Star Wars_ X-Wing 06_ Iron Fist - Aaron Allston [135]
Face heard Wedge issue orders, perhaps the last set of group orders they’d receive before this fight was done: “Break by pairs. Take shots at Iron Fist when you can, but your main objective is to protect yourselves and hold the starfighters. Polearm, you’re our spearhead—break up their formation, deny them their united inertia before they get to us. Rogues next. Wraiths, hang back, every pair protect a pair of B-wings. That’s all.”
“Polearm Leader acknowledging.”
“This is Rogue Leader, we’re on it.”
“This is Nova Leader, thanks.”
From the Wraiths there were only a few scattered groans. Face felt like complaining himself. To be relegated to babysitting duty while the Polearms and Rogues were up front—but Face knew, deep down, the reason for it. More than half the Wraiths were just back from an earlier action. They were tired, even if they didn’t realize it yet.
Ahead, the A-wings of Polearm Squadron roared toward the massed TIEs with speed no X-wing could match. Face could see the deadly formation of starfighters stream straight into the squadrons of TIEs, their laser fire reaping heavy casualties in the target-heavy environment. The enemy forces seemed even more to be a swarm of stinging insects as their formation lost coherence, groups of two and four and six TIEs going after each A-wing.
Then the Rogues were among them. Face watched the unit expertly break up into pairs, each pair moving as one, each pilot firing with the skill of years of experience. Face felt something like a shudder of dread, a feeling nearly of sympathy for the TIE fighters facing those formidable pilots, and suddenly he felt inadequate. He knew he wasn’t up to their standard of performance.
“Orders?” That was Lara’s voice in his ear, calling him back to the present situation.
“Right. Follow me.” He dove relative to the formation and brought himself and his wingman up before a pair of B-wings. He dropped transmission power. “This is Wraith Eight and Wraith Thirteen. We’re your escorts for this evening. What’s your pleasure?”
“You have Nova Three and Nova Four. We can play with the TIEs, but we’re much better suited to unloading on that ugly hunk of metal the warlord is driving.”
“Tuck in tight, we’ll get you close.” Face goosed his thrusters and the foursome of starfighters veered off, away from the center of the dogfight, toward Iron Fist.
Ahead, a group of fighters—nine, nearly an entire squadron—broke from the main engagement zone and moved out to intercept them. Face switched to dual fire and opened up with his lasers at maximum range.
The backstop for his fire was Iron Fist. No expended fire would be wasted.
The TIEs came on, twisting, bobbing, weaving, difficult targets. Face wished he hadn’t expended all his proton torpedoes on the other Destroyer. On the other hand, it burned nicely, and he had no time for regrets.
One of the oncoming TIEs exploded under Lara’s sustained fire and he heard a hissed “Yesss” from her. Why? Oh, yes, she entered this fight with four silhouettes on her canopy. She’d just made ace.
Another TIE drifted right through the ion-cannon wash from one of the B-wings and went ballistic, helplessly rolling in uncontrolled straight-line flight. Face saw one of the oncoming TIEs was making unpredictable moves at predictable intervals; he waited for the next interval, guessed at the pilot’s next move, fired in that direction, and was rewarded when the fighter drifted right into his fire. It detonated and its wingman flew right through the debris, emerging intact.
Face felt a blow as his forward shields were hit and some of the laser energy penetrated to score his hull. Then they were past, nothing between them and Iron Fist.
“Thirteen, drop back, shore up your rear shields,” he said. “Let’s give the Novas all the protection we can.” In other words, let’s be targets for a while. The way the raiders on the first Death Star trenches were before