Solo Command (43 page)

“All ahead full,” Zsinj said. “Get us out of the debris field. Set your course for
Second Death’
s position. Bring in all starfighters from all ships—except the 181st and their support—to harass Solo’s group.”

“Sir, that will accelerate the damage the rest of our group is taking.”

“You don’t think I know that?” Zsinj couldn’t keep the venom out of his tone. “As soon as we’re free of the debris ring, issue orders for the ships that survive to flee at their discretion.” He felt something sharp in his chest, a pain that had everything to do with the sudden loss of his reputation for infallibility on the battlefield.

Rogue Squadron and Wraith Squadron broke through the high cloud over into a dark world lashed by rains. They dove toward the colony ruins, breaking by wingpairs, each pair of pilots seeking out prey—starfighters that were frailer but far faster than theirs. They saw the enemy interceptors scatter by pairs, each trying to find an advantageous angle to repel the X-wings’s assaults.

Wedge tried to pick out by eye which of the enemies was Baron Fel. He needn’t have bothered. A pair of interceptors rose straight toward him and Tycho.

“Fel, is that you?”

“Antilles,” came the familiar voice. “So good to see you at last. Again at last.”

“
Iron Fist
isn’t doing so well. You can save yourself some trouble by surrendering.”

The interceptors came on straight at them. The range meter dropped below two kilometers and the interceptors fired. Wedge sideslipped, sending his X-wing into a defensive dance, and pressed his own laser’s trigger.

Then the TIEs were past, roaring back the way Wedge and
Tycho had come. Oddly, they didn’t immediately loop around to gain an advantageous position on the X-wings’s tails. They continued their run eastward, then looped around south, headed once again toward the coastline.

Wedge and Tycho turned to pursue. The maneuver was made a little more difficult by a ferocious crosswind that threatened to drive them eastward. “Fel, let’s not do this. You’ve been a Rogue. I really don’t want to kill you.”

“Why ever not, Wedge? I don’t share any such sentiment about you.”

Wedge gritted his teeth.
Because you haven’t yet told me where my sister is. Tell me that, and I may lose all compunction about vaping you where you fly
.

Kell and Elassar veered in opposite directions, the Devaronian to rejoin Face, his regular wingman. Kell swung around and came up behind Runt’s X-wing.

“Welcome back,” Runt said.

“Good to be home. Let’s get ’em.”

They turned toward a new pair of interceptors. The 181st seemed to have abandoned their defensive, scurrying tactics; now they seemed eager for runs against the Rogues and Wraiths. A pair veered toward Kell and Runt, accelerating.

Kell dropped behind Runt, constantly adjusting his position to keep the X-wing between him and the oncoming interceptors. As the range closed to nearly two kilometers, he popped up above Runt for a snap shot against the rear interceptor, then dropped below his wingman for sustained fire against the lead TIE. Incoming laser fire hammered against Runt’s forward shields, diffusing to a pastel green as it failed to penetrate.

Kell’s sustained fire finally tracked on the ball of the interceptor. He saw the green of his own lasers stitch the fuselage. There was no visible change to the interceptor’s exterior, but the lead enemy dropped on a ballistic course toward the ground below. His wingman veered off at an angle seemingly impossible even for a TIE and headed back toward the colony center.

•    •    •

“He’s running away,” Onoma said.

Beyond the forward viewport, they could see wave after wave of TIE fighters making suicidal runs against
Mon Remonda
. Three had already come within tens of meters of crashing into the cruiser’s side; only brilliant gunnery by the turbolaser handlers had prevented collisions. Solo’s TIEs were helping, but they were outnumbered by the enemy force, which had been bolstered by squadrons diverted from the other engagement zone.

And Zsinj’s choice of a battlefield was proving to be a good one for the warlord. Solo’s Y-wings, tough as they were, weren’t nimble enough to handle the debris field at dogfighting speeds—report after report came in of pilot loss because of an injudicious turn into the path of an asteroid. Between the speed
Mon Remonda
had to make to catch up to the destroyer and the necessity of diverting most of the gun batteries to anti-starfighter use, the cruiser didn’t have enough laser power to clear the path ahead entirely of asteroids; every few moments, stones, some the size of R2 units and some the size of X-wings, would hammer into the cruiser’s shields or penetrate and crash into her hull.

Though
Mon Karren
and
Mon Delindo
followed in
Mon Remonda’
s wake, Solo knew they had to be suffering worse. Their shields and hull were not up to
Mon Remonda’
s specs.

“We’re in range,” said the sensor officer.

“Bow batteries, open fire on
Iron Fist
.” Solo breathed a sigh of relief. At last they were in contact.

The topside stern of the destroyer lit up under
Mon Remonda’
s barrage. But
Iron Fist’
s own batteries opened fire and suddenly space before the forward viewport was bright with laser flashes.

Mon Remonda
shuddered under impacts against her shields.

Ahead, Fel and his wingman lost speed. Wedge and Tycho rapidly overtook them. In a moment, Wedge could see them again, two dots that grew into interceptors blurred by rain and distance. There was only ocean beneath them, shore a mere kilometer or two off to starboard.

One of the interceptors dropped behind the other, losing ground rapidly, but maintaining the high-speed side-to-side maneuvering that was so effective at throwing off a pursuer’s aim. Wedge and Tycho squeezed off ranging shots.

Then the interceptor decelerated further, right into Wedge’s path. Reflex took over, twitching his yoke to port so that he veered out of its path.

Tycho veered in skillful mimicry of Wedge’s move—right into the interceptor’s path.

It should not have been a problem. At their relative speeds and courses, no collision was possible; he should have been well clear of the interceptor. But the decelerating vehicle exploded into a brilliant ball of fire and debris—and Tycho’s X-wing flew straight through the heart of the detonation.

Tycho emerged from the explosion, his X-wing trailing smoke, its S-foils shuddering. He rapidly lost ground on Wedge.

“One to Two, come in.”

There was no answer. Tycho banked to starboard, back toward land.

“Tycho, come in. Are you all right?”

His comm unit hissed, then words, partial words, emerged. “… failure … hold her … repulsorlifts out …”

As Wedge watched, Tycho’s starboard lower S-foil began to shake more ferociously, then to crumple under air friction. Ahead, the other TIE interceptor began to loop around for a head-to-head.

“Tycho, don’t try to hold her together. She’s a wreck. Get over land and punch out. Do you understand?”

“… land … understood.”

The other interceptor roared toward them.

Toward Tycho.

Wedge accelerated forward past his wingman, laser-straight at the interceptor. “Is that Fel again, or did we get lucky?”

“No luck for you, Wedge. This is your last engagement zone.”

The interceptor drifted up, firing. Wedge hit his trigger, saw his lasers pass harmlessly beneath the TIE.

Fel’s lasers didn’t miss. They chewed into the nose of Tycho’s X-wing. Fel shot past and began to bank again.

Wedge saw Tycho’s snubfighter shudder and begin to disintegrate at the nose. The cockpit’s cowling popped up and a moment later Tycho ejected, still half a kilometer short of the shore.

“Group, this is Leader. I need extravehicular pilot rescue at this position. Mark it and get someone here.” Wedge wrestled his X-wing around to confront Fel once more.

But the nimbler interceptor settled into position behind him, its lasers opening up, bracketing Wedge.

Wedge set his teeth and flew southward, clearing his head of distractions, letting the sensor board and targeting brackets become extra eyes.

Fel settled in on his tail and would not be shaken free. But the onetime Rogue had no more luck firing than Wedge did shaking him; burst after burst of laser fire flashed to the left, the right, beneath the X-wing as Wedge used every trick he knew to make the man miss.

Another violent crosswind hit Wedge. He didn’t struggle against it; he let it propel him toward shore, a sudden movement that caught Fel off guard. Then Fel, too, crossed into the wind and was pushed eastward, farther even than Wedge had been.

Wedge felt his spine stiffen. That was it. The interceptors were lighter than X-wings, with much broader cross sections—

He resumed his original course and waited until another crosswind hit him. As it propelled him shoreward, he wrenched his yoke that way, turning in the direction he was being shoved, and saw out his starboard viewport as Fel was victimized by the same wind. The interceptor rolled eastward, momentarily out of control.

Wedge maintained his loop, was pressed hard into his pilot’s couch as he came around …

And then, for a brief moment, his targeting brackets went green around Fel’s interceptor. Wedge fired and saw the red flashes of his lasers score the squint’s engines.

Fel’s interceptor dropped, half out of control, and he banked toward shore. Wedge followed, alert for a trick. But Fel continued to lose altitude at a dangerous rate and hit the ground in a
skidding, rolling, half-controlled crash that constituted the worst landing Wedge had seen in years.

He circled the downed interceptor and angled in to land.

Corran Horn dove toward his target interceptor, trying to bring his targeting brackets to bear over it, hoping for a maximum-distance shot—these enemies were more maneuverable than even he was used to. His target continued sideslipping, dancing around, avoiding the target lock—

He blinked. There was something fundamentally wrong with his target. Something that turned his gut cold.

It wasn’t his pilot’s skills telling him this. It was the other, his slowly improving ability with the Force …

“Group, this is Rogue Nine. Be advised. My current target is not a living being. Repeat, not living. I think it’s a droid ship.” He finally got a green flicker on his brackets and fired.

His lasers hit the interceptor’s fuselage. The squint detonated with far more force than was appropriate for a vehicle with twin ion engines. The blast was powerful enough to engulf his target’s wingman fifty meters behind the explosion. That interceptor emerged from the fireball spinning, flaming, out of control, and smashed through the already-ruined dome of one of the colony buildings. It exploded, too, but in a fashion that was subdued by comparison.

“Group, Wraith Eight.” Piggy’s voice, jarring and mechanical. “I am an idiot. This is why the wingman of each pair at the
Razor’s Kiss
fight behaved in such a similar fashion. They have droid pilots. And they are packed with explosives. A moment while I calculate.”

Corran looped back toward the fight and Ooryl, his wingman, stayed tight with him.

Piggy’s voice came back a moment later. “Observation suggests that each wingpair is one human pilot, one droid. In free flight, the droid falls back to wingman position. The droid units’ maneuverability increases as your range to them decreases. Their performance suggests they are enjoying computerized coordination. They must be transmitting sensor data to
the ship handling coordination. Who is the Rogues’ communications specialist?”

“That’s me. Rogue Seven.”

“With the permission of the Wraith and Rogue leaders, I offer a plan.”

Corran Horn’s voice came back instantly. “Go ahead, Wraith Eight.”

Face’s followed a moment later. “Let’s hear it.”

“Rogue Seven and Wraith Six use their comm gear to jam transmissions in the area for thirty seconds. In that time, we’ll either enjoy dramatic improvement in our ability to handle the enemy … or we’re no worse off than before.”

“Wraith One authorizes,” Face said.

“Rogue Nine says go,” Horn said.

Mon Remonda
dropped into the channel
Iron Fist
had already blasted through the debris field and began gaining on the Super Star Destroyer. Still close enough for long-range fire, the Mon Cal cruiser continued blasting away at
Iron Fist’
s stern, despite the distraction of TIE fighters making constant assaults against
Mon Remonda’
s bow and bridge.

“Gaining,” Solo said. “Gaining.”

“Detonation ahead!” said the sensor officer.

“
Iron Fist
?”

“No,” she said. “To starboard of her course. Something on the far side of that planetoid she’s passing.”

Solo brought up his visual enhancers to focus on the area she described. She was correct: asteroids opposite a two-kilometer-long hunk of rock were illuminated by some sort of sustained explosion taking place just on the far surface of the larger asteroid.

Whatever its cause, the explosion was propulsion as well as detonation. The two-kilometer rock began moving slowly toward the channel left in
Iron Fist’
s wake.

“Navigator?” Solo asked.

The Mon Calamari navigation officer turned an eye toward him. “It will partially block the channel. We must destroy it or pass it by.”

“Weapons?”

His weapons officer shook his head. “Too big for our guns to dismantle before we get there.”

Solo offered up a rich curse he’d learned on the back streets of Corellia. “Navigator, divert our course around it. Through the debris. Alert the rest of our group what’s happening. Zsinj has set up at least one asteroid, maybe more, with explosives or thrusters to move it in our path. Stay alert.”

Mon Remonda
began a slow maneuver, veering to starboard inside the path of the asteroid. As the bow of the cruiser entered the uncleared portion of the debris field, Solo heard ominous clankings and felt trembling under his heels.