“Goal number two is to stay alive and to take out as many of the enemy as possible. And don’t forget—the people of Kuat, in spite of the fact that they’re Zsinj’s enemy, are also our enemy. They’re loyal to the remnants of the Empire. Any damage we do them is good for the New Republic. Any questions?”
Donos raised his hand. “What are our individual roles for this mission?”
Janson tapped on his datapad and the Wraith unit roster replaced the Kuat system as the holographic projection. “We’ll be broken down into two or, we hope, three units.
“Unit One, Hawk-bats. That’s Commander Antilles, Dia, Kell, Face, Tyria, and Piggy. We fly, we shoot, we kill.
“Unit Two, Infiltrators. Lara has faked up dossiers on alternate identities for herself, Shalla, and Dia and forwarded them to Zsinj—you’ve done that, haven’t you, Lara? Good—in the hope that he’ll select one or two to accompany his advance team, the one we believe will be taking over the new Destroyer.
“Unit Three, Wraith Squadron. The rest of us will be taking our X-wings to join Mon Remonda as part of the ambush phase of the operation. We predict that Zsinj won’t want to do more than a short jump away from Kuat on untested hyperdrive engines. That means we’ll be stationing elements of the New Republic fleet—all of General Solo’s command and anyone else we can drag in—and staging them at points as close as we can manage to Zsinj’s likely escape courses. They’ll be well off the major trade and military routes—an important consideration, since we’ll be in the middle of Imperial-controlled space—and standing by for any signal from any of the transmitters.
“With any luck, if there’s enough time between the accomplishment of the Kuat raid and the come-get-me signal from Iron Fist, the Hawk-bats from the first part of the plan will be able to join the Wraiths for the third.”
“And when we hear that signal,” Donos said, “we jump in and drop the heavy end of the hammer on Iron Fist and his new Destroyer.”
“That’s it,” Wedge said. “Make your preparations. We suspect the word will come from Zsinj pretty soon, but we don’t know when—so get as much done as you can. Face, we’ll need disguises for anyone Zsinj might choose to join the advance unit. Kell, I’d like for the same folk to have some backup weapons, demolitions—we want to give them every opportunity to get back to us if things go sour. Questions, anyone? No? Then get to it.”
The word from Zsinj arrived later that day. It included a rendezvous course the Wraiths suspected led to another redirection satellite, and a request that Qatya Nassin—Shalla’s Hawk-bat identity—join Zsinj’s advance unit in the assault to come.
Hours later, the Wraiths assembled in their hangar.
Shalla was someone new. Under Face’s care her hair had been transformed into a shocking white, and her left eye was surrounded by a circle of white makeup. That, and the pads she held in her cheeks, changed the lines of her face. She was dressed in flowing street clothes; doubtless Zsinj’s infiltration crew would have more appropriate garments for her.
Dia, Kell, Face, Tyria, and Piggy were in the makeup and gray TIE-fighter-pilot uniforms of the Hawk-bats, and Janson, Runt, Donos, and Lara were in the standard orange, white, and black uniform of New Republic pilots.
“The commander’s late,” Face said. “Is anything wrong?”
“Oh, no,” Janson said. “Since he doesn’t have any additional responsibilities, no last-minute details to track, no need to do one last check of the plan, he’s just late so you’ll be that much crankier.”
“That’s what I thought.”
While they waited, the command crew aboard Sungrass completed its check and did a test firing of her repulsorlifts; the aging cargo hauler lifted a few meters into the air and set down again. The ship couldn’t depart until Shalla was released to join them, and then it would wait above this asteroid for the Hawk-bats to fly their TIE interceptors and fighters into her hold.
“Attention,” Janson called.
The Wraiths snapped to attention in a reasonable line as Wedge approached them. Unlike the other Hawk-bat pilots, he was dressed in a traditional black TIE fighter’s uniform, with a difference it took Face a moment to recognize: All the usually glossy black surfaces, such as the helmet and breathing gear, had been painted matte black. Also, there seemed to be additional snap hooks on his chest and arms. He carried a large cylindrical cloth bag in black over his shoulder; this he set down at his feet.
“I’m not going to give you some sort of stirring, halfwitted speech about why we’re here,” Wedge said without preamble. “They’re for crowds, not for fighter pilots. But I did want to say something.
“The Wraiths have had to learn lessons fast, faster than any unit I’ve ever belonged to or commanded. I regret the speed of your education—because, inevitably, it’s intrusive and painful—as much as I’m glad you’ve been able to absorb it.
“Recent events, especially Runt’s dance and the behavior of several of you at that celebration, have convinced me that you’ve learned another lesson, as individuals and as a unit. The lesson involves watching out for one another. You’re now doing it as second nature.
“You need to keep that up today, perhaps more than any other day in our recent history. Do it and more of us will come back.”
He looked among them, catching each stare in turn.
The Wraiths weren’t wearing a collection of steely, confident expressions. Kell, just as before most missions, looked a little jittery, and more of Tyria’s attention was on him than on Wedge. Dia was more wide-eyed than usual, the mask of who she’d been before now gone, a little uncertainty in its place. Face stared back with the eyes of a stranger, already deep under his General Kargin makeup and personality. But with each of them there was a commitment to the mission, to its successful completion, regardless of the cost.
Wedge finished up: “For those of you who believe in the Force, may it be with you, and guide you. For those who don’t, trust in your intent, your weapons, and your wingman.” He clapped his hands. “Let’s go, people.”
The pilots broke rank, exchanged handshakes and embraces, headed off to their individual missions. The gray-clad Hawk-bats would wait until Sungrass was on-station and take their TIEs out to the cargo ship. The orange-clad Wraiths would then begin the process of shuttling all the unit’s X-wings out to the Mon Remonda, now waiting outside the Halmad system’s outermost planetary orbit, with the shuttle Narra bringing them back in for each flight except the last.
Wedge caught the eye of his second-in-command. “Wes, a moment of your time?” He picked up his bag and headed briskly off toward his interceptor; Janson followed at a trot.
Wedge drew to a stop beside the ladder at his interceptor. He pulled at the drawstring holding the lip of his bag closed, and from the bag’s interior withdrew Lieutenant Kettch. The Ewok toy was now dressed in Hawk-bat grays, and long spars of what looked like steel but swung with the mass of plastic hung from his paws.
“You have got to be kidding,” Janson said.
“No. Think about it. What if one of our erstwhile allies swings in close and sees a human inside Lieutenant Kettch’s interceptor?” Wedge snapped a loop sewn to the back of Kettch’s cloth helmet to the corresponding metal hook on his chest. “Help me with the arms.”
Janson did so, snapping the loop on Kettch’s left glove onto a hook on Wedge’s left biceps. “So that’s why you’re in black,” he said, and repeated the process with Kettch’s right arm. “An invisible background.”
“That’s it.”
“So, when you joined Starfighter Command, did you have any presentiment that someday you’d be impersonating an Ewok?”
Wedge glared. “Now the waist.”
“Sure. You know, pretending to be an Ewok is a felony on some worlds.”
“Wes.”
“And I think it’s probably against regulations to fly starfighters while performing a puppet show.”
“Wes.”
Janson straightened up from making th
e last attachment and threw a salute. “Yub, yub, Commander.”
Wedge returned it. “The things I put up with for this outfit.”
Sungrass dropped out of hyperspace at the leading edge of Zsinj’s armada.
In the midst of the swarm of ships was Iron Fist, the deadly blue arrowhead. Around it were numerous other capital and support ships: one Imperial Star Destroyer, an Interdictor-class cruiser, four Carrack-class light cruisers, and a number of cargo vessels and corvettes. Some of the cargo vessels were decorated with piratical designs; others were innocuous-looking. Few TIE fighters were in evidence, but that was no surprise; the TIEs would not be launched until they were within easy flight range of their objective.
“That’s the Ill Wind,” said Captain Valton, Sungrass’s commander. He was pointing to the smaller Star Destroyer. “And that one’s the Emperor’s Net.” He gestured at the Interdictos “Haven’t seen either of them in a while. Not since before the Emperor’s death.”
Face, in the communications officer’s seat, nodded. “Either of them assigned to Zsinj at that time?”
“I’ll Wind. Emperor’s Net must have joined him later.” Valton glanced down at his control board. “Signal from Iron Fist. You might want to pick that up.”
Sungrass was directed to land in Iron Fist’s main bay. As they rose into the bay opening and were directed to a large open area of flooring, Face could see that repairs were well along. The only signs remaining of the explosion the Hawk-bats had caused was one area, toward the bow end of the bay, of crumpled flooring still not replaced, and black charring at places along the wall. But a full complement of TIE fighters, interceptors, and bombers was arrayed for takeoff.
Face and Shalla emerged from their ship’s exit port and shook General Melvar’s hand.
“This is your transport?” Melvar asked, looking the Sungrass over.
“She’s not elegant, I admit,” Face said. “But we get an awful lot of work out of her.”
“You’ll be able to afford better soon, General.”
“General Melvar, allow me to introduce Qatya Nassin, my hand-to-hand combat specialist.”
Melvar shook Shalla’s hand cordially. “Delighted.” He looked her up and down with a somewhat aloof, evaluating expression. “This is Coruscant civilian dress. Middle to low class. Not too far from bedrock level.”
Shalla smiled at him, her dimples showing. “That’s correct.”
“Perfect. Why do you need a datapad?” The general frowned as he looked at the commonplace device in her left hand.
“It’s a weapon, General.” Shalla traced her finger across the hinged edge of the datapad. “A standard scan won’t show that this edge is heavily reinforced. If I decide that someone needs some additional information in his head, I can insert it manually.”
Melvar chuckled.
Face did, too, but wasn’t feeling too merry. They couldn’t afford for Melvar to pay too much attention to the datapad. The technically proficient Wraiths had spent hours refitting smaller, more modern datapad gear into a larger, older case, and had reinforced the hinge end as she’d mentioned, but they’d also fitted in a secret slot and a number of small explosive devices that Kell had put together. A basic scan wouldn’t reveal them—they’d be masked by the technology within the case—but a more thorough one would.
“Well,” Melvar said, “I am delighted to meet you. Less delighted to have to put you to the test this way.” He snapped his fingers.
From the semicircle of stormtroopers and officers who’d met the Sungrass stepped a man in a bridge officer’s uniform. He was larger than Kell and looked as though his face had been used by several graduating classes for hammer practice.
“This is Captain Netbers,” Melvar said. “One of our hand-to-hand instructors. I fear he must evaluate your skills.”
Netbers approached, smiling, his hand extended to shake Shalla’s. She stepped forward as if to take it, then swung her datapad straight into his face, smashing his nose, staggering him back. She followed through by bringing her booted foot up into his crotch, but Face heard a decidedly unfleshlike thump and decided the man must have been armored there.
Shalla turned and handed her datapad back to Face with a nonchalance that belied its contents, then turned back to her foe. Netbers, despite the blood streaming from his face and the pain he had to be feeling in his groin despite the armor, had taken her momentary distraction to assume a fighting posture—left side forward, most of his weight on his back leg, hands up and ready to strike. His expression was serious, his eyes intent, but unlike many fighters he didn’t offer a stream of taunts and invective.
Shalla circled around him, her pose more upright, a mocking smile on her face.
Melvar moved beside Face. “He has reach on her,” he said. “She has to close if she’s to affect him.”
As if on cue, Shalla moved a half pace forward, her advance coming with jolting speed. Netbers reflexively retreated the same distance. But she stopped her advance, keeping that distance between them. Netbers smiled and gestured for her to come on again.
She brought her hands up, a high guard, and circled, then suddenly advanced.
Netbers brought his left foot up in a high kick. But his right foot slipped, and Face saw that it was square in the middle of a puddle of blood, his own blood. Shalla caught his left foot and calf with her hands, wrenched them upward, sending him off balance, so that instead of striking at her he could only flail, and then she lashed out with her own left foot and connected with the inside of his knee.
He let out a grunt as he hit the hangar floor. She stepped forward for a follow-through kick, but Netbers continued rolling and had his hands up to intercept or trap her leg if she followed through. She didn’t; still smiling, she continued circling, forcing him to do the same. Netbers tried to stand, but his right leg wouldn’t sustain his weight and he remained in a kneeling position.
“Enough,” Melvar said. “This exercise wasn’t intended to result in injury—just to give Netbers an opportunity to evaluate the lady’s performance. Netbers, I assume you consider her proficient?”
Netbers grimaced. “I would say so, sir.” He fingered his nose. “My node is brogen again.”
“Do you think she could kill a Wookiee? Or was that mere hyperbole?”
“I don’t think anyobe gould gill a Wookiee habd to habd, sir. But she gomes gloser than anyobe I’be seen.”
Melvar turned a cool expression on Shalla. “You were a bit treacherous, though. You were supposed to shake hands before opening hostilities.”
Shalla lost her smile. “Nonsense. He came at me with the intent of taking my hand and then applying leverage to it. I could see that in his stance as he approached.”
“Netbers?”
“She’s right, sir. Anb if she’s going on this mission, it’s good that she can recognize the difference.”
“Well, then.” Melvar returned his attention to Face. “Will you be deploying your TIEs for launch from our bay?”
“No. Kettch is agitated enough as it is, and being exposed to too many strange humans would unsettle him. I think we’d prefer to launch from Sungrass.”
“Understood. Please switch your comm systems to our frequency and cancel your starfighters’ usual encryption; we do want to be able to talk to one another. Launch and stand by at your convenience, and I will deliver this formidable young woman to the unit she will be working with.”
There were eight of them. Three men and a woman, all large, with movements like natural fighters, were dressed in the nondescript uniforms of maintenance workers, the words KUAT DRIVE YARDS emblazoned above the left breast of the uniforms. Four others were in stormtrooper armor. Melvar introduced them and Shalla filed their names away. He also succinctly explained the difference between the mission as described earlier and the way it was now. Shalla let her eyes open in simulated surprise when she “discovered” that the target was no cargo satellite but a Super Star Destroyer.
“At this hour,�
� Melvar continued, “on this shift, Razor’s Kiss—that’s the name of the new Super Star Destroyer, unless Zsinj chooses to rename it—is almost deserted. What’s left is mostly security details and workers finalizing critical assemblies.
“We’ve spent two years helping a colonel in charge of the ship’s landing parties build himself up a lucrative little smuggling operation. He doesn’t know ‘we’ means Zsinj, though he’ll find out when they court-martial him, if not before. Anyway, to facilitate his trading and dealing, he had to arrange for ways by which his people could bypass several layers of Kuat Drive Yards defense, and by monitoring him very closely we found out what those means were.
“This crew of specialists will be taking a standard shuttle in to the officers’ landing bay under access codes he uses for his little side operation. That will get you onto Razor’s Kiss … but no farther, I’m afraid.
“The crew will advance from the landing bay to the bridge and seize it, then enter programming that will allow you to operate the ship in limited capacity solely from the bridge. A false leak alert should clear everyone out of the engineering section and auxiliary bridge, at which point you’ll lock them out to prevent sabotage. Finally, a hypercomm signal to us will alert the fleet that it’s time to jump in and Razor’s Kiss can move out on its escape vector. Any questions?”
The faces of the other members of the team showed clearly they were all fully briefed on the situation. Shalla said, “I take it that I’m to be some sort of lure?”
Melvar nodded. “You’ll take point through much of the team’s advance through the ship. It’s inevitable that the team will run across crewmen we haven’t accounted for. Your job is very specific: Distract them, delay them for the others to get in position, but most importantly, don’t let them get off any sort of signal. Any comlink notification of the bridge can ruin the whole plan.”
Star Wars: X-Wing VI: Iron Fist Page 27