Star Wars: X-Wing VI: Iron Fist

by Aaron Allston

  A moment later, he heard Face’s exclamation of “Son of the Sith!” and Lieutenant Kettch came flying up out of the open hatch of Face’s interceptor. Phanan, walking toward his TIE fighter, neatly fielded the stuffed toy and handed him off to Squeaky.

  Wedge shook his head. At least morale was high. He began his power up and systems check.

  Kell, Runt, Donos, Tyria, Piggy, and Castin were already off in the Narra. Their mission was to conclude at about the same time as that of the other Hawk-bats, but required more time in its initial stages. In some ways it was even more dangerous, and Wedge wondered briefly about the advisability of putting Kell Tainer in charge. But the man had not demonstrated any recurrence of the problem that had plagued him during his first few weeks with Wraith Squadron.

  Wedge suspected, though he had never voiced his thought to Janson or any other member of his command, that Kell’s problem had not been cowardice. Kell’s father had died—at Janson’s hands, in fact—when fleeing from a fight in the early days of the Rebel Alliance, but Kell’s own problem with freezing up in the face of adversity had always seemed more like a very strong case of performance anxiety. But he’d gotten past it during the final battle with the Implacable. Wedge and Janson would keep a close, if surreptitious eye on him, but for now all seemed well.

  All systems were go, and diagnostics showed the interceptor performing at something like 98 percent overall efficiency. Not bad for a crew of mechanics whose training with Imperial starfighters had begun so recently.

  “Hawk-bat Leader to squadron, give me your status.” Face’s voice was now low, growling. Wedge wondered whether Face was performing already, or whether Castin’s modifications to the individual starfighters’ comm systems were already in place.

  “Hawk-bat Seven, two in the green, all systems charged, and I’ll have a mint liqueur with a lomin-ale chaser.” Phanan’s voice was a bass rumble, which he couldn’t have managed in person.

  “Hawk-bat Ten, all ready.” And Shalla’s voice was distinctly that of a male.

  Wedge cleared his throat. “Hawk-bat One, ready to launch.”

  Laughter erupted from his comm set, several voices’ worth. Frustratingly, he couldn’t even recognize the voices now. He said, “Is there a problem?”

  Face’s growl answered, “No problem, sir. We’re receiving you at full power.” But Wedge could hear poorly restrained laughter in his voice.

  As the count continued, Wedge switched his comm unit over to a private frequency, one he shared with his X-wing and his astromech. “Gate, are you receiving?”

  His R5 unit responded with a cheerful mechanical tweet.

  “On my first mark, record my transmission. On my second mark, cease recording and transmit what you’ve recorded back to me. Mark. ‘We, the Rebel Alliance, do therefore in the name—and by the authority—of the free beings of the galaxy, solemnly publish and declare our intentions.’ Mark.”

  His words came back to him a moment later. But they were not in his voice. In fact, they were high-pitched and fuzzy, a type of jabber Wedge well recognized. They were exactly what an Ewok would sound like if trained to speak Basic.

  He sighed. “Thank you, Gate. Out.” He switched back to the Hawk-bat Squadron channel and banged his helmeted head on his pilot’s yoke.

  At least morale was high.

  Escort duty was tedious, but it drew extra pay. That’s how Lieutenant Milzin Veyn, native of the city of Hullis and starfighter pilot, looked at it. And as a husband and father of three, he could always use the extra credits.

  Today he and his wingman were guarding the tanker Bastion. Such a warlike name for an inelegant, rusting hulk of a spaceship … Currently, it was in dock at Station 17, one of Halmad’s few remaining asteroid-belt mining colonies, while Veyn’s TIE fighter and his partner’s watched protectively from a distance of about a kilometer.

  Veyn’s comm system hummed. “Hey, Lieutenant.”

  “Veyn here.”

  “Bad news. We have a fuel-pump failure. They’re repairing it, but it’s going to be a couple of hours at least.”

  “Maybe you should just disengage and go home.”

  “We should … but the captain says we’d just have to come out again tomorrow, and we can repair with parts on hand, so that’s what we’re doing.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “Listen, we can power sensors back up … and you and your wingmate can come in for some caf. There’s a fresh pot brewing.”

  “Ooh. Shouldn’t.” But the thought of spending some of those extra hours in a heated mess with fresh caf instead of drifting in zero gravity was an appealing one.

  “Well, what if I said, uhhh, that the captain wanted to consult with you on matters pertaining to the future protection of Bastion.”

  “Sounds serious. We’ll be right there.”

  Two minutes later, in the colony’s crowded main hangar, Veyn and his wingman clambered out of their cockpits, climbed down the access ladders, and turned to face into the muzzles of blasters.

  Two figures wearing TIE-pilot gear—but colored gray instead of traditional Imperial black—held blaster sidearms on them. One appeared to be a tall woman, the other a very corpulent man. A third enemy, a man of slightly better-than-average height, wearing a gray pilot’s suit and a cold-weather mask but lacking the extra equipment of a pilot, covered them with a blaster rifle.

  Veyn and his partner raised their hands.

  The man with the rifle said, “There’s bad news and good news. The bad news is that we’re the Hawk-bats, and we’re going to take your starfighters and blow up some ground facilities with them. But the good news is that we really do have fresh caf for you in the mess.” He gestured with a flick of the rifle tip toward the main exit. “Let’s go.”

  When the rifleman and his captives had gone, Tyria activated her comlink. “Five, the pilots are on their way. We’re going to need Two to get through any security on the TIE fighters.”

  “He’s on his way, too.”

  “How’s the wiring going?”

  “Bastion’s ready to blow. She’s going to make a big mess.”

  The Hawk-bats, in tight formation, dropped toward Halmad in the narrow corridor they knew to be unprotected by the planet’s sensor arrays. Their own sensors told them that Bastion was making its own approach to the planet, via a government-approved course, theoretically on the return leg of its regular refueling mission. But they would not be communicating with Bastion, could not get updates on the other team’s progress.

  Within minutes, they were cruising at just above sea level and on a course for the port city of Fellon—or, more accurately, for a small, hidden Imperial base just south of the city. It was still before dawn in Fellon and points west, and several of Halmad’s moons shone down upon the Hawk-bats.

  At the head of the Hawk-bats’ formation were Face and Phanan. Face, playing the role of Hawk-bat Independent Space Force founder Kargin, had to be in charge of the mission; their broadcasts were certain to be intercepted and recorded, and it would not do for Hawk-bat One to be heard issuing orders to Hawk-bat Leader. Wedge had few worries about Face, but Face’s wingman, Phanan, was not as skillful a flier in either X-wings or TIE fighters.

  Behind Face and Phanan were Wedge with his temporary assignment of two wingmen, Lara and Shalla. Lara, low pilot on the rank ladder, had been assigned one of the squadron’s two TIE fighters, a less formidable starfighter than the interceptors, but she seemed to be handling it with uncommon grace and skill. Nor had Wedge any worries about Shalla’s skill with her interceptor. In fact, between her flying skill, her ability to work with the other pilots, and her ease with planning and analysis, he had placed her high on his list of candidates for lieutenant’s rank. She had yet to demonstrate leadership qualities, but Wedge was certain they lay within her.

  At the rear of the formation were Janson, the unit’s second-most-experienced pilot, and Dia, who had made two kills during the escape from Lavisar, equaling Wedge’s total. N
o, Wedge was accompanied by a skilled team. This should be an easy run for the Hawk-bats.

  Not that he ever put his trust in the promise of an easy run.

  11

  “About to enter atmosphere, on final approach for Hullis,” Runt said. He occupied Bastion’s pilot’s seat. He looked uncomfortable in a chair built for a much shorter human. “Five minutes until the break to the east.”

  Kell, in the command chair, typed another diagnostics command into the oversized comlink-equipped datapad in his lap. It was the type of unit an infantry squadron used for reliable long-distance communications. “Have you got the new navigational program in place?”

  “We do.”

  Kell activated the comlink in his glove. “Nine, how’s the shuttle?”

  “Ready to lift.”

  “Stand by to lift.” Kell patted Runt on the back and rose. “Run the nav program. Then we run.”

  “Initiating.”

  Tyria and Piggy in the TIE-fighter escorts needed no further orders. Their task was simple: Pace Bastion as the ancient tanker dropped toward Hullis, then diverted east toward the second fighter base the military forces of Halmad were building. Protect the tanker from the starfighters that would inevitably rise against it, at least long enough for Bastion to get within a couple of kilometers of the base. And then be far, far away when Kell activated his comm unit and detonated Bastion and all the fuel remaining within her. At two minutes before detonation, safely away on the shuttle Narra, Kell would communicate with the base, recommending an evacuation. The base’s destruction was their aim, not the needless murder of base personnel.

  With the nav program activated, Runt rose and Kell followed suit.

  Then the sensor board lit up like a fireworks display. Kell and Runt stared, disbelieving, at the flurry of activity it showed in the west, the enormous signal from the east.

  Kell dropped into the communications officer’s chair and activated Bastion’s comm unit. “Five to One, do you read?”

  There was no answer, just the ominous hiss of suddenly overloaded airwaves.

  “Five to One, we have a problem. Do you read?”

  Forest, with occasional rivers and lakes, had replaced waves beneath the Hawk-bats. Wedge was sure, in fact, that he’d felt a treetop scrape the underside of his cockpit a moment ago. All around him, the squadron’s fighters and interceptors bobbed and weaved like fighters in an arena as they adjusted to changes in the terrain below.

  The range meter put them at twenty seconds from their target. Ten, five—and then Face and Phanan were firing just as the Imperial base came into Wedge’s view.

  It was a landing platform, one long, durable landing deck suitable for shuttles or starfighters, supported by two massive columns containing turbolifts and crew quarters. Beneath the deck was an enclosed crossover walkway providing easy passage from one column to the other, and there should have been nothing other than the support columns to the ground. But with this design, below the crossway, almost out of sight below treetop level, was an enclosed hangar deck as large as the landing deck.

  Wedge noted these details without taking out time for analysis. He brought the interceptor’s aiming brackets around his target of preference, the standard landing platform’s tractor beam emitter up on the landing deck, and fired.

  Then he was past, following Face’s lead in looping around for another run.

  “Good shooting, Hawk-bats.” That was the gravelly voice of Face’s persona.

  “Leader, this is Four. We hit shields.”

  “Four, what did you say? There were no shields.”

  “Not as we were approaching, sir. They came up as we opened fire. The platform has sustained no, repeat no, damage.”

  Their arc was nearly complete, and it was obvious that Dia’s report was correct: the landing platform was solidly in place, and the Hawk-bats’ sensors now showed shielding protecting the facility.

  Then TIE fighters and interceptors came up out of the trees, easily a score of them, from points all around the Hawk-bats and the landing platform.

  More than a score. The second flight of TIEs emerged. Wedge checked the sensor board. Thirty-six unfriendlies, three full squadrons.

  Shalla spoke next, her voice subdued even in its distorted form: “We are so dead.”

  Bastion shuddered.

  Runt looked over the diagnostics board. “Are we hit?”

  “No, we’re tractored. By that.” Kell tapped the sensor board and the huge shape on it. “Look at this. We’re gaining altitude.”

  Donos’s voice came over the intercom. “What’s happening?”

  “They’ve got us. Our mission is scrubbed, and so are we, if we can’t figure out a way to get clear of them. Hold on a second. Runt, fire up the comm system and put all the power you can into our signal.”

  “Done.”

  “Five to One, do you read? Over.”

  His reply was a static hiss.

  “Five to Eleven, do you read? Over”

  “—leven, read—you. Sig—breaking up.”

  “Abort mission. Repeat, abort mission. Over.”

  “Neg—ve. Standing—your departure. Over.”

  “Do not stand by. This is a direct order. Abort mission. Acknowledge. Over.”

  There was no reply.

  “We have incoming starfighters from the capital ship,” Runt said.

  “Of course we do. Our day wouldn’t be complete without them, would it?”

  Tyria’s voice came back, “Ack—ed. Aborting. Over.” On the sensor screen, the blips representing her TIE fighter and Piggy’s veered off on an escape vector.

  Kell took a deep breath. He wanted to make one final transmission. I love you. But he couldn’t give the enemy forces any clue, any extra information to help them pry into the Hawk-bats’ identities. He shut down the comm system. As he settled on his next course of action, he felt his body, his spirit, grow heavy.

  Donos’s voice came over the intercom again. “What’s the plan, Five?”

  “Runt joins you in the shuttle. At a time of my choosing, probably when we’re as close as we’re going to get to that capital ship without being trapped inside, you launch and get a few seconds of acceleration before another tractor beam grabs you. In that time, I set off our explosive charges.”

  Runt’s eyes went wide. Kell saw them flicker, a sign that Runt was flipping between personalities, looking for the one with the most pertinent skills to add to the situation.

  Donos’s voice came back. “Uh, you need to be aboard the shuttle to do that.”

  “Can’t do it, Nine. The transmitter I have and the one in the shuttle won’t be able to cut through their jamming.”

  “Then use a timer.”

  “Then we can’t count on it being precisely positioned to do the most damage to the capital ship.”

  “Use Bastion’s proximity sensors.”

  “Bastion’s proximity sensors, at anything under two klicks, are called human eyes, Nine. We’re lucky this crate had refreshers.”

  “Wait a second, I think Castin and I can work out something.” Donos paused a moment. “Yes. I can set off the explosives at a distance.”

  “Without a comlink?”

  “Without a comlink.”

  “How?”

  “Because I’m special and you’re not. Now, I need you to set Bastion’s comm system to pick up tight-beam transmissions across the electromagnetic spectrum.”

  Kell felt the heaviness leave him as he grasped what Donos was planning. “I read you. We’ll be right there.”

  “Break by groups.” Face’s voice sounded strained even under distortion. “Fire at will. And may—”

  There was the slightest pause. Wedge knew Face had been about to say, May the Force be with you. A bad idea, a giveaway. But Face recovered so quickly Wedge doubted anyone not familiar with him would have recognized the slight lapse. “—we drink from the skulls of our enemies tonight!”

  Wedge broke to port, where the ring o
f enemy TIEs was thinnest. Shalla and Lara smartly followed suit.

  Tactics. The enemy was relying on its superior numbers and was confident. Confidence, then, was what the Hawk-bats needed to strafe first.

  Of the handful of paired fighters winging in toward them, Wedge picked out the most dangerous-looking duo, two interceptors that moved with more sureness than their fellows. As they came on, visual sensors showed that their solar array wings wore the horizontal red bars of Baron Fel’s 181st Imperial Fighter Group. Wedge resisted the temptation to swear. “Ten, Thirteen, take the target to port.”

  He began juking his interceptor around at three kilometers from his target. A small part of a second later, the closing distance crossed below two klicks and the enemy squints opened fire. Green laser beams flickered between Wedge and his wingmen.

  His return fire grazed one of the oncoming interceptors, charring a portion of the hull near the upper viewport—and then they were past, with more forest and a more distant set of TIE fighters beyond.

  Now the challenge would be to come around, trying to maneuver behind the enemies they’d just gone head-to-head with. But Wedge ignored conventional tactics, rolled to starboard, and dove toward a pair of fighters that were maneuvering to get a shot in on Janson and Dia. His first quad-linked shot was a brilliant one, hulling one fighter, turning it into a glowing cloud of orange and black, and that fighter’s wingmate exploded a second later under cycling paired laser fire from Wedge’s wingman to port. Shalla? He spared a glance. No, it was Lara’s fighter, not Shalla’s interceptor there.

  He rolled to starboard again. The interceptors whom they’d traded fire with initially were in pursuit, distant pursuit, but quickly catching up. However, three TIE fighters were ahead and above, beginning a dive toward Wedge’s group.

  He brought his interceptor up in a climb so rapid that it slammed him back into his seat. As the oncoming enemies dropped within the field of coverage of his targeting systems, one briefly jittered within his brackets. He fired out of reflex, was rewarded with seeing a TIE’s solar array wing explode under his lasers; that starfighter half rolled and began an uncontrolled descent.