Star Wars_ X-Wing 06_ Iron Fist - Aaron Allston [49]
Rogue Squadron stood before them, arrayed as precisely as a firing squad. In front of the line of pilots was General Han Solo, uncomfortable-looking in his New Republic uniform, his expression a cocked smile that had to be from relief at seeing Wedge.
Wedge climbed down from his cockpit and removed his helmet. He could feel as well as hear the repulsorlift whine of the other Wraiths’ arriving, plus the distant metallic chatter of powered tools being used on repairs. That, and the smell of fuel and lubricants, of ozone coming off the magcon shield, made this hangar more comfortable and homey than any set of quarters Wedge had occupied.
He approached Solo and threw a precise salute. “Commander Wedge Antilles and Wraith Squadron reporting for duty, sir.”
Solo’s return salute was far less military. “Welcome aboard Mon Remonda. Let’s get the rest of your pilots in … so I can get out of this torture suit.”
Wedge affected surprise. “But, sir, I was just going to say how smart you looked in your uniform. I think we ought to stay here, in uniform, a couple of hours so the holographers can capture the image. You know, for the historians.”
Solo’s grin didn’t waver, but his expression was suddenly somehow different. Something like an animal backed into a corner. He kept his tone cheery. “Wedge, I think I’m going to have you killed.”
“Yes, sir. I trust you’ll wear your dress uniform for an event like that.”
Han slumped in mock surrender. “You know, with my history, I’d be the laughingstock of the New Republic if I ever brought one of my officers up on charges of insubordination.”
“Yes, sir, I was sort of counting on that.”
Once the other pilots had landed and their X-wings were shut down, it was handshakes all around. Wedge introduced Rogues to Wraiths, and met Captain Onoma, Mon Calamari master of the Mon Remonda.
On the walk down from the hangar to the officers’ quarters, through hallways that seemed more organic than constructed with their smooth curves and eye-pleasing rather than industrial colors, Solo filled Wedge in on some pertinent facts. “Mon Remonda officially has four fighter squadrons assigned to her. The fighter squadrons are: Rogue; Wraith; Polearm, an A-wing unit; and Nova, a B-wing squadron. Of course, you Wraiths are usually out on long patrols. In practice, of course, Rogue, Nova, and Polearm have been doing all the work while you Wraiths play pirate.”
“Is that irritation or envy in your voice?”
“Envy. Want to trade?”
“No.”
“You could boss this whole anti-Zsinj task force. I could arrange for a generalship for you.”
“No.”
Solo sighed tolerantly. “Anyway, we’ve been cruising at the theoretical borders of so-called Zsinj-controlled space. When our scouting missions or Intelligence auxiliaries report a good target, we go in and blow it up. We also assemble data on probable movements of Iron Fist, hoping to determine her home port or predict her next destination. So far we’re not having much luck on that front, though we’re pursuing data and leads as aggressively as we can.”
“You might actually want to pursue leads a little less aggressively than that, if you get my drift.”
Solo led the parade of pilots into a large personnel turbolift, which carried them downward into the vessel’s interior. “What do you mean?”
“Zsinj uses a lot of intelligence-oriented techniques. If he’s planting any of the leads you’re following, he may be building up a profile of how Mon Remonda responds to leaked information. Once he has a reliable profile in place, he can drop the exact type and quantity of information to lead you into the kind of trap not even a cruiser like this comes