Star Wars_ X-Wing 07_ Solo Command - Aaron Allston [17]
Wedge’s voice came back instantly. “Good work, Wraiths. Rogue target destroyed. Iron Fist showing difficulty maneuvering. Stand by.”
“Acknowledged.” He switched back to squadron frequency. “Wraiths, form up on me. We’ll stay near Ten for the time being.”
On the bridge of Iron Fist, the Warlord Zsinj stood on the command walkway above the crew pit. He did not stare out the forward viewports, which showed only starfield along his enemy’s exit vector, but down into the screens of his bridge crew.
He was not a tall man, nor was he physically impressive. He was as round as any merchant gourmand, and his exaggerated bandit-style mustachios suggested that his self-image was quite different from the image he projected. The white grand admiral’s uniform he wore suggested a rank he’d never earned in service to the Empire, and those who knew that fact could not help but attribute to him the sins of pride and self-deception.
Only he knew how many of these attributes were affectations. False clues to persuade his enemies—and superiors, and subordinates—to come to incorrect conclusions about him. To underestimate him. Sometimes to overestimate him—that could, on occasion, be as useful.
Beside him stood the man in charge of his ground troops and starfighter support, General Melvar. Zsinj was lucky to have found a kindred spirit in Melvar, a man who painted on the face of a dedicated sadist when confronting the outer world and then removed it, revealing features extraordinary only in their blandness, in the warlord’s company. Melvar could blend with any crowd on any world with his natural features, and probably had many more alternative identities tucked away than the score or so Zsinj knew about.
“Mon Remonda and the rest of his fleet are still coming on at full speed,” Melvar said. “But even with the two Carrack cruisers out and our maneuverability impaired, we should be able to give her a sustained broadside. If we concentrate on her power and engines, we’ll trap her here. She’ll never get far enough away from Levian Two to make hyperspace.”
Zsinj nodded absently. “Time until Mon Remonda is under our guns?”
A crewman shouted up, “Ships appearing ahead, a drop out of hyperspace. Three vessels, sir—a Mon Calamari cruiser, an Imperial-class Star Destroyer, and a Quasar Fire-class bulk cruiser.”
Zsinj sighed, vexed. He looked forward through the viewports, but couldn’t make out the new enemies. “I didn’t realize Solo had more of his fleet within range. Not that it matters. Enhance the view.”
A hologram appeared before a portion of the main viewport. On it were the three vessels his crewman had described. All three were turning to Zsinj’s port, exposing their sides, ready to fire on the oncoming Super Star Destroyer.
“They’re angling toward the escape vector Mon Remonda will take,” Zsinj said. “Toward our weak flank, where the Carrack-class cruisers have been knocked out. They’re going to line up so that we’ll walk into the worst of their damage if we adjust to continue our prosecution of Mon Remonda. But we’re not going to play their game.”
Melvar smiled. “I somehow doubted we were.”
Zsinj called down to his communications officer, “Send Red Gauntlet, Serpent’s Smile and Reprisal on ahead. Punch a hole in the defensive screen they’re throwing up. Bring the starfighters back to Iron Fist to act as our own screen.” He turned to his weapons specialist. “Ready all guns. Tell them to fire on Mon Remonda as they bear.”
“Yes, sir.”
Zsinj straightened, smiling. “Solo really should have taken my call. He might even have survived for a while.”
Face saw the shuttle towing Janson’s X-wing disappear into one of Mon Remonda’s bays. The Wraiths’s three TIE interceptor pilots followed him in. He knew from comm traffic that the group’s A-wings were already aboard.
Then the leading edge of Mon Remonda came within gunnery range of Iron Fist. Turbolaser flashes by the hundreds lit space between the two capital ships. Far ahead, similar flashes illuminated the void between Solo’s Group 2 and Zsinj’s advance force.
Like a younger