“Launch,” Face said, and roared out of the cargo bay as soon as the opening door gave minimal clearance. His temporary wingman, Kell, followed in his own interceptor and the others emerged rapidly.
Emerged into a star system very different from the one they were supposed to have expected, of course. The sun was not quite the shade of Coruscant’s, and the oncoming Imperial Star Destroyers were not complemented by Mon Calamari cruisers. The comm waves suddenly became crowded with shouts and infuriated questions. In character, Face keyed his comlink. “Hawk-bat Leader to Iron Fist. What is this? Where’s Coruscant?”
The chuckle he received in response was a familiar one; he recognized it as Melvar’s. “We never said you were going to Coruscant, Hawk-bats. Welcome to Kuat. Please keep to your assigned roles. Everything will work out very profitably.” There was a moment’s delay, and the pitch of the general’s voice lowered. “Hawk-bat Leader, I regret to inform you that the insertion team reports that they have lost Qatya.”
Face’s gut went cold and hard. “How?”
“She single-handedly eliminated a demolitions team and was lost in the explosion. Her action has apparently prevented any further assaults on the bridge. You have our condolences.”
“Thank you.” The tightening of Face’s stomach eased but did not go away entirely. Melvar’s story sounded like the kind of ploy Shalla might have used to get clear of the insertion team; on the other hand, the story might be entirely true. And he couldn’t ask, Did anyone witness her death? It would create suspicion. He could only pray. He said, “Someone is going to die for this.”
All around them, cargo ships and old cruisers were disgorging squadrons of starfighters. Some, like the Hawk-bats’, were modern fighter craft in good shape. Others were older craft, kept in barely functional form by their owners. Still others were fleets of Uglies, starfighters patched together from different fighter designs when there weren’t enough parts available to reconstruct a normal starfighter design.
In their groups—five here, a dozen there, a score—they turned to their assigned vectors and headed out toward the incoming strike forces.
“Hawk-bats, follow my lead.” Face turned toward a distant Imperial Star Destroyer. He could not see its complement of TIE fighters, but his sensors showed them plainly, three full squadrons of them. That was only half a fully equipped Star Destroyer’s complement; he wondered whether this vessel was underequipped, or whether it was holding squadrons in reserve. “Anyone recognize that?”
“Leader, Five. It’s Mauler. Nothing special.”
Nothing special. Only an average Imperial Star Destroyer. “That’s comforting. Thanks, Five.” He opened a wide transmission band. “This is Hawk-bat Leader. Who else is heading toward Mauler?”
The voice he got in return bore the clipped accents of an upper-class man of Coruscant. “Hawk-bat Leader, this is Vibroaxe Prime. You’re the spearhead; we’re the shaft.”
Face’s sensors did show an irregular force of between thirty and forty friendlies trailing the Hawk-bats. They were much slower and sensors couldn’t lock down a consistent vehicle profile for them—probably Uglies, then. “Want to trade places, Prime?”
“Thank you, no, Hawk-bat. I’m content for you to take first blood.”
“Join us when you get bored, Vibroaxe. Out.”
Wedge heard the exchange between Face and Vibroaxe Prime, but kept it in the background of his conscious mind. He was still struggling with the Ewok stuffed toy that was the most visible part of his disguise.
When he sat down with the Ewok in his lap, it rode up, interfering with his vision. Now he’d managed to release the main lap strap of his pilot’s harness, bring it up over the Ewok’s legs, and tighten it back down again, and that seemed to have done the trick … but if it came loose during maneuvers, he could have more trouble with it.
A dozen seconds after the end of Face’s exchange with Vibroaxe, the Hawk-bats were moments from maximum firing range of the leading edge of the Mauler forces. Wedge heard Face cut in again: “Break by pairs, set up for Kettch’s Drill, and fire at will.” Sensors showed Face swooping to port, Kell staying on his wing. Tyria and Piggy drifted to starboard. Wedge eased his yoke forward; he and Dia kept the center, losing a little altitude relative to the others.
As the range-to-target indicator dropped into numbers where a hit was an outside possibility, Wedge nudged his stick back and forth, up and down, making himself as difficult a target as possible, and opened on one of the pair of TIE fighters nearest him. Sensors showed a graze off the enemy’s hull, no significant damage. The enemy TIE’s green laser fire flashed over Wedge’s top viewport, a near miss.
An explosion ahead and to port—Face or Kell had a kill. Wedge kept up his fire on his target, saw his own green quad-linked beams tattoo the hull again and then penetrate the forward viewport. The TIE’s internal lights faded to blackness and the starfighter, now a ghost ship, began straight-line flight—still powered. Doubtless the pilot’s dying convulsions had jammed the controls into full thrust.
Then they were beyond the first wave of enemies, the first half squad.
Their enemies expected them to break and dogfight with that first wave. But Wedge’s tactic—Kettch’s Drill—took them straight forward, at full speed, toward the second wave, a full squadron of TIEs. He saw on the sensor board the four survivors of the first wave curve around to get into position behind them, but their maneuver was a little slow, a little tentative, as they adjusted to the Hawk-bats doing something unexpected.
The second wave was in range. Wedge continued juking around, opened fire, saw lasers spraying from the solar wing arrays of Dia’s interceptor to his starboard. Return fire streaked the starfield green all around him and he felt a shudder as one laser blast creased his hull. An unfamiliar sensation, and once again he wished devoutly for a return to his X-wing and its shields.
His fire and Dia’s converged on a luckless TIE fighter. The craft exploded into a ball of incandescent gas and superheated shrapnel. Their two flight paths curved around it as they plunged into the second wave and beyond.
Sensors showed the four TIEs of the first wave closing in and several starfighters of the second wave curving around to join them. He smiled. The plan was operating perfectly so far. Yes, they had a squad and a half of fighters on their tails, but the forward momentum of Mauler’s squadrons was slowing.
The Hawk-bats were doing their job. They were serving Zsinj well. Amused, he shook that thought away and returned his concentration to the third wave of enemies.
These they dove straight toward, each picking a target and maneuvering straight into that TIE’s path, juking around enough to be a difficult target yet always homing in on the oncoming starfighter as if meaning to ram it. Wedge’s continued fire hulled his target and he flew through the debris cloud, hearing clattering and banging against his hull as he did. On the sensor board, he saw Dia’s target veer away from her at the last second, arcing away straight into the path of a vengeful TIE from the first wave. The sensors showed the two blips merge into one, then disappear altogether.
Ahead, the fourth wave, a half squadron. Wedge saw Face lead the abandonment of Kettch’s Drill, looping up and back the way the Hawk-bats had come, the other Hawk-bats joining him in formation, three not-quite-full squadrons of TIEs following in vengeful pursuit.
In full TIE-fighter-pilot regalia, which she had found in a pilot’s ready room adjacent to the secondary hangar bay, and carrying extra life-support units, Shalla lurked on the walkway above the bay’s pair of TIE interceptors.
She should have been safely tucked away in an escape pod by now. But with her mission accomplished, another idea had occurred to her … thus the dangerous three-kilometer trek back to the bay by which she’d arrived, thus the trail of unconscious foes along the hallways and passages she’d chosen for her return trip.
Thus this skulking on the walkway. Beyond the Magnetic-containment field she could see signs of distant battle: tiny f
lashes and slivers of light, their sources too far away to make out.
Stormtroopers, Kuat loyalists probably wondering what to do about the ship’s extraordinary activities, had entered the bay mere seconds after she had and were hard at work rummaging through the intrusion team’s shuttle. Others guarded the door into the bay. No matter; that wasn’t the way she intended to exit. She climbed down into the left-hand interceptor, the one closest to the bulkhead and farthest from the stormtroopers. Without belting in, she began her prelaunch checklist. It was longer than usual—this interceptor, obviously a commanding officer’s personal escape vehicle, had its own hyperdrive and a more elaborate navigation computer than the standard interceptor.
All systems seemed go, though she didn’t power up the engines to make sure; the resulting repulsorlift rumble would be certain to alert the stormtroopers to her presence.
She stood and climbed partway out of the access hatch, hanging in place by one arm. She brought up the last of Kell’s explosives, activated them, and threw them as far across the bay as she could. They clattered against the bulkhead behind the intrusion-team shuttle.
Stormtroopers perked up, swung their weapons in that direction. “What was that?” “You and you, take the far side …”
Shalla dropped back into the cockpit and dogged the hatch shut.
She was almost done strapping herself in when the explosions went off. She saw a ball of yellow-and-orange flame on the far side of the shuttle, saw the shuttle rock, saw stormtroopers thrown through the air like dolls. Her interceptor and the one next to it rocked as well, and a great bubble of atmosphere, shoved through the magcon field by the sudden pressure within the bay, dissipated in the vacuum beyond.
As the stormtroopers raced toward their fallen allies and shook their heads against the sudden deafening explosion, she brought her engines up and goosed them. On repulsorlifts, she squirted out through the magcon field and then took an abrupt vector toward the stern. She immediately brought her speed down to something just higher than a good running pace.
As she’d expected, the hull of the Razor’s Kiss was littered with debris from the shipbuilding station. Long armatures hung swinging from attachment points, and other metal trash clung to or rolled about on the hull, trapped there by the ship’s artificial gravity. The Super Star Destroyer was in motion, heading out-system as fast as its untried engines would take it, and distant Imperial Star Destroyers were drawing ever nearer.
She took a deep breath and tried to quiet her stomach. This improvised plan of hers was more likely to get her killed than anything else. But when she’d recognized the opportunity in front of her, she knew she had to try it.
She skimmed as close to the ship’s hull as her flying skills would allow her, and occasionally rolled the interceptor to simulate the motion of debris.
She wouldn’t look too odd on sensors. A direct observation or holocam view would reveal that she was a live TIE and not just debris. Then a single shot from a laser battery would turn her into debris. So, white-knuckled, she continued her absurdly slow flight and prayed that nothing noticed her.
19
The Hawk-bats roared down toward the pursuing Vibroaxes with the Mauler’s TIE fighters in close pursuit. The Vibroaxes, with their awkward collection of jury-rigged weaponry, opened fire at just beyond their maximum effective weapons range, and the Hawk-bats and enemy TIEs plunged into that hail of destructive energy as if bent on suicide.
Wedge’s stomach felt like a refrigeration unit stuck on high. They’d been in less danger of death when flying into the teeth of their enemies than into the mass fire of these pirates, who theoretically could distinguish the Hawk-bats’ sensor blips from those of the others … but who obviously didn’t have the skills or accurate enough equipment to make the best of that distinction. Laser beams, red and green, the flashes of ion cannons, and the blue trails of proton torpedoes flashed between them, among them.
The Hawk-bats passed the leading edge of the Vibroaxe force and veered, three wing pairs turning to three different vectors. Some pursuing TIEs broke off to avoid the cloud of Uglies, others plunged into the cloud, others skirted along the leading edge of the cloud. Wedge’s TIE was rocked by the detonation of a torpedo nearby; he checked his sensor and found that Dia was still on his wing, still intact.
The comm waves were suddenly full, impossible to track: “Squad Two, continue on to primary target.” “Hawk-bat Five, this is Twelve, recommend you climb now.” “I’m hit I’m hit I’m—” “Can’t shake him.” “I’ve got him, Bantha.” “Archer, this is Vee Prime. Spray a pattern of torps back toward the baby, we have a whole squad cutting out to go after him.” “That—Emperor’s nose, that’s an Ewok! They’ve got an Ewok pilot!”
Wedge thumbed his comlink, still set up with Castin’s Ewok-voice modifications, and said, “Bleed and die, yub, yub,” then rolled to starboard and relative down as he caught sight of the squadron continuing on to the new Super Star Destroyer. It had skirted the engagement zone and its ten survivors were forming up. Even before clearing the screen of friendly and enemy fighters, he opened fire, hitting one TIE fighter in the engine pod with all four beams, a beautiful shot. The fighter went off like a fireworks display, its explosive cloud enveloping its wingman, but that TIE emerged from the cloud intact.
Dia’s complementary shot hit another TIE’s port solar array wing, but merely punched a clean hole through it without significantly damaging the vehicle. Together, he and Dia tore out of the engagement zone and continued after the nine remaining TIEs.
Shalla saw something ahead, movement just above the hull, and brought her interceptor down against a piece of space-station wreckage. She killed power instantly.
That dropped the new blips off her sensor screen, but she could see the source of the blips through the viewscreen. A half squadron of interceptors heading more or less in her direction, and as they came closer she could see that their solar wing arrays were decorated with the horizontal red stripes of the 181st Fighter Group—the deadly unit of Baron Soontir Fel. She stopped breathing.
The interceptors roared past her at a distance of less than a hundred meters. None varied its course to swoop closer to her; none hesitated. She relaxed. Doubtless they were doing a visual reconnaissance of the skin of Razor’s Kiss, making sure there was no substantial damage from the Destroyer’s violent departure from its berth.
She powered up again, ran through an abbreviated checklist, and brought her interceptor back into motion.
From here, she had to climb the hull to the Super Star Destroyer’s command tower. It was a more difficult approach, as the ship’s hull, which seemed comparatively smooth from a distance, was in the area of the command tower, a tricky terrain of graduated terraces.
Yet her terrain-following flying was fast and skilled, and within moments she settled neatly—and very delicately—into place between the deflector-shield domes atop the command tower.
She powered down all systems except her suit’s life support and the starfighter’s communications board. Then she changed the interceptor’s comm unit to broadcast across a range of frequencies, took a deep breath, and said three words: “Parasite Two, go.”
Of course, they’d probably detect that transmission. To account for it, she put as much of a masculine growl as she could manage into her voice and continued transmitting. “Kuat Central Authority, please acknowledge. This is Engineer’s Mate Vula aboard Razor’s Kiss. This vessel has been seized by Rebels or pirates. I think we’re under way. I’m requesting instructions.”
A hiss, then a static-blurred voice: “Vula, this is Mauler Control. We’re aware of the situation. Where are you?”
“I can’t say. This is an open transmission. They’re probably listening.”
“Then get to an escape pod and launch. You’ve done your duty.”
“Acknowledged. Out.” She sighed. Get to an escape pod. Odd to have an enemy repeat to her an order she’d already disobeyed. She hoped that the comm exch
ange had fooled Raslan’s crew, and tried to relax.
Dia had just vaped one of the fighters, battering the top of its hull with a barrage that popped open the access hatch, filled the interior with light, and cast the remains of its pilot adrift, when Wedge heard the transmission. “Parasite Two, go.”
Startled, he checked over his sensor board. That code meant that one of the Hawk-bats had successfully pretended to crash upon the hull of the second Super Star Destroyer and was in position to destroy its deflector-shield domes. But all the Hawk-bats still appeared on his screen.
The voice had been female. It had to be Shalla. Some of the chill in his stomach began to fade.
Good, that was good, and not just because it meant she’d survived her mission. Now they’d only have to try to stage the Parasite portion of their operation once. Twice, even if they could pull it off, would probably look suspicious.
Ahead, two of the TIE fighters looped around to come back at Wedge and Dia. A delaying tactic—the commander of that squadron knew his fighters couldn’t outfly interceptors, so he was sacrificing two pilots to allow the others to reach their objective, the Super Star Destroyer. The sacrificial TIEs looped out at a considerable distance before coming back in, so that if the Hawk-bats continued on their course, the fighters would be able to settle in neatly behind them.
Wedge said, “Four, stay with me, then break when we’re past them,” and vectored toward the incoming craft. Dia tucked in neatly to his aft and port.
The incoming TIEs sprayed fire as indiscriminately as if they were watering a garden. Wedge concentrated on evasive maneuvers, returning fire when his targeting brackets suggested they were about to manage a lock, but his beams still went wide. Then the two pairs of TIEs passed one another’s position and looped to come around again.
Wedge gritted his teeth and pulled the tightest, hardest loop he could manage. His gravitational compensator couldn’t quite compensate, and the maneuver slammed him back in his pilot’s couch, forcing blood into his head; he felt himself graying out and eased off. But his prey hadn’t tried a maneuver so ambitious, and Wedge found himself, half on instinct, tucked in behind the fighter. His prey wavered and veered off to shake him, but Wedge adhered to the fighter’s tail, sized up his shot, waited for the image of the target to jiggle in the targeting bracket, and fired. The fighter exploded in a rain of glowing gas and debris. Wedge twitched his yoke, a lateral drift, so he did not have to fly through the debris cloud.
Star Wars: X-Wing VI: Iron Fist Page 29
