Star Wars_ X-Wing 01_ Rogue Squadron - Michael A. Stackpole [29]
“I can understand that. No one likes to be thought of as a space rat.” Wedge shook his head. “I need you to adjust the acceleration compensator down a bit. I want .05 gravity.”
The astromech droid complied and Wedge immediately began to feel more at home in the cockpit. To combat the effects of negative and positive gravity because of maneuvers, the starfighter had a compensator that created a gravity neutral pocket for both the craft and pilot. It prevented a lot of problems with blood flow and black- or red-outs in pilots, but Wedge felt it insulated him from the machine and left him out of touch with his situation.
Flying with all gravity negated felt, to him, like trying to pick up grains of salt while wearing heavy gloves. It might be possible, but it would be a lot easier without the interference. Flying required use of all the senses and the compensator cut out most kinesthetic sensations.
And that kills pilots. Wedge was convinced that some pilots had died unnecessarily because they couldn’t feel where they were. Jek Porkins, a heavyset man who always had his compensator on at full, had plowed into the first Death Star while trying to pull out of a dive. His repeated assurances of “I can hold it, I can hold it” died in a burst of static as his X-wing slammed into the Emperor’s toy. Had Porkins not been compensated, he could have realized he wasn’t pulling up and he might have had time to do something else.
Flying without full compensation is just one more thing we need to teach these kids. Wedge laughed at himself. Aside from Gavin the whole crew in Rogue Squadron was almost his own age or older. He thought of them as kids because they hadn’t seen the sort of duty he and Tycho had. And with what we’ll teach them, maybe they’ll survive longer than the rest did.
Wedge rolled the X-wing again as he hit the terminator line and daylight flopped into darkness. Punching a console button he changed his screen over to a tactical scanner and picked up a dozen other traces. The screen reported and tagged eleven X-wings and one Z-95XT Trainer—the benign version of the X-wing’s little brother.
He switched his comm over to the tactical frequency he shared with Tycho. “Everyone green and running, Tycho?”
“Affirmative. Systems are go. There’s been some grumbling about feeding at the pig trough, however.”
“No surprise there. Shifting to Tac-One.”
“I copy.”
Flipping the comm over to the frequency shared by the rest of the squadron, Wedge caught the last of a comment by Rogue Nine, Corran Horn. “… blind, wallowing pigs, and slow.”
“I’m sure, Rogue Nine, your comrades who fly Y-wings will be pleased to know what you think of their ships.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“Good.” The unit commander throttled back and fed his repulsorlift generators enough power to counter the moon’s gravity. The reference to Y-wings, their slow speed and the underpowered nature of their sensors, had been heard in Rebel camps since the earliest days of the fight against the Empire. The B-wings had been developed to counter the flaws with the Y-wing and replace it in service, but production had yet to meet demand, so plenty of Y-wings still saw service.
Their reputation as “wallowing pigs” had led to the naming of the Folor gunnery and bombing range the “pig trough.” Alliance command had originally designated it the “Trench” as a memorial to the pilots who had died running the artificial canyon on the Death Star, but pilots saw no reason to stand on ceremony. Y-wings practiced their bombing runs in the twists and turns of the lunar canyon while fighter pilots preferred the rolling and looping demanded of them in the satellite field circling the moon.
“Today I want you all to do some basic work on the gunnery range. Laser targets have been set up to provide you a number of flying and targeting challenges. Your run will be graded for accuracy and speed, and if you get hit, you’ll lose points. If you suffer an equipment failure, pull