The Red Gauntlet emerged from hyperspace first.
A Star Destroyer that had once fought against the New Republic now led its battle squadron.
Symbolic, perhaps.
"Fleet has arrived, General Solo!"
Han glanced at the tactical monitor.
The triangle of his flagship was surrounded by New Republic warships. Three Mon Calamari star cruisers formed a "box" for the Quasar Fire carriers following astern of the Republic Star Destroyer. The assault frigates, moving ahead, formed the vanguard, while the Corellian frigates kept their distance from the larger ships, providing patrol coverage.
Quasar Fire escort carrier.
"Launch the alert squadrons," Han ordered. "Other pilots — stay in your fighters. What do the scanners show?"
"No enemy ships detected..."
"What about 'non-enemy'?" the Corellian inquired.
"Um..." the sensor operator hesitated. "A GR-75 freighter is hanging in distant orbit, with a couple of old shuttles around it. Looks like offloading or, on the contrary, loading. No other targets, sir."
"I don't like this," Lieutenant Page, commanding the troopers quartered on the landing ships currently following beneath the Red Gauntlet, said, chewing his lip. "It's awfully quiet for an Imperial base..."
"Last time I was met by patrol ships," Han recalled, studying the map of the planet Honoghr and its three barren moons circling it. "Did we scare them off?"
That would be a complete disaster! If the Imperials had left and taken all the information leading to Leia with them...
"Three IPV-1 patrol craft detected," the sensor operator reported. "Rising from the planet."
"That's not much," Page observed. "General, I'm not criticizing, but an assault frigate would be enough to scatter this dregs."
"You never know if the Imp will pull a 'Death Star' out of somewhere," Han tried to joke. But deep down, he wasn't in a joking mood. He'd actually hoped that after his visit to the system, the Imperials would stir, bring warships to this horrifying Honoghr, that his squadron could destroy and thereby boost the Armed Forces' morale, score a few political points for Mon Mothma. And Solo himself very much hoped he could find out his wife's whereabouts — she was about to give birth to twins!
IPV-1 patrol craft.
But fighting three patrol ships that don't even come standard with a hyperdrive… And as a general rule, the lazy screw-ups and deadbeats who couldn't learn anything served on patrol ships… And he brought a whole fleet against them… Well, if the Imps don't urgently bring in a couple of proper ships here, it's going to be awkward. Very awkward.
"Open a comm channel to those patrols," he ordered. When the comm officer reported the order was carried out, Han spoke into his comlink, which by then was already linked to the Republican Star Destroyer's equipment.
"This is General Solo, New Republic Armed Forces. We have no wish to harm anyone. All Imperial military personnel are requested to lay down their arms and not interfere with the conduct of this special military operation. I promise to spare your lives and—"
"Sir," said the ship's captain — a short, stocky man — "the Imps just fired one proton torpedo each from their ships into our corvette."
"Damage?" Typical Imps. Putting up a brave front before surrendering so it won't hurt as much when they realize how helpless they are.
"Damage?" The captain's eyes went wide. "General, sir, they blew the corvette's main reactor!"
And then Han saw a tiny spark. The damaged primary power plant of the Corellian corvette hadn't been shut down in time and exploded. The corvette and its crew simply vaporized.
"Alright, that's it," Han tensed. "Playtime's over. Shoot those ships down! We'll find out who they are and what they're doing here from the wreckage. Ships, break formation and—"
"General Solo, sir!" came the grav-acoustic officer's voice. "We have Imperial ships appearing aft on the exit vector! One Imperial-class — a Mark I — and an Interdictor-class cruiser!"
"And there are the Imps," Lieutenant Page snorted. "I'll go get my boys ready for boarding."
"Yeah, get a move on," Han advised. "Fleet — begin reformation. Three corvettes — deal with the patrol ships. Quasar Fires, reform on both sides of Red Gauntlet. Strike frigates, take position on the carriers' flanks. Mon Calamari cruisers — re-form into line abreast and advance toward the enemy. The remaining two corvettes provide cover. And yes, launch every last fighter — the enemy has already supplied us with easy targets in the form of TIE fighters and interceptors."
"General Solo!"
"What now?" He looked at the grav-acoustic officer with deep skepticism.
"The Interdictor has activated its gravity well generators!"
"How many arms?" Han tensed. Were the Imps mocking them? Crushing one Mark I and one Interdictor cruiser wouldn't take longer than a couple of hours, with due caution, of course. Interdictors are used to pull someone out of hyperspace or, conversely, to prevent them from escaping into it.
"Standard, sir, two," came the reply. "One covers our formation, and the second runs to our left."
"They don't want us to be able to jump to hyperspace when we turn left," Han realized. Considering that Honoghr's gravity shadow was on the right, the decision was logical, of course… But what were the Imps thinking? Give the order, and their two tubs would be pecked to death by fighters alone!
"Repeat my surrender offer to them," Han requested. "Fleet — prepare for battle. Launch fighters, aim turbolasers…"
"Sir!" The Star Destroyer captain looked at him. "Something is definitely wrong with those patrol ships! They knocked out our second corvette's engines."
"Did we at least scratch them?" Han was astonished.
"We blew up one and knocked out the engines on the second… Sir, I could swear I saw those three ships firing not one, but at least three proton torpedoes each!"
"That's nonsense," Han frowned. "No one could cram that many launchers onto a tub like that."
"Regardless, the corvettes confirm that the Imperial Star Destroyer is transmitting to the patrol ships… After that, the number of torpedoes triples!"
"Transmitting?" So, this was something new. "The Imp captain isn't hailing the patrols directly?"
"Affirmative, sir!" the comm officer confirmed. "The Destroyer is transmitting somewhere outside the system, and also to a point where our corvettes and patrols are fighting near the moon…"
"There!" The ship captain excitedly pointed at the main screen. "General, see? Torpedoes appearing as if from nowhere! Dammit, maneuver! Maneuver! There are only nine of them!"
The last remark was aimed at the clumsy corvette trying to flee from nine crimson tails, which, upon catching another Corellian-built corvette, literally tore it apart.
"Send all our corvettes there!" Han ordered. Unbelievable. Three patrol ships had blown two corvettes to smithereens! Oh…
The last surviving Corellian corvette, limping awkwardly away from the carnage, caught a burst of rapid-fire cannons from one damaged patrol ship. And then… a proton torpedo literally snapped the ship in half.
"Sir, what the hell is going on?" The Destroyer captain rushed to Han for an explanation.
"Have the Helldivers already deployed?" The Corellian frowned.
"Affirmative, sir, entering the upper atmosphere…"
"Have our remaining corvettes triangulate the signal receiver from the Destroyer!" Han ordered. "Looks like the Imps scattered launchers on the moon's orbit, and the Star Destroyer is giving them telemetry for target acquisition. Find and destroy—"
"Found them!" came a cheerful report from the left pit. "The corvettes report a large number of scout droids at the battle site. Some are hanging in one spot near the moon, others are receiving signals and relaying them…"
"This is nonsense," Han shook his head. "Is this some new strategy or what? Are the launches coming from the moon's surface?"
"The trajectories fit, but nobody sees the launches themselves…"
"Hutt's ass!" Han growled. "Corvettes, find and destroy those scout droids! And finish off that Hutt-blasted patrol ship! What about the Imps?" he asked the comm officer. "Did they get my surrender offer?"
"Affirmative, General! We just received a reply."
"Let me guess — they told us to stop fighting and get lost?" Han grinned. He understood the Imps' mindset. More than that, it was predictable.
"Um…" The comm officer smiled. "No, sir, they're offering you to surrender."
"Surrender the fleet to a couple of Destroyers?" Han's eyebrows shot up. "Is that a joke? We've got three times the firepower—"
"Not the fleet, sir," the comm officer said, re-reading the message on the screen. "They're offering you personally to surrender and save your subordinates' lives. They address you by name and rank…"
Silence fell on the bridge. Han blinked once. Again. Again.
"How do they know you're the one commanding the squadron, General?" The Republican Star Destroyer captain voiced the unspoken question.
"I don't know…" Solo replied, baffled. "Looks like it's hard to keep anything secret on Coruscant. Even if you're talking one-on-one with the head of the Provisional Government and one of your best friends."
Demoralizing a Corellian is an achievement not many can claim. But it takes a real effort…
"Enemy!" the grav-acoustic officer suddenly screamed in a panic. "Multiple contacts…"
"Where?" Han barked at him, literally springing from his chair and landing on his feet.
"Along the lateral vector of the artificial gravity field," said the Republican Star Destroyer captain, pointing through the transparisteel of the main viewport at the right side of Han's fleet, which had reformed in anticipation of attacking the two Imperial ships. "Three Imperial Star Destroyers — a Mark II and two Mark Is — advancing in line abreast. Four Strike-class medium cruisers in the upper hemisphere of the formation. Under the belly… looks like something's there too, can't make it out…"
"Some kind of blurry gravity shadow," complained the grav-acoustic officer. "I can't tell how many ships they have down there…"
"Doesn't matter," Han grimaced. "We'll give them all a beating anyway. Then we'll ask what's what. Execute an 'all ships turn together,' close the distance. Prepare for battle."
"I don't like these guys," the Republican Star Destroyer captain shook his head. "They came out of jump in perfect formation, no scatter… General, something's off here."
"When is it ever any different?" Han grinned, sinking back into his command chair.
"The enemy has destroyed another one of our corvettes!" came an unhappy report.
Han's face darkened.
Four ships destroyed, and the main battle against the enemy's primary forces hadn't even started yet.
"Transmission from the Imperial Mark II," the comm officer reported. "Broadcasting on the general channel across the system."
"What is it?" Solo grumbled.
"'I suggest you surrender, General Solo. Resistance is futile. In case of refusal, you will be destroyed for attacking the ships and homeland of the Noghri.'" The comm officer swallowed the lump in his throat. "Sir, there's a signature. 'Grand Admiral Thrawn.'"
And again silence fell on the bridge of the Red Gauntlet. Han drummed his fingers on the armrest.
"Oh, these self-proclaimed Imperial warlords," he said loudly, making sure everyone on the bridge heard. "Always grabbing the biggest titles… What's the range to the enemy?"
"Eighty units and closing fast!"
"Prepare to open fire at maximum turbolaser range!" Han ordered.
"Sir, all enemy patrol ships destroyed… But… We've lost another corvette! The last CR90 reports engine damage! Losing atmosphere! Dropping escape pods to the planet!"
"What the Hutt is going on down there!" Han exploded. "Send fighters there! Tell Page's Helldivers to cover our men on the surface! The Hutt knows what's happening! The battle has barely started, and we're already taking losses!"
"Exactly, General," the Republican Star Destroyer captain agreed. "The enemy is closing at maximum speed! Range is forty units and closing fast!"
"Well, if he's about to try a Marg Sabl…" Han hissed through his teeth.
"General," the Republican Star Destroyer captain's voice held bewilderment. "They're starting a Marg Sabl… The Mark II's bow is lifting! The medium cruisers and the other Destroyers are following suit!"
"Thrawn, you don't honestly think I'll fall for that kindergarten maneuver," Han Solo muttered, addressing the invisible enemy. "Range to the enemy?"
"Twenty-nine units, sir!"
"So he'll start soon," Han understood. The Imp was working straight out of the military academy textbook. He'd just varied the maneuver — not a 'horizontal' roll, but a vertical one. But if it's all that simple, what happened to the Corellian corvettes, and where did the Imps get extra launchers that fire where nobody can see them?! And who the hell are these 'Noghri'? "All fighters — attack!"
* * *
The wedge-shaped bow of the Chimaera glided smoothly at a slight angle, intended to bring all three Star Destroyers to a point 'above' the enemy formation.
"Sir, Solo won't fall for this maneuver," Gilad said. "It's too obvious."
"You're mistaken, Captain," I replied, gazing with calm confidence at the tactical monitor. "Han Solo made one mistake by underestimating what happened to his corvettes, and now he's making a second. Is the Judicator continuing to close on the enemy on the right flank?"
"Affirmative, sir," Pellaeon confirmed. "They will engage three minutes after us."
"Excellent," I nodded. "Have the scout droids been destroyed?"
"Affirmative," the Chimaera's commander said with some regret. "Our scouts can no longer fire from under the cloaking fields — the enemy has brought its fighters to the battle site. Shall I order them to decloak?"
"Even armed freighters are still just freighters," I remarked philosophically. "There's no need to risk valuable ships or reveal to the enemy that we possess a cloaking device. Range to the enemy?"
"We've reached twenty units from the nearest Mon Calamari cruiser," Pellaeon reported immediately. "Climb angle — fifteen degrees. Enemy fighters at five units from us, engaging with laser cannons. The capital ships are keeping up — the lower deflectors have dropped by twenty-seven percent. Looks like they've decided to stuff our belly with proton torpedoes at point-blank range."
"They're hedging their bets in case we're executing a classic Magh Sabr," I explained. "Saving torpedoes and missiles for our fighters and interceptors, which, ideally, should be coming out from behind the hull now. Captain, increase climb angle to twenty-five. And inform Captain I-Gor, as well as our bombers and corvettes, that the time has come. The cruisers are to execute a descending maneuver and begin engaging their assigned targets. After reaching point seven-niner-four, level the ships and open enfilade fire from all batteries on the Mon Calamari cruisers."
* * *
"Are they trying to pop up right under our noses?" the Star Destroyer commander said, stunned.
"They think we'll pass under their stern and their engines will drain our shields," Han explained. "Cruisers — turn left!"
"Sir! Multiple contacts behind the Mark II!"
"Where from?" the Republic flagship commander was astonished. "Fighters?"
"Negative! Anti-ship torpedoes! Sir! The enemy corvettes are engaging our fighters! The medium cruisers are moving between the Destroyers and firing on the upper hemisphere of our ships! Both escort carriers are under fire!"
* * *
"Launchers twenty-one through forty are empty," the senior officer reported to the commander of the Victory I-class Star Destroyer. "The Crusader II and three Corellian corvettes have begun engaging enemy fighters during the Star Destroyers' ascent. Multiple confirmed kills!"
"Reduce sublight speed to one-third cruising," I-Gor ordered. "Begin a right turn. Prepare to reload the spent launchers and open fire with the starboard batteries. Target remains the same — the central Mon Calamari cruiser in the formation."
His voice was calm and measured. Orders were executed with impeccable precision.
The Crusader slowed, lagging behind the four corvettes that surged ahead, cutting through the enemy fighter formation like a hot knife through butter. Dozens of miniature prominences flared, marking the destruction of enemy fighters. Carried by the force of the explosions and inertia, the wreckage of destroyed starfighters sprayed in all directions, becoming a deadly shrapnel trap that maimed pilots who had managed to eject and the ships of their more fortunate comrades.
Through this cloud, using it as cover from sensors — whose readings were currently distorted by the large concentration of metal and laser fire from TIE fighters and interceptors and their Republic opponents engaged in mutual destruction — twenty cigar-shaped deadly projectiles burst forth, launched by the Crusader, which was already banking to starboard, presenting its port traverse to the Mon Calamari cruiser that had mirrored his turn. That side practically the same moment flared with another twenty flashes, directing bombs from Imperial heavy small craft — which had burst from the depths of the Chimaera's hangar and were diving on the upper 'hemisphere,' keeping the enemy laser gunners busy — towards the carrier being bombarded.
By the time the first batch of anti-ship missiles, heavily thinned by enemy fighters and anti-aircraft guns, reached the deflector shield of the center Mon Calamari cruiser in the formation, and the second was still inbound, the elderly Victory I, as if nothing had happened, had once again turned its bow toward the enemy.
"Launchers twenty-one through forty are reloaded and ready for action again, sir," the senior officer reported.
"Don't wait for confirmation of fire," I-Gor said coldly, fixing his subordinate with an expressionless gaze. "Fire when ready. Turbolasers, engage shield sectors calculated by the fire solution for the anti-ship missiles. Don't forget to execute the maneuver according to Grand Admiral Thrawn's instructions."
"Understood, sir! Launchers — fire!" the senior officer commanded.
The Crusader's bow spat out twenty more deadly projectiles, leaving behind only jets of spent fuel, chewing their path through the vacuum of space.
I-Gor noted that both squadrons assigned to his Star Destroyer were steadfastly repelling the attacks of Republic pilots who had tried to slip through the defensive perimeter surrounding the Victory. One squadron on each flank, the Crusader II in the forward hemisphere, flooding space with rapid-fire cannon fire and intercepting enemy projectiles as they approached their target.
And the Crusader itself at that moment was already executing a left turn, effectively settling on a parallel course with the enemy ship, which was relentlessly pounding it with all types of heavy weaponry mounted on its hull, determined to crush and destroy the insolent little ship. But its turbolaser salvos were steadfastly held by the deflector field, while the proton torpedoes and anti-ship missiles launched by the enemy were destroyed by the streaks of the laser defense system installed on the vessel captured from the enemy — the Zann Consortium.
"The second wave of torpedoes collapsed the enemy's port shield!" the senior officer reported. "Single hull penetrations! Salvo with the starboard batteries!"
Launchers sixty-one through eighty, for the first time in this battle, were emptied, sending their payloads into the cruiser being hammered from the front by the Crusader and 'from above' by the Chimaera hovering over it. Its deflector protection kept flickering out, unable to hold for long against the crossfire from two directions. The flagship Star Destroyer itself held steadfastly against the blows, having already sustained several hits to its bow. But the artillery on the Mark II was working properly, and a significant part of the 'back' of the snow-white-cream ship, as if carved from a single piece of coral, was already covered in black scorch marks and burn scars from impacts.
The starship was clearly in distress: huge hurricanes of atmosphere were venting from its breached hull, dragging out tens of tons of debris that formed a clearly visible trail of trash. Its anti-aircraft artillery and fighters were working at a frantic pace, trying to destroy either the source of the missiles or the deadly projectiles themselves.
It wasn't entirely successful.
Given the support in the form of the Chimaera, which like a hawk hung 'above' the ecliptic plane of the enemy fleet, blasting with deadly efficiency from its turbolasers both sections of the deflector shield and the hull of the troubled New Republic ship, each subsequent wave of anti-ship missiles turned the once strikingly beautiful vessel with its snow-white hull into ruins.
No pity or desire to capture the ship — the exchange of fire was aimed at annihilation. No one wanted to give in, but no one wanted to die either.
The two escort carriers moving in the second wave, having engaged four medium cruisers in battle, were not prepared to find themselves under crossfire from multiple ships. On one side were the Strikes, which the enemy Star Destroyer and two strike frigates were trying to destroy with great enthusiasm and relish.
And on the other, veering to the right relative to the battle position, the Judicator entered the fray, and its attack on one of the escort carriers and a strike frigate came as a great surprise.
Captain Brandei instantly shifted all the attention of the enemy's heavy-armed starships onto himself — despite the furious bombardment from the Nemesis, one of the Mon Calamari cruisers tried to support its comrades with fire from its broadside artillery — for which it was immediately punished by a chain of half a dozen proton torpedo hits that swept across the 'back' of the ship thanks to another raid by a half-squadron of TIE bombers. Anyone who wished could admire how powerful fiery prominences formed on the 'back' of the mighty starship: the experienced pilots had found a way to inflict maximum damage on the enemy vessel by blowing up several blisters containing turbolaser batteries.
An ocean of turbolaser fire, missiles, torpedoes, pain, and death — a truly titanic slaughter was unfolding over Honoghr, where for either side, if they failed to outwit the enemy, only death awaited.
Captain I-Gor, with carefully concealed satisfaction, watched as the fighter pilots stationed on his ship, with emphatic precision and coordination, tore apart the ponderous BTL-Bs of the New Republic. The starfighters, nicknamed 'crutches,' were a formidable weapon… But not for TIE fighters, whose rapid-fire cannons opened up their opponents with paired green lightning bolts, carving them into ugly scraps like a schoolboy-sadist who had been given a molecular scalpel for the first time and told to dissect an arthropod.
In total, four capital ships and two escort carriers had fielded twenty squadrons against the Imps. The strike frigates, which with such relish had tried to inflict critically important damage on the Imperial medium cruisers — with which they had comparable defensive characteristics but a decisive advantage in the number of turbolasers — were once again demonstrating their 'toothlessness' in the matter of aviation.
In this battle, Grand Admiral Thrawn's fleet was unleashing the fury of thirty-four squadrons of fighters and interceptors alone on the enemy. Not to mention the four bomber squadrons relentlessly 'ironing' the hulls of the Mon Calamari cruisers.
I-Gor glanced at the tactical monitor. Just as he thought — the interdictor cruiser's air wing was still guarding the Republic fleet's captured vessel, which in the heat of battle had been left behind, forgotten and alone. Only once or twice had the enemy tried to send their starfighters to it, but each time they were forced to retreat before the numerically superior twenty-four TIE fighters of the Interdictor.
"The enemy ship's hangar has been hit!" the first officer cried out with positively youthful enthusiasm.
I-Gor had already seen it.
Several anti-ship missiles, fired by his Crusader during the latest maneuver, had struck the Mon Calamari star cruiser in the most vulnerable and sensitive part of any vessel — its main hangar.
By Thrawn's order, on the Imperial Star Destroyers, after they had launched their air wings, the main and cargo hangars were sealed with armored blast doors to prevent the rebels, who relied on the mass deployment of missiles and torpedoes on their starfighters, from repeating their favored tactic, which the Imperial Fleet had jokingly dubbed 'X-wing-torpedo-boom.' It would have been a funny joke if it weren't so bitter.
The Crusader's opponent was frantically trying to break formation, hemmed in on all sides by either its own ships or Imperial ones, lighting up the darkness of space with streams of flame and choking black smoke billowing from its hangar bay doors. It was doing a surprisingly poor job of it, which was explained very simply — bomber pilots from the Chimaera had damaged its main engines, turning the wounded beast into a helpless cripple that yawed on its course, trying to slip past one of the enemy's frigates and its escort carrier. The latter, having taken serious damage from the Imperial cruisers' turbolasers, had lost its artillery and propulsion. At any other time, this would have been a death sentence — losing maneuverability in the middle of a battle is tantamount to shooting yourself in the foot.
But I-Gor understood that Grand Admiral Thrawn wasn't leaving this ship to die for nothing. He intended to take it as a prize — provided it survived the carnage.
"An order from the commander has been received," his first officer reported. "'Leave the crippled Mon Calamari cruiser to burn and switch to the escort frigates. Target at your discretion.'"
"Acknowledged," I-Gor replied dryly. "Execute. Compute a firing solution on the escort frigate our wounded friend is trying to slip past. Let them burn together..."
"Yes, sir!" the senior officer said cheerfully.
* * *
"Forward deflectors are down to forty-three percent!" the duty officer reported.
"Decompression on decks three and five!"
"Seal blast bulkheads!" Pellaeon commanded.
The Chimaera's captain stood beside Grand Admiral Thrawn, watching the campaign to destroy the enemy squadron unfold firsthand.
The enemy had lost up to half their squadrons. One of their star cruisers was engulfed in fires and no longer a threat, trying to crawl away from the battle. One of the two Quasar Fires had lost its artillery, which had been poor even in its best days and never meant for a line engagement. Thrawn's speed thrust these starships into the thick of the fight, and now the vessels that could have comfortably stayed on the periphery and rotated the New Republic's small craft were taking a beating from a much stronger opponent.
"The second Quasar Fire is withdrawing from the fight, Captain," Lieutenant Tschel said in a half-whisper as he approached. "Lieutenant Kreb and his squadron have raided its flight deck."
"Keep monitoring the situation," Pellaeon ordered.
"Yes, sir," the young officer reported just as quietly, and hurried back to his action station.
Glancing at the commander, who sat in his chair in the center of the bridge with such imperturbable and inscrutable composure that it could ignite faith in inevitable victory even when the fighting spirit of his own side was so low it could not possibly be measured, the Chimaera's captain felt he himself was close to admiring the Grand Admiral.
No, he had always acknowledged his strategic genius, but now...
In the previous two months, Thrawn had used the tactic of overwhelming force at the main point of attack. Never before had he deployed such a small, yet formidable force against the New Republic.
And now, half an hour into the battle, Grand Admiral Thrawn had already claimed six Corellian corvettes, two escort carriers, and one star cruiser. Of course, the last three weren't destroyed, but Gilad would bet that the Grand Admiral, in his favored manner, intended to capture the enemy ships. The Quasar Fire, for all its lack of armament, was a decent little ship. Due to the size of its small craft, the New Republic could only fit four squadrons of its favorite starfighters or interceptors on board. But the more compact TIE...
"Lost in thought, Captain?" Grand Admiral Thrawn inquired, simultaneously scratching the chin of the ysalamiri dozing on the back of his chair. Pellaeon wanted to grimace, as the smell of these lizards frankly annoyed him, but unexpectedly decided it wasn't so bad. They almost didn't stink... He seemed to have gotten used to it.
"Yes, sir," he didn't deny the obvious. "It would be good to send a boarding party to capture the escort carrier. Both of them, even."
"You propose opening the hangars while enemy starfighters, known for their agility, are darting about beneath our ships?" the commander raised his right eyebrow.
"No, sir," Pellaeon sighed. "It's just that it would be more logical to capture them now, or destroy them... During the battle, their crews might manage the damage and try to escape, slipping out of range of our gravity well generators."
"Undoubtedly, they may try," Thrawn agreed. "However, we have a sufficient number of undamaged starships to stop any attempt at escape. Captain, order our bombers and the others to fall back for rotation on the Nemesis. It's the only destroyer that isn't being so actively shelled right now and isn't in the thick of enemy small craft."
"Von Schneider does know how to persuade enemy fighters to stay away from his ship," Pellaeon grumbled, after relaying the order to the subordinates.
"As does his Star Destroyer have laser anti-fighter artillery," Thrawn continued. "A significant advantage in modern conditions."
"As does the artillery on the lower hemisphere," Pellaeon added his own thoughts.
"Its absence is a characteristic inertia of thought, inherent in shipbuilders from virtually every company in this sector of production," Thrawn stated laconically. "We shall see what Mr. Zion's project has to offer us."
A deep modernization of the Imperial Star Destroyer was not a new idea. But the former 'master of the shipyards' on Yaga Minor undoubtedly believed he could bring fresh vision to the 'one hundred seventy thousand design flaws.' Well, well, he's not the first, not the last. No matter how wonderful a ship is, everything has limits to modernization. Sometimes it's easier to build a new one than to cobble an old vessel into a youthful one. Like Thrawn is trying to do with the Acclamators, Venators, and Victory-class ships.
"We have lost one of the medium cruisers," Lieutenant Tschel reported in a calm, almost businesslike tone.
Pellaeon cursed silently.
After the quartet of Strike-class cruisers had disabled the New Republic's carriers, their task was to hold back the strike frigates. In that case, the 'exchange' between the line forces of both sides was roughly equal. Of course, that was if you considered the Mon Calamari star cruiser, blazing like a refinery fire, which kept adding the 'voice' of its turbolasers from its undamaged starboard side to the exchange.
The damaged Strike was a mass of twisted and torn metal, trying to escape from under the rain of fire the strike frigate's port batteries had unleashed upon it. The cruiser's engines were smoking and partially shut down; its uncontrolled transverse spin indicated damage to the control systems, and escape pods flying in all directions only proved the inevitable — this ship was no longer fit for service. By how actively the Republicans were finishing off the wounded beast, they clearly intended to 'get on the board' in this battle.
Pellaeon did not miss the flash in the Grand Admiral's eyes.
"Bring the Chimaera's bow twelve degrees to port," the commander ordered.
Gilad mechanically instructed the helmsman, noting that his ship could no longer fire on General Solo's flagship along its course. Instead, the gunners on the Star Destroyer's starboard batteries took on Red Gauntlet, while their colleagues on the port side continued to support Death's Head in its duel with its own opponent.
The Chimaera paused for a moment, positioned directly opposite the lucky Republican frigate.
"Turret artillery, maximum rate of fire on the new target," Thrawn commanded quietly.
Gilad relayed the order.
The Grand Admiral's flagship's sixty-four heavy turbolasers fired a salvo. A brief moment later, another. After the third, Thrawn ordered rapid fire.
The New Republic Mark I strike frigate could boast that only five rapid-fire laser cannons, eight of the twenty quad turbolasers on board, and just five of the triple-mounted single turbolasers could bear on its forward hemisphere. And only the latter had a range of sixty units, while for the rest the Chimaera, which during its maneuver had come to a distance of twenty-seven units from the frigate, remained out of range.
These ships had shield power comparable to a standard Mark II or Mark I. Only the Chimaera was far from 'standard.'
The additional shield generator, salvaged from a destroyed Mon Calamari ship, allowed for shield recharging directly during combat, an advantage Pellaeon had ordered fully utilized at that moment.
The green needles of energy made the enemy ship doubt the correctness of its priority target choice, but the best they could do was continue the fight, trying to close with the Grand Admiral's flagship Star Destroyer. However, each unit of distance closed only decreased the miss rate, which for the Chimaera's gunners was low to begin with.
At twenty-five units, the New Republic strike frigate's forward shield collapsed, glowing with an unbearable red light. The enemy brought five more laser cannons to bear on the Chimaera, but in the heavy slugging match, these insect bites were of no consequence, incapable of even 'biting through' the Imperial Star Destroyer's deflectors.
At twenty-three units, a fiery protuberance bloomed on the strike frigate's bow — the Imperial turbolasers had breached the armor of one of the enemy's turbolaser cannons, causing the instant annihilation of its crew, along with their weapon and everything in the sealed compartment.
Until now, the gunners of the Chimaera and the nearby second Strike had successfully been scorching the paint off the enemy ship, painting the angular design of the vessel — originally a Dreadnaught-class heavy cruiser in its youth — with burn marks and molten slag on its thick hide. But the first success, like the scent of blood, was intoxicating and demanded repetition.
This came at a distance of twenty kilometers. A full salvo from the Chimaera's turret batteries, like a can opener, peeled away a good half of the strike frigate's frontal armor — breaching it in some places, vaporizing it in others, and in still others, turning it into mangled metal. Through these breaches, in a silent roar, grains of air, human bodies, and destroyed equipment burst into space.
The exposed innards of the yawing ship, with their vulnerability and pliability, drew the attention of most gunners. While some continued to vaporize the enemy's firing points at distances from nineteen to eighteen kilometers, the majority settled on the simplest and most effective course of action.
The Star Destroyer's raking fire acted simultaneously as a ram, a flame, and a wildly imaginative architect for the corvette's interior spaces. Green lightning bolts pierced the thinner bulkheads, detonating equipment, warping decks and beams, tearing apart every barrier, bringing chaos, agony, and a quick death to those lucky enough to die from a direct hit rather than suffocate after being blown out into vacuum by decompression.
"So that's it..." came the quiet observation from Thrawn, who, despite the carnage unfolding directly before the Chimaera's bow, was staring fixedly at a red triangle — the flagship of Han Solo and the dots of enemy starfighters surrounding it. What he had seen in that chaotic shift of the situation was entirely unclear.
The standard procedure of dropping blast doors and activating magnetic shields to prevent oxygen loss did not help the crew of the strike frigate, who died in horrific agony each time another turbolaser bolt obliterated a flimsy barrier in its path.
Ten minutes after the bombardment began, the New Republic strike frigate lost control and stopped its engines, broadcasting a distress signal on the general frequency.
"Cease fire," Thrawn ordered. "Adjust course, transfer fire to Red Gauntlet before it completes its maneuver."
"Maneuver?" Pellaeon discovered with surprise that while he had been watching the destruction of the strike frigate, the enemy flagship had changed its orbital altitude, diverging from the Chimaera on an opposite course and bearing to port. The New Republic destroyer was turning to go around Thrawn's flagship. And then it would inevitably run into the Crusader, which was at that moment slamming salvo after salvo of its anti-ship torpedoes into the second strike frigate, starting to buckle its defense. The other two Mon Calamari ships were also beginning swift turns, falling back towards their damaged vessels.
"Precisely, Captain," Thrawn explained. "General Solo intended to pass under our flank, seeing that we were occupied with destroying the strike frigate, in order to damage Captain I-Gor's ship, and then, using the distance and speed advantage, reach our interdictor cruiser and force its gravity well generators to shut down. Considering the time necessary for the Chimaera to maneuver and accelerate, he could have counted on fifteen to twenty minutes alone with the Interdictor, which would undoubtedly have not gone in the latter's favor. After that, the remnants of his fleet could have made the jump out of the system without much trouble and avoided total defeat."
"Forgive me, Admiral, but how did you deduce that?" Pellaeon, no matter how long he looked, just couldn't figure it out.
"Immediately after the Chimaera began its attack on the strike frigate, a sufficient gap opened between us and the Nemesis for a ship to pass through at cruiser speed without taking heavy damage," Thrawn explained. "Simultaneously, all the remaining enemy BTL-B starfighters gathered near the Red Gauntlet. Our scanners stopped registering some of them, from which I concluded that Solo was conducting a rotation of small craft primarily used by the New Republic as bombers. In the event of a high-speed pass past the Crusader, General Solo's destroyer could not have done much harm to the Victory, but an aerial raid could. In that case, the commander of the Interdictor would have had a choice — cease executing my orders, knowing a destroyer and several bomber squadrons were heading his way, or accept an unequal fight and sustain heavy damage. Fortunately for the personnel of our repair yard, that outcome was prevented."
No pride in his voice, no ego... Thrawn was simply stating the fact that he had deduced the enemy's maneuver and taken measures to prevent it. In recent weeks, he rarely spoke of himself or his decisions, preferring the pronoun 'we,' emphasizing that everything happening was part of a common cause where the merits of every crew member, from the lowest deckhand to the ship captains, were recognized.
"In that case, Solo should have fired his shipboard proton torpedoes at us," Pellaeon noted. "Republican destroyers have that specification. While we were dealing with them, he could have slipped away."
"Han Solo's flagship was not modernized under the same program used at the Hast shipyards," Thrawn said, unexpectedly quiet, still observing the enemy ship.
"What makes you say that, sir?" Pellaeon asked in bewilderment, watching as the enemy destroyer realized it wouldn't be able to execute its maneuver to get behind the Victory I and deal with its endless, deadly missiles, and began to bank, snapping out with broadside fire that claimed one of the Corellian corvettes belonging to the Chiss fleet.
"This modification involves installing proton torpedo launchers in the bow of the Star Destroyers," Thrawn said calmly, watching as the Chimaera, having stabilized, fell right into the enemy's wake and began cracking its aft deflector. "You are quite right — if Solo had launched them, we would have had far more problems. But he didn't, preferring to break through under the crossfire of two practically undamaged Star Destroyers."
Gilad silently agreed. Of the four ISDs Thrawn had brought to the orbit of Honoghr, only the Overlord had relatively serious damage — it had been unlucky enough to catch a shipboard proton torpedo fired during a turn by a Mon Calamari star cruiser. However, Captain Brandei had more than repaid the insult — the MC80's starboard side was now battered, smoking, full of gaping holes, and the retreating star cruiser left a trail of debris and torn pieces of armored hull behind it, just like the other enemy starships falling back to the three previously damaged vessels.
"Get me Lieutenant Kreb, Captain Pellaeon," Thrawn said unexpectedly. "I have a special assignment for him and his Black Squadron. It's time to move on to the second act of this performance."
Gilad dutifully complied with his superior's request. He had no intention of arguing.
* * *
Among the Empire's enemies, there is a belief that TIE interceptor pilots are true maniacs who destroy their targets with almost sadistic satisfaction. And when encountering interceptor pilots, the only thing the enemy can hope for is that his own hyperdrive won't let him down.
The pilot of the Republican RZ-1 interceptor — commonly called an 'A-wing' or 'razor' by pilots — whose wreckage Lieutenant Kreb had just let slip past his craft's right set of solar panels, apparently didn't know this. Or he had relied on the advantages in speed and maneuverability his own ship's characteristics gave him.
Either way, he was already dead, and space had become his tomb.
Still, if the enemy mantra about the inclinations of TIE interceptor pilots corresponded even partially to the ultimate truth, rather than reflecting the quirks of individual pilots, Lieutenant Kreb might have even gloated over his fallen enemy. If the dead man could have heard that the lieutenant had shot down his fast interceptor while simultaneously talking to Grand Admiral Thrawn.
"Black Squadron," he addressed his pilots on the appropriate frequency. "Black Leader speaking. Move out to the enemy flagship."
Acknowledgments came in. Eleven clicks of the comlink. The squadron, as always, had suffered no losses. It meant they were perfectly trained.
Still, a small dissatisfaction was brewing inside the lieutenant. Among those who had fallen by his hand today, the most cherished target of the Black Squadron commander was not present. He tirelessly drilled his subordinates, squeezing every drop of effort from them between battles to achieve one thing — every single one of them had to be the best.
Kreb was no prophet and knew for certain that there were no Jedi in his lineage, but the young lieutenant was sure of one basic truth: sooner or later, his pilots would face the legendary Rogue Squadron of the New Republic. And in that case, they would need all their skill just to emerge from the fight without losses, if not to win. To learn a valuable lesson from clashing with a legendary opponent and draw the right conclusions.
The instructors always said: there is no shame in defeat if you use it to achieve victory. A loud phrase, certainly worthy of attention and a thoughtful approach.
But it is completely inapplicable to TIE fighter and TIE Interceptor pilots. For them, any mistake in combat usually ends with the detonation of their twin ion engines — the very engines that gave their craft its designation. But there are far worse ways to die. For example, when an enemy X-wing surgically punches through the transparisteel of your cockpit and vacuum floods the cabin. Over time, it begins to penetrate the thin but durable fabric of your black flight suit. Your skin turns to ice, and even the heat of battle can't fix that. The life support system runs itself ragged trying to supply everything you need, but the merciless vacuum works far faster. It kills you long before you can return to your ship, get into the hands of medics, undergo resuscitation, and come back from the dead, flipping off the old crone with a scythe who stood behind you.
More than once, the smart ones from the civilian administration suggested issuing TIE pilots pressure suits for protection in such situations. The pilots, hearing these initiatives, quietly cursed, imagining themselves crammed into the tight seats of their machines, manipulating control levers that already felt too small even in standard flight suit gloves.
"Combat mode," Lieutenant Kreb informed his pilots when only a few units remained to the target. Pistol range for an interceptor. But the Grand Admiral had asked that this be done with principled cynicism — the kind that would surely destroy the enemy commander's self-esteem.
General Solo, was it? Yet another traitor. Another excellent pilot who went over to the enemy. Just like the commander of the 181st Imperial Fighter Group, Baron Soontir Fel, had done in his time. One of the best, he betrayed the Empire, rallied under the banner of the Rebel Alliance, fought against his former comrades. Kreb had only just arrived in the Imperial Navy when a rumor spread through the Pilot Corps of what remained of the Empire — that Fel had been captured by Iceheart. Probably no Imperial pilot had ever had such an openly and eloquently wished for a painful death wished upon anyone before. And that Ysanne Isard would do her utmost — only the truly foolish doubted that. No one escaped her clutches alive. Though rumour had it that Rogue 9, Corran Horn, had managed to escape from the Lusankya. But those were details. And one more reason to finish the job. One more reason to confirm the fact that Grand Admiral Thrawn had made no mistake when he chose Black Squadron as the donors for cloning. And even more so, he made no mistake in now landing a solid kick to the enemy's rear and opening their eyes to the fact that everything was happening exactly as the commander had planned.
The "wishbones" BTL-series starfighters in various modifications — rushed to meet them when it was already too late.
Splitting into six pairs, Black Squadron began the harvest.
The wishbone is a formidable machine when you don't need agility and maneuverability from it. They take a long time to accelerate, they struggle through turns. But if you come under the fire of their cannons — you're done for.
Two squadrons of wishbones against a dozen TIE Interceptors? Really? Is this a joke? What idiot is commanding you?
Anyway, banking onto his left wing and dodging a twin scarlet salvo from the A-wing coming head-on, the lieutenant dropped his interceptor "downward," letting the accelerating enemy pass "above" him. Numbers of time and acceleration before the A-wing hit cruising speed clicked clearly in his head. The enemy pilot definitely wouldn't be maneuvering at that speed.
The TIE Interceptor "stood" on its thrusters, orienting its cannons across the enemy interceptor's course. One second — the A-wing's engine exhaust grew longer, ready to burst through toward the TIE fighters following Kreb...
The lieutenant pressed the trigger just in time for his interceptor's green beams to tear through the underside of the enemy craft, scattering it in a shower of shrapnel. Kreb banked his interceptor and joined the slaughter of the enemy fighters.
Methodically, shooting down the wishbones one by one, Black Squadron closed in on the enemy Star Destroyer so tightly that the ion exhaust could have soot-stained their hull plating. A brief ripple ran across the instruments — they had just passed through the deflector shields of the Red Gauntlet.
"Break," Kreb ordered.
The Imperial Pilot Corps doesn't chatter incessantly on its frequencies. Imperial pilots simply do their job.
Three more interceptors followed the lieutenant. Rising along the enemy Star Destroyer's stern superstructure, the lieutenant locked onto a target for his half of the squad with the targeting computer: a massive sphere — the shield generator — mounted on metal struts.
Six interceptors on one side of the bridge and the same number on the other opened fire on both shield generators of the enemy Star Destroyer.
The well-built construction absorbed one salvo, then a second, but it didn't hold out for long. Flaring up in a huge white-red explosion, the right generator ceased to exist. A second later, the same happened to the left one.
Now the Red Gauntlet could only rely on the strength of its armor — a fact the gunners of the Chimaera had unambiguously hinted at with a precision shot to its stern. Kreb led his squadron around both sides of the enemy flagship's superstructure, heading for the next target.
The interceptor cannons mercilessly crushed and shredded the flagship's turret batteries of the New Republic squadron, preventing them from raising their filthy voices again and turning the Imperial war machine against the Imperials.
A laser flash glanced off the right stabilizer, melting the panel. The equipment didn't hesitate to inform the pilot, and Kreb had to level out his limping interceptor. No matter. It had been worse. The main thing was that his wingman had already burned out that anti-aircraft gun.
After the fiery squall swept across the side of the superstructure and the main guns, at the lieutenant's order his pilots set about destroying the line-elevated turrets of the medium turbolasers — the very guns with which the New Republic gunners had destroyed a corvette of the Grand Admiral's fleet. Now, with the enemy having almost no escort fighters left, Black Squadron operated in conditions close to a training range.
Leaving his wingman to cover his rear from uninvited guests, the lieutenant compensated for the speed difference between the interceptor and the Star Destroyer, looped into an "immelman," and emerged directly before the upper part of the Star Destroyer's superstructure.
A small turn, adjust with the twin ion engines...
He found the section of the superstructure he needed very, very quickly. The main flaw of modern Republic military thinking is that they either don't understand or refuse to understand that the Imperials know their own technology inside and out. So right now, hovering a couple of meters from the main viewport of the Star Destroyer's combat bridge was no great challenge for Lieutenant Kreb. He wouldn't be able to pull off this trick for long, of course — the viewport was damaged — but it would be enough for the enemy.
Holding his craft so that everyone on the bridge could see it clearly, the lieutenant glanced at his wrist chronometer. Would ten seconds be enough?
Judging by the panic with which the watch crew rushed toward the escape hatches — quite.
Using the zoom system, the lieutenant could practically see the face of General Solo, from which his smug arrogance had vanished. He was opening his mouth, giving evacuation orders, but to his credit, he clearly wasn't trying to be the first off the bridge. But he also didn't stay on the central platform, like the man with a captain's rank bar on his chest. The commander of the destroyer.
The man unhurriedly lowered himself into a chair, pulled a wooden pipe from his pocket, masterfully lit it, and puffed out a cloud of smoke.
Smoking aboard a starship is strictly prohibited by Imperial safety protocols. But that didn't mean Lieutenant Kreb wouldn't respect this man's final wish.
An Imperial pilot knows the meaning of honor.
Whoever this commander had been in life, whatever had brought him under the banners of the New Republic — he hadn't run when it became clear what was about to happen. He knew what would come next. And he chose death over the shame of captivity.
Lieutenant Kreb respected that choice. If he ever found himself in a similar situation, he would do everything to avoid being taken alive. Captivity was a disgrace.
Leaving life when your ship hasn't yet been captured by the enemy, and your name won't be dragged through the mud — that's a step not everyone can take.
The captain of the New Republic Star Destroyer stared unwaveringly at the tinted transparisteel of the TIE Interceptor's cockpit. Lieutenant Kreb rocked his craft almost imperceptibly — a sign of recognition of the opponent's valor and respect.
The aging warship commander saluted him in the Imperial fashion, demonstrating his own attitude toward the pilot's actions. And he couldn't care less about the bacchanalia and panic of his own crew behind him. He only winced in a sign of disappointment at their behavior.
They understood each other.
Lieutenant Kreb shifted his interceptor slightly to perform the final mercy for the enemy commander he had come to respect.
Then he pressed the trigger, vaporizing the enemy commander with his first shot and granting him a quick death.
He was not so benevolent toward the other Republicans on the bridge.
They didn't deserve respect. They had no honor.