Isard's Revenge (2 page)

“Break port, Nine.”

As the Gand’s high-pitched voice poured through the comm unit, Corran snaprolled his X-wing to the left, then chopped his throttle back and hauled hard on the stick to take him into a loop. An Interceptor flashed through where he had been, and Ooryl Qyrgg’s X-wing came fast on its tail. Ooryl’s lasers blazed in sequence, stippling the Interceptor with red energy darts. One hit each wing, melting great furrows through them, while the other two lanced through the cockpit right above the twin ion engines. The engines themselves tore free of their support structure and blew out through the front of the squint, then exploded in a silver fireball that consumed the rest of the Imperial fighter.

“Thanks, Ten.”

“My pleasure, Nine.”

Whistler, the green and white R2 unit slotted in behind Corran, hooted, and data started pouring up over the fighter’s main monitor. It told him in exact detail what he was seeing unfold in space around him. The New Republic’s forces had come into the system in the standard conical formation that allowed them to maximize firepower.
Thrawn had arrayed his forces in more of a bowl shape, with Interdictor cruisers ringing the outer edge, preventing retreat and promoting containment. The Imperial forces also appeared to have very specific fire missions and were working over the smaller support ships in Ackbar’s fleet.

Corran shivered.
And even if we were to punch through the Imp formation, we’d still have to deal with the Golan Space Defense Stations protecting the Imperial shipyards.
Thrawn, genius that he had proved himself to be, had set a perfect ambush for the New Republic. The Bilbringi shipyards were crucial to the Imperial war effort since they were a major supplier of ships, and their loss would strike a major blow against Thrawn’s effort to destroy the New Republic.

Of course, Thrawn figured that out himself and knew we’d be here.
Until Thrawn slithered in from the Unknown Regions and began his drive to reestablish the Empire, Corran had allowed himself to believe the tough battles had already been won, and all the New Republic had left to do was to mop up the last of the Imperials.
Now it seems the hard battles are here and waiting to be lost.

With a flick of his thumb, Corran evened his shields out fore and aft, then throttled back up and slashed in at a pair of Interceptors making a run on a New Republic Assault Frigate. He slid his crosshairs over on the trailing Interceptor as it began its shallow glide along the Frigate’s hull. His quad burst caught most of the port wing, liquefying it in an instant. The molten metal froze in a long black tangle of ribbonlike shards trailing after the damaged fighter. The pilot juked his ship to the right to escape Corran, but that flew him straight into a burst from one of the Frigate’s turbolasers, vaporizing the squint in an eyeblink.

The lead Interceptor rolled to port and cut down past the curve of the Frigate’s hull. Corran caught a flash of red on one of the Interceptor’s wings and nodded. “Looks like he was once part of the One Eighty-first Imperial Fighter Group. They used to be feared. Maybe I ought to see why.”

Whistler sounded a mournful tone.

“Yes, I know what I’m doing.”

The droid blatted harshly at him.

“Yes, I’ll be careful. Neither one of us wants to know what Mirax will do to the survivor if we die.” Corran winked at the holograph of his wife fixed to a side panel in his cockpit, then rolled his X-wing and cruised down after the squint. He threaded a path through the turbolaser blasts the Frigate was pumping out, then swept past the ship out near its engines

Even before Whistler could hoot a warning, the hiss of lasers splashing themselves over his aft shields caught Corran’s full attention. His secondary monitor showed the Interceptor dropping in on his tail.
Must have throttled back and hovered near the engines, waiting. This guy is good.

Pumping more energy into his shields, Corran rolled the X-wing right, up onto the S-foil. He pulled back on the stick to start a loop and held it for three seconds, then cut his throttle back and inverted. Pulling back harder on the stick, he completed a fast loop, then throttled up through the end of it and rolled out right.

As his fighter’s nose came to point at the Interceptor, the Imp pilot rolled his craft and dove away from Corran. The Corellian pilot started down after him, but cut back to 75 percent of his speed. As he anticipated, the Imp cut his speed as well, hoping Corran would race past him. Instead Corran triggered one quick burst of fire that hit high on the Imp’s port wing, burning a black hole through the red stripe. He then stood on his right rudder pedal, keeping his guns on the squint, and poured another quad burst of laserfire into the Interceptor.

All four ruby darts drilled through the port wing, then stabbed deep into the cockpit. A bright light flashed through the hole the lasers had opened, and Corran expected the ship to explode, but it didn’t. Instead it began to come apart, with bits and pieces of it whirling away as if the bright flash had disintegrated all the rivets and welds used in its manufacture.

Corran looped his X-wing away from the dying squint, but before he could vector in on another Interceptor,
he heard Commander Wedge Antilles coming through on the squadron’s tactical channel. “All Rogues, come about on a heading of one-two-five, mark one-seven. That Golan Space Defense Station is designated Green One. It’s ours.”

“Ours, Commander?” The same surprise Corran felt in his chest came flooding through Gavin Darklighter’s voice. “That’s a pretty tough target.”

“We’ll just have to be tougher than it is, won’t we, Six?” Wedge’s reply came loaded with grim irony. “If we can get into the shipyard, the Imps will have to think about more than just pounding our fleet. Besides, we have friends coming out. One Flight is on me. Five, you have Two Flight. Nine, you have Three.”

“As ordered, Lead.” Corran brought his fighter around on the appropriate heading and locked the target into his computer. “Estimated time of arrival at missile range is forty seconds. Let’s move, Three Flight.”

Ooryl pulled his X-wing up on Corran’s starboard wing. Inyri Forge brought Rogue Twelve up on Corran’s port wing and Asyr Sei’lar, in Rogue Eleven, hung back off Inyri’s port wing. Corran goosed his ship a bit forward and shifted his attention toward their target, trusting the others to keep him informed if Imps were vectoring in on them from behind.

Not likely, though, since they’ve got plenty to keep them busy.
Throughout the bowl into which the New Republic’s fleet moved, massive salvos of energy shot up and down and side to side, filling the area with a dazzling light show. Corran would have been more than content to watch the turbolaser bursts flow back and forth, but the fact that they were lethal was more than enough to keep him from finding much beauty in them. Behind the squadron, Y-wings, A-wings, and B-wings mixed it up with Interceptors, TIE fighters, and Bombers, punctuating the light show with brilliant explosions.

The larger ships, when hit hard, didn’t explode as quickly. Instead their fire-blackened bulks drifted through the battlefield, atmosphere burning off as it leaked out of
broken hulls. Some turbolaser blasts were enough to peel back armor plates and reduce them to floating metal globules that hardened in the vacuum of space. In other places the shots holed the ships through and through or vaporized things that should have been there, like superstructures or a bow.

The Golan Space Defense Station loomed larger. Lights blinked placidly at the various corners, almost inviting inspection. Over two kilometers long, about half as wide and tall, it bristled with turbolaser batteries, proton torpedo launchers, and tractor beam stations. It massed more than an Imperial Star Destroyer and, while it wasn’t as heavily armed, the proton torpedo launchers gave it the ability to inflict serious damage in a hurry. It could easily put down any of the New Republic ships that made it through the Imperial formation.

Corran flicked his weapons-control over to proton torpedoes and linked fire so two would go with a single pull of his trigger. Whistler brought up the heads-up targeting display and the HUD fixed a green box around the space platform. The droid began to beep insistently as it tried to get a target lock; then the HUD went red and Whistler’s tone became constant.

“Nine has a firing solution, transmitting now. On my mark, Three Flight. Three, two, one, mark!”

All four of the X-wings fired their proton torpedoes at one time, using Whistler’s targeting solution to guide them. A battle station like the Golan sported very powerful shields and individually fired proton torpedoes would have been unable to pierce it. Eight torpedoes coming in at the same time, aiming for the same point, would overstress the shields, draining them of energy. This would create a critical time window in which the shields would be weakened, or would totally fail, and have to be regenerated.

Whistler sounded another long, strong tone. “Three Flight, second salvo. On my mark. Three, two, one, mark.”

Eight more proton torpedoes streaked out from the incoming fighters before the first set had hit. The first eight
torpedoes detonated against the station’s top-port shield. The shield itself went opaque, taking on a milky-white hue as it attempted to dissipate the torpedoes’ energy. But sparks shot from the shield projectors rimming the station’s middle and a roiling ball of plasma bounced across the hull, scorching gray paint as it went.

The next eight missiles hit in a ragged sequence and exploded brilliantly along the station’s middle. Flames vomited into space as a blast opened a hole three decks deep and vented atmosphere. Armor plates whirled into space, half melted and twisted. Turbolaser batteries split apart, leaving blackened holes and warped metal where they had once been grafted to the station.

Corran juked his fighter up and away from the station, then inverted and watched turbolaser fire shoot beneath his canopy. For a half second he thought the Golan’s gunners were terribly shaken by the squadron’s attack, hence their misses, then he glanced at his rear sensor display. He smiled and keyed his comm unit. “We softened them up for you …”

“Appreciated, Rogues, now let us do our jobs.”

Two New Republic Assault Frigates, the
Tyrant’s Bane
and
Liberty Star
, cruised in toward the Golan station. Though each ship was less than a third as long as the station, they bristled with fifty laser cannons and poured terajoules of coherent light into the Golan. Scarlet bolts lanced through the station’s collapsed shields and bubbled up chunks of the metal hull. Stanchions wavered and wilted beneath the blistering assault. As they collapsed, turbolaser batteries sagged and dipped, then melted into slag.

The troops aboard the Golan fought back valiantly, but found themselves at a gross disadvantage. Proton torpedoes exploded, shaking the station. The troops fired in vain at the fighters, then concentrated their fire on the Frigates. While the larger ships made for better targets, their intact shields provided them with protection the station lacked. With each salvo fewer and fewer of the Golan’s weapons fired back. A brilliant flare flashed on the station’s port side, then it went black.

Power couplings must be down. That half of the station is dead.
Corran keyed his comlink. “Three Flight, with me, we’re past the station and in on the shipyard. Now the Imps have to move to catch us.”

Corran tried to force confidence into his voice. Racing a starfighter through a shipyard, shooting up targets of opportunity, would be fairly easy, but he didn’t want to kid himself about the chances that such an assault would force the Empire to break off its attack on the Rebel fleet.
Thrawn might not like what the Rogues are doing, but he can deal with us later, when he’s killed all the other ships.

Tycho’s voice poured through the comm unit. “Lead, Two here. I show the Imperial formation breaking up.”

“What?” Corran stabbed a button and shifted the display on his primary monitor over to a system-wide scan. The Imperial bowl, which had been contracting around the Rebel cone, was beginning to come apart. The
Stormhawk
and the
Nemesis
were moving to secure an outbound vector for the fleet, while Thrawn’s flagship, the
Chimaera
, swung about to discourage pursuit of the fleet’s smaller ships.

Disbelief threaded through Wedge’s voice. “Be careful, Rogues. Thrawn’s got something up his sleeve.”

Janson laughed lightly. “Looks like a full-fledged retreat, Lead. They’re recovering their fighters.”

Corran studied his readout. The Rebel cone began to blossom from the widest end, coming forward to the tip. The New Republic’s ships kept a respectful distance from the Imperial ships and moved to begin recovery operations. The Imp pull-back left a couple of their own stricken ships still hanging in space.
And it leaves the Bilbringi shipyards to us, which Thrawn never would have wanted.

A shiver ran up Corran’s spine. “What happened here, Lead?”

“I don’t know, Nine.” Wedge’s voice came through solemn and with a hint of hesitation. “Just got a recall order from Admiral Ackbar. We’re to rendezvous with
Home One.
”

“And then he’ll tell us what happened?”

“Could be, Corran, but I doubt it.” Wedge’s X-wing looped out in front of the other Rogues and began the trip back toward the fleet. “For now, let’s just be glad that, for whatever reason, Thrawn discovered he had better things to do, and let’s be ready for when he decides to come back at us again.”

2

As tired as he was, Wedge Antilles found it a major effort to open his eyes when Admiral Ackbar cleared his voice. The pilot had been seated in the waiting area outside the Admiral’s office and hadn’t heard the hatch open. He started to spring to his feet, but tight muscles slowed him, only allowing him to unfurl his body like a heavy flag in a weak breeze.

“Forgive me, Admiral.” Wedge sheepishly looked back at where he’d been sitting. “I didn’t mean to …”

Ackbar’s barabels quivered as his mouth opened in an approximation of a human grin. “No need for forgiveness. I kept you waiting too long. Reviewing Thrawn’s tactics is fascinating, and other information also demanded attention. The tide of data washed away the time.”