Star Wars_ X-Wing 07_ Solo Command - Aaron Allston [48]
But no X-wings came bouncing up out of the streets, and the two known targets came implacably on. Shrike Leader frowned at that. “Fire at will,” he said.
A second later, one of the X-wings jittered within the brackets of his targeting computer—and dove, even as Shrike Leader fired. His linked laser shot superheated the air just above the enemy starfighter and hit what looked like a residential building.
His target was suddenly gone, down into the maze of streets below, as was the other oncoming X-wing—and just as suddenly, six more X-wings popped up from other streets, also on oncoming headings, and opened fire.
Shrike Leader banked hard, so sharply that his inertial compensator couldn’t quite make up for the maneuver—he was thrown sideways into the netting of his pilot’s couch.
Then he felt something like a hammerblow as his left wing was hit, penetrated—
Abruptly the world outside his viewport was spinning, starry sky, nighttime city lights, over and over, and he could see the laser-heated stump of his left wing falling mere meters away.
He felt a sickness rise in his stomach, but knew that his discomfort would last only for another fifteen hundred meters.
One thousand.
Five hundred.
Wedge checked his sensor board and smiled thinly at what he saw. The maneuver had been more successful than he’d hoped. Scotian of One Wing and Qyrgg of Three Wing had skimmed along at rooftop level, feeding their sensor data to the other Rogues, who had lined up their opening shots based solely on the transmitted data. As soon as Scotian and Qyrgg had detected targeting locks on them, they’d dived to cover among the streets, and the other six Rogues had jumped up and taken their shots. Suddenly the enemy squadron of TIEs had been reduced by five—three destroyed, two badly damaged and winging away—and the odds were now in the Rogues’ favor.
The numerical odds, he told himself. The odds were already in our favor. “Break by pairs,” he said. “Engage and eliminate. Keep your eyes open for additional incoming units.” He arced to port, Tycho tucked in tight behind him.
Lara accepted a hand from Donos and swung from the crawler to his rooftop. Elassar stood on guard, his back to them. “Thanks,” she said.
“Welcome. Any word from the others?”
She shook her head.
A shrill whine rose behind them—and, like a landspeeder, an X-wing nosed around the building corner to their north, turning their way, riding on repulsorlifts. It climbed as it came until it was at rooftop level. The cowling rose and Rogue pilot Tal’dira nodded at them, his face serious as ever.
“That’ll be the lunch I ordered,” Lara said, under her breath. She heard Donos snort, saw him struggle to keep his face straight.
“Prepare to pick up your squadmates,” Tal’dira shouted. “South face of the building complex. Don’t get too near before we blow it.”
“Understood,” Donos said. “Thanks.”
The Twi’lek grimaced, his expression speaking eloquently of how he’d prefer to be halfway across the city where starfighters were engaged in combat, rather than here chatting to ground-pounding commandos. He lowered his X-wing’s cowling and goosed the snubfighter forward.
Dia leaned in close to Face, so that only he could hear, and asked, “Who is Tetran Cowall?”
“What?”
“That Gast creature said she liked Tetran Cowall more than you.”
“Oh.” He laughed. “She can have him. He’s an actor from Coruscant. We’re the same age. We competed for everything. Both wanted to be pilots. Tested for the same roles. Chased the same girls. He had no perceivable acting skills.”
She managed a slight smile. “He was the one Ton Phanan was going to leave his money to. If you didn’t get the operation to clear the scar from your face.”
Face nodded, rueful.
“I haven’t heard of him. Is he still making holodramas?”
“No.” Face smiled. “That was one competition I definitely won. He was a good-looking