Star Wars_ Death Star - Michael Reaves [109]
Drolan intended for his units to collect as many of the kills as possible, Vil knew. The next wave would stop any who got past, but folks late to the game weren’t going to have anything to shoot at when they got here.
Vil shrugged. If the Rebels were intent on suicide, then his men would be glad to oblige them. He blipped his squad: “Alpha One, you heard the man. Fan out and take ’em apart! Ten-klick global pattern; don’t get too far away.”
He heard the chorus of “Copy, Lieutenant!” as he pulled his TIE around and started chasing the X-wings.
It wasn’t a battle; it was a massacre. The X-wings were so intent on hitting the station that they didn’t fight back. The eighty or so that Vil’s wave couldn’t collect were cut to pieces by the next wave of TIEs coming from the Death Star. The second wave of X-wings didn’t get a single fighter past the Star Destroyers’ TIE squadrons.
When it was done, Vil had ten kills, duly recorded by his nose cam and logged into his file.
Five kills made you an ace. Just like that, Lieutenant Dance had become a double ace, as had more than a few others. The total number of TIE fighters lost was fewer than a hundred.
It had been his first real battle against the Rebels, but Vil took no pride in it. It had been easy.
Far too easy.
51
COMMAND CENTER, OVERBRIDCE, DEATH STAR
“Sir?” Motti said.
“You heard me, Admiral. We are moving the station. The Rebels knew where to find us, and I won’t allow that to happen again.”
Tarkin had that look on his face that brooked no argument. It was a look that Motti knew well. Nevertheless, it was his duty to point out impediments. “Sir, we aren’t really ready for full lightspeed maneuvers yet.”
The Grand Moff looked impatient. “I know, Admiral. We don’t need to go far; the other side of Despayre will do for now. The Rebels will know that their attempt failed, so they won’t try the same tactic again. No one but the commanders of the Star Destroyers and their chief navigators are to be given the new coordinates—and aside from you and our chief navigator and myself, no one else on this station is to be given that information, either. There are spies among us, Admiral, and while we will eventually hunt them down and remove them, I will not risk this station in the meantime. Understand?”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
“Within the hour, Motti. Leave two Star Destroyers here.”
“By your command, sir.”
Tarkin turned away. “I’m going to Medical. Admiral Daala’s surgery is in progress.”
After Tarkin was gone, Motti considered his task. It made sense to move, there was no questioning that. If a Rebel armada showed up and there was nobody there … well, it was a big galaxy. They wouldn’t know where to start looking, and it likely wouldn’t occur to any of them that their enemies had gone to all the trouble of powering up just to lumber around to the other side of the planet. Every additional hour it took for them to locate the Death Star would be one more hour closer to it becoming fully operational.
And once that happened, the entire Rebel fleet would be powerless to stop it.
That the Grand Moff’s paramour was injured was too bad, but hardly any of Motti’s concern. He held little respect for her as an officer. Without Tarkin’s patronage, she would never have risen to her rank. As far as he was concerned, women didn’t have what it took to command. If she died on the operating table, Motti would shed no real tears, though he would, of course, pretend sadness to keep Tarkin mollified. The old man was a bit touchy about her, and it wasn’t a good idea to get on his bad side. Daala was a distraction; Tarkin cared for her too much. That was another chink in the Grand Moff’s armor, a chink that someday Motti might want to exploit.
SURGICAL SUITE 1, MEDCENTER, DEATH CENTER
Uli was not a neurosurgeon by specialty, but he had learned a great deal about the subject by necessity in operating theaters all over the war-torn galaxy. He’d lost count of the number of hands-on neurosurgical