Star Wars_ X-Wing 07_ Solo Command - Aaron Allston [125]
“Leader to group: make a trench.” Wedge threw more power to acceleration and Rogue Squadron leaped out ahead. The X-wing squad to his starboard, the Gauntlets off the Allegiance, dropped back and sideslipped in directly behind. The Y-wing squad to his port, Lightning Squadron off Battle Dog, slid in just as neatly behind them.
In a matter of seconds, the broad wing of starfighters became a single concentrated line.
Wedge brought them down low over Iron Fist’s stern and fired down at the Star Destroyer’s top hull, his lasers striking into but being dissipated by the great ship’s shields, his proton torpedoes detonating on impact with those defensive screens rather than against the hull itself. Still, every shot he took battered away at shield integrity and drained badly needed energy resources … and more than two hundred fighters strung behind him were doing exactly the same thing. He veered from side to side, varying his altitude as he came, and turbocannon fire was so dense his cockpit interior was constantly illuminated by its brightness.
Then Iron Fist dropped away beneath him. He’d run the gauntlet. Tycho was still tucked in beside him, and his sensor board read all Rogues still accounted for. “At the end of your run,” he said, “break by squadrons and make further passes at your discretion.”
Zsinj knew from the way Iron Fist rattled that some of those detonations were taking place at the hull, not above it. The beeps and wails of damage reports began to sound. A near-constant line of starfighters flashed forward past the bridge viewports.
“What was that?” he asked of no one, then leaned over the edge of the command walkway. “Petothel! What is he doing?”
His new analyst looked up. “He’s concentrating fire on your centerline, since you don’t have a starfighter screen out to prevent such a move. But he won’t do it on his second run. He knows you’ll concentrate your gunnery crews’s attention on the centerline now, so he’ll break his group up for more standard strafing runs. Don’t be fooled.”
“I asked for your analysis, not your advice,” Zsinj said, and was surprised by the snap in his voice. He turned to Melvar. “Prepare for them to come back by way of the bow the same way. Alert the gunners on top and below for a repeat of the same tactic.”
Melvar looked uncertain. “Yes, sir.”
On the sensor screens, the deadly line of starfighters emerged from its strafing run off Iron Fist’s bow, then broke up into individual squadrons and looped back toward the ship, a broad cloud of enemies.
Lara allowed herself a small smirk of triumph. She’d thought that if she phrased her reply a certain way, suggesting that Wedge Antilles could outthink the warlord, Zsinj would respond with pride instead of with his tactical ability. And she’d been right. It didn’t make much of a difference in this situation; the gunnery crews were now receiving corrections, being told to abandon the previous orders. But Zsinj’s response meant she might be able to manipulate him again. If only she could persuade him to abandon his group, leave them behind. Then, wherever he emerged, she could shut down his hyperdrive and summon Solo’s fleet for the kill.
She sat upright. Wait a second. Maybe she could get Zsinj to abandon his fleet. It wouldn’t take persuasion, either. Just a minor course correction.
She switched her terminal over to direct communication with Tonin and plugged her goggles back in. “Has Iron Fist already transmitted its jump course to the rest of the fleet?” she asked.
YES.
“Can you enter a course correction? I don’t mean enter it as a new course—they’d notice that. I mean, like an automated minor correction, as the nav computer continues to process new data?”
YES.
“Is there a star within range of the kind of variation you can enter?”
YES. SELAGGIS. JUST WITHIN ZSINJ-CONTROLLED SPACE. A FEW LIGHT-YEARS AWAY. A YELLOW STAR, SEVEN WORLDS.
“Never mind the almanac data.