Star Wars_ The Han Solo Trilogy 03_ Rebel Dawn - A. C. Crispin [68]
Helot’s Shackle fired again and again, but the Y-wings were just too quick and agile for the big ship’s weapons to target effectively.
Scant minutes later, the Shackle was drifting helpless in space, its electrical systems down. Bria checked her chrono as the first wave of boarding shuttles moved in. Good. Right on time. One ship attached itself to the large forward airlock, the one the Shackle used to load her cargoes of slaves. The remaining two shuttles grappled against the hull on either side of the slaver’s ship and began cutting their way in.
Bria listened as reports flooded in from her squad leaders:
“Red Hand Leader, Squad One reporting from the cargo airlock on the forward hold on Deck 4. We’ve made it inside, but we’re encountering heavy resistance. The crew was getting the slaves out as we came through, but there are still some in here. The Pilgrims have taken shelter, as have we, behind cargo canisters. We’ve got a brisk firefight ongoing. We’re going to push them back, so we can get to the turbolaser access shaft.”
“Red Hand Leader, Squad Two reporting in. We’ve breached the hull forward of the engines on Deck 4 and set up a portable airlock. My troops are moving in now.…”
“Red Hand Leader, the armor plating on this section of the starboard hull is giving us some trouble … stand by.…” And, a minute later, “Red Hand Leader, we are through!”
Bria watched the progress of the squads through the vessel, weighing when to bring in her second wave. The two squads who’d cut their way in had met with minimal resistance. But the forward squad who’d entered through the airlock was meeting heavy opposition from the slavers as they battled their way to the turbolifts. It was understandable that the slavers would fight to the last. Red Hand’s reputation was beginning to spread, and doubtless the crew of the Shackle had recognized the symbol of a blood-dripping hand painted on the bows of their attackers’ ships.
Bria stood up and addressed the captain of her ship. “Tedris, you’re in command of the squadron until I return from the second wave operation. Be prepared to send backup if I contact you, but not until. Have the Y-wings moved out to their patrol stations?”
“Yes, Commander. We’ll have at least fifteen minutes warning if anyone decides to join the party.… Of course that’s just in case the slavers managed to get a distress call out before we jammed their transmissions.”
“Good work, Captain.”
Bjalin nodded, but did not salute. Discipline in the Rebel forces was far more informal than in the Imperial Navy. It had taken Bria two weeks to break him of the habit of saluting at the drop of a “Sir!”
“Good luck, Commander,” he said.
“Thanks. I may need it. My people have pushed them out of that forward hold, but they had lots of time to set up strong defenses. I’m betting they’ve holed up in the bridge and the access corridors and are working on the electronics. I think I’m going to have to be a little … creative.”
Bjalin smiled. “You’re good at that, Commander.”
Ten minutes later, Bria’s boarding shuttle had docked with the portable airlock and her reserves were jogging down the corridor of Deck 3 after her, blaster rifles ready.
In the eerie, wan illumination provided by the emergency battery lights, the crippled Shackle seemed deserted; Bria knew that was an illusion. Dimly, she could hear the wailing of some of the slaves. Probably they’d been herded to the security hold on Deck 4 and locked in. The commander hoped fervently that none of the slavers had hit upon the bright idea of driving the slaves into Rebel blaster fire in an attempt to delay the invading soldiers while they made their getaway. That had happened once, and Bria still had nightmares about it … the pale, shocked