Star Wars_ X-Wing 07_ Solo Command - Aaron Allston [56]
Corran Horn’s hand was up next. “And what are the odds that this is another Zsinj trap?”
“Again, possible but not likely. The Duros monitoring of the battle in the asteroid belt and on Jussafet suggests that we’re looking at a large force of Raptors, fully engaged, not just the whispers and rumors we’re used to.
“We’ll launch as soon as we drop into the system. Polearm’s A-wings will take point and make the initial flyover on Jussafet Four. Rogue Squadron and Nova’s B-wings will head into the asteroid belt to begin purging it of Zsinj forces. We have four flyers of Wraith Squadron active, and they’ll escort shuttles of New Republic ground forces in to Jussafet Four.”
Face Loran, leaning forward so as to keep his injured back from making contact with the chair, spoke up. His voice emerged as an uncanny impersonation of Tal’dira’s. “This time, the Wraiths can do the baby-sitting. Now, and forever.”
The pilots laughed. All, Donos noted, except Tal’dira, who kept his attention on the desktop before him and didn’t react. Corran Horn gave Tal’dira a curious glance.
“That’s it,” Wedge said. “Your astromechs and nav computers have your navigational data. Good luck.”
As they filed out of the amphitheater, Face and Dia caught up with Donos. “I wish I were flying with you,” Face said.
“I’m glad you’re not,” Donos said. At Face’s startled expression, he relented, smiling. “I so seldom get to he in charge of anything, the change is welcome. You just get injured anytime you like.”
“Thanks,” Face said. He stopped in the hall beside the caf cart and picked up a cup. “Thanks, Galey.”
“No problem, sir.”
As they continued down toward the starfighter hangars, Donos heard Galey say, “Excuse me, Flight Officer Tualin! A moment of your time?”
It was hard for Tal’dira to run down his preflight checklist. His thoughts were far away. How could Wedge Antilles, hero of the Rebellion, of the New Republic, fall so far as to hop on one transparisteel leg? Nothing short of the Emperor’s magic could have wrought such a change in him. Rage grew within Tal’dira and he struggled, as only a true warrior could, to keep it in check.
“Rogues, announce readiness by number.”
When his time came, Tal’dira said, “Rogue Five, four lit, three at full capacity, one at ninety-nine percent.” His starboard lower engine was still not optimal. He’d have to insist that it be brought up to a reasonable level of performance.
After he killed Wedge Antilles, of course.
A hangar Klaxon warned the pilots that they were dropping out of hyperspace. The twisting, whirling morass of color outside the magnetic shield between the hangar and vacuum abruptly snapped into a simpler image: a starfield. One small planet hung, bright and round, near the upper right corner of the magcon field.
One by one, the Rogues shot through the field and formed up a kilometer from Mon Remonda. Tal’dira, leader of Two Flight, settled in beside his wingman, Gavin Darklighter. He felt his heart race as the moment crept toward him.
One bit of comm traffic caught his ear, a transmission from a fellow Twi’lek: “Polearm Two to Polearm Leader. I have a critical failure of my sublight engine. I’m down to fifty-four percent. Forty. Twenty-eight …”
“Two, this is Leader. Drop out of formation and head on in. Maybe next time …”
On Tal’dira’s sensor screen, eleven members of Polearm Squadron leaped forward, drawing away from Mon Remonda, approaching distant Jussafet Four.
Tal’dira’s astromech transmitted the unit’s course to his navigation system and he absently reviewed numbers he would never use.
“Rogue Leader to group. On my count, ten, nine, eight …”
“Wraith Four, you are out of position.”
Tyria looked up, startled. She was out of position. She should be maintaining