X-wing_ Iron Fist Part 9

"It's going to be a while longer," she said, and swung the b.u.t.t of her blaster into his jaw. The man dropped, splas.h.i.+ng his gla.s.s of blue ale across the floor.

The ranking officer was halfway out of his seat before she shot him. The blaster shot took him in the chest, burning through the armor and dropping him to the floor.

She froze. She thought she had set the weapon to stun. Then she was. .h.i.t from the side as her first target slammed into her, barely slowed by the blow she'd dealt him. His rush propelled her and bent her sideways over a desk. If not for her armor, she'd have been impaled on the collection of trays, spikes, and knickknacks littering its surface; instead, the force with which she hit the top of the desk smashed them flat.

Instead of struggling to get free, instead of wrestling with him for control of her blaster, which his big hand now gripped, she braced herself with a free hand on one edge of the desk, extended one leg as far as she could, and then swept with it with all her strength. Her kick caught her a.s.sailant behind his knees and knocked his legs out from under him. He crashed to the floor, dragging her on top of him.

With his free hand, he reached for her throat. She aban-doned her grip on her blaster, swept aside his hand, and, her striking hand formed into the flattest, tightest fist she could manage, struck at his throat.

Her blow was hard and true. She felt his windpipe give way under it. Her opponent's eyes grew wide in sudden shock and he, too, released her blaster, clutching at his throat with both hands.

She grabbed her weapon and stood away from him to watch him die. He made strangling noises as he tried to draw breath through a channel no longer capable of conveying it. He cast an imploring look her way, but she shook her head; this injury was beyond anything she could repair.

A sudden wave of trembling swept her. She knew it wasn't all the aftereffects of adrenaline. Two men dead because she'd fouled up. Killing didn't bother her unduly; it was the act required of a warrior in wartime. But killing because of a lapse in judgment... well, her father would not be proud of her.

She shook her head, willing away the unwanted vision of the old man's stern features, and tried to force the trembling to stop. She stepped around the dying stormtrooper and hit the light switch on the wall. Now the other hangar residents, if they looked over, would see a dark and presumably unoccupied office.

She made a quick checklist of things to do, and found that it had lengthened considerably because of her mistake. Move the two bodies into the bed of the skimmer she'd come in on. Clean up this office so the next person in didn't wonder about the spilled fluid and ravaged desk. File that stormtrooper's report. Repair her helmet comm system with components from one of these troopers' helmets. Choose a skimmer, perhaps the one she came in on, mark it out of service if possible, disconnect its comm system so that it couldn't be used to trace the skimmer or override its controls. And then stand by. All within hearing of the men working, or playing cards, or doing whatever they were doing at the back of the motor-pool building... unless she chose to a.s.sault them, too.

She sighed. It was going to be a long several hours' work... packed neatly into half an hour or less of available time.

It took Castin another agonizing five-minute wait before he cracked the guards' code. One of the two guards had thirty-two cla.s.sic Quadrant games recorded on his datapad-every move the games' master-level players had made, plus commentary by a.n.a.lysts who were far too serious about the game. Thirty-two was also, Castin pointed out, the number of days in the local monthly calendar. He transmitted the name of the match whose number corresponded to the day of the month, and the front personnel door opened right up.

Wraith Squadron marched into the hangar in formation... a formation they lost as soon as they saw the hangar's contents. "Boss," Tainer said, "we have hit the jackpot." Wedge was, for once, grateful for the stormtrooper helmet.

It concealed his openmouthed surprise.

In the hangar was not a complement of TIE fighters, but eight far more formidable, far faster TIE interceptors. Wedge took a moment to find his voice. "Even better. It's the pirate's life for us, and these are better pirate vehicles. Come on, people, Phase Three, snap it up."

Castin found the hangar's main computer terminal at the back of the building. He brought up the main menu and began looking at what was available to him. The others, once they were sure that the roof-mounted holocams observing the hangar were positioned to view only the vehicles, cl.u.s.tered around him.

Castin leaned back from his keyboard. "Good news and bad news, Commander."

"Let's hear it."

"I can get into this pretty easily, do everything I'm sup-posed to do from here."

"But ?"

"But, security seems to be based on flag counting. For every anomaly in routine the computer registers a marker, or flag, that it keeps track of.

When flags grow too numerous at any one site, the computer raises an alarm. It might send a routine query, in which case an incorrect response would raise more flags; it might just send investigators out. If this system works like other, similar Imperial systems, flags have greater or lesser 'weight' depending on just how anomalous they are. For example, a storage-room door being unlocked at the wrong time will raise a little flag, while the door into a hangar full of valuable interceptors being unlocked at the wrong time will raise a big one."

Wedge nodded. "Have we dropped any flags yet?"

"Probably not. We did open a door, but the guards outside have to have regular access to the refresher, so I doubt that's a flag."

"Very well." Wedge considered. They had to ready six of the interceptors for departure, disconnect any tracer comm units functioning within them, sabotage the other two vehicles and perhaps the hangar, exit the hangar, and cover tile separate escapes of the interceptor hijackers and the Wraiths who would be departing on foot. "I a.s.sume, then, that a change in maintenance schedules would raise a smaller flag than the holocams observing a bunch of anomalous pirates moving around their hangar."

"That's a fair a.s.sumption."

"Then get into the base scheduler. Forge a request for immediate maintenance of this hangar's interceptors. Time-stamp it an hour or so ago. a.s.sign it to a fict.i.tious work crew, or, if you can get into the personnel listings, a crew that's off-duty. Follow this up with an acknowledgment of the arrival of the work crew a few minutes ago. Then do the same thing with a request for servicing of the hangar's holocam system. Time-stamp that one earlier today, lower priority, also with an acknowledgement of arrival in the last few minutes."

Castin managed the task within a few minutes, then switched off the hangar holocams. The Wraiths got to work.

Castin stayed at the computer terminal and began working on their escape distraction.

Wedge, Janson, Kell, Runt, and Dia checked out the eight interceptors.

All but Runt had some experience flying TIE fighters; Runt, as communications specialist, used what gear he had to find and disable slave circuitry that might enable the base commanders to seize control of the interceptors remotely, then disabled automatic tracer systems built into the comm units.

Tyria and Donos had what the others enviously referred to as "vandalism duty." With the hangar mechanics' own industrial cutters, metal-shearing tools utilizing a tight, focused form of the same destructive energy that made blasters formi-dable weapons, they burned messages across the interior walls of the hangar: HAWKBATS NEEDED THESE MORE THAN YOU! KNEEL TO THE HAWKBATS, WORMS. GET OUT OR BE SORRY; THIS PLANET IS NOW OUR.

PROPERTY. Then there were some choice epithets, and Donos's fairly artistic rendering of a hawk-bat, one of the tenacious flying predators of the duracrete canyons of Coruscant. Tyria added some creative misspellings to her efforts.

When they were done, they looked over their handiwork. Donos nodded.

"Pretty close to the work of ego-ridden, semiliterate pirates," he decided.

Tyria smiled. "As a former counterinsurgent, are you offended?"

He managed a wry grin. But he was saved from answering by a sound-a warning pop across the comm channel the Wraiths were using.

All the Wraiths stopped what they were doing and either donned their helmets again or held pocket comms up to listen.

Face's voice came across in a whisper. "Skimmer full of stormtroopers approaching. Not a hostile att.i.tude, but they're coming right here."

Wedge replied, "Stay loose. Keep us informed." He looked among the Wraiths. "Tyria, Donos, get on the door. Be prepared to support Face and Phanan. The rest of you, what's our status ?"

Kell answered, "Five interceptors prepped, Runt and I are on the last, no work yet on the two we were going to sabotage."

"Don't worry about the sabotage. If we're pressed for time, we'll just blast them on our way..."

Phanan's voice came in over the corem: "It's s.h.i.+ft change. They're supposed to drop off two and take us away. Face is talking to them. He's been listening to those Quadrant recordings and knows the guy's voice.

But-it's not going well..."

The next sound was the scream of blasters from outside. Blasters, shouts, armored bodies. .h.i.tting the duracrete.

6.

Face had tried to be reasonable. "We're ready to go, Lieutenant. But our packs are inside. Permission to go inside and retrieve our packs."

The stormtrooper seated next to the skimmer pilot sounded contemptuous.

"What idiot let you bring unauthorized gear out on a normal sentry watch?"

Tactic: When asked for information you don't have, try to present the asker with a variable he can define himself. Face said, "The new one, sir. What's-his-name."

"Balawan?"

"That's him, sir."

"Well, he's an idiot. But sharing some kitchen duty with you two might smarten you all up. All right, you can get your unauthorized gear. First, let's finish this."

The officer turned to look at the bed of his skimmer; he nodded.

Two stormtroopers stepped out. They stood before Face and Phanan in the same stance of attention.

Face said, "I relieve you of this post."

Face swore to himself. That was a nonstandard phrase.

Tactic: When obliged to partic.i.p.ate in a ritual you know nothing about, provide a reason and grab all the sympathy you can.

Face said, "I..." And then he coughed, a deep, racking cough that shook him. The coughs continued and bent him nearly double. Still, he half straightened several times, saluting all the while, the very picture of a man fighting to do his duty in the face of overwhelming opposition.

If anything, the officer's contempt increased. "What is this man doing on duty? He should be in his deathbed."

Face heard Phanan say, "Dedicated."

"Oh, very well. Just give me the d.a.m.ned pa.s.sword."

Phanan said, "Amelkin versus Tovath." That was the name of the cla.s.sic Quadrant game that had given them access to the hangar.

"What? The s.h.i.+ft pa.s.sword, you idiot."

Tactic: When no other options present themselves, shoot everything in sight. Face straightened, grabbed the top edge of the chest armor of the stormtrooper before him to hold him in place, and shot the man in the stomach. Phanan shoved his own stormtrooper back and fired, catching the man in the helmet.

Face dragged his dead or dying target to him, holding him up as a human s.h.i.+eld, and, one-handed, swept fire across the occupants of the skimmer.

He saw at least two men, including the lieutenant, hit, but there would still be only a split second before the stormtroopers brought their own weapons into line and fired...

To Face's and Phanan's blasts were added lethal cross fire from the door into the hangar. Face hazarded a glance. Two Wraiths stood there in stormtrooper armor-he couldn't tell who-and then advanced, firing as they came.

A bad tactic, Face thought, abandoning the shelter of the doorway, but he understood when their place at the door was taken by more Wraiths.

The pilot of the skimmer banked up and away from the firing Wraiths, a maneuver sharp enough to shake the surviving stormtroopers in back but skillful enough to place the skimmer's bottom between them and the Wraiths for a few long moments. The skimmer's maneuver carried it across the wide lane between buildings. It had to level out or smash into the face of one of the buildings, but when it did so it was far enough away, and moving fast enough, that the Wraiths' concentrated fire was not so lethal. With all the blasts they poured into the moving target, Face saw only one more strike a stormtrooper, and a.s.sumed that the anonymous Wraith who fired it was Donos, their sniper. The skimmer made a corner and was gone.

The stormtrooper at the door was Wedge; his shout was distinctive. "Two, get the hangar doors open and lock them that way; we can't afford for the central computer to lock them closed. Do you have a distraction ready?"

"My number two distraction is ready. My best one will take a couple of minutes more."

"Go with the number two. Then join Six, Eight, Nine, and Eleven, get out of here on foot..."

Castin's voice rose in something like a whine. "But I was going to fly one of the interceptors!"

"Pipe down. We only have five. Move out in any direction but the one those stormtroopers took, running in Imperial formation, and get in contact with Ten for whatever transport she can provide. The rest of you, to your interceptors."

"They have the hangar door open," reported the skimmer pilot, now standing at the corner of a building not far away.

"I can hear ion engines inside firing off. I've got my men scatteing to firing positions. I..."

His next words were lost in the wail that rose all around him. It was the anguished cry of some long-forgotten G.o.d, a moan that rattled his bones despite his armor; he saw transparisteel viewports on the buildings around him vibrate under the fury of that sound.

It was, in fact, the base's air-raid siren system, an antiquated measure to inform every person on base and anyone within several klicks that enemies were coming by air. In the days when this base was first built, those enemies were the Empire; after the Empire took over, the base operators maintained the system. Just in case.

And now the impossible had happened, someone was attacking the base from the sky. The stormtrooper saw columns of light crisscross the sky in search of targets, then heard and saw the base's huge automated turbocannons begin firing at targets high up in the air. He couldn't see the targets... but if the big guns were firing, they were up there.

Distracted by the aerial show, the stormtrooper did not see the first of the interceptors emerge from the hangar.

Face broke formation to draw abreast of Castin as they trotted. He had to shout to be heard over the siren wail. "Two, what did you do?"

Two's body language momentarily suggested an aw-shucks embarra.s.sment. "I found some of their old wargame projections about Imperial raids. They weren't under much security; they were just archives. But I was able to patch the data into their sensor net, as though it were data being received now, and it triggered an automated response. Any second now..."

In the distance, two squadrons of TIE fighters lifted, racing toward the sky and the presumed enemies waiting there.

Instead of continuing his thought, Castin just pointed.

Face said, "Six, do we have anything from Ten?"

"We have. She is coming. We have given her our vector."

"Coded, I hope."

"Coded." The Wraiths' code for this mission included a very simple method for transmitting locations, in case their scramblers were decoded: Locations were given in standard Imperial grid format, but with the values reversed, south for north, east for west. It might take only one visual check by stormtroopers to confirm that the locations were incorrect, but the time tolerances for this mission were so tight that this might be all the help the Wraiths needed. Kell and Phanan, the pilots least experienced with TIE fighters-and experienced not at all with TIE interceptors, even in simulators-were the first to emerge from the hangar.

Running close to the ground on repulsorlifts, they crept out tentatively from the hangar's interior. Even with their caution, Phanan failed to decelerate correctly and slowly glided into the building across the lane, stopping with a b.u.mp.

Wedge, Janson, and Dia, more sure of their control over the vehicles, emerged next. On Wedge's cue, they turned, orienting back toward the open hangar door, and fired, destroying the three interceptors remaining within. Then they turned up the lane and cut in their twin ion engines, accelerating far faster than their X-wings. Phanan and Kell fell into position behind them.

"Stay next to the ground," Wedge ordered. "Keep repulsorlifts running at full until I give the word." He glanced over his sensors. They showed his small squad of five interceptors running at just above ground level, plus another thirty-six TIE fighters, three squadrons' worth, rapidly ascending toward presumed enemies.

One switch gave him access to the sensor data being broadcast by the base. It showed a sky crowded with enemies. Initial telemetry identified them as somewhat antiquated TIE fighters and some other Imperial-style support vehicles. Though they were Imperial vehicles, their sudden appearance, their aggressive pattern of approach, and their lack of response to normal hails had caused the base computer to flag them as probable unfriendlies. The three squadrons of base TIE fighters looked decidedly overmatched in numbers, but as Wedge watched, another two squadrons rose to join them.

As buildings flicked by right and left, Wedge locked down the broadcast sensor signal and transmitted its source to the others. "All right, Wraiths. We're doing one pa.s.s, then we're going home." He pulled back on the stick, popped up over the rooftops, and angled toward the source of that signal. The others fell into formation behind him.

They came within firing range almost instantly. Wedge linked his four lasers for quad fire. The interceptor's weapons screen initially had a little difficulty identifying the base's command center, a huge, rounded bunker, as the intended target, but once it locked the target in, it managed to define the building, its bristling gun emplacements, and its numerous sensor emplacements as discrete targets. Wedge tagged the nearest set of sensors as his first target and said, "Fire."

The interceptors roared toward the bunker, their twenty lasers acting as five channels of destruction, laying waste to the surface of the bunker, tearing through the sensor arrays and gun emplacements as though the metal were so much paper. Wraith Squadron screamed across the bunker, mere meters above its now nearly molten surface, and then banked off toward freedom.

There was now traffic on all the base's lanes-skimmers carrying stormtroopers to ready areas, civilian workers running on foot, some of them only partially dressed, to their duty stations.