Star Wars_ X-Wing 05_ Wraith Squadron - Aaron Allston [34]
Runt, Phanan, and Face formed up smartly around him. This didn’t do much to alleviate the tension that had clamped down on Kell as soon as he lit up the engines of the X-wing. Janson wasn’t around to cause his concern; no, this was the old trouble, the tightness, the difficulty in breathing that came to haunt him whenever he was in charge of something. It wasn’t the same in a simulator; now he was piloting a real snubfighter worth a fortune in a mission where sloppy aim or bad maneuver could cost his life or the life of a wingmate.
He forced his shoulders to loosen, tried to bring himself under control. Maybe Wedge wasn’t listening too closely to the comm, couldn’t hear his labored breathing. Maybe no one was monitoring the biodata sensors that were sometimes wired into the chairs of novice pilots. Maybe no one would notice his trouble.
He checked out the data currently reading on his navigational computer—very simple data, as it didn’t involve a hyperdrive jump or even extralunar travel. He transmitted the data to the others, then brought his snubfighter around toward the south. A visual scan showed the rest of Two Group maintaining their positions; sensors showed Wedge still on station and another blip, doubtless related to their objective, straight ahead klicks to the south.
Wedge’s voice broke over their comm systems. “Gentlemen, this is a simple strafing run exercise. The blip on your sensors is not your target. That’s Lieutenant Janson in the Narra, our shuttle. With the shuttle’s personnel retrieval tractor beam, Janson will be maneuvering a target, which will be about three hundred meters behind him. Five and Six will perform their run, then Seven and Eight thirty seconds later. Your orders are simple: Arm at two klicks, fire at a klick and a half, immediately disengage and return to base. There is now a governor on your comm systems; Five and Six will not be able to talk to Seven and Eight, and vice versa. If you hear ‘Abort,’ break off your attack and await orders; it probably means one of you jokers has taken a target lock on the Narra. Any questions?”
Kell said, “No, sir,” and heard Runt repeat it.
“Good hunting, then.”
Kell watched the numbers on the rangefinder spin down at a rapid pace, then saw the faintest shadow of a new blip begin to flicker in and out of existence a short distance behind the Narra. Moments later, he saw the Narra itself, a distant sliver of lightness against the backdrop of some of Folor’s mountains, and saw the target: a sail of reflective cloth about the size of the shuttle when fully deployed. It was not fully deployed now; it twisted and curled in the shuttle’s tractor beam.
With its shape and size continually changing, it would be a challenging shot at one and a half klicks. He addressed the R5 unit situated behind his cockpit: “Reset proton torpedo one to a ten-meter proximity fuse. Communicate with Six’s R2 and instruct him to do the same.”
The R5 beeped confirmation at him. Kell hadn’t given a name to the shiny new droid; that was the privilege of the first pilot to be permanently assigned to this X-wing and its astromech.
At two klicks, he called, “S-foils to attack position.” He reached up and right to throw the appropriate switch, saw the strike foils to port and starboard part into the formation that gave the X-wings their unique profile.
As soon as they locked into place, his heads-up display faded. Kell had a clear sensor view of the target … and no way to lock on to it with his weapons.
“R5, what happened to my targeting?”
The R5’s confused whistle tweeted at him over the comlink, and the data board read UNKNOWN.
“Six, I have no targeting!”
“Five, we have no weapons systems. We have a general failure.”
“Dammit, dammit …” Kell’s guts were going cold so fast it was as though an overenthusiastic refrigeration unit had been installed there. He pointed his X-wing in as direct a path as he could toward the target, corrected