Star Wars: X-Wing V: Wraith Squadron

by Aaron Allston

  Face trotted up the shuttle’s boarding ramp, felt it rising to close even before he reached the top. He dropped into the copilot’s seat beside Cubber, who wore the uniform of an Imperial ensign. “Are they on station?”

  “They should be, by now. Let’s find out.” Cubber double-tapped a button on the shuttle’s comm.

  Face looked out across the ferrocrete. Ahead of him, the first of Xartun’s two suns was just beginning to rise over the innocuous bunker where he had just spent a couple of informative hours; the governor had given him the very detailed grand tour reserved for Captain Darillian. Face had seen the underground levels, the manufacturing equipment that turned out transparisteel products such as blastproof windows and fighter canopies. All of it, the governor explained, now owned by Lord Houghten Ween … another alias of Warlord Zsinj.

  Beyond the bunker was the parking area and arrival zone where the plant’s day laborers left their personal vehicles, and beyond that was the land road leading to the nearest community. All around the complex was thick forest … forest where the commando team was now supposed to be waiting. But Face saw no signal, heard nothing over the comm. “No sign of them,” he said.

  “Look at your chest.”

  Face glanced down. Dancing around on his chest was a bright red spot, the wrong end of the laser targeting sight from Donos’s sniper rifle.

  Face half crawled out of the chair before he could bring himself under control. “All right. They’re ready.” He took a couple of deep breaths to bring himself under control. The red light disappeared. “I’m going to get him for that.”

  “Sure you are.”

  Face took off his lieutenant’s cap, pulled the concealed device from within, and plugged it into the shuttle’s communications console. “Tour data compressing … compressing … Ready to go.” He turned on the comm. “Shuttle Adder’s Bite ready to depart. Requesting communications signal integrity check.”

  “Adder’s Bite, this is Tower Six, copy. Go ahead.”

  “Prepare for thirty seconds of nasty Verpine music, then report signal strength.” He hit the transmit button.

  The file began broadcasting. Coming in over an audio link, it would sound like discordant, jarring shrieks only a very few alien species could love. Acquired as data and then translated by a program written by Grinder, though, it would expand out into a holographic record of Face’s tour through the manufacturing bunker.

  The file cut off. “Signal strength nine,” Tower Six reported. “And that’s nasty.”

  “Don’t let your children listen to it. They might get a taste for it … like mine did. Adder’s Bite out, and away.”

  “Good luck, and good flying. Tower Six out.”

  Cubber cut in the repulsorlifts and the Narra smoothly rose off the ferrocrete pad. As she rose, her wings came down from their upfolded position and locked into cruising configuration. Cubber elevated the bow and cut in the thrusters, punching the Narra up toward space at an abrupt angle.

  Face, bounced around by the crude maneuvers in spite of the inertial compensators, hurriedly strapped himself into place. “Hey, where did you earn your pilot’s license?”

  “License?” Cubber broke into laughter. “Listen to the boy. I don’t have anything as fancy as a license. Just a few hours instruction from a couple of pilots I did some favors for. You want a smoother ride? Give me some lessons.”

  “Oh, yeah? Will you trade a favor for them?”

  “Sure. Something mechanical?”

  “A modification to Vape, my R2.”

  “Sure. Just let me station this flying can at our waiting zone and you can tell me all about it.”

  A hundred meters from the landing pad, in a glade a few meters from the forest edge, Grinder looked over his datapad. “It uncompressed fine. I told you.”

  Kell squatted down beside him. “Don’t be defensive. I just like to have things run through over and over again.”

  “You’re obsessed with preparation.”

  “Yes, I am. Meaning I want you to study that recording until your eyes bleed. I’m going to do the same.”

  Grinder sighed.

  They wore dark jumpsuits in dark green broken by irregular swaths of black—camouflage wear suited to deep forest or nighttime in most overgrown areas. All the Wraiths but Face were present … and despite the rank disparity between them, Wedge had assigned command of the mission to Kell, due to his specific commando experience.

  “All right,” Kell said. “Everyone, settle in for some sleep. I’ll take first watch; Janson, you take second. We go at nightfall.”

  As the day progressed, large personnel skimmers and private vehicles delivered workers and managers to the factory. From their vantage point, the commando party couldn’t see much of what went on at the front, or business, end of the complex. But shortly before noon, four X-23 StarWorker space barges landed and took on cargo through the bunker’s rear cargo doors. Kell and Wedge took notes on their registry numbers while Jesmin recorded all transmissions. The barges took off an hour later and Kell went off-duty, settling into sleep.

  He woke as dusk was settling. He was a little stiff and suffered from new aches, his sleeping roll not being adequate defense agains the hard ground and tree roots beneath him or the local stinging insects. The other Wraiths looked as though they felt the same.

  Runt, his fur spotted with twigs and crumbled pieces of leaves, handed him a hot and extra-stout cup of caf. Kell took a sip and winced. “More of Cubber’s solvent?”

  Runt looked at him in slight confusion, then something in his eyes and manners changed and he uttered a soft chortle. “I understand.”

  “Has everyone eaten?”

  “Everyone but you.” Runt picked up a small gray case a third of a meter long and pressed a recessed button at one end. The whole package began to crackle as its contents, Kell’s supper, began to cook within.

  “Good.” Kell raised his voice slightly to get everyone’s attention. “People, do your final equipment checks. We’ll move out as soon as it’s fully dark.”

  He ignored his own directive; he’d done his equipment check before falling asleep. Shaped charges. Grenades. Explosives. Adhesives. Detonators. Detonation comlinks. Miniature datapads optimized to detect complex sets of circumstances and then trigger detonators. Sensors. Tools. Hand lights. Headband lights. Lights with temporary adhesives to stick to all sorts of walls and other surfaces. A full-sized datapad with permanent memory stuffed full of data about explosives in use by the Empire, by the New Republic, by warlords and individual worlds. All of it arranged by straps or in pockets so he could find any item by touch. All of it was fine. He opened his meal case and began absently pulling nameless meatlike balls from it and eating them.

  Grinder waved a hand to get his attention. Kell moved over to him, still unsteady from sleepiness, and drank more of the poisonous caf.

  “I have something for you,” Grinder said. He was staring intently at the oversized screen on his datapad.

  Kell moved to loom over him. “Show me.”

  On the screen was a panoramic camera view of the front of the bunker. Kell knew it had been taken through the fisheye camera rig in Face’s hat. With the touch of a button, Grinder set the view into motion; the heavily armored door into the bunker slid open, the planet’s governor and some of his cronies moved ahead of the camera view into the small vehicle hangar beyond, and Face’s point-of-view followed.

  One of the governor’s men pointed, drawing Face’s attention toward a long, open vehicle, which Kell recognized as an Ubrikkian cargo skiff. This one was different from the standard model; at the rear was a small passenger bay enclosed in a globular transparisteel canopy. Inside was a reclining couch large enough for two. The governor’s man wore an expression Kell interpreted as amused, and the camera vibrated a little, possibly from Face laughing.

  “Here,” Grinder said, and paused the image. He tapped the lower-left corner of the display. It showed a man holding a comlink, but not ori
enting it toward his mouth. Grinder started the image in motion again. The man pressed a button on the comlink. Behind him, in the corner of the display, the bunker door began to close. “What does that suggest to you?”

  “The door closed on a signal instead of a wall switch or a timer,” Kell said. “And possibly the governor’s man drew Face’s attention away to keep him from seeing it; that whole scene in the corner would have been behind him as he looked at the skiff. That suggests a security measure. Maybe an alarm on timer; if they don’t switch it off with the comlink within the appointed time, the alarm goes off.”

  “That’s my guess, Demolition Boy.”

  “I’m leader here; call me Demolition Boy Sir. Uh, roll that sequence back to the point at which he hit the button on the comlink.”

  Grinder did.

  Kell consulted the numbers on the text screen of the datapad. “Jesmin, how long have you been recording?”

  The Mon Calamari stood at attention. “Since we came on station, Demolition Boy Sir.”

  Kell gave her a look suggesting she had just betrayed him to the Imperials. “That’s an awful lot of time to record, isn’t it?”

  “Not really. My gear records everything off the airwaves, but analyzes it as it goes, and only commits discrete strong signals or repeating patterns to its memory. So after hours of recording I have perhaps an hour recorded.”

  “Did you record a transmission at two hundred oh eight oh three?”

  She picked up her heavy communications gear pack and opened the flap giving her access to the main control screen. After a few moments, she said, “Something within eight seconds of that time, sir. Acceptable within normal variations on individual chronos. The transmission was fairly complex but lasted less than half a second.”

  “Make sure that eight seconds is the interval between your gear and Grinder’s datapad.” Kell frowned at the Bothan. “Didn’t I tell you to synchronize the chronos between everyone’s datapads?”

  Grinder looked abashed. “I have no excuse, sir.”

  “Oh, so when you’re in trouble, I stop being Demolition Boy?”

  Grinder grinned.

  “That’s the interval,” Jesmin said.

  “All right. Note that transmission and be prepared to broadcast it, in the frequency it came in on, at my command.”

  There was a faint rustle in the trees between them and the landing pad. Wedge, Kell, and Tyria had blasters in their hands within a split second and had them trained on the intruder before he, Donos, emerged from the trees.

  Donos blinked at them. “The suns are down and the last of the worker transports is gone.”

  “Good,” Kell said. “People, remember: Once we reach the bunker, always use your numbers. Never your names.

  “Here are the final orders … until circumstances and screwups dictate that we alter them. Ten, break trail, with One as your backup.” Tyria and Wedge nodded. “Four and I follow fairly closely.” Grinder, obviously still abashed from his failure to calibrate chronos, merely hoisted his pack onto his shoulders and saluted.

  “Nine remains on station here as our long-distance spotter and sniper.” Donos nodded. “The rest follow in a group until we get to the bunker’s rear door. Eleven, you’ll set up at that door as our secondary spotter.” Janson gave a brief nod.

  “Inside, Three will choose one vehicle for our escape; I recommend the cargo skiff, but you’re the expert on the condition of these crafts, so make your choice at your own discretion. Disable the rest. Twelve, you’ll stay with her as her guard and ears.” Falynn gave him a thumbs-up; Piggy nodded.

  “The rest of us will enter, acquire all the data we can, plant the charges, and get out. Questions? No one? All right. Move out.”

  Wedge, trailing Tyria at a distance of eight or ten meters, marveled at the way she moved.

  Hers was not a steady progress. She stopped to listen to animal noises, stray crackings of twigs or other unexplained sounds, and when there was no noise at all. But when the wind stirred the trees, she glided forward at a steady pace, the wind completely blanketing whatever noise she might have made.

  Wedge tried to follow her example. After so many ground missions in the last few years, his own intrusion skills were not inconsiderable. On the other hand, he hadn’t needed them to survive day after day for years as she had; it was hardly embarrassing to discover she was better at them.

  They skirted the forest edge alongside the ferrocrete landing pad until they reached the closest approach to the bunker. Keeping low, they moved across open ground until they reached the bunker’s shadow, then hugged the bunker wall all the way to the door. Tyria nodded and Wedge clicked his comlink twice to indicate success. The two of them crouched, motionless, blasters in hand, and covered the approach of the next team.

  Within a minute Kell and Grinder joined them. “So far, so good,” Kell whispered. “Minimal security.”

  “On the outside, anyway,” Tyria amended.

  Kell clicked his comlink twice, then nodded to Grinder.

  The Bothan held a small light in his mouth and looked at the access panel beside the door to the hangar. “Standard model,” he mumbled around the light.

  Kell snorted. “With Zsinj involved? Don’t believe it.”

  “I don’t.” Grinder brought out a small sensor and ran it around the join where the access panel was sealed shut. “Ooh,” he said. “Standard keypad. Underneath, simplified circuits. Behind that, a denser circuit panel. Not standard.”

  “What’s that mean?” asked Wedge.

  “False layer to trip up …” Drool ran out of Grinder’s mouth around the penlight and he shut up, scowling.

  “If you open up the panel,” Kell said, “you’ll probably get something that looks like the standard wiring you find in these panels. Odds are good you can even patch into it to run a bypass and get these doors open. But it’s a fake, and the circuitry beneath it will be busy alerting every guard on this hemisphere of the planet. The trick is to open both top layers at once and not trip the security, which is really tough—”

  Grinder popped open the access hatch. A panel of dense circuitry in a pattern unfamiliar to Wedge glinted at them. Grinder turned to smirk at Kell.

  “All right,” Kell said, “maybe not so tough.”

  Wedge had to work to keep a smile off his face. The Wraiths were still surprising one another with what they could accomplish. A good sign. He just wished Kell were not so tense, so rigid; he’d been that way ever since Wedge had announced Kell was leading this mission. Not a good sign.

  The others moved up fairly quietly behind them. “All accounted for,” whispered Janson.

  Grinder plugged wires and bypass circuitry into the access hatch’s naked circuitry, then flipped a tiny toggle on an equally tiny capacitance charge. The hangar door groaned and slid open before them. It was pitch-black beyond, and the moons, still arising on the far side of the bunker, offered no light.

  Tyria pulled her night-sight gear over her eyes and switched it on; it made a faint hum. “Everyone move in, no more than six paces; we’re clear to that point,” she said.

  They did as she said, all but Janson.

  “Two.”

  “Yes, Five.”

  “Can you transmit that signal by touch?”

  “Yes, Five.”

  “Do so.”

  The door moaned behind them until it was shut again.

  “Hand lights on,” Kell said.

  The commandos’ handheld lights sprang to life, tiny beams illuminating small portions of the spacious hangar.

  “You all know your assignments,” Kell said. “Let’s go.” He headed toward the doors that gave access to the hallway with the bunker’s main freight turbolift; all but Falynn and Piggy followed.

  In the hall, Grinder took only a minute to bypass the turbolift controls. Then he tried to lift the turbolift’s massive top-closing door. It stubbornly refused his efforts.

  “Allow us.” Runt stepped in, affecting a swagger
Wedge hadn’t seen before, and put his fingers under the door’s bottom lip. He straightened easily, lifting the door to waist height. He showed big teeth in a near-human grin. His long, furred hands were steady as they held up the door’s enormous weight.

  Kell ducked to peer inside. The turbolift shaft went down six or more stories, more than the three Face had been shown; the lift car was far below in the dimness. There were access rungs on one side.

  On their way down, Grinder spoke to Kell; Wedge barely heard the whispered words. “I haven’t seen any cameras. Microphones. No wiring for them in the wall behind the turbolift access panel.”

  “Have you seen enough to be sure there aren’t any?” Kell said.

  “No. I’m giving you an impression.”

  “Keep looking.” Face’s tape hadn’t shown any armed guards, either. The bunker complex might rely on other types of defense … and not knowing what they were had Kell worried.

  The turbolift was a freight model, with no roof to impede them. They dropped the last six feet to its floor. Grinder immediately got to work bypassing the door’s electronics, then Runt, with little apparent effort, heaved the car’s door and then the armored exterior door up.

  The door opened onto a loading area. It was full of loading carts and even some repulsorlift vehicles, with transparisteel products loaded onto some of them.

  There were crystal-clear cubes three meters on a side, with small circular holes and an opening, one meter by one meter, cut into the side; there were large, thick sheets shaped as irregular polygons; there were curved disks over two meters in diameter, looking like enormous lenses.

  Wedge looked at these last items. “TIE fighter front viewports,” he said. “And the big sheets, unless I’m mistaken, are bridge or lounge windows for a capital ship.”

  “Sounds like support for Zsinj’s Super Star Destroyer,” Kell said. He dropped his voice to a whisper, tones probably too low for planted microphones to pick up. “But then why wouldn’t Eight have been shown this level?”