Star Wars_ X-Wing 06_ Iron Fist - Aaron Allston [57]
“Best of luck, pilot.”
“Thanks.”
Moments later, she had her helmet on and canopy down and was going through her power-up checklist. Four engines showing green, full power—Repness had made sure his personal X-wing was in tip-top shape, too. She still needed the mechanics to move the pilot’s couch forward; it was adjusted as far forward as it would go, and she had to extend herself a little uncomfortably when handling rudder pedals. Repness had been a tall man.
Her comlink crackled into life. It was Wedge’s voice: “All right, Rogues, Wraiths. Call ’em out in order.”
“Rogue One, ready.”
“Rogue Two, four lit and in the green.”
“Rogue Three, ready to dance.”
Only the Wraiths would be going as far as Lavisar. The Rogues would accompany them as far as the Lavisar system’s outermost planetary ring, and would wait there. If, though odds were against it, this mission was a Zsinj trap against Mon Remonda, the Rogues would be ready to jump in and give Zsinj’s forces a surprise they might not be ready to withstand.
A sudden chill passed through her, one not even her insulated pilot’s suit and cockpit heater could immediately dispel. The Wraiths were supposed to fire a few shots, even land a few hits if they thought they could do so without unnecessarily taking life, and then flee.
But anything could happen. A laser blast aimed at a solar wing array could miss and hull a starfighter’s cockpit. A sudden maneuver could startle a TIE-fighter pilot into veering straight into the path of one of his fellows.
Lara didn’t want to kill today, and it wasn’t for the apparently altruistic reasons demonstrated by the Wraiths. If she killed an Imperial pilot, how would she be regarded when she returned to Imperial employ?
“Wraith Twelve, ready for lift.” That was Piggy’s mechanical voice. She’d left a note to herself, in the portions of her mind that were so usefully automatic, for his voice to cue her own response. She shook away all the thoughts distracting her and said, “Wraith Thirteen, four green and topped off.”
“Exit by current formation, by proximity to the magcon field, then form up by wings and units.”
That made her first.
She began to run through the checklist in her mind that covered repulsorlift backing, rotating, exiting this type of facility—but no, it was not a good idea to overintellectualize among these pilots. She took the pilot’s yoke, engaged the repulsorlift, and pulled up and backward with a smooth motion, beginning her rotation before she was two meters into the air. She smoothly cruised through the magcon field, which permitted her passage without the slightest discernible resistance. And she was in space.
Not for the first time; she’d flown training missions with the Y-wings of Screaming Wookiee training squadron after Repness’s arrest, had soloed in both Y-wings and Repness’s X-wing, had flown her own choice of course to rendezvous with Mon Remonda. But this was her first action.
She continued with repulsorlifts and rose until her stern pointed into empty space well above the entrance to the hangar, then engaged her thrust engines and pulled smoothly away from the Mon Calamari cruiser. Smooth, and by the numbers—but she was still acutely aware of the eyes that were and would be upon her.
Moments later, Wedge pulled beside and slightly ahead of her, and Face Loran took up position on the other side of the commander, drawn back level with her. As the ninth pilot of a unit that normally flew by paired wingmen, Lara had been assigned as the temporary third member of an existing pair.
They’d timed their arrival so that the face of Lavisar featuring its capital city, Syward, would be dead ahead when they emerged from