Star Wars_ X-Wing 06_ Iron Fist - Aaron Allston [136]
“Understood.”
Wedge, unencumbered by a wingman, switched his encryption code so only the Rogues would hear him. “This is Wraith Leader. Any sign of the One Eighty-first?”
Tycho Celchu’s voice, strained: “We’re in the thick of them. You offering help?”
Wedge sighed. He’d like nothing better than to demonstrate to Baron Fel the error of his evaluation of Wedge’s flying skills. Then he glanced back at the pair of B-wings following in his wake. “I’d love to. But can’t. They’ll be here soon enough.”
“Understood.”
Then they were before him, a half squad of TIEs, four fighters and two bombers. He saw one veer to starboard, picked out that one’s wingman, fired ahead of its course if it turned the same way, and it did, erupting into a glowing shrapnel cloud—one kill, one second into the dogfight.
• • •
“Now reaching Iron Fist’s escape vector.”
“All stop.” Han felt fluttering in his stomach as though it were occupied by alien invaders, but he tried to keep his discomfort from his face. “All starboard batteries to begin fire on my command. Prepare for axial roll. Captain, maintain our position directly ahead of Iron Fist. Continue correcting as it’s recalculated. And when any bank of batteries falls below eighty percent, perform enough roll to bring new guns to bear, and increase shield strength on the firing side as you do so.”
“Yes, sir.”
Iron Fist opened up, her laser batteries streaking by in such profusion that they looked like the star elongation that was the first visual manifestation of a hyperspace jump. Han tensed against the blows he knew were to come. “Open fire.”
Piggy flipped the power-up switch and was rewarded with an erratic whine from the engines and the sudden lighting of his weapons and flight boards.
His diagnostics board said that all systems were down.
He grunted. No use listening to people—or systems—who are inclined to tell you that you can’t do something. Not yet daring to commence powered flight, he brought his targeting system up and tried to bracket the distant shield projector dome.
One small piece of the dome fell within his targeting bracket, and jittered there, showing a clean lock, only moments at a time.
Wedge blinked away at the stinging of his eyes. The third TIE fighter had nailed him with a good fuselage shot just before Wedge had vaped him, and his cockpit was now filling with smoke.
Sensors showed that of the flight of nine that had moved against him, four were down—one having fallen prey to one of the B-wings. One of his B-wings remained, battered, char marks on its hull from insistent laser fire; the other was a rapidly dissipating cloud a dozen kilometers back.
He brought his targeting brackets over another TIE. They overshot as the starfighter sideslipped. Then the vehicle exploded, hit by lateral fire.
Incoming vehicles on the sensors, from the direction of the second destroyer—an A-wing leading a flying wedge of unscathed Y-wings. They continued firing and the TIEs bedeviling Wedge evaporated under their massed lasers.
“Wraith Leader to newcomers. Who am I talking to?”
The voice that came back was hard and military, but he heard an amused tone within it. “Why, Commander. You forget old friends so soon.”
“General Crespin!” This was the frigate’s starfighter force, then, finally catching up from the rear.
“And the Screaming Wookiee Training Squadron.”
“Can you escort Nova Three?”
“Hand over all the B-wings, sonny, and I’ll show you some old-fashioned mass-fire tactics.”
“Nova Squadron, this is Wraith Leader. Form up with the Screaming Wookiee.” Wedge coughed against the smoke. “I’m outbound, General, have to visit some old friends.”
“Good luck.”
“Wraiths, see your charges back to the general, then join the Rogues.” Wedge heeled over and headed into the thickest part of the engagement zone.
Far ahead, past Iron Fist’s bow, the tiny needle that was Mon Remonda opened up with laser barrages. They flared and were expended uselessly against Iron Fist’s shields.
“Do you think he plans to sacrifice Mon Remonda to stop us?” Zsinj, chin in hand, steadily regarded