Star Wars_ Darksaber - Kevin J. Anderson [136]
The Knight Hammer’s weapons chief fired another volley of deadly turbolasers, and another, and another. Daala stared fixated at the target. She slammed her gloved fist into the bridge rail with each shot, as if she could add to the destructive potential of the blast.
She stood and waited, feeling her anger smoldering with a barely expressed satisfaction. Her appetite for destruction had merely been whetted. Even from her place in the Knight Hammer, high above Yavin 4, she could already see the forests starting to burn.
CHAPTER 48
Like armored birds of prey, the Victory-class Star Destroyers struck target after target, leaving a swath of flames and destruction in their wake.
Colonel Cronus sat back in the uncomfortable command chair of the 13X and scrutinized his dwindling list of targets compiled by Admiral Daala. He clasped his hands together, squeezing, flexing his arm muscles. His entire body felt tense, coiled with fierce pride. His mind was ablaze with success after success—but he did not allow himself to grow giddy with satisfaction, because then he might let his guard down and perform less than perfectly. He couldn’t afford that, not after such a glowing record.
He sat back, strapped himself in, and prepared for another battle. “Shields up,” he said.
“Acknowledged,” the tactical officer said.
“Prepare to engage.” One by one, the other Victory ships checked in automatically as their computers sent coded responses. Cronus leaned forward, squeezing the arms of his command chair so tightly that his fingertips left indentations. “Full forward,” he said.
The fleet of crimson ships plunged through the Chardaan Shipyards, a Rebel space facility that produced a variety of starfighters—from the old-model X-wings and Y-wings to the newer A-, B-, and E-wing fighters. After this assault, Cronus thought, the facility wouldn’t produce much of anything at all.
The shipyard’s zero-g pressurized hangars were silvery spheres, clusters that provided a shirtsleeve working environment for the mechanics who assembled components to form the sleek ships. As Cronus’s fleet roared past their targets, the hangars exploded with satisfying eruptions of burning air and outflying metal. Significant enemy casualties. No Imperial losses.
A boxy ore hauler lumbered away. The huge corroded vehicle had seen better days and was now manned by only a skeleton crew that tried to lurch their ancient vessel out of danger.
Cronus took pleasure in targeting the ore-hauler’s rear engines, knocking the behemoth out of control. It trailed flames as it crashed into an outer docking ring filled with the personal quarters of engineers.
Cronus did not slow down. He led the fleet through the thick of the construction area, firing indiscriminately.
The Rebel forces mobilized with remarkable speed. Starfighters, old and new, streaked toward the Victory ships, piloted by construction workers and off-duty fighters.
“Hit everything you can, but do not engage the Rebel defenses,” Cronus ordered. “It’s not worth our bother. We’ll cruise through at top speed and leave them trembling as we depart.”
He could tell by the rapidity with which the Rebels mustered their forces that they must have been put on alert. Somehow they had been forewarned of Daala’s planned attacks. He flexed his arm muscles again.
The small Rebel ships concentrated their firepower on two of the crimson battlecruisers, and Cronus admired their strategy. The fighters were too small and too few to cause significant damage across Cronus’s fleet … but if they picked a single target at a time, they just might—
One of the Victory ships exploded, blowing shrapnel in all directions and taking out a dozen of the harrying Rebel X-wings.
Cronus felt annoyance as much as disappointment. “Increase speed,” he shouted. “Let’s get out of here.”
The second Victory-class ship blew up, but this time the ship’s commander didn’t have the foresight to use the destruction of his Star Destroyer