Wraith Squadron

by Aaron Allston

  Crespin's was now the mechanical, condensed voice of a fighter pilot in a cockpit. Wedge wasn't surprised; if he knew the aging general, Crespin would personally lead Blue Squadron into combat. The training squadron would benefit from his long experience and might, just might, get out of the conflict alive. "Confirm Implacable and escorts oncoming by the most direct course," said the general. "Borleias, Bright Nebula, are you ready to lift?"

  Wedge couldn't hear the transmissions of the two transport captains, but a moment later General Crespin came back. "Bright Nebula reports ready to launch; they'll be away before the TIE squadrons get here. Borleias is still suffering a malfunction on the ion engine initializer. Blue Squadron, Gray Squadron—I mean, Wraith Squadron—we're going to have to buy them some time and hope they can make use of it. Commander Antilles, any suggestions?"

  "Yes, sir. If I remember Folor's geography right, a straight polar shot from the false base to the real one has to bring the invaders across some portion of the Pig Trough."

  "That's correct, Wraith Leader."

  "I suggest we calculate the interception point the TIEs and the Implacable will most probably pass. Send a unit of spotters to some point even farther north of that point to confirm their arrival, have them power down so they won't show up on routine scans. When the TIEs reach the trench, Wraith and Blue Squadrons pop up out of it and chew them up. Our spotters can either fall on them from behind or hit the Implacable, if it's close enough, to cause them some consternation."

  "Wraith Leader, you plan is approved. You send two spotters, I'll send two."

  "Wraith Five, Wraith Six, get out there. Run along the Pig Trough to bypass any sensor packages they might have ahead of their squadrons."

  "Wraith Five, acknowledging." Kell powered up his repulsorlifts and turned in place to orient himself toward Folor Base.

  "Wraith Six also acknowledge."

  Crespin's voice came back, "Blue Nine, Blue Ten, join them. Same approach. We'll transmit your destination and the most likely intercept point when we have them."

  Kell heard acknowledgments from Crespin's A-wing pilots. Then he brought thrusters up to full and shot toward the closest hill pass between this position and the start of the Pig Trough.

  9

  Kell and Runt reached the opening into the Pig Trough seconds ahead of the A-wings from Blue Squadron; Kell saw them visually moments before the X-wings banked and entered the mouth of the trench.

  No one had said, "X-wing or A-wing, the first fighter to reach the assigned location is the winner," but everyone involved knew that was the challenge. It was always the challenge. And A-wings were just plain faster than X-wings.

  Blue Nine and Blue Ten caught up with them on the first straightaway, blasting past without difficulty; Kell saw the pilot of one of the fighters wave jauntily at him. Keep celebrating, Blue Boys, he thought. Just tell yourself you've already won.

  By the time they reached the end of the Trough's first long straightaway, many kilometers of it, the A-wings were out of sight ahead. At the first of what would be numberless bends and zigzags, Kell said, "Follow my lead, Runt," stood his X-wing on its starboard wing, and roared through the turn, slewing so close to the fissure wall under his hull that he could make out small cracks in the stones.

  Runt's response was his pilot mind's war cry, but foronce Runt didn't try to pass Kell by. He stayed close on Kell's tail, a demonstration of precision flying to make his squadmates proud.

  After a few minutes of wall-hugging corners and precision turns, Kell caught sight of the A-wings' thrust emissions ahead. Moments later they could see the speedier fighters, and with each turn in the course of the fissure they found themselves closer.

  One more turn, and Kell nearly smashed into an A-wing, his keel to the A-wing's top, as they navigated a sharp angle in the fissure's course. The A-wing pilot veered out of reflex to get clear, and since he was already standing on his port wing the maneuver popped him up above the fissure rim for a moment. Kell rolled until he could see the pilot's helmeted head, waved cheerfully, continued the roll until he was inverted from his previous angle, and whipped around the next turn.

  Then there was no sight of the A-wings for several torturous minutes of precision flying. Kell knew that shortly after the Pig Trough turned northwest again they'd reach the broader portion of the fissure where the Y-wing bombers liked to make their runs, a straightaway that would allow the A-wings to regain much ground. If only he and Runt could build up enough of a lead in the winding, snakelike portions of the fissure, they'd be able to keep their lead . . .

  A short straightaway gave Kell time for a moment of reflection. Here, now, though a single slip could put him against the side of the fissure and kill him instantly, he knew no fear, no tension. It was just him and his fighter against the challenge of speed and obstacle. If he fouled up, if he died, Runt would take that as a warning, slow down fractionally, reach the observation sight alive. Or the A-wings would get there. No one was really depending on him, and that was the way he liked it.

  Thirteen, his R2 unit, recently assigned to him on a permanent basis when the final X-wing assignments were established, beeped at him. He glanced at his main display. It now showed the path of the Pig Trough, his location, the A-wings' locations, the oncoming TIE fighters and Star Destroyer, and two projected sites: the spot where the TIE fighters would theoretically cross the Trough, and the spot from which Kell and companions were supposed to surveil the enemy. That was a spot just on the lip of the Trough several kilometers northwest of the projected intercept point.

  If Kell had it calculated correctly, he'd be able to give Wraith Squadron and Blue Squadron a bare few minutes of warning from point of first sighting to the time the TIEs reached the Trough. That meant the two New Republic squadrons had to be under way already, following Kell's path at somewhat less reckless a speed.

  Owing to a programming error, Kell's R2 unit initially responded to any request for a random number with the value thirteen. Kell had arranged for Grinder to fix the programming glitch, but had given the astromech unit Thirteen as a name. He suspected the R2 actually liked it, for it implied that the droid was the thirteenth member of the squadron.

  They reached the first bend that would angle them northwest, through the main bomb run and to their destination. "Six, take lead. I'm your wing."

  Runt bellowed out an incomprehensible reply and moved up past him. Kell concentrated on duplicating his wingmate's maneuvers, anticipating them as much as he could, flying wing just as precisely as Runt had flown it for him.

  Then they were in the bombing run. They leveled out and put all energy to thrusters. Kell glanced behind him. Still no sign of the A-wings. Moments later they were halfway along the straightaway and the other fighters had not shown themselves.

  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?"

&
nbsp; "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, half 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, s
aid, "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—"