Star Wars_ X-Wing 07_ Solo Command - Aaron Allston [3]
The being the Gamorrean addressed across the holotable was also unusual, though his kind was certainly well represented in the ranks of the New Republic military. Admiral Ackbar was a member of the Mon Calamari species, humanoids with fishlike features and rubbery skin. Though there were many Mon Calamari serving the New Republic, few had naval combat maneuvers named for him or had designed fighter craft as Ackbar had.
“Essentially,” the Gamorrean continued, “we gave Zsinj only one course of action to take if he were to preserve the Razor’s Kiss.” He gestured at the replay of the deep-space naval battle being projected above the holotable. “You see his maneuvers to keep Iron Fist between us and Razor’s Kiss. You see him slow his escape pace to stay with the crippled ship. All by the numbers, numbers our force dictated.”
Admiral Ackbar’s voice was low, gravelly, slightly more imposing than the standard for his species. “So you find nothing of interest in the engagement.”
“If you will forgive me, I did not say that, sir.” The Gamorrean manipulated the table controls to zoom the holoprojection view very close to the second of the two Super Star Destroyers. At this near distance, he and Ackbar could see that the mighty vessel was burning at innumerable points on the hull. They could also see swarms of starfighters, New Republic and Imperial, fighting above its surface.
“Mathematically speaking,” the Gamorrean continued, “there is much of interest in the behavior of the One Eighty-first. In addition to the fact that a demonstrably loyal Imperial elite squadron should not be working hand in hand with a rogue warlord like Zsinj, there is something odd in the way they fight.”
Ackbar’s face suggested curiosity. “We detected no oddity in our analysis of the recordings. But, of course, you were there.”
“If I may correct you, I actually was not. I was trapped on the hull of the Iron Fist for most of that fight, trying to persuade my starfighter to start up. No, it was after you showed me these recordings that I noticed it. Individual fighter pairs tend to respond with an interesting sameness to specific attack patterns. See here—” The Gamorrean pointed to a pair of TIE interceptors characterized by horizontal red stripes on their solar wing arrays. As a pair of X-wings approached from their rear, the TIEs broke off in a tight sweep to port and relative down, moving at an angle the X-wings couldn’t match.
The Gamorrean stopped the holoprojection, scrolled the viewpoint over to the Iron Fist, and settled it on another pair of 181st interceptors. He advanced the recording as the interceptors cruised toward a pocket of combat, then set it to play at a normal rate. “Here, two A-wings from Polearm Squadron approach from the rear on the same vector. You see the interceptors break exactly the same way, the lead interceptor taking the higher position and the slightly shallower angle, the wingman going lower and taking a harder turn.”
“A coincidence.”
“No. The angle of attack dictates the way they break. Only with the One Eighty-first, however. I’m not sure what it means.”
Ackbar leaned forward, his posture suggesting sudden interest. “Show me more.”
Lieutenant Eyan marched into the admiral’s outer office with his broad, meat-eating smile fixed on his face.
The admiral’s aide, seated at a desk outside the door to Ackbar’s office, returned the smile. He was a human male who looked as though he thrived on naval food and could stand to thrive a little less. He stood and saluted. “Welcome back, sir. You look as though your leave suited you.”
Eyan drew the blaster pistol from his pocket, thrust it into the man’s stomach, and pulled the trigger. The blast slammed the man back into his chair but was not as loud as it could have been, muffled by contact with the