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“Leader here. I read you, Five.”

“Five, there’s more. Orbital Spaceyard 301 has been ordered to clear a servicing berth for private yacht Implacable.”

Kell frowned. “Implacable is the kind of name they give to Imperial capital ships.”

“Five, the berth they’ve cleared is the largest they have. This is no pleasure yacht.”

“Five, Four, this is Leader. You’re correct. Implacable is an Imperial Star Destroyer commanded by Admiral Trigit. He went rogue when Ysanne Isard died. Good work, you two. We’re going back to Folor, and we’re going to set up a greeting for Admiral Trigit that he’s going to remember for a while. Form up on me.”

Admiral Trigit beamed as he viewed the moon Folor through the bridge’s transparisteel windows. An ugly, mountainous, frost-coated thing, it was well positioned to be of considerable use to the Rebels. He’d put an end to that.

An aide appeared beside him. “Sir, we have low-level beacon transmissions and encrypted transmissions on Rebel frequencies from the far side of the moon.”

Trigit nodded. “Pinpoint the transmissions, then set a course for that location. Launch the TIE squadrons at a thousand kilometers to target. They’ll escort us until we order otherwise.”

“Yes, sir.”

General Crespin’s voice echoed in the ears of all the Wraiths. “They’re coming in on the most obvious heading. They’re a few minutes from arrival. Transports are loading. Four A-wings each from Gold Squadron will escort them. Blue Squadron, Gray Squadron, remain on station for delaying action.”

Wedge’s voice came back immediately, “Wraith Leader acknowledging.” Other voices, pilots of the transports and squadron leaders, responded likewise.

Wraith Squadron sat on an icy field between two hill ridges about ten kilometers from Folor Base. They’d landed as per squad organization, with each group of four snubfighters one hundred meters from the other, arranged in a triangle.

Kell decided against another, unnecessary check of his power levels and weapons readiness. His right leg was getting twitchy, refusing to sit still, a sign of his growing nervousness. He switched the comm system to Wraith Squadron’s frequency and dialed it down to a transmission strength not likely to extend beyond this valley. “Commander, this is Five. Shouldn’t we be up there, engaging them, slowing them down so the transports can launch?”

“That’s a negative, Five.”

“But they’re going to arrive and pound their target flat!”

“That could well be, Five.”

“Sir, I don’t understand.”

“That’s affirmative, Five.”

Kell shut up. He could imagine the other Wraiths, especially Janson, snickering over that rejoinder. Rather than humiliate himself further, he restored the comm system to its default settings and waited, seething.

“No sign of defensive measures, Admiral.”

The Implacable was one hundred klicks from the target. “We’ll just have to lure them out,” Trigit said amiably. “Dispatch the bomber squadron and a screen of fighters.”

“Yes, sir.”

A moment later two squadrons of TIEs blasted past the Implacable, approaching from the rear, popping over the aft command tower and diving so that they seemed to swarm before the bridge viewports as they sped toward their target. As each TIE fighter or bomber dropped into view, it waggled its wings, a show of respect.

Trigit smiled. He appreciated the showmanship. Those squadron commanders deserved a little reward. He’d have to think about that. “Keep me updated on their defensive posture.”

“All squadrons, all ships, this is Folor Base. We read multiple bombing runs and strikes on target.” It was General Crespin’s voice again.

Kell looked to port, to the west. If the report was true, he should see bright flashes of light limning the tops of the hills between their position and the base. But there was nothing.

Crespin continued, “All ready transports, Gold Squadron, launch. Good luck, and the Force be with you.”

Kell sank back in his seat as the truth dawned on him.

“Coming within bombardment range now, Admiral.”

Trigit looked at his sensor screen, which showed the Folor Base site.