Star Wars_ X-Wing 09_ Starfighters of Adumar - Aaron Allston [74]
He saw Iella approaching, a surreptitious route that kept her toward the back of the crowd; he caught her eye and gave her a little shake of the head. She understood and stopped where she was. Nothing she could give him here would do him much good … and she could blow her cover, doing herself considerable harm. Wedge merely hoped Tomer hadn’t caught their little exchange.
At the doorway, they reclaimed their blaster pistols. Moments later, they stood arrayed at the exit from the perator’s palace, steps down to the courtyard and main gates beyond, while an expectant crowd gathered behind them … and another crowd, expectant for another reason, gathered out in the courtyard. Seeing the distinctive New Republic uniforms waiting within the doorway, the courtyard crowd shouted for the pilots to come out.
“We have to get clear of pursuit and out of sight for a few minutes,” Wedge said. “But we’re not going to play their game.” He pulled out his comlink and activated it. “Gate, relay this message up to Allegiance.” He heard his astromech’s answering whistle, and continued, “General Antilles to Allegiance. Requesting emergency evacuation from planetary surface.”
There was no answer.
“Antilles to Allegiance, come in.”
Nothing.
Wedge turned worried eyes to the other pilots. “All right. So I was wrong. We’ve somehow been countered. We’re going to do it their way.” He checked the charge on his blaster and the others followed suit with theirs. “Your orders,” he said.
“Ready,” Tycho said.
“Whatever they expect us to do, we don’t do. Four, what do they expect us to do?”
Hobbie said, “Run out toward the gate and get shot.”
“Correct. So we don’t.” Wedge scanned the courtyard. He saw gathered men and women, three dozen or more of them, waiting for them to emerge. He saw parked wheeled transports—and one repulsorlift transport against the wall, scores of meters to the left of the gate. He nodded in its direction. “That one’s our target,” he said. “Go.”
They moved out and onto the stairs at a trot. As soon as men and women in the crowd raised blasters, Wedge and company opened fire and broke left, circling around the edge of the waiting crowd.
Incoming fire looked like stormtrooper new-recruit target practice, filling the air, inaccurate, but promising eventual deadly hits through sheer volume.
That wasn’t to be. Janson lagged behind and shot precisely, using his sights and the native skill with blasters that had been his since childhood.
When the leading edge of shooters began collapsing, firer after firer taking Janson’s blaster shots in face and chest and gut, the line wavered. Some of the shooters dove for cover—the only cover being provided by the bodies of their fellows. Others redoubled their efforts, firing faster and with even less accuracy.
Wedge, halfway across the courtyard, felt heat against the back of his neck and tensed himself against pain to follow—but there was no pain, just the sensation of superheated air from a near miss by a blaster bolt. He fired as he ran, his shots nowhere near as accurate as Janson’s, but just as intimidating; the line of shooters did not surge toward him.
And then the repulsorlift transport was before him, hanging in the air. He hurtled over the rear, skidding forward toward the control mechanism, and leaned over the front to shoot the line tethering the craft to the wall. He felt the impact of Tycho landing in the bed behind him, more impacts of blaster shots hitting the vehicle’s side.
Kneeling behind the control board to get as much cover as possible from the low lip at the edges of the vehicle, Wedge powered up its steering mechanism. “Call ’em as they come aboard,