Star Wars: X-Wing I: Rogue Squadron

by Michael A. Stackpole

  The laser shots from a quartet of TIE starfighters illuminated the air behind him as he came into the crater beneath the shield’s protective dome. He immediately inverted and dove toward the base of the crater. Wind whistled from the S-foils. He rolled 180 degrees, filling his cockpit canopy with sky and pulled back on his stick to level the X-wing out.

  The astromech behind him shrieked a warning.

  “I know, I have two eyeballs on my tail.” In the vacuum of space the presence of two TIEs behind him would have been very serious because their superior maneuverability made them difficult to shake. In atmosphere, however, their less-than-aerodynamic design and the turbulence produced by their twin engines’ exhaust meant they had significant yaw problems. This made them no less deadly in a dogfight, but it did open up a myriad of strategies for dealing with them.

  “Deuce, help here.”

  “On my way.”

  Bror’s voice crackled through Wedge’s helmet. “Three, on me. I have them.”

  Okay, time for me to gouge at least one of the eyeballs. Wedge brought the left wing up at forty-five degrees, then feathered his throttle back. The lessened thrust and atmospheric drag slowed him enough that his X-wing slid fifty meters down and twenty to the right.

  The TIE pilot tried to follow him and remain at his back, but the hexagonal wings killed the sideslip. The drag slowed the TIE considerably, and it started to dip toward the jungle carpeting the crater floor. The pilot did the only thing he could to avoid a stall and crash. Diving his ship, he picked up speed and shot ahead of Wedge’s X-wing, but not so far in front to allow Wedge to sideslip left and come in behind.

  Not that I wanted to do that anyway. Wedge punched the left rudder pedal down and slewed the fighter’s stern around to the right. Goosing the throttle straightened the ship out, then Wedge’s crosshairs spitted the TIE and burned green. He hit the trigger and the quad lasers converged to blow bits of TIE fighter all over the Grand Isle landscape.

  “Vaped one.”

  He saw a smoking TIE slam into a crater wall. “You’re clear, Leader.”

  “Thanks, Deuce. Report, Three.”

  Nawara Ven’s voice seemed tinged with some disgust. “Four got a pair. Island is blind to my sensors.”

  “Rogue Leader to Control, Champion is clear to run.”

  “Relaying that message now. Nine sends thanks for the feed.”

  Wedge smiled. He would have preferred to have Corran more involved in the action, but resistance was expected and until they could bring a new pilot in for Lujayne Forge, his flight would be vulnerable—in spite of the skills both Corran and Ooryl exhibited. General Salm had suggested leaving Three Flight to oversee Warden Squadron—Defender Wing’s least experienced squadron. They’d all get mission experience, but nothing too life-threatening.

  “Control to Rogue Leader, Champion and Guardian squadrons beginning their runs.”

  “I can see them, Control.”

  Through the gap lumbered the Y-wings. Never an elegant craft, they appeared to have the atmospheric flight characteristics of something between a TIE starfighter and a big rock. All of the Y-wings dove to pick up speed, but they leveled out with little apparent trouble and started in on their strafing and torpedo runs.

  They may be slow and awkward, but Salm’s pilots do know how to do their jobs!

  “Control to Rogue Leader, we have trouble.”

  “Go ahead, Control.”

  “Two ships. Carrack-class cruiser and a Lancer-class frigate are in our exit vector. Eridain is beginning a withdrawal.”

  Wedge felt his stomach begin to fold in on itself. “Control, confirm Lancer-class frigate.” They’re rare, maybe this is a mistake. Please, let it be a mistake.

  “Confirm Lancer-class frigate. Orders?”

  Lancer-class frigates had been the Imperial Navy’s solution to the problem of snubfighters and the threat they posed to capital ships. All of 250 meters long, the boxy ships were studded with twenty gunnery towers, each one sporting a Seinar Fleet System Quad laser array. With its speed, which was exceptional for a big ship, and those weapons, the Lancer-class ships were rancors amid a nerf herd. While the Eridain’s turbolasers could have driven it off, the Carrack-class cruiser outgunned the blockade runner, leaving the Lancer free to pounce on the fighters.

  The X-wings were fast enough to elude the Lancer, but there was no way the Y-wings could outrun it or fight it. The Lancer’s guns made it the equivalent of eighty TIEs. Wedge glanced at his fuel monitor. He didn’t have enough fuel remaining for a long fight with the Lancer and the run home. I don’t have enough fuel to let the Eridain run for help. The best chance the Y-wings had was for the X-wings to engage the Lancer while they ran.

  Before he could reply to Tycho’s request for orders, General Salm’s voice came over the comm. “Rogue Leader, screen Warden and Guardian squadrons and get them out of there. Champion will buy you the time.”

  “Negative, General. Champion will die that way, Rogue may die if we hit the Lancer and you break out.”

  “I’m making this an order, Antilles.”

  “Rogue Squadron takes its orders from Admiral Ackbar, General.”

  “Rogue Leader, this is Nine.”

  “Not now, Nine.”

  “Commander, I know how we can get the Lancer. Worst case, we lose one ship.”

  “What is he babbling about?”

  “Easy, General. Go ahead, Nine.”

  “Ships have to close to two and a half klicks to get a firing solution for a proton torpedo. The Y-wing getting that close to the Lancer will be vaped. An X-wing can get in and send targeting data to the Y-wings, increasing the range for their solution. Same thing Captain Celchu did in the Forbidden at Chorax. The proton torps will home for thirty seconds, which means they can hit a target at just over fourteen and a half klicks. That will keep them safe from the Lancer.”

  Wedge frowned as he worked through Corran’s plan. A weaving X-wing might be able to get in close to the Lancer.

  General Salm saw the flaw in the plan at the same time Wedge did. “A weaving X-wing won’t be able to get a targeting lock on the Lancer, Antilles. This is nonsense.”

  Corran’s voice came back strong. “The X-wing doesn’t need to get a targeting lock, he just needs to get in close. The Y-wings will be targeting the X-wing’s homing beacon. Time it right, put the Lancer between the missiles and the X-wing, and you can scratch one Lancer.”

  “That just might work.” Wedge pulled back on the X-wing’s stick and started up toward space and the waiting Imperial ships. “I’ll make the run.”

  “Negative, Antilles.”

  “General …”

  “Rogue Leader, this is Nine, outbound. Release Warden Squadron to me.”

  Salm’s fury sizzled over the comm. “Under no circumstances! Stop now, Rogue Nine.”

  “Release the squadron to me. I’m outbound and I’m going to play tag with that Lancer.”

  “This is treason, Nine.” Salm’s voice cracked with anger. “I’ll have you shot.”

  “As long as it’s Warden Squadron that’s doing it, I don’t mind a bit. Nine out.”

  “Antilles, do something!”

  “He’s got the altitude, General.” And the attitude. “Release the squadron to him.” Wedge let a deep breath out. “Then form Champion up on me, just in case his run doesn’t do the trick.”

  Corran keyed his comm. “Okay, Wardens, this is how we become heroes. Link your torpedoes so you’ll be shooting two. You’ll shoot them on my mark. Timing is critical here—go too early and you won’t hit anything. Go too late and I’m … look, just don’t go too late. Ten, I need you to match their speed and don’t let them get any closer than eight and a half klicks from me. And not much farther either. My homing beacon will be on 312.43. Use that as the frequency for the target lock on the torpedoes.”

  “Got it, Nine.”

  “Control, Nine here. Be prepared to scatter the Wardens with evasive maneuver plots in c
ase the Lancer gets aggressive once the torpedoes are away.”

  “On it, Nine. Good luck.”

  Corran’s hand strayed to the medallion he wore. “Thanks, Control. Nine out.”

  “Okay, Whistler, we have our work cut out for us.” The pilot hit switches that pumped the full output of the fusion engine into propulsion. He ran all shield power to the forward shields. “I’m going to be trying to weave in at that monster. I want you to route my stick commands through a randomizer that adds or subtracts portions of five degrees in all dimensions from my commands. Don’t let the Lancer get out of a twenty-degree cone of my nose, but in that cone I want to be jumping around, got it?”

  The droid replied with a sharp, affirmative whistle.

  “And at the Lancer, I want to invert and pull a tight loop scraping right over the top of its hull and down the other side. We should be going away at ninety degrees to our current line and back toward Vladet’s atmosphere.” Corran sighed. “If we make it that far.”

  Whistler squawked reprovingly.

  “Sorry to get you into this.” Corran punched the console button that enabled the droid’s ejection system. “Maybe your next pilot won’t be so stupid.”

  The green light above the button went out.

  Corran hit the button again. “And maybe your next ship won’t have shorts.”

  The light died again.

  The pilot turned and looked back at the droid. “You got a death wish?”

  Whistler brayed derisively at him.

  “I am not looking at taking all the glory for myself.” Corran swallowed past the lump in his throat. “Thanks for hanging in. My father died alone. Doing that doesn’t recommend itself.”

  The droid gave him a scolding whoop.

  “Okay, you do your part and I’ll make sure we don’t die.” Corran looked at his scanner. Sensors put him eighteen klicks out from the Lancer. “Whistler, check my math. At full power I’ll do six klicks in the time it takes the missiles to catch me. That means they have to shoot when I hit the six klick mark. They have to be inside fifteen klicks from the Lancer. Looks like we’re all lined up and ready to go.”

  The droid chirped triumphantly and a countdown clock started in the upper corner of the sensor display. “Nine to Wardens, forty, four-oh, seconds to launch.”

  “Whistler, cut in the randomizer when I hit two and a half klicks from the target.” The Lancer’s weaponry, because it was taken from TIE bombers, suffered the same range limitations as the fighters. “Also map how the towers are working and send that data back to Control and Rogue Leader. If the Lancer has any weak points, any guns that aren’t shooting well, they need to know.”

  The timer counted down to ten seconds. Corran rubbed his medallion one more time, then settled his right hand on the stick and smiled. “Here goes Rogue Nine, following the unit’s tradition of accepting suicide missions with a smile. Wardens, on my mark. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Mark. Launch torpedoes!”

  The comm came alive with fire reports. Corran couldn’t make sense of the babble, but as the clash of voices died, he did hear “Warden Three, torpedoes away.”

  He glanced at the timer, which had started scrolling off seconds until impact. Two seconds late. Probably not a problem. “Whistler, you want to kill the volume on the missile lock warning siren? I am aware they’re incoming.”

  The background noise in the cockpit died. He watched the seconds slowly count down. It seemed to take forever for him to pass from the launch point to halfway in on the Lancer. As his ship streaked in he could see strings of green laser bolts begin to stretch out toward him. They began to curve and curl as the gunners tried to track his ship. The closing speed made all of their initial shots go long.

  Twelve and one-quarter seconds from impact, Whistler brought the randomizing program into play and Corran felt the stick begin to twitch. A tiny spark of fear ran through him as he imagined he had lost control of the ship. In its wake he found a calm that felt all too familiar from the last night on Talasea. Well, I didn’t die then. Maybe, just maybe …

  Easing the stick back and to the left he tossed the X-wing into the weave. Wave after seemingly solid wave of green laser energy lashed out from the Lancer, yet his snubfighter sliced through the troughs and curled around the crests, flirting with their deadly caresses. Light flashed against his shields, partially blinding him, but those glancing hits neither slowed nor deflected him.

  There was no missing his target. The Lancer-class frigate—Whistler identified it as the Ravager—swelled into a hard-edged, spiky rectangle with an up-bent prow and a bulbous engine assembly. Green backlight from the quads splashed color over the ship’s Imperial-white exterior. Corran nudged the X-wing in line, more or less, with the ship’s middle deck, then the X-wing whirled out of his control.

  In compliance with the instructions he had given Whistler before, the droid rolled the fighter hard to starboard. The stick bashed Corran’s right hand against the side of the cockpit, but before the pain could begin to register, the stick tore itself free of his grasp and smacked him solidly in the chest. With the stick pinning him back in his command chair, Corran could only look up and watch the Ravager’s hull blur as it flashed past.

  The torpedoes had been within half a second of catching the X-wing when it snapped up and around the Ravager. While fully capable of making the same maneuver the fighter had, because of their greater speed, the torpedoes needed more space in which to make it. Even as they started to correct their courses to follow Corran, they slammed into the Lancer and detonated.

  The first half-dozen explosions produced more energy than the shields could absorb. The shields went down, leaving the frigate open to the rest of the torpedo swarm. Blast shields buckled and transparisteel viewports evaporated as the torpedoes detonated. Titanium hull plates went molten, flowing into globules of metal that would harden as perfect spheres in the frozen darkness of space. Decks ruptured and the growing fireball at the center of the ship consumed atmosphere, equipment, and personnel with a rapacious appetite.

  All but two of the torpedoes fed into the roiling plasma storm raging in the heart of the Ravager. In bisecting the ship, the torpedoes cut all power and control links between the bridge, in the prow, and the engines at the stern. Automatic safeguards immediately kicked in and the engines shut down. All laser fire from the Ravager died and the stricken ship keeled over. It began to lose a tug-of-war with the planet below and slowly tumbled down into Rachuk’s gravity well.

  Corran, in an X-wing sprinting away from the Imperial frigate, could see none of the damage the torpedoes did to the Ravager. He stared down his sensor monitor and smiled as the sensors reported, line by line, the deaths of twenty-two torpedoes that were following him.

  Twenty-two? But there should have been twenty-four. He pried the stick off his chest. “Whistler, where are those last two missiles?”

  The sensor array shifted. The torpedoes had shot under the Lancer, reacquiring his beacon when he cleared the frigate’s far side. Almost here. I have to break hard!

  The stick twitched and jerked of its own accord. Horror trickled electricity through Corran’s guts. “Whistler, cut it out!”

  The stick still bucked and fought against his grip. Corran realized, in one painfully crystal-clear moment, that in having used the indefinite pronoun it in his last command he had made a mistake equal in magnitude to still having all shield energy in his forward arc. He started to rectify both of those errors, but the proximity indicator reporting the location of Warden Three’s torpedoes told him his time had run out.

  22

  Kirtan Loor’s shuttle came out of hyperspace a second before the spread of proton torpedoes hit the Ravager. Hanging nearly ten kilometers above the distant Lancer, all Kirtan saw was a cone of green laser light stabbing off into space, then a brilliant light dawning at the base of the cone, illuminating the frigate in which it burned. Subsidiary blasts surrounded the ship with fire, then it slowly started to drift away as esc
ape pods shot in all directions away from it.

  “What in Sith happened there?”

  The shuttle’s pilot shook his head. “I don’t know, but I’m reading a Corellian blockade runner out there and a number of Alliance fighters. I’m taking us in to the Expeditious now!”

  The fear in the man’s voice almost overwhelmed Kirtan’s sense of mission. “While you’re running, Lieutenant, get me as much comm chatter captured as you can. I want all of it. Do you have any survey probes? Launch one.”

  “Sensors are telling us all we need to know about the dead frigate, sir.”

  “Not it, you moron, launch it at the runner and the fighters.” Only because he couldn’t fly the shuttle did Kirtan refrain from throttling the pilot. “If you had lasers for brains you couldn’t melt ice with them.”

  “Probe away.” The pilot glanced back at him. “Anything else, or can I land us on the Expeditious and get us out of here?”

  “Are the fighters a serious threat to us?”

  “Probably not, they’re all too far away, but I don’t want to chance it.”

  “Very well, do your docking maneuver, but keep data flow constant from that probe.”

  “As you command, my lord.”

  Kirtan ignored the mocking tones in the man’s voice and sat back to think. The tiny rocket probe would provide little solid data. It was designed to be used to sink into a planet’s atmosphere and provide a shuttle with wind and atmospheric data that would affect flight and landing. It also had basic communications scanning capabilities and some visual sensors that might provide him data about the blockade runner and the fighters.

  All of that would only confirm what he knew inside already. The fighters, or part of them at least, were from Rogue Squadron. Their need to strike back after the raid on their base was obvious, as was the Rebellion’s need to punish Admiral Devlia for daring to strike at them.

  Kirtan pressed his hands together, fingertip to fingertip. “Lieutenant, is there any signal from Grand Isle?”