Star Wars_ X-Wing 09_ Starfighters of Adumar - Aaron Allston [28]
Regular fighter missions were a thing of his past, and he missed them terribly. But perhaps they were a thing of his future as well. Perhaps someday he could find himself a post, as General Salm and General Crespin had before him, that would allow him regular command of a fighter wing. That prospect gave him some hope for his military future.
He checked his sensor board, or lightboard—the screen with the green wire-frame grid the Adumari called a “lightbounce system”—and saw that Tycho, Janson, and Hobbie were still tucked in tight. Off in the distance, their escort of four Cartann fighters was still in formation.
But Wedge’s visual check showed that Janson was upside down. “Janson, orient yourself,” he said. “You’re belly to sky.”
“Negative, boss. I’m right side up. You three inverted coming out of that headache maneuver.”
Wedge glanced up, saw only sky and sun above him.
Janson’s voice came again, a taunt this time: “Made you look.” He righted his Blade-32.
The lightboard beeped at him. It showed an incoming flight of a half-dozen Blades, four advanced, two in the rear. Wedge’s communications system buzzed. “Hail General Antilles! The Lords of Dismay Flightknife issues a challenge.”
Wedge sighed. He was already well familiar with some of the Adumari pilot terminology, such as the use of “flightknife” for “squadron.” For the sixth time since Red Flight had commenced this familiarization run, he switched over to general frequency and said, “Antilles here. Denied.”
“Another time, then. Confusion to your enemies! Farewell!” The incoming fighters began a slow loop around to head back the way they’d come.
“They love you, Wedge.” That was Janson’s voice.
“This is the only planet where everyone who loves me also wants to kill me,” Wedge said. “All right. Opinions, people? On the fighters, I mean.”
“A bit like flying wishbones,” Janson said. “These Blades have the kind of mass and solidity I like in the Y-wings. But sluggish.”
“I like the weapons arrangement,” Hobbie said. “Two lasers forward, two lasers back. Two missile ports like the X-wings … but we’re carrying sixteen missiles, not six. More punch against capital ships. If we could swap proton torpedoes for the lower-powered explosives these are carrying, that’d be a lot of bang.”
“I’ve been reviewing engineering records and damage statistics,” Tycho said.
Janson laughed. “While we’ve been maneuvering?”
“Restraining myself so you could keep up with me left me plenty of time for intellectual pursuits,” Tycho said. “I also composed a symphony and drafted a plan to bring peace to the galaxy. Anyway, without shields, these things come apart under any missile hit. But they’re structurally tough, more so than X-wings, so they hang together after taking more collateral damage or laser hits. I’d like to see how much maneuverability they lose with a set of shields, hyperdrive, maybe a gunner’s seat installed. If it’s not too great a loss, we may have a viable fighter-bomber here, something useful in fleet actions against capital ships.”
“Good point,” Wedge said. He rolled his fighter over and up again, decided he didn’t much like the way the atmosphere bit at his flight surfaces. “All right, let’s take them back to the hangar. Wedge Antilles out.”
That was a code signal, the use of his full name. After bringing his fighter around so that it was headed back toward Giltella Air Base, one of two bases close to the city of Cartann, he switched the microphone off his fighter’s comm system, then pulled an elaborate comlink headset out of a flight-suit pocket. Tycho had brought these back from the Allegiance last night, comlinks with scrambler attachments. Wedge set its registers to a previously agreed-upon scramble code.
Hobbie had determined that their clothes were free of listening