Kell felt a sudden grip of guilt. Had he and Runt flown too well? Had the A-wings, wishing not to be shown up by the more experienced pilots, overflown themselves and been destroyed against the fissure walls? But no, just as they arrayed themselves to enter the narrow continuation of the Trough, Kell saw the A-wings’ lights behind, just entering the bomb run.
A bare minute later, with their lead over the A-wings still solid, Runt reduced power to the main engines and cut in the repulsorlifts. Kell followed suit. The two of them angled northward and rose smoothly along a jagged cliff face, clearing its top by a mere two meters, and set down twenty meters from the dropoff.
“Six, cut all power,” Kell said, “except life support, communications, visual sensors. No cockpit lights. Tell your R5 to shut down its exterior lights.”
“Will do,” Runt acknowledged.
A shadow fell across Kell’s cockpit as the two A-wings settled in beside them. Kell switched his comm system from the squad frequency to the general New Republic frequency, but kept power scaled so far down that it would be unlikely for anything more than a klick away to pick them up. “Glad you two could join us. We’ve been here awhile; would you relieve us while we take a nap?”
“Ha, ha,” came the reply. A woman’s voice, Kell thought. “Who are we talking to?”
“Kell Tainer, Wraith Five. To my starboard is Hohass Ekwesh, also known as Runt, Wraith Six.” Kell saw the two A-wings powering down and was relieved he didn’t have to remind them.
“Dorset Konnair, Blue Nine. The pretty boy to my port is Tetengo Noor, Blue Ten. You two got some fair speed out of those outdated piles of junk.”
“Why, thank you.”
“Of course, we would have beaten you if Tetengo here hadn’t remembered he’d left something in the oven back at base. We went back for his supper.”
The other pilot’s voice cut in. “I didn’t want to go into combat on an empty stomach.”
Kell snorted. The affection A-wing pilots had for their fighters’ speed was legendary, as was their contempt for any vehicle slower than theirs. “Let’s just keep that little story to ourselves,” he said. “We don’t want Blue Wing pilots to pick up a reputation for turning tail.”
Blue Nine made an outraged noise; it sounded like a giant insectile buzz over the comm transmission. “Ooh, you’ll get it for that.”
“You have your visual sensors oriented toward their projected arrival zone?”
Blue Nine said, “Naturally.”
Blue Ten said, “Oops.”
“Snap it up, Ten.”
For a few minutes they didn’t speak. Then Blue Ten’s voice cut in: “I have them.”
Kell panned his visual sensor around but couldn’t pick up the enemy. “Blue Ten, feed me those coordinates.”
A moment later his screen brightened with a jittery view of numerous tiny glows—TIE fighter ion engines, far to the north.
Kell fed that sensor data to Thirteen and received back the precise map coordinates of the point on the Pig Trough the incoming fighters could cross—that, and the exact time of their arrival there, assuming they did not change speed. Kell said, “This is Wraith Five. Did anyone else run the numbers?”
“Blue Nine here.”
“I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours.”
Their numbers agreed to two significant digits. Kell transmitted them, encrypted, a short burst aimed directly at Folor Base; with luck, the attackers wouldn’t pick up the signal, wouldn’t be able to track it, or would dismiss it as irrelevant.
Kell waited with his hand on the power-up switches. Four minutes until the TIEs reached the Pig Trough. They’d be a long four minutes.
“Wraith Five, I have the Star Destroyer.”
Kell checked his sensors, saw the blip moving in along the wake of the TIE fighters, several minutes back. “The signal wouldn’t be this strong if they didn’t already have their shields up. The captain in charge of that Star Destroyer is pretty cautious. Blues, do you think there’s anything we can do about that capital ship?”
“Wraith Five, Blue Nine. I don’t think so. I suppose we could crash into her bow like bugs hitting a speeder bike. That might upset their frail temperaments.”
“A charming image. Thanks, Blue Nine.” Kell tried to let go of the idea of hindering or diverting the massive vessel, but he couldn’t. If the vessel joined the impending fight between the TIEs and the New Republic fighters, more of his friends and allies would be killed; if it reached Folor Base before the last transport lifted, that ship would never see freedom. He felt the muscles in his upper back begin to knot.
What would turn the Star Destroyer away from its mission, even temporarily? A greater perceived threat? How would they simulate one?
Perhaps a greater prize for the captain to gain … Kell sat upright. “Blues, Wraith Five. Our astromechs are factory-new. No sense of history to them. Does either of you have in your computer records any of the older encryption codes? The expired codes?”
“Blue Ten. I’ve got a whole string of them.”
“Good. Here’s what we do.”
On this final stretch of the Pig Trough, Wedge didn’t bother to check on the formation of the other nine members of Wraith Squadron accompanying him. They’d formed up tight on the straightaways, loosened up for the stretches requiring tight maneuvering, but always formed a screen forbidding General Crespin’s A-wings to pass them.
Up ahead was the fissure bend that marked their exit point—the place where six TIE squadrons would be passing overhead any moment, if Kell Tainer’s math was right. He glanced up above the rim of the cliffs and saw the first of their targets, an oncoming wave of enemy fighters mere seconds from passing overhead.
“Strike foils to attack position,” he said, and followed words with action. “Wraiths, hit the interceptors first if there are any, then bombers if possible. Follow me in—”
“Damned Blue Squadron!” That was Grinder’s voice. Wedge glanced back just in time to see the A-wings, no longer needing to maintain secrecy, rise above the fissure walls and kick in their full acceleration, firing up out of the fissure faster than the X-wings could follow.
“Four, this is One. Refrain from personal comments. Wraiths, they seem to be going after the lead eyeballs and the dupes they’re escorting. That leaves us free to hit the squints. Let’s go.” He pulled back on the stick, punched up both the thrusters and the repulsorlift engines.
Wedge’s X-wing cleared the lip of the fissure wall by only a few meters, but its proximity to the lip kicked in the repulsorlifts, which bounced the X-wing up faster and harder, giving him an extra edge in altitude. He was pleased to see Jesmin Ackbar still with him; she had to have been proficient with the same little trick to do so.
Above and ahead, less than two klicks away, were six full squadrons of TIEs. Wedge set his jaw; they faced three-to-one odds. This was going to be bad.
He homed in on the squadron of squints, interceptors, and swept his targeting brackets across them. The brackets immediately went red and he fired, sending a proton torpedo toward them. He saw other reddish streaks of acceleration as four more Wraiths fired their torps, then pure red needles of light as the remainder cut in with quad-fired lasers. Wedge saw no less than four of the interceptors flare out of existence from that first barrage.
Almost directly above, TIE fighters and bombers flared into incandescence and faded into nothingness as General Crespin’s Blue Squadron hit them. Then all six flights of TIEs were dissolving into flurries, pairs of fighters rolling out and diving toward them, already firing green laser lances.
“Two, stay on me.” He corkscrewed upward, gaining altitude west of the main body of descending TIE fighters.
“One, we have three oncoming.”
“Target the one to starboard, Two.” Wedge transferred more energy to the bow shields.
Three TIE fighters dove toward them, firing continuously. Wedge almost smiled at their lack of marksmanship. Wedge closed with them, ha
lf rolling his fighter back and forth to present a more confusing profile, and switched to lasers, linking them for quad fire. He waited until he had a solid lock on the port eyeball and fired.
The shot melted and tore away the entire starboard side of the fighter, sending its severed wing in a plummet toward the lunar surface. The TIE fighter banked as though the pilot were still futilely trying to regain control, then exploded.
Wedge saw a quad pattern of laser fire hit the starboard fighter, coring it through the center of the cockpit. The eyeball, still virtually intact, heeled over and began its final descent to Folor.
Yes, they were beginners. The third pilot panicked, rolled out to begin his escape, and presented both Wraiths with a beautiful side shot. Both linked sets of lasers hit it, melting it to slag in the brief instant before its twin ion engines lost integrity and detonated.
Wedge and Jesmin wheeled around, seeking the area where the interceptors were most likely to be. Over the babble of instructions and outcries occupying the airwaves, Wedge heard Piggy’s voice: “Seven, this is Twelve. Recommend you dive … now. Eight, recommend you fire … now.”
Wedge frowned. Piggy needed to be fighting, not acting as ground control. But Janson was the Gamorrean’s wingmate and could control him. Wedge picked up the blips of a cluster of fighters, probably eyeballs, at the extreme range of his lasers. He evened out his shields, said, “Two, fire at will,” and began taking target-of-opportunity shots as his brackets flashed green.
Then across his comm came the last thing he expected to hear: “Han, can’t you coax any more speed out of that pile of junk?”
Admiral Trigit switched his chair monitor to the plotting graphic showing the fighter engagement. He frowned. They no longer had three-to-one odds; the Rebel fighters were putting up a ferocious fight after an ambush of considerable efficiency. Of seventy-two fighters, Trigit had lost twenty-one, with only two kills among the enemy.
That would change. Numerical superiority would eventually make the difference. But these losses were costly.
“Admiral, new target, designated Folor-Three. About forty klicks to the west and heading west, slowly.”
“Identify it, please.”
“It looks like two groups of X-wings and a ship of unknown type. We’re picking up transmissions.”
“Put them through routine encryption, let me know if you get anything. If they’re headed away, they’re not a threat to us.”
“They’re already decrypted, sir. They’re using an older code, one we cracked a couple of weeks ago.”
“Well, put them on. From the start.”
The voices were crackling and full of mechanical buzz. “Han, can’t you coax any more speed out of that pile of junk?”
A female voice answered: “Han can’t come to the cockpit right now. He’s up to his armpits in what’s left of the main engines. We’ve got only repulsorlifts running.”
“Princess, repulsorlifts aren’t going to get you off Folor. If you can’t get those engines up in a couple of minutes, go to ground and hide out. We’ll try to come back for you.”
“That’s very encouraging, Rogue Two.”
Trigit snapped upright. “Sensors, does this ‘ship of unknown type’ match the parameters of the Millennium Falcon?”
“Sir, they don’t match anything. Some sort of odd-shaped thing with an oscillating shield system we can’t get a good fix on. Those shields can’t be offering too much protection, though. Uh, records indicate that the Millennium Falcon has had three distinctive sets of parameters just since the death of the Emperor—”
“Yes, yes. Continual retooling, and all that.” Trigit drew his sleeve across his brow to wipe away the sweat that had suddenly appeared there. Han Solo and Leia Organa here? Escorted by units of Rogue Squadron? Why? He was under the impression that their respective missions for the Rebels currently had them separated, with the Millennium Falcon not even in service.
But he knew it had to be them. The base was surely abandoned by now, so why would the base’s A-wing and X-wing trainees be waging such a furious defense? It only made sense if they were covering the flight of the princess, one of the most influential figures in the New Republic.
“Pilot, close with target designated Folor-Three. We’re going to capture some famous Rebels.” He smiled at the cheers of his bridge crew and returned to his command seat.
“That’s very encouraging, Rogue Two.”
Wedge realized his mouth was hanging open, and shut it. Rogue Squadron and Leia here? When the Millennium Falcon had arrived and departed without the Rogues days ago? It made no sense.
Then he caught sight of the data screen and the information his astromech unit, Gate, was scrolling across it. These transmissions had been encrypted in the Derra-114 protocol, a code they’d been instructed to abandon weeks ago when they learned the Warlord Zsinj’s forces had cracked it. It was the same as broadcasting in the clear.
New Republic fighter voice transmissions were often crude, part voice and part static buzz. This wasn’t because the New Republic couldn’t afford better transmission gear; it was a tradition dating back to the earliest days of the Alliance. New Republic comm units, by reducing voice data to the smallest set that would convey data and be recognizable, were able to broadcast transmissions across a wider set of subfrequencies, making it more difficult for enemies to jam them. The data reduction had another effect that was vital back when the New Republic was a rebellion: The voice distortion made it next to impossible for Imperial investigators to conclusively match transmissions with those who had sent them, so it was difficult to prove that a given person was the pilot at a given fight. Still, Wedge thought he caught some of Kell Tainer’s vocal mannerisms in the voice of “Rogue Two,” meaning the supposed Millennium Falcon group had to be Kell and his three companions. It was some sort of ploy.
“Leader, Two. Implacable is breaking off.”
The sensor screen showed Jesmin to be correct; the Imperial Star Destroyer was turning slowly to the west, away from the fighter engagement. Wedge smiled broadly. “Wraiths, this is Leader. We’ve been given some extra time. Make the most of it.”
Ahead was the thickest swarm of the dogfight, at least twenty TIEs mixing it up with half that many New Republic fighters. Wedge set his lasers to dual-fire and angled in toward the swarm. “Strafing run, Two. Fire at will.”
Engines wailing, they dove into the thickest of the dogfight, firing as fast as their targeting computers showed green. Green return fire and red crossfire from their own allies flashed before them, above, below, beside, but Gate gave him no indication that he’d been hit.
The comm was live with the fog of communication: “Blue Three is gone, I repeat, gone” “Somebody get this mynock off my tail!” “Wraith Four, this is Twelve. Spin out, now. Three, your target should be coming into range … now.” “Blue Four, this is Three. I’m still here, where are you?” “Then who’s that cloud of debris—”
Wedge emerged from the far side of that cluster of fighters certain that he’d hit a TIE fighter, equally certain that he’d vaped an interceptor and winged one or two other enemies. He glanced beside him and was reassured to see Jesmin still on his wing. “Two, this is Leader. Status?”
“Leader, I’m hit. I show significant damage to etheric rudder.”
“Can your R2 patch it up?”
“I think so. He’s shrieking at me not to maneuver, though. He says it will tear apart the few connections I have left.”
Wedge bit his lip. If that report was accurate and Jesmin returned to the fight, she’d probably lose maneuverability fast—and that would make her an easy target for opportunistic TIE pilots. “Two, break off. Return to Folor Base, maneuvering by engines only. Take up station there and keep me updated.”
“Yes, sir.” Even with comm distortion, there was no mistaking the resignation in her voice. Wedge felt for her; he knew she’d be berating herself for failing the squadron. He’d felt that way himself eight years ago, when o
rdered to break off his attack on the first Death Star. But he had no time to play morale officer now. He waited until she locked her strike foils back into cruise formation and began her long, gentle curve back toward base, then he looped around in a tight arc and headed back toward the fight.
Sensors showed the TIEs dropping at a good rate, though battle damage was taking its toll on the X-wings and A-wings. If the Borleias didn’t launch soon, Wraith and Blue Squadrons were going to be in deep trouble.
Blue Nine and Blue Ten flew wingtip to wingtip with a precision that made Kell jealous. He’d always thought of A-wing pilots as being a little sloppier than X-wing pilots, because their crafts were not quite as maneuverable, but Blue Squadron was putting the lie to his suppositions. He revised his opinion of General Crespin from “pain in the rear” to “pain in the rear but a fine trainer.”
Wraith Five and Wraith Six paced the two A-wings, and their rate was appallingly slow—about the same as a fast human sprint, the maximum rate of some repulsorlift engines. Though their course was a straight line northwest, they kept the Pig Trough within a kilometer of their position.
Kell checked his monitor, still showing sensor data. The fighter battle was a confusing blur of specks far in the distance. Closer, the Implacable gained on them with frightening speed. They were already within range of the Star Destroyer’s bombardment cannons … though those weapons were not accurate against fighters at this distance.
“Runt, anything from Folor?”
“Negative, Five.”
He switched back to the Derra-114 encryption and boosted his transmission power. “Princess, they’re gaining on us. I give you two minutes before we have to cut and run.”
Blue Nine’s voice was a plea: “Just hang on a little while, Rogue Two. We’re almost there.”
Kell grinned. He and Blue Nine were pretty bad actors, but the crew of the Implacable apparently hadn’t noticed. Maybe, if he survived, he’d get Face to teach him some of the tricks of the trade.
Star Wars: X-Wing V: Wraith Squadron Page 12