Wraith Squadron (14 page)

Kell’s shoulders tightened. Once again, Face was jumping right into a useful task, showing leadership qualities. If Kell wasn’t careful, Face would grab control of Two Flight. Kell had to respond, to do something just as useful. He had to think fast.

Commenor was a planet fringing on Core worlds territory. Its government dealt and traded with the New Republic, with the shrinking Empire, even with warlords. So if the incoming vessel or vessels, which were either Imperial or warlords because they were using Imperial frequencies, were transmitting to Commenor, they were either announcing their arrival or making requests of the government. “Four, this is Five.”

“I hear you, Five.”

“In all the time you’ve been here, have you sliced into Commenor’s official computer system?”

Grinder was slow in responding. Finally, “Yes, Five. Just to keep in practice.”

“Good. Can you slice in now, with the gear you have on your snubfighter?”

“In no time, Five. I have my list of key codes with me. Always.”

“Right. Punch in now. We’re going to look for a few things.”

“Making contact, Five. Starting the approval dance. What are we looking for?”

Kell thought back to the sorts of record changes the commandos had taught him to look for. “First, any new mobilizations of government forces. Second, new reservations for ship berths. Sort by ship class, prioritize for military ships and hyperdrive-equipped shuttles. Take reservations made for tomorrow as well as today. Sudden large-block hotel and resort reservations, especially the cheaper ones, just in case there will be some rest and recreation for a capital ship. Also, I want astronomical data, if possible, from any observatories pointed out toward the origin of Jesmin’s signal.”

“Would you like breakfast in bed with all that, Five?”

“That’s right, Four. But that’s after everything else.”

They waited in silence for a few minutes.

“Five, this is Four. I read one government shuttle assigned in the last few minutes to convey documents and an observer to the incoming flight. Granting it the right to perform military exercises above Folor.”

“Thanks, Four. Leader, that marks the base as their probable target.”

“Leader here. I read you, Five.”

“Five, there’s more. Orbital Spaceyard 301 has been ordered to clear a servicing berth for private yacht
Implacable.
”

Kell frowned. “
Implacable
is the kind of name they give to Imperial capital ships.”

“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 showmanship. Those squadron commanders deserved a little reward. He’d have to think about that. “Keep me updated on their defensive posture.”

“All squadrons, all ships, 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 ship. 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 analyst 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 latitude 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 ship; 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 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 for
once 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.