Ten meters of corridor space, completely exposed from the far end. Not a bit of cover. The moment they step around that corner, there'll be two more corpses — the fallen comrades already scream that lesson loud and clear. A non-standard solution is needed.
"Third Squad — forward," came the squad leader's order. The troopers took their E-11 rifles from their chests for a moment to check the energy charge and tibanna gas in their weapons. A second later, executing a standard formation, they rushed forward.
The corridor filled with the crimson flashes of blaster fire, cutting down the stormtroopers one by one. Lacking any defense beyond their own storm armor, they were all killed in seconds by the enemy firing from around the corner of the T-shaped hallway.
Now, nine corpses in white armor lay in the passage from the main entrance of the admin section to the finished product warehouse. Only a single enemy had joined them, felled by the Imperial soldiers' fire.
Third Squad had ceased to exist in its entirety.
"Fourth Squad, prepare," the platoon leader's emotionless voice ordered.
TNK-0297 glanced at the last troopers remaining under the lieutenant's command. They were about to charge forward into the enemy's blaster fire. And die. Like the three previous squads.
And this was the 501st Legion, the unit he'd been transferred to?!
The elite of the Stormtrooper Corps?
The senseless deaths of twenty-seven men had taught the lieutenant nothing. He was ready to throw his subordinates into the slaughter again. Without any chance of achieving the objective — breaking through the enemy blockade and reaching the storage facilities, which the local security forces had thrown every available man into defending.
Unusually, in other landing zones, a few regiments of stormtroopers had been enough to break the enemy's defense and complete the assigned task. But right here, the security forces had decided to fight to the last man.
And these clearly weren't hastily trained fighters facing the stormtroopers. Professional mercenaries. They wouldn't retreat. They weren't afraid of charging stormtroopers.
These individuals had something to protect. And they feared failure more than death.
"Fourth Squad — engage," the lieutenant's order came. "Assault pattern three."
It took stormtrooper TNK-0297 a few moments to make a decision.
Shoving his left hand under his belt, he unclipped a grenade, stepped around the corner, and threw it forward, simultaneously firing his rifle.
The spherical munition hit the wall at the T-junction and, as intended, ricocheted into the right branch of the corridor. Right where the enemy fighters were waiting, quickly ceasing their assault and scattering further from the danger.
"Forward!" he said to his fellow stormtroopers, breaking into a run.
He had only five seconds — the maximum delay time on this type of munition's fuse — before the enemy realized the thermal detonator thrown at them wasn't armed.
Reaching the intersection, he pressed his back against the right wall and fired a burst into the backs of the fleeing enemies from the left branch, killing two — half of those who had been there.
Four seconds.
Darting to the opposite wall, TNK-0297 saw the backs of the retreating enemies — there were seven of them in the right branch.
He managed to kill three before the enemy realized the thermal detonator wasn't about to explode. Stopping in the long corridor, they lost another two before returning fire.
TNK-0297 dodged right, moving out of the kill zone. Glancing at his eight comrades and the lieutenant, who remained in place, Colonel Selid's clone understood instantly — he wouldn't be helped.
They hadn't received the corresponding order.
Good soldiers always follow orders.
He had disobeyed. The command hierarchy was broken.
These troopers simply didn't understand that the tactic he proposed was the correct one.
A flash of crimson energy barely singed his left bicep.
TNK-0297 turned his head toward the shot, but his hands were already acting as the current moment required.
The E-11 took down another two mercenaries who entered his field of fire. The last enemy started running, forcing TNK-0297 to move left to get a bead on him. Which meant stepping out from behind the wall and exposing himself to fire from the other two fighters in the left branch of the corridor...
He made a decision quickly and never doubted its correctness for a moment.
Throwing himself forward and to the left, diving onto the floor, the stormtrooper twisted in mid-air, landing flat on his back. The two enemy fighters, not expecting such agility, hesitated.
It cost them their lives — TNK-0297 cut them both down with one long burst.
A short beep sounded, signaling that the energy charge in the power cell was running low.
According to the standard technical specifications of the blaster rifle in his hands, as he rolled across the floor, the sound meant he had only a couple of shots left...
Landing on his stomach, the stormtrooper aimed at the enemy. A single crimson bolt crossed the distance between them, and the fleeing mercenary threw his arms up and crashed to the floor, never to rise again.
TNK-0297 returned to his original position, simultaneously ejecting the empty power cell from his weapon and replacing it with a fresh one.
"Reason for insubordination, TNK-0297?" a voice sounded next to him.
The stormtrooper turned to face a soldier identical to himself, but bearing a commander's pauldron.
"The order was ineffective, sir," the stormtrooper said. "Standard tactics were not working... the objective would not have been completed."
"Surrender your weapon," the Lieutenant ordered. The soldiers of the Fourth Squad behind him took a step back and aimed their blaster rifles at TNH-0297.
"Yes, sir," the "wrong Shock Trooper" obeyed the order. Extending his weapon grip-first to the nearest soldier, he patiently endured being searched and disarmed by his fellow troopers, who performed the procedure without the slightest hesitation.
They were simply following their commander's orders. And they didn't stop to think about whether he had done the right thing by saving their lives or not.
It seemed he had been mistaken about the men he would have to serve alongside.
The 501st Legion might indeed be the elite among the other legions of the Stormtrooper Corps of the Galactic Empire.
But it turned out even these guys weren't immune to the errors of standard tactics concerning the irrational use of personnel.
* * *
"The objectives of the fleet and army groups have been achieved," Captain Pellaeon said with poorly concealed satisfaction.
Despite the semi-darkness in my quarters—so merciful to my eyes, slightly stunned after watching a "bunny" the size of a space station—one could notice that the commander of the Chimaera was practically glowing with happiness.
"Allow me to congratulate you on yet another victory, Grand Admiral," Gilad said, clearly stung by my prolonged silence.
In truth, my impression of the battle's outcome on Xa Fel was more than ambiguous.
Yes, we destroyed the enemy's orbital defensive installations. Yes, not a single ship was lost. Yes, the Star Destroyers suffered no significant damage. Yes, for the first time since I had taken over the body of the famous Chiss, our casualties among small-craft pilots were probably not the heaviest. Yes, in the end, the Acclamator-II and every Star Destroyer, interdictor cruiser, and even the poor Black Aspid were loaded to the brim with useful machinery, the value of which on the black market could reach tens (if not hundreds) of billions of Imperial credits. And even converting that into the more stable currency of New Republic or Hutt money—still a MASSIVE haul. So huge and difficult to appraise that few among the crews of all the ships participating in the battle—from the Corellian corvettes and frigate to the Chimaera herself—were even mentioning that nearly every large compartment aboard my ships contained containers of hyperdrive spare parts… No, the crews were inspired and happy with the outcome. They weren't at all worried about having to spend the next several standard days moving through the corridors and compartments sideways, sideways, sideways, "oh, I'm stuck."
And yet, I was sad.
Why?
Very simple.
Let's start with the basics.
While developing the operation and planning to haul out the hyperdrives on the fleet's ships, I somehow overlooked the fact that the necessary and desirable large-class starship components, when assembled, were typically the size of an actual house. An ordinary five-story, maybe even nine-story building by Earth standards… Which was not only difficult to load onto a ship but also hard to move; fitting them whole into cargo hangars was practically impossible.
I was incredibly lucky that the manufacturer delivered "finished products" as a "build-it-yourself" kit, and each ship's hyperdrive, "ready for use," was a set of shipping containers with a huge number of mechanisms that knowledgeable beings—ship engineers—knew how to assemble correctly.
As they say, the bullet flew literally over my head, grazing my scalp. Because I absolutely couldn't imagine how much time we would have spent loading the required number of mechanisms if they had been in assembled form.
As it was, we managed in an hour and a half.
But that was only half the trouble.
I had absolutely no idea of the quantity of hyperdrives manufactured on the planet Xa Fel. Absolutely… In less than half an hour, we breached the enemy's defenses with minimal losses. And we captured not only the needed second-class hyperdrives for cruisers—two hundred and fifty units (a spare in the pocket never hurts)—and a good three dozen similar fourth-class devices for the stations we planned to capture, but also several hundred examples of other-class mechanisms suitable for installation on ships ranging from small patrol skiffs, which generally weren't equipped with hyperdrives, to nineteen-kilometer Imperial Star Superdestroyers. And even if the latter were only a few units, that was still good.
The fact that made me grind my teeth when I was alone with my thoughts was that we had managed to obtain only a small fraction of the cargo available there. By the most modest estimates—about one-twentieth of everything they had in their warehouses and were preparing for shipment. One-twentieth of a month's production…
I wanted to cry like a boy out of frustration. Because I hadn't thought through the volumes of hyperdrives properly, hadn't considered the possibility of taking more than necessary to later realize it all and make even more money…
A rebuke to me—having received fabulous funds, I pushed the issue of increasing capital to the background. I simply didn't look at the situation from another angle…
And now, looking at the lists of trophies compiled by the ship's hold masters, I clearly understood that we would not be able to visit this planet so easily again to replenish our stocks. Hyperdrives would sell like hotcakes across the starships. There were small stocks of these mechanisms—about ten to fifteen for each type of starship under my command, but that was it…
And we could have taken ten times more if I had brought the fleet of Star Galleons and everything with any decently sized holds…
There was something to work with in the near future.
And certainly something to think about. At the very least, that during the next operation planning, I should devote more time to possible consequences and emerging opportunities.
"Yes, Captain," I said, finally breaking my silence. "The results… are encouraging."
"The fleet is delighted, sir," Pellaeon said, completely unaware that I wasn't even trying to feign pleasure at the operation's outcome. "We have not only obtained everything necessary for the further operations of your forces but also secured a supply of precious mechanisms. Not to mention that the strike on Xa Fel made the Kuatis understand that even they are not immune to the Empire's vengeance for their treacherous betrayal."
"And also, in the long run, we helped Kuat Drive Yards quite legally express grievances against their own armed forces," I developed the idea. "Add to that the fact that there will be 'hotheads' who will blame the New Republic for what happened, and today's actions will have quite intriguing prospects overall."
I chose not to voice the thought that we could have gotten much more than we currently had. There is nothing more demoralizing for subordinates than a reflecting command. If I took Pellaeon as a typical representative of my fleet's crew member, I had to note that my subordinates were convinced that this was exactly how it was planned. We got exactly what we wanted.
And I couldn't disagree with them, except for one fact…
"Have all the bodies of the Shock Troopers been found and delivered to the ship's morgues?" I asked Pellaeon.
"Yes, sir," he said, apparently somewhat disconcerted by the question. It seemed he still couldn't get used to my habit of interrupting a conversation on one topic to satisfy curiosity about another. "Identifications have been made, service numbers have been cross-referenced. All bodies have been brought aboard the ships."
And in Pellaeon's opinion (and to be honest, not only his), collecting the dead on the battlefield while every pair of Shock Trooper hands could speed up loading was not the wisest course of action. But no one was going to argue with the order. Despite the fact that there was quite an obvious reason for this step.
"Our enemies don't need to know that we have clones at our disposal," I said, answering the unspoken question. "The Clone Wars are still fresh in the memories of middle-aged beings. And the historical chronicles are still full of colorful details about the execution of Emergency Order 66 and the ruthlessness of the clones in establishing the New Order in the first years after the formation of the Galactic Empire. The attack on Xa Fel will force many of the powerful to ponder the identity of the culprit. They will certainly hunt for us. And undoubtedly—they will be twice as diligent as soon as they receive information about the use of clones. At the moment, the only wonder is that New Republic intelligence does not have information about my identity from its agents among the Imperial Remnants…"
This fact was also still unclear to me. Based on the intercepted communications from the Delta Source, it was clear that the leadership of the New Republic, at least from Captain Solo, knew that the Imperials had a Grand Admiral. And they were racking their brains over "which of the lovers of stylish white uniforms with auraodium epaulets did we miss and haven't put to rest yet?"
They didn't know my name—but they were making great efforts to find out this fact, which would give them the right direction in studying the archives inherited from the Galactic Empire. The very archives located in the depths of the Imperial Palace… And rumor had it that they were even more voluminous and detailed than the archives of Imperial Intelligence and the Ubiqtorate… A tempting target. But, unfortunately, inaccessible.
However, there was some explanation for the fact that my identity had not yet been identified by General Cracken's staff.
First, my appearance and name were not widely known among the Imperial masses. If you looked at it, there were a hundred or two hundred beings of all levels within Imperial Space and beyond who had seen me in person. For one reason or another, they preferred not to publicize this fact. For some, it was simply unpleasant to admit that there could be a non-human Grand Admiral in the Empire; others were either using me for their own purposes, and revealing my identity was not in their plans… There were many more reasons why the Imperials decided not to "make a quick credit" by exposing me.
To be honest, if I had the opportunity to reveal my identity and walk away with the money without harming my plans or making life easier for the enemy, I would gladly have shown up in person to meet Princess Leia and General Cracken. I was sure that such a performance would blow the minds of every second New Republic military officer and bureaucrat. Every second, not counting the first…
Hmm… but maybe…
No, I couldn't. Jokes were jokes, but not only my cause but also my life was at stake! Enough of creating problems out of nowhere—I needed to solve them. And quite a few had accumulated… Including from the results of this mission.
"So, the commanders report that among the GeNod program clones, the losses were the lowest?" I inquired.
"Yes, sir," Pellaeon stated. He spoke relaxed and without fear—we had left the Xa Fel system three hours ago, having completed our pirate raid and escaped with the loot. The fear that we might be intercepted by interdictor cruisers still hadn't left me, but with each hour it became more phantom-like. At least because the retreat strategy involved withdrawing not along the vector we had entered the system—that was the first thing. Second, the fleet did not move along a hyperspace lane, which further reduced the chance of interception—even if whoever had devised the ambush tactic on Xa Fel could have anticipated such a move on my part, they couldn't stock enough starships with the necessary equipment to block all paths "from star to star directly."
"Has Captain Mor already been relieved of command of the Inexorable?" I clarified. The order had been given as soon as I learned of the landing force losses from that ship.
"Yes, sir," Pellaeon confirmed. "He is in the Chimaera's brig awaiting interrogation."
A competent commander—like all those on the bridges of my subordinate Star Destroyers. To be honest, I had never thought that any of the fleet's senior officers would disobey my order. Yes, this fact was currently being kept secret, and officially Captain Mor was aboard his destroyer, but the reason why he ordered his bombers and Shock Troopers to do their work in the middle of the operation to suppress Xa Fel's air defenses was frankly unclear to me at the moment. Actually, that was why he was on board my freighter. As soon as we got out of the Kuatis' sphere of influence and eliminated the threat of interception, it would be time for a heart-to-heart talk. With him, and with another prisoner.
"Is the preliminary interrogation of Shock Trooper TNH-0297 ready?" I asked.
"Yes, sir," Pellaeon replied. Odd coincidence—both on Mother Earth and in a galaxy far, far away, the captain of a military or civilian vessel was tasked with conducting an inquiry while outside the territory of his state. But as soon as we arrived at Tangrene, TNH-0297 and the commander of the Inexorable would be dealt with by Lieutenant Colonel Astarion's men. Honestly, it was unlikely the clone would survive that: disobeying a commander's order under the Imperial Military Code was one of the most serious crimes, alongside betrayal, desertion, and high treason. Still, my inner conviction demanded that I personally look into each case of order violation. "Without going into details, I'll say one thing: Shock Trooper TNH-0297 is firmly convinced that his actions were more effective in completing the assigned task than obeying the orders of the platoon commander under which he served."
A very alarming sign. After all, the GeNod program programmed the clones with absolute loyalty of the "products" toward their commanders. And they couldn't disobey orders. So, does that mean they still can?
"His words are not without logic," I noted. "His impromptu attack allowed our ground units to stumble upon valuable trophies."
"Hyperdrives for small craft," Pellaeon agreed with a nod. "Yes, they are valuable. Still, I must note that we would have gotten them anyway."
"That's a matter of probabilities and assumptions, Captain," I stopped Gilad's philosophical inclinations. "We won't speculate. We'll go by the facts. The Shock Trooper's actions allowed us to capture five hundred hyperdrives for small ships before the actual withdrawal of the ground contingent," I glanced at the stacks of containers in my quarters. Each the size of a familiar "briefcase" to any Earthling… And each such "little box" could cost up to fifty thousand credits, or even more. "The Shock Trooper's effectiveness is beyond question. But his loyalty…"
And here I risked falling again into the kind of reasoning I had warned the Chimaera's commander against. Because the bare facts were fewer than I would have liked. And it was unclear what exactly Colonel Selid had "wound up" in the heads of nearly four thousand clones.
I had sent them practically to their deaths to solve a problem. And these Shock Troopers not only completed all assigned tasks but also suffered the lowest percentage of casualties among all marine units stationed on the fleet's ships… "Marines"… What a wild name in our enlightened space age. We clearly needed to work on renaming. Hmm… funny that I only noticed this fact now. It seemed my fleet background managed to "close my eyes" to some inconsistencies. I would need to pull up the Stormtrooper Corps' organizational chart and figure out exactly what units were there, what they were, how to name them…
"He disobeyed an order," Pellaeon stubbornly stated. "As did Captain Mor. There can only be one decision… Although in the case of the Inexorable's commander, there is a caveat—his success led to the enemy recalling ground forces from two other landing points to repel the landing in his beachhead area, which accelerated the overall capture…"
"Double standards, Captain," I said. "You note the positive aspects in your colleague's actions, but you are not ready to consider the success of a private's actions. In fact, thanks to Shock Trooper TNH-0297, we can now, upon acquiring the appropriate technologies, start production of TIE craft, like the Avenger and Defender, as well as others equipped with hyperdrives. Not en masse, of course, but for the production of elite squadrons, why not… Our Lieutenant Kreb quite deserves to receive modernized and improved ships. But for that, we first need to sort out the situation with the order violations, and then move on…"
Pellaeon's eyebrows drew together over his nose. What was the reason? What bothered him so much?
I wanted to curse, comment on my own blunder, and slap my own face to hide my shameful gaze.
And why did I think the Chimaera's commander wouldn't notice that I was building some of my phrases in a way completely uncharacteristic of Thrawn's dry officiousness?
Stierlitz was playing soldier and had never been so close to exposure…
Speaking of him. Only now did it dawn on me that Rukh, who had been present at my meeting with Jade in the throne room on Tangrene… And had heard everything I said… Including about Vader, Skywalker, and the children…
Oh hell…
A snag.
I hadn't kept track.
I had slipped up.
* * *
Tierfon was a small planet located in the star system of the same name in Sumitra, situated in the Expansion Region. The tactical coordinate grid put Torin Inek's target in quadrant O-7. To get here from Tatooine, after striking there, they had to squeeze everything their support ship's hyperdrive was capable of out of it. And a little extra.
And the databases stubbornly stated that this blue-green ball, lost amid the airless void of space, abounded in seas and lakes. The planet's surface was dotted with mountain ranges, huge gorges, and rocky cliffs.
Planet Tierfon.
Once, this little planet had supported the Confederacy of Independent Systems in the Clone Wars. Separatist sentiments were in the blood of every first inhabitant of Tierfon. Little wonder the rebels felt at home here.
Just think—to set up a flight training base here, burrowing into the rock, and yet sticking out communication antennas, scanners, observation posts, and covering laser turrets. Of course, the rebels had since learned from bitter experience and no longer built such bases. But the outpost on Tierfon wasn't built yesterday. Or last week. It was at least ten years old—according to information available to Imperial Intelligence, this base had been functioning long before the Battle of Yavin, secretly training fighter pilots. In fact, it had originally been just a training center, but was upgraded to a full military base after the Death Star destroyed the planet Alderaan.
Torin lowered the monocular from his face, closed his eyes, and inhaled the night air of Tierfon through his nostrils. Quiet, calm, as if half a kilometer from where he and his men were positioned, there was no New Republic military installation.
"And this is the base of the Tierfon Yellow Aces," Torin said barely audibly, shaking his head at the carelessness.
Where were the sentries? Where were the patrols? Where were the detection and early warning systems? Surely they existed?
Torin was not in the habit of being condescending toward the enemy.
These beings had destroyed the Emperor and the elite of the Imperial fleet almost six years ago, yet they still acted like rebels, continuing to think that the main way to avoid detection problems was to disguise their bases. But even if they lacked the funds for early warning systems—which cost no less than several hundred thousand credits even in the simplest configuration—they were obliged at least to post sentries. He just needed to look more carefully…
Aha! There they were, the milky white banthas. They had set up their observation post on a mountain slope behind a massive boulder that hid them from open detection. Well, not a great trick, but effective. We'll keep that in mind.
The commanders of the other groups, warned about the "secrets," reported after a few minutes that they had located New Republic sentries on their penetration routes. Good. So the people here were not amateurs. There might even be some simple signaling devices… They just needed to use an electronic scanner, but that was short-range equipment.
No, ladies and gentlemen of the enemy. If you want to keep your military installations secret, don't set up a pilot training base on an inhabited planet where beings have eyes and can watch how the vaunted X-wings fly through the gorges and over the lakes at cruising speeds. But the rebels' biggest mistake was that they didn't teach their pilots the elementary truth—if the location of your base is essentially a secret, don't return to it on the same course.
Maybe the Empire had fallen as a galactic hegemon, but its illegal agents continued to work. Major Himron was successfully reviving it. And generously funding the data they provided.
So, for intelligence under Major Himron's command, finding out the locations of the enemy's bases that still maintained secrecy and confidentiality was not a big problem. All you needed was money—and those willing to sell state secrets for a higher price could always be found.
But in the case of the New Republic outpost on Tierfon, it was much simpler—its location was no longer a secret. At least not for the local inhabitants.
Although the Tierfon Yellow Aces squadron had been effectively disbanded before the attack on the Death Star nine and a half years ago, the base continued its work training pilots for the New Republic.
According to the information available to Torin Inek, another wave of volunteers had just arrived, eager to become X-wing pilots. Well, obviously all one hundred and fifty-eight young sentients intended to follow in the footsteps of Wedge Antilles and the other heroes of the Rebel Alliance who had trained at this base.
Sure, of course…
"Move out," Torin ordered, stowing his surveillance equipment in a pouch. "Two troopers with scanners — up front."
Looking at his troopers clad in black assault armor, repainted specifically for such occasions — nighttime operations — he checked the functionality of his comlink. The equipment was working perfectly.
Having informed the other groups that had taken positions in the folds of the gorge under cover of the terrain, he and his troopers moved toward the New Republic outpost.
Moving at night across completely unfamiliar rugged terrain was quite the pleasure. At any moment you could slip and tumble down, slamming into rock outcroppings eroded by time and wind. Such a fall would certainly not end well. Not to mention it could raise noise and cause the entire operation to fail.
The first line of alarms was discovered two hundred meters from the curved air intake pipe. While the troopers disabled the tripwires and laser markers, Torin looked around again.
A little over a hundred meters remained to the hidden post. Their position was decent, but that boulder that concealed them from observers also blocked their view of the enemy soldiers and part of the terrain. Moreover, as if on purpose — it was possible to approach by hiding behind large rock formations. The main thing was not to make noise...
After dealing with the enemy equipment and passing the first warning line, they literally ran into a second one just a few steps later. This one was a bit more serious — mines that reacted to objects passing by. Not bad, since animals didn't roam this cliff — the slopes were too steep for them.
Let's continue.
It took another five minutes before they reached line of sight to the observer's nest, having flanked it. Apparently this stone had once been part of the cliff itself, but it had been removed and a watch post was placed in the resulting 'pit'.
A couple of people yawning from boredom. Well, of course — most of the night was already gone, and there were clearly two or three hours until the guard change. No matter how resilient you were, the surrounding tranquility of the landscape lulled you into drowsiness...
There, one was nodding off, leaning on his blaster rifle. The other gave him a light slap on the back of the head to wake him. They were chatting about how they wished the shift would end. Dreaming of catching up on sleep and starting fighter training after lunch...
Um... What? This pair — pilots?
What genius thought of using pilots for base guard duty?
Confirmation came over the comlink about the destruction of one of the watch posts. Quiet, no alarm signals.
After waiting a few seconds to make absolutely sure of the situation, Torin gave the signal.
Two shock troopers took firing positions, aiming their slugthrowers fitted with sound suppressors.
A second later, conical pieces of metal pierced the sentries' skulls.
A couple of seconds were spent searching the bodies of the dead. Access cards, personal chips, weapons... Nothing remarkable.
So, the hardest part for their group remained — to slip past the tower topped with all kinds of sensors, then reach the bunker embedded in the cliff's thickness. The second group was to take control of the laser turret from the other end of the base. The third — the control tower located on top of the cliff. The fourth — the long-range detection sensors. If these installations were built according to standard fortification designs, then under each of them there was a tunnel or lift leading to the main level of the base. If not...
Well, this plan is designated 'Besh' a direct strike. Plan 'Aurek' was still in effect: there was always a ventilation shaft on these 'budget' facilities. Installing a carbon dioxide recycling complex on such a base was wasteful; it cost millions for large installations. So, near each of the four designated targets there should be air intakes pumping oxygen into the base. Too bad you couldn't crawl through them — the diameter was too small. But throwing or spraying a container of sleep gas into the pipes drawing air into the complex — yes, why not? The only problem was that there were several such pipes — meaning it would be impossible to put the entire base to sleep at once. Not good. Might raise an alarm if the strike in one place didn't disable all the rebels on the base without exception. Who knows who might wonder why everyone in one part of the base was asleep, even those not supposed to be, while in another they weren't? No, better to do this from inside.
Fortunately, either the rebels lacked the funds for a proper perimeter, or they thought there would be no madmen willing to climb this cliff with just climbing gear. Oh, how wrong they were. Imperial Intelligence wasn't afraid of climbing rocks without a safety line.
Checking the landmarks identified during daylight, Torin Inek split his group into two squads, sending part of the shock troopers toward the sensor tower. He himself, with a section of shock troopers, headed for the bunker. The closer to the slope, the easier it was to hide behind bushes and terrain folds. 'Surprises' kept appearing, in the most unexpected places. Not all of them were modern; some were simple, homemade. But the 'handwriting' of whoever created the security system on this base was already clear. A textbook approach. It seemed that someone from among the former Imperials who had defected to the rebels had done this. A colleague without imagination could always be identified by his techniques, learned in classes at the Imperial Academy.
The unknown person had tried to cover the approaches in places where he thought saboteurs might infiltrate. Well, he had been quite successful in that. The only problem was that Torin understood the thought process of his invisible opponent and anticipated them. If there was a hole or depression, there would definitely be a motion sensor. If there was a pile of rocks, then it was worth looking for the thinnest tripwire cable...
Due to the terrain, the rebels had tried to secure the approaches to their facilities on the cliff surface. Yes, they knew perfectly well that in the past the nearest Imperial Navy base had been located two weeks away from Tierfon, so if an alarm were raised, the rebels could fight off the attackers and evacuate the outpost without much trouble. Judging by the wide opening of the hangar, the base clearly had at least a medium-sized freighter delivering supplies and newcomers. Probably it also served for evacuation. Most likely the ship was on site, meaning it could be used for retreat.
It took Torin and his squad fifteen minutes to approach the bunker, through the slit of which the barrel of a heavy repeater was visible. The other groups were also one step away from their objectives. Now they needed to assess whether the rebels in this bunker were communicating with the observers in the main sensor tower, and whether the crew of the laser cannon looming above the hangar doors was present.
The fiber-optic camera provided an understanding of what was happening inside the bunker.
Ten sentients, seven of whom were enthusiastically playing sabbacc on an overturned shipping container. Several control panels around the perimeter were out of reach of stray shots that might fly through the observation slit and embrasures. Three sentries, looking boredly at their luckier comrades. A security system monitor displaying data from all the traps neutralized by Inek's group. Apparently, it was connected to the base's central computer. Excellent, they could obtain a complete and detailed map of the interior.
No alarm, no heightened vigilance. The New Republic soldiers were relaxed, joking cheerfully among themselves and about the guilty pilots whom the instructor had sent to 'hidden posts' for 'stunts during daytime exercises.' A double door for a turbolift in the far wall — so from here they could descend into the base's depths. Comfortable, though... There was even a sanitary corner. Paradise, not the hardships of guard duty.
I see, so it wasn't all as bad as it seemed. Disciplinary punishments — extra duty rosters — were a very common method of drilling subordinates. Given that the base was in the rear of the New Republic, it was no surprise that everyone was so relaxed. Really, who would attack an enemy pilot training base after everything that had happened in the galaxy over the past months? No one, of course. What nonsense.
The self-conceit of rear-echelon units, long unaccustomed to the fact that the war between the Empire and the New Republic, though not publicized or even declared — since Emperor Palpatine's government hadn't paid much attention to the rebels before the Battle of Yavin, regarding them as no more serious than pirates and criminals. You don't declare war on such people, do you? You don't, it would be too much honor.
Torin, gesturing to one of the shock troopers, passed him an order — proceed to the air intake and begin dispersal on command. A trooper with a scanner would accompany him — they couldn't rule out the possibility that there were more traps further down the slope.
The other groups would also move to their positions shortly, and then it would be time to execute Plan Aurek.
They had to wait another ten minutes, listening to the chatter of the New Republic soldiers, before all teams signaled readiness to begin the dispersal.
Torin, watching as a Republic soldier stepped away from the heavy repeater and urinated directly through an embrasure, rolled his eyes. You have a sanitary unit just a few steps behind you!
If there were a sniper nearby and they were preparing a direct assault on this base, there would already be a neat hole from a blaster or a slugthrower between this valiant soldier's eyebrows. Slugthrowers, at least, could be almost completely silenced — no sound, no flash... Not like the blaster models currently carried by his unit. Even the Night Sting wouldn't work — though it had no flash from the bolt, the sound would carry for kilometers through the mountains...
Torin was already counting the second minute since the gas dispersal began, and he had to admit that the New Republic soldier's liquid reserves were impressive. That's what confirmed the fact that a humanoid was four-fifths liquid... However, judging by the 'sentries' in the bunker — those were definitely filled with hydraulic brake fluid. The kind used in wheeled vehicles to power the braking system.
By the end of the second minute, the group commander risked extending the optical probe again. Did he have a cistern hidden away?! How long can this go on!?
"Wrap it up," Torin said quietly, knowing his helmet's vocoder was off and no one would hear him. "Or did command assign you the task of eroding the cliff down to Tierfon's core?"
The tiny holocamera revealed something terrible. The trooper, who could have flooded the entire gorge if he were more determined, continued his wet business while taking a swig from a water bottle, gulping it down so greedily it was astonishing. When did you become dehydrated? This isn't Tatooine. And the nights are cool...
Apparently, this trooper's digestive system worked on a direct route — from mouth to... Oh, finally!
Torin shifted the camera slightly to watch the 'wet soldier' return to his post. Judging by his comrades' remarks, he had clearly won some bet... Hmm... won a hundred credits. What a guy.
A message from the group commander assigned to capture the control tower confirmed that the sleep gas had taken effect. The tower at the highest part of the mountain was clearly connected to the ventilation systems, since building regulations prohibited constructing them with openable transparisteel windows. It seemed the rebels had followed state standards during construction...
So, the Operations Control Center was disabled.
Next came a report from the group attacking the sensor towers — Imperial troopers had intercepted telemetry from those installations.
The third group reported taking control of the laser cannon. Now, on command, they would be ready to attack the sentries stationed in front of the hangar doors. At night they were wisely locked in... In the case of a gas attack, there was a better chance that the contents would remain inside.
Torin looked at his chronometer. Seven minutes. So they had finished dispersing the second batch of gas. The internal volume of the base was unknown, so there was always a chance that someone wouldn't fall asleep. A few more minutes and they could begin...
The New Republic soldiers continued honorably bearing the burden of guard duty while the time needed for the gas to spread through the base's interior passed. If anyone had raised the alarm, the bunker would have known already — there was no point in running a turbolift shaft here unless this defensive post was connected by communications to the main building.
With a short click on the microphone of the comlink built into his helmet, Torin notified all squad troopers of the operation's start. He himself, taking his slugthrower off safety, prepared for further action. The troopers of his section positioned themselves near the embrasures. The non-continuous protection of the fortification wall acted as an embrasure in both directions.
Are you kidding me?! This 'wet soldier' again decided to moisten the rocks?! Oh no, buddy.
As soon as the soldier approached the housing of the heavy repeater mounted on a carriage embedded in the embrasure slot and leaned forward, Torin, with one yank, grabbed the weapon by the barrel, jamming the repeater into the rocks. The weapon's stock acted as a lever, smashing into the soldier's face, which instantly drew the attention of every single soldier inside the bunker. The sentries standing at their repeaters looked at their comrade, trying to understand what caused his howl of pain...
The Imperials gave them no chance. Slugthrowers with flash and sound suppressors attached to their barrels cut down the poor soldiers in a couple of seconds. Torin leaped over the embrasure in one jump, slamming his fist into the face of the 'wet soldier' writhing on the floor. That one, squealing like a rancor being castrated, darted aside but immediately received a knife strike to the neck from one of the shock troopers, from whose armor suspiciously yellow drops fell to the floor.
After a few seconds, confirmations came from the other groups. That was it — the base perimeter was cleared. The long-range communication system was blocked. The sentries at the hangar were dead. No one and nothing would come to the aid of those inside.
Five seconds later, Torin received a map of the entire base on his helmet's visor. Not very detailed, but still better than moving blindly.
"They've built a lot," Torin muttered through his teeth, assessing the outpost's scale. "A lot of work ahead."
New Republic Base on Tierfon.
After waiting for confirmation that all groups — each comprising two full squads of troopers — were ready for the assault, Torin gave the order... Seventy-two shock troopers and four Imperial agents leading these groups... The pilots alone outnumbered them two to one. It would be better for them if they were all asleep.
It wasn't even funny! Behind the turbolift doors was a simple corridor carved into the rock, leading to a similar corridor that connected all four passageways from the surface through which the Imperials had infiltrated the base.
And from here, only two lifts led to the main level with the living barracks and the hangar.
Simple math.
A spacious cargo car and a pair of passenger lifts brought the group of four squads under Torin's command to the main level. As soon as the Imperials poured out, the squads split. Torin, with nine troopers, veered left — toward the command center and the main generator.
Two more squads headed toward the living barracks. The fourth squad moved straight — to the medical bays and the backup generator.
At the same time, one squad from the second unit held control over the outer part of the runway, another held the inner part, and two headed toward the aerospeeders' parking area and the eight X-wings housed in individual cells. The arsenal was also there, which also needed to be secured. You never know...
A shot struck the leading shock trooper directly in the head. The assault armor helmet couldn't protect against such a close-range hit from a powerful blaster pistol.
Before the body of the fallen trooper hit the floor, Torin was already there. With one hand he grabbed the hairy limb of the Bothan who had fired, snapping the wrist. With his free hand, he punched the face, thoroughly introducing the non-human snout to the armored glove. The respirator mask shattered into fragments that struck the alien's eyes, tearing cries of pain from his throat.
The Bothan, blind from the fragments, tried to kick him in the side, having dropped his blaster pistol and with the crunch of bones in his wrist indicating it could no longer fulfill its function. Torin twisted the Bothan's arm, dodging the kick, then threw him over his back, delivering a finishing blow to the throat with his fist.
A blaster shot overhead seemed deafening to him, though in reality it was no louder than a handclap. In the command center, a hand-to-hand struggle was unfolding between shock troopers and Bothans who had sprung an ambush, punctuated by occasional shots from slugthrowers and blasters. But if you listened — it was happening all around. Too bad not everyone had fallen asleep. But worse for them.
Torin caved in the head of another — a Rodian in medic uniform. A medic is a medic, but he handled a blaster as well as anyone. But he couldn't dodge a bullet to the eye.
A full-on brawl was already underway in the command center. Inek had managed to shoot a couple of rebels hiding behind improvised cover — pieces of furniture. He was about to change his magazine when he noticed a thermal detonator thrown at his feet by someone.
No time to think.
Torin leaped aside, letting the explosive detonate away from him, showering him with heat and shrapnel. Fortunately, the armor held.
Suddenly a rebel in heavy infantry armor appeared right next to him. Where from?! But there was no time to think — the rebel was already aiming his blaster at the agent...
Inek uncoiled like a spring. If no weapon was at hand (and he hadn't had time to reload his slugthrower), let his body be the weapon. The blow knocked the rebel off his feet. A brief struggle for the weapon, based on knowledge of his own species' pressure points — and Torin now held the enemy's weapon. He immediately pressed it under the rebel's chin. Behind the visor's eye slits, a reddish light briefly flared, and the body went limp. The dead man didn't make a sound.
Torin yanked the bandolier and belt with holster and pouch from the enemy's cuirass sling. A decent haul: spare magazines, a pistol, a carbine... and what's this? A thermal detonator. Excellent.
Imperial Intelligence didn't take such ordnance on operations like these — when stealth was the main objective. But now, why be shy? Especially when the enemy already knew their ambush had failed.
Without hesitation, the agent activated several devices. When the question is whether to preserve a potential source of information on an enemy base that was already alerted and whose garrison had most likely already taken measures to protect or destroy data, or to suppress enemy resistance and save the lives of his subordinates — the answer was a bit predictable.
The thermal detonators thrown by Torin exploded almost as soon as they reached their target, flying behind the furniture from which the enemy was firing at the shock troopers. Cries of pain and groans of the wounded rang out. The Imperial squad, which had already lost two men by that point, closed the distance in a rapid rush, finishing off the survivors. A few shots — and the command center fell silent.
"Clean up!" Inek ordered a couple of shock troopers, pointing at the equipment arranged around the room's perimeter. "The rest — with me!"
Together with the remaining troopers, he moved into the main corridor.
Battle was in full swing. And the Imperial squads would have had a tough time — if they had faced the proper number of career soldiers instead of a couple of half-asleep guards from the security unit. But they acted skillfully and knew the terrain perfectly. And they weren't eager to get shot. It seemed slackness wasn't held in high regard by some part of this outpost.
"Pilot barracks cleared," reported one squad commander. "Most of the rooms are empty."
"The freighter!" Torin realized, putting a third eye in a careless rebel with a well-aimed shot.
So that's why the garrison hadn't even tried to meet them at the turbolifts — they were evacuating.
"Dorn group — stop the ships by any means!" he ordered.
"Gate hydraulics destroyed," reported the commander of the shock troopers attacking the hangar. "They're trapped. We're fighting."
That's something, at least.
Torin firmly gripped the blaster carbine requisitioned from one of the dead rebels. Various plans flashed through his mind, each more brilliant than the last.
The operation had nearly gotten out of control. Capturing as many prisoners as possible, they could gain an advantage where the information from the base's computers had been lost. If the freighter or the fighters got away — they would certainly destroy the base. Or certainly inform the New Republic. And there would inevitably be some rebel ship nearby...
A rebel's attempt to change position ended with a red sting for him. The rebel clutched his chest and fell onto a comrade running beside him, knocking him over. Apparently, the dead man's hand convulsed, fingers pulling the trigger. Flashes danced merrily down the corridor.
A couple of shock troopers rushed forward, covering the corridor. A short strike with an armored hand to the area where the second rebel's head should have been. The first trooper drops the dead body, the second quickly binds the unconscious prisoner.
From around the corner of the doorway leading toward the hangar came the sounds of furious gunfire. By the sound of it, the stormtroopers weren't just fighting a battle in there—they'd started a full-blown war. Good thing they didn't have heavy weapons with them...
The next moment, something slammed so hard that the thin duracrete partition separating the living quarters from the hangar couldn't take it and blew apart, blossoming like a dangerous flower.
Apparently, they'd used a grenade launcher... And right—the arsenal was right next to it.
Torin's group's combat operations had finally ceased. Squads of stormtroopers moved toward the common area, ready to join the fight in the hangar.
"Report the situation!" he demanded, opening the comm channel with the other commanders.
"The enemy used one of the T-65s and fired a shaped-charge rocket," a calm voice reported. "Six dead. We're engaging."
"Forward!" Inek ordered. The chance was slim—with their blasters, they'd be chipping away at the small craft's armor until Palpatine's second coming. Without that, the rebel would pick them off with ship cannons, then break through the gates.
A crash echoed from the far end of the hangar. Another one. The prolonged howl of cannons... Breaking through.
"The fighter has left the parking area and is firing on the hangar doors," another report came in.
Torin cursed quietly, pulling a grenade from the belt of the nearest stormtrooper. He glanced at the item. Standard model, good. No time to study new gear.
Activating the detonator, holding the button, he threw the ordnance toward the hangar, mentally estimating where the fighter firing at them was located. It could only be in one of the nearest revetments.
The explosion was accompanied by the whine of repulsorlifts—the ordnance had damaged the system that kept the Incom hovering in place. If it had engaged its main thrusters, they'd all be dead by now. No, the rebel wouldn't do that if he knew his comrades were still in the barracks.
"Storm!" Torin ordered. The man jumped up and ran through the shattered bulkhead into the hangar, assessing the situation.
Seven ships on the ground. One, smoking from underneath, had crashed onto the strip. The hangar was full of dead bodies, both Imperial and Rebel. The latter outnumbered the former by many times. And the Imperials lying there... About ten dead, the rest either wounded or simply in good firing positions. They were fighting the only active enemy fighter. A freighter, an old Corellian YT-1300, stood at the far end of the hangar, and the scorch marks on its hull made it clear—it had been taken by storm.
A rebel appeared from the arsenal side in a bright orange flight suit, helmet in hand. Torin fired almost without aiming. The New Republic pilot froze abruptly, hit by a blaster bolt, then fell backward. He fell slowly, smoothly, and very beautifully, as if in a movie.
Running up to the downed fighter from the rear and seeing that the crimson exhaust from the nozzles was already glowing—the idiot at the controls had decided to overboost the engines—he ran along the fuselage to the canopy, peered inside.
A young human kid sat inside. A cadet, judging by the panic visible in his actions. Torin fired several shots at the transparisteel canopy to get his attention.
The young man looked his way with a frightened, rage-filled gaze of someone extremely unhappy with the situation. Inek meaningfully aimed his carbine barrel at the astromech dome. The kid's face showed signs of thought. He was deciding whether he could get out of here without the astromech's help. And apparently he figured he didn't need space that badly. The planet belonged to the New Republic, so he just needed to reach the nearest settlement and ask for shelter...
The quartet of engines began whining suspiciously loudly.
How did these greenhorns manage to fight successfully against Imperial pilots if they couldn't understand simple hints?
Torin increased the power of his shot and penetrated the top. The pilot screamed as shards pierced his body under the flight suit. The next shot went through his skull.
The third blew the instrument panel to pieces, and the fighter's engines stopped spooling up.
The smell of burnt insulation and charred flesh filled the air.
Torin jumped off the fighter and looked at the stormtroopers getting up off the floor.
"Begin cleanup," he ordered. "Collect everything of value. Prepare the freighter and enemy fighters for extraction. Load prisoners and trophies onto the cargo ship. Booby-trap the base upon completion—their arsenal should have enough explosives for a powerful 'fireworks' display for anyone who comes here after the cleanup."
Receiving casualty reports from squad leaders—both friendly and enemy—the Imperial agent grimaced.
Two squads. Eighteen dead. Out of seventy-six. Two dead Imperial agents... An invaluable resource that could hardly be fully replaced by clones, if only because of the uniformity of their appearance...
Even one hundred twenty enemy kills couldn't improve his mood.
And this state of affairs probably wouldn't please Himron much. What's more—he, Molo, would be furious.