X-wing_ Wraith Squadron Part 12

"Five, the berth they've cleared is the largest they have. This is no pleasure yacht."

"Five, Four, this is Leader. You're correct. Implacable is an Imperial Star Destroyer commanded by Admiral Trigit. He went rogue when Ysanne Isard died. Good work, you two. We're going back to Folor, and we're going to set up a greeting for Admiral Trigit that he's going to remember for a while. Form up on me."

Admiral Trigit beamed as he viewed the moon Folor through the bridge's transparisteel windows. An ugly, mountainous, frost-coated thing, it was well positioned to be of considerable use to the Rebels. He'd put an end to that.

An aide appeared beside him. "Sir, we have low-level beacon transmissions and encrypted transmissions on Rebel frequencies from the far side of the moon."

Trigit nodded. "Pinpoint the transmissions, then set a course for that location. Launch the TIE squadrons at a thousand kilometers to target.

They'll escort us until we order otherwise."

"Yes, sir."

General Crespin's voice echoed in the ears of all the Wraiths. "They're coming in on the most obvious heading. They're a few minutes from arrival. Transports are loading. Four A-wings each from Gold Squadron will escort them. Blue Squadron, Gray Squadron, remain on station for delaying action."

Wedge's voice came back immediately, "Wraith Leader acknowledging." Other voices, pilots of the transports and squadron leaders, responded likewise.

Wraith Squadron sat on an icy field between two hill ridges about ten kilometers from Folor Base. They'd landed as per squad organization, with each group of four snubfighters one hundred meters from the other, arranged in a triangle.

Kell decided against another, unnecessary check of his power levels and weapons readiness. His right leg was getting twitchy, refusing to sit still, a sign of his growing nervousness. He switched the comm system to Wraith Squadron's frequency and dialed it down to a transmission strength not likely to extend beyond this valley. "Commander, this is Five.

Shouldn't we be up there, engaging them, slowing them down so the transports can launch?"

"That's a negative, Five."

"But they're going to arrive and pound their target flat!"

"That could well be, Five."

"Sir, I don't understand."

"That's affirmative, Five."

Kell shut up. He could imagine the other Wraiths, especially Janson, snickering over that rejoinder. Rather than humiliate himself further, he restored the comm system to its default settings and waited, seething.

"No sign of defensive measures, Admiral."

The Implacable was one hundred klicks from the target. "We'll just have to lure them out," Trigit said amiably. "Dispatch the bomber squadron and a screen of fighters."

"Yes, sir."

A moment later two squadrons of TIEs blasted past the Implacable, approaching from the rear, popping over the aft command tower and diving so that they seemed to swarm before the bridge viewports as they sped toward their target. As each TIE fighter or bomber dropped into view, it waggled its wings, a show of respect.

Trigit smiled. He appreciated the showmans.h.i.+p. Those squadron commanders deserved a little reward. He'd have to think about that. "Keep me updated on their defensive posture."

"All squadrons, all s.h.i.+ps, this is Folor Base. We read multiple bombing runs and strikes on target." It was General Crespin's voice again.

Kell looked to port, to the west. If the report was true, he should see bright flashes of light limning the tops of the hills between their position and the base. But there was nothing.

Crespin continued, "All ready transports, Gold Squadron, launch. Good luck, and the Force be with you."

Kell sank back in his seat as the truth dawned on him.

"Coming within bombardment range now, Admiral."

Trigit looked at his sensor screen, which showed the Folor Base site. It was a broad plain of ice situated between two mountain ranges. Now it was littered with craters; the one or two sets of buildings he could make out seemed to be burning. Doubtless they were fuel or chemical depots; otherwise they could not burn in the vacuum around Folor. He frowned.

Idiotic of the Rebels to have surface-based fuel depots. "Any communications from them?"

"No, sir. Their beacons are still transmitting, and their coded signals became more agitated, but they haven't responded to our hails."

"Commence bombardment." Why did the matter of the surface fuel stations bother him? Ah, yes. Commenor's files on the abandoned mining facilities on the moon mentioned numerous surface buildings. The plain Trigit viewed was almost entirely clear of such construction. Obviously, the Rebels had destroyed or concealed the ruins in order to make it harder to find the base. A sensible measure, yet more work than the shorthanded Rebels were typically capable of performing. Nor was it sensible for them to remove most surface traces and yet allow surface refueling depots to remain. It was the contrast that worried him.

His sensors officer looked up at him from the crew pit. "Sir, I'm reading launch of a capital s.h.i.+p. A Gallofree medium transport, from its sensor echo and maneuvering characteristics."

Trigit stared unbelieving at the little sensor screen on the arm of his command chair. "Where?"

"On the other side of Folor, sir. It just cleared the horizon."

A cold wash of realization went through the admiral. "Lieutenant Petothel." He kept his voice cool, calm.

His new favorite data a.n.a.lyst looked up from her station's screen. She was a lean woman with medium-length hair and a beauty mark on her right cheek. Her features were elegant, mesmerizing; he often had to make an effort not to stare. "Sir," she said.

"Call up the maps Commenor provided us of Folor."

"Done, sir."

"Establish the location of the mining facilities suitable for Rebel occupation."

"Yes, sir."

"Where are they?"

"They're..." She winced. "They're halfway around the moon, sir. The base is at this same lat.i.tude one hundred and eighty degrees around."

Trigit slammed his fists down on the arms of his command chair. A simple trick: plant beacons and false buildings far from the true base location, light them up when trouble is spotted. All he had to do was make sure the base they were targeting was in the same position as the mining facilities... but he'd let the Rebels make a fool of him. "Navigator, set course for the coordinates Lieutenant Petothel will give you. Get us there as fast as possible. Communications, transmit that location to the squadrons; they're to stay before us as a screen." There was little to be gained by dispatching the fighters and leaving Implacable vulnerable to an ambush.

"Yes, sir."

Trigit watched the squadrons in the viewport as they heeled over and vectored north, the across-the-pole route being the shortest one to the target. The horizon tilted as the Implacable slowly followed suit. He couldn't feel the maneuver take place, couldn't feel the tilt of the s.h.i.+p; inertial and gravitational compensators eradicated the sensation.

He could feel annoyance. And a certain admiration. Well, if he couldn't destroy Folor Base with its entire staff complement inside, at least he could annihilate the stragglers, destroy the base itself, and deny it to the Rebels forevermore. A partial victory.

Crespin's was now the mechanical, condensed voice of a fighter pilot in a c.o.c.kpit. 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 pa.s.s. 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 bypa.s.s 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 pa.s.s 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 a.s.signed 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 pa.s.s 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 Awing'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 a.s.signed to him on a permanent basis when the final X-wing a.s.signments 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, antic.i.p.ating 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, wis.h.i.+ng 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 c.o.c.kpit lights. Tell your R5 to shut down its exterior lights."

"Will do," Runt acknowledged.

A shadow fell across Kell's c.o.c.kpit 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?"

"Ha, ha," came the reply. A woman's voice, Kell thought. "Who are we talking to?"

"Kell Tainer, Wraith Five. To my starboard is Hoha.s.s 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.