additional hour it took for them to locate the Death Star would be one more hour closer to it becoming fully operational.
And once that happened, the entire Rebel fleet would be powerless to stop it.
That the Grand Moff’s paramour was injured was too bad, but hardly any of Motti’s concern. He held little respect for her as an officer. Without Tarkin’s patronage, she would never have risen to her rank. As far as he was concerned, women didn’t have what it took to command. If she died on the operating table, Motti would shed no real tears, though he would, of course, pretend sadness to keep Tarkin mollified. The old man was a bit touchy about her, and it wasn’t a good idea to get on his bad side. Daala was a distraction; Tarkin cared for her too much. That was another chink in the Grand Moff’s armor, a chink that someday Motti might want to exploit.
Star Wars: Death Star Page 25