At that very moment when the seemingly indestructible main viewport of the Red Gauntlet's bridge burst into fragments, succumbing to the murderous power of the TIE Interceptor's rapid-fire cannons, Han Solo turned to call out to the Star Destroyer's commander.
His sharp Corellian eyes did not miss that the captain and the unseen interceptor pilot were exchanging mutual signs of recognition of each other's valor. And that planted certain thoughts...
He didn't have time to react — four laser cannons (and it was a late-model interceptor!) spat green fire, and the transparisteel turned into shrapnel. The resulting zone of negative pressure grabbed Han, intent on dragging him through the breach in the glazing. Crashing to the floor, the man scraped his fingernails across the polished surface of the central platform, cursing freely at whoever had unleashed those polisher droids here.
His mind worked fast and clear.
Grabbing the edge of the left pit with his hand, gritting his teeth against the pain of someone's personal datapad hitting his head, ignoring the roar of the interceptor's cannons destroying the bridge equipment and the watch crew, he managed to get a grip on the edge of the life-saving recess.
Past him, with howls and heart-rending screams, flew several very young ensigns, facing death by suffocation in the vacuum. They wouldn't be as lucky as the ship's captain, whom the Imperial had literally vaporized with a quadruple salvo. And it was worth noting the pilot's skill — there had been multiple salvos. His cannons had a clearly non-standard rate of fire. That's why the transparisteel hadn't held up — even though it's actually stronger than durasteel of the same thickness.
Some panicking idiot still managed to open the turbolift doors — and at that same instant, the flow of air escaping into the vacuum intensified. Han nearly suffocated from the streams hitting his face. His ears were clogged, his head pounded as if the Corellian had decided to take a nap, mistaking an anvil for a pillow in the middle of a workday.
Straining his muscles and trying not to think about the fact that the Imperial sadist was holding just outside the dispersion zone of objects flying out of the bridge, using dagger-fire to deprive the Red Gauntlet of centralized command, Solo made an inhuman effort to get closer to the edge of the pit. There were plenty of places to grab onto there. Almost every panel had a handle. That would help him reach the grated flooring of the pit, get some solid ground under his feet...
A new blow — this time to his kidneys — made him scream in a mix of Basic and a couple of other languages he knew. His fingers nearly released their grip just as he'd finally grabbed the life-saving handle...
But the will to live was stronger. If he died, the entire squadron died. There was still a chance. There was still an opportunity.
His biceps ached as if he'd been competing with Chewbacca in weightlifting, holding up an aircar on a bet. But he had to act — or everything was lost.
Reaching the grate of the pit, he grabbed it, transferring some of his weight...
And at that same second, the flooring twisted with a crunch, nearly costing him his distal phalanges. With a clatter and metallic ringing, the useless piece of metal flew into the enormous breach. And that breach was now where the central viewport had once been.
Hoping for the best, Han reached forward, grabbing a thick power conduit. The wiring tore from its mountings, which flew into the hole at the same instant. But the conductive bundle of cables stayed in place. So he had a hold.
Now he just had to pull off the old smuggler's trick, before someone on the lower levels of the superstructure thought to drop the hermetic seals and stop the oxygen leak. In that case, he wouldn't have long to live.
Wrapping his legs around the cable bundle and securing it with his left hand for good measure, Han pulled a blaster pistol from its holster with stiff fingers. The air stream kept trying to rip the weapon from his hand, so he had to fight physics to keep his own physiology operational.
First, through the tears in his eyes from the blasting wind streams, he managed to find the emergency panel bolted to the wall. For that, he had to stick his head and right arm out of the pit. Fortunately, the interceptor pilot, methodically destroying communications and other critical equipment in the neighboring pit, had forgotten about him. Han aimed and fired at the panel. He missed — leaving a scorched mark on the bulkhead.
He only succeeded on the third attempt — and only because the will to live had sharply boosted his marksmanship. The melted device coughed out streams of smoke and a fountain of sparks from its innards, marking a short circuit. The lights flickered, flooding the bridge with crimson light. Han, baring his teeth, twisted around to see the TIE Interceptor's cockpit. And to his utter amazement, at that very moment Solo realized that a deadly wave of green laser fire was heading his way.
Pressing himself closer to the floor, he watched in horror as the enemy smashed the pit's equipment, finally turning the ship into uncontrollable scrap metal. Only one hope remained — that those on the backup command post would understand what was happening and connect the reserve control systems.
With an ear-splitting clang and crash, the decompression bacchanalia was interrupted by durasteel plates rising where the destroyed viewports had been. And almost immediately, dull thuds rang out — the Imperial continued his dirty work, perfectly understanding that the rapid-fire cannons of his small craft would sooner or later punch through the not-so-thick armor of the plates. It was just a question of persistence. And this guy was clearly a stubborn maniac with sadistic tendencies. An Imperial interceptor pilot — and that was almost synonymous.
The knee he'd landed on when the airflow stopped exploded with a fountain of pain, and a waterfall of curses poured from Han's lips. He automatically returned the weapon to its place. Limping on his injured leg, he reached the edge of the pit, jumped on his good leg, grabbed with his fingers...
His muscles ached again, but there was catastrophically no time for sentiment or self-pity. Han remembered from his Academy days that TIE Interceptors could be fitted with missile launchers, and he desperately hoped he was right that this maniac hadn't acquired such toys.
Hobbling toward the turbolift doors, Han tried not to look at the mangled compartment that not long ago had been crowded with watch crew. Now, the only living person here was him. And his company consisted of the corpse of a young Rodian, tangled in the restraining straps of his chair. Judging by the fact that the computer terminal at the other end of the Rodian's workstation was missing — that had been the cause of half the unfortunate junior officer's skull disappearing.
Han turned hopefully to the turbolift control panel. Despite the Imperial having worked it over pretty well here too — even though the cabin was riddled after the bombardment — its doors had still managed to close.
Hissing from the pain and considering the unenviable fate of those unlucky enough to be outside the ship, he descended to the required level, only worrying a couple of times that the turbolift cabin would plunge into a free fall. The repulsor mechanism was clearly faltering — Han could tell just from the sound of its death rattle.
Climbing out onto the deck, he waved off the medics who rushed toward him.
"Seal the bridge level!" he ordered, dragging his injured leg and wincing at each new explosion of pain as he passed through the doors leading to the backup command post. "Which senior officers are still alive?"
"Junior watch officer Pe—" a pink-cheeked youth trembling like a leaf in the wind ran up to him. How old was he? Fifteen? Twenty? Ah, twenty-two...
"Get us out of here, Junior Watch Officer," Solo rasped, collapsing into the nearest chair he saw. "Head for rendezvous with the damaged carriers. Report what happened to Coruscant. There should be ships nearby. We'll hold them as long as we can. Let's hope we damage them enough that those who come after us can give them a proper thrashing."
"After us?" blinked the last remaining officer on the bridge, with eyes as big as a terrified bantha's.
"Yes," Han took the painkiller from the medic's hands with relish and jammed the pneumatic syringe into his leg. A pleasant coolness spread through his body. "I don't know who this Thrawn is, but he's carved us up good. I have no doubt Page's people on the surface have the same problems. On our own, we can at most hurt him badly enough to make him hang around here a bit longer until our reinforcements arrive. Oh, hut, how neatly he set it all up! Destroyed every corvette that could have stopped him from overwhelming our flyers with numbers. Oh, Fey'lya, if I get out of this, I'll pluck your whole tail feather by feather for your orders to use the X-wings as deck fighters. So, inform all ships that we're falling back to the carriers. We'll try to—"
"Sir," an aging sergeant-communicator addressed Han. "We're trying to get long-range comms, but we can't. We're being jammed..."
"But intra-system comms are working?" Han was taken aback.
"Yes, sir!"
"What the..." the former smuggler knitted his brows together. "Hm... I've run across this kind of jamming a couple of times. I think we can still break through their interference... I had a couple of tricks in mind... Hey, what's that?"
He pointed to the badly dented casing of an Imperial Viper reconnaissance/espionage droid, lying in the corner of the backup command bridge without any signs of "life." Judging by a number of rumpled hull plates, it had clearly been forcibly opened and someone had tried to poke around its insides — there was a data cable sticking out...
"One of our fighters brought it in during a rotation — accidentally rammed it," the sergeant-communicator explained. "The corvette crews reported that two types of reconnaissance droids were operating in their kill zone. One type moved around the battlefield collecting information, while the other type hung motionless near the planet's satellite. This one," he pointed at the Imperial-made scrap, "was one of the latter. We brought it here to work with its databank on more powerful computers. What bothers me is that the Imperials connected a data transmission cable to it. Those are usually used for minimal data transmission speed loss..."
"Now, now, now," Han waved his hands. "First — get this scrap metal off my bridge to the hutts. Nothing good ever comes from these things. Second. So, the Star Destroyer was transmitting information about our corvettes' movements to the 'mobile' droids, and those to the 'stationary' ones, and from those, the information went somewhere via data transmission cables. And the Imps were clearly afraid of even a second's delay in data transmission... Which is logical if you're guiding torpedoes toward a maneuvering target and don't want anyone to spot you..." Han scratched his head. "That's nonsense. Did you figure out what this 'stationary' droid was connected to?"
"Judging by how information was being 'pumped' out of it — clearly some ship with a powerful onboard computer," the communicator suggested. "Possibly a reconnaissance ship..."
"Then that explains a lot," Han exhaled noisily. "The Imps had ships hanging in orbit around the satellite with minimal scanner return. They didn't activate active targeting scanners for their launchers, so our corvettes wouldn't detect and destroy them. Scouts are usually lightly armed..."
"Except the pilot claims there was no ship at all near the droid," the communicator declared. "Just the blackness of space..."
"They were probably just parked further away, and the cable this thing," he lightly kicked the droid with his boot toe, "was on a very long leash of data transmission cable. Either way, now we know their trick."
"Or maybe it was a stealth ship?" the junior watch officer inquired. "I heard that during the Clone Wars there were such ships — they flew under invisibility fields and shot ships with proton torpedoes."
"My dear friend, — Han clapped his subordinate on the shoulder. — If the Empire had ships like these, believe me, the Rebel Alliance wouldn't have lasted more than a few months. They poured trillions into building the Death Star and guess what — neither the first nor the second added a cloaking screen that would have made those battle stations invulnerable. No, cloaking fields are fairy tales spread by Imperial provocateurs to keep the population in fear of invisible, undetectable retaliation for disobedience. And now, if you're done with your history lesson, let's turn our crippled tub around and try to send a message to Coruscant or the nearest base. I have a feeling we need to transmit just a couple of words, and then the jamming algorithm won't work…
* * *
Grand Admiral Thrawn's face expressed absolutely nothing, like the mask of an actor from an ancient play.
Calm, impassive, with eyes burning with hellfire.
He sat serenely in his chair, watching the gunners of the Chimaera methodically tear apart one of the main engines of the enemy fleet's flagship.
The Red Gauntlet, its three enormous thruster cups of the Destroyer-I flickering with unstable light, was still trying to flee. But the Chimaera, along with the Death's Head holding to its left and the Overlord to its right, were advancing and gaining on the enemy. They had been forced to accept the last into the main formation because its port side had been scarred by the enemy and its artillery severely depleted. It could no longer function as a "Whiplash" on the left flank — pointless when barely a third of its guns were operational. To the right, where the Victory was currently moving, would take too long. So Thrawn simply ordered them to swap places with the Nemesis. Now, when the improvised "cup" enveloped the enemy fleet, the Star Destroyers would be able to bring the maximum available firepower to bear on their vector.
The slightly lagging Nemesis, busy disembarking troops onto the damaged Strike-class frigates of the New Republic, was catching up. Since the trio of advancing Destroyers was moving at half speed while the Nemesis was at cruising speed, Captain Schneider's ship had practically caught up with them. Similarly, the Crusader was approaching the Death's Head from the port quarter.
The Corellian Corvettes and the Crusader II, using their sublight speed advantage over the heavily armed ships, were in no hurry to catch up and engage the enemy vessels. On the contrary, like well-behaved children seated among adults at a celebration, they held position in the space between the Star Destroyers, but a level lower, fulfilling their usual task — covering the lower hemisphere.
Despite the data on the destruction of enemy fighters confirming the complete extermination of three-quarters of the Republic's small craft, they still had the ability to use their last five squadrons of X-wings to strike the ships of Grand Admiral Thrawn's fleet.
Pellaeon, having already drawn conclusions from what had been said recently, watched intently as the enemy starfighters disappeared into the hangars of the capital ships — a rotation was taking place, after which new attacks would inevitably begin. For now, the enemy had decided to retreat. Beyond the viewport, the battered fleet of the New Republic was visible, regrouping and bringing up another damaged Star Cruiser to counter Thrawn.
Yes, they were fleeing. It was a gesture of desperation.
Of the four capital ships involved in the operation, only two Mon Calamari cruisers were still mobile and relatively combat-ready, now moving along the flanks of the crippled Red Gauntlet, which had been mauled by the Black Squadron's raid. The latter was left with only sporadic turret emplacements — instruments registered just one in working order, and that on the starboard side. But the Destroyer's battery deck was still combat-capable, so writing it off would be foolish at best.
Another wounded ship — the first of the MC80 Star Cruisers to be damaged — had finally extinguished the flames consuming it. The vessel, covered in soot to a coal-black color, looked frankly pitiful.
The Crusader had blown out its hangar, and through some unknown effort, the crew had managed to save their ship from being torn apart by the explosion of small craft fuel and ammunition stored in the hangar for rapid rearming of fighters and bombers. The flight deck was no longer functional — given the scale of the fire that had raged there, it was no wonder the compartment was burned clean. Even if this starship escaped, even if such a miracle happened, after the Crusader's anti-ship missiles had done their work, its only fate was to be scrapped.
Gaping ragged wounds in what was once a snow-white hull, scorch marks and traces of atmospheric burning, plasma-deformed plating, artillery almost completely destroyed on the port side — this ship was now a visual demonstration of a common saying in the Outer Rim worlds: "They dress you better for the grave."
The turret guns of the Chimaera poured an ocean of green fire into the Red Gauntlet. The rear part of its superstructure was already destroyed. Not a single intact deck remained there, all had suffered decompression. One Destroyer-I was already dead, the second was about to be torn apart. That meant the enemy flagship's speed would drop even more — no more than a third. Of course, they were trying to compensate by using four auxiliary engines, but it wasn't going well — Lieutenant Kreb and his men had done a thorough job of hobbling the ship during the retreat. Now the enemy faced a grim prospect. Either abandon the flagship and regroup with the other starships, or all three cripples would fall under the relentless fire of Thrawn's fleet. And then it would be the turn of the damaged escort carriers and the third Mon Calamari wreck.
Pellaeon looked at the tactical monitor and felt a wide smile spread across his face.
"The enemy has decided to make a third mistake," said the Grand Admiral. "They intend to delay us with the Mon Calamari ships while the Red Gauntlet tries to break away."
"Sir," Lieutenant Tschel said quietly to Pellaeon. "The interdictor cruiser reports that the enemy is trying hard to break through the jamming."
"What...?" Pellaeon furrowed his brow, not understanding what the junior officer meant.
Then it dawned on him.
This was that same Interdictor they had used during the assault on the military depot! And it was equipped with hardware from an old Separatist ship that could block communication channels within a star system. Short-range comms worked without much trouble, but long-range did not.
Gilad glanced at Thrawn. The Grand Admiral was calmly watching as the Death's Head and the Crusader pincered one victim, while the Nemesis and the Overlord took another. The escort corvettes had distributed themselves to protect "their" starships. Fighters and interceptors were conducting harassing raids on the New Republic ships, unnerving their gunners.
"Open a comm channel to our cruisers, Captain," said the Grand Admiral. "Transfer it to my panel. These ships have just received a mission on which the outcome of this battle depends."
The wheel of fate made another turn, and the battle began anew, opening the next act of violence and justice between enemies.
The Honoghr massacre continued.
* * *
Under the blows of snow-white and green energy from two Imperial Destroyers, the deflector shields of the Mon Calamari cruiser gave way and collapsed, exposing the armored hull of the long-suffering MC80 to the merciless onslaught. Its once pristine white hull now blackened with scorch marks; breaches appeared, fountains of air mixed with debris and bodies of sentients erupted, paint burned, and metal melted. Then ion discharges from the ion cannons on the Overlord's starboard side and the Nemesis's port side danced across the rounded hull, and a dozen shaped-charge rockets from nearby TIE bombers completed the destruction. The watchmen cheered as fire gushed from the growing breach in the enemy ship. Now the Star Cruiser's starboard side no longer exemplified Mon Calamari cleanliness.
Von Schneider looked around:
"Why isn't the seventh battery firing?"
"The battery commander reports that a hit destroyed the targeting system. Technicians are trying to restore it and—"
"Are the computer sights on the guns intact?" inquired the commander of the Nemesis.
"Yes, sir..."
"Then let the gunners remember what they were taught at the Academy and stop relying solely on the fire control system!" he demanded. "Every single gun in the sector covering the enemy ship must be engaged in battle!"
Von Schneider jabbed a finger at the transparisteel of the main viewport:
"I want that cruiser destroyed!"
The Mon Calamari warship and the port guns of the Nemesis fired simultaneously, concentrating fire on each other's flanks. The invisible hemisphere protecting the port side of the Imperial Star Destroyer turned a soft pink on the tactical display, smoothly shifting to blood-red, and then blue discharges from the Republic's ion cannons punched through. A small web of bluish-white lightning spread across the Destroyer's hull, two heavy turbolaser batteries exploded, and Captain Schneider counted at least two artillerymen thrown into space when the armored blisters ruptured.
The Nemesis did not stay in debt, repaying every instance of damage and loss of personnel a hundredfold. A new volley destroyed a deflector shield adjacent to the already wrecked section of hull, leaving black, ugly scorch marks on the Mon Calamari Star Cruiser's plating, and in some places breaching the shell so thoroughly that more fountains of fire erupted. Billows of smoke poured into space, vanishing only when everything flammable in the de-oxygenated compartment had burned out — oxygen, organic tissue, equipment, electrical insulation, circuit boards, the hair of sentients...
The ion cannons joined in, their gunners capitalizing on the success of their "turbolaser brothers." Surface ion discharges crawled across the enemy ship's hull, consuming any electronics they could reach. Communication and sensor antennas, sensors, detectors — all turned into scrap metal, useless to the enemy crew, blinding them in one sector after another around their long-suffering vessel.
Green spears of energy blasted the most prominent protrusions on the Star Cruiser's armor with the eagerness of Jawas sniffing out abandoned droids. Shattered hull plating, clouds of debris, and dead bodies — both companions and traces of a space battle — enveloped the MC80.
The Nemesis's air wing worked in tandem with the Destroyer's artillery, disabling the starship's engines and finishing off the few X-wings covering the vessel that had become a flying ruin.
The starboard guns of the flagship Chimaera, as if sated with the beating of the Republic's Star Destroyer, now joined the violence against the Star Cruiser as a third party. The wedge-shaped warships peeled away the remaining deflector shields and armor of the helpless starship, as if competing over who could do it faster and on a larger scale.
The gunners of the Nemesis were winning, being the most active participants — they had managed to breach the armored shutters of the flight deck on the mangled New Republic ship. The durac steel "doors" had barely begun to close when the energy from an internal explosion blew them out into space, accompanied by an impressive torch of flame — ammunition had detonated.
Von Schneider watched as the Star Cruiser's hull bulged above the hangar bay — the shockwave traveled upward, breaking decks, structural frames, building structures, and armor. Finally, the space on the long-suffering hull of the enemy ship ruptured like a ripe boil, and the ship's plating unfurled like a predatory flower, beautiful in its hues but merciless in the sharp edges of its "petals."
"Executive Officer! Report damage to my ship!"
"Minimal, Captain! We've lost four batteries and seven decompressed compartments. All damage is localized and poses no threat to the Star Destroyer."
Von Schneider nodded in satisfaction.
"Helm, move to the upper echelon," the enemy had few guns left in the upper hemisphere, so the Nemesis could virtually shoot the enemy in a target range setting. Maximum damage with minimal risk — exactly what was needed for a swift conclusion to the battle.
The Overlord would handle the remaining artillery; Captain Brandei, noticing that the Star Cruiser could no longer perform speed maneuvers, had positioned his ship starboard side across the drift course of the Republic warship. Turbolasers, lasers, and even ion cannons began destroying the forward section of the New Republic starship with glee and gusto, adding more and more destruction.
"Captain, we are at the designated echelon!"
Schneider glanced through the main viewport — his Star Destroyer's bow was now directed straight at the gaping wound of the destroyed hangar.
"Fire at will when ready," Von gave a new order, pointing at the massive breach. Theoretically, if they kept pounding that same spot, damaging the structural frame, stringers, ribs, decks, and bulkheads, the enemy would simply break in two. The power buses would lose integrity, energy would leak, and instead of a scorched and disfigured hull that at least remotely resembled a warship that had taken part in a fierce battle, only pieces of metal would remain in space. Locked inside and doomed to a slow, terrible death, the New Republic military personnel would gladly surrender, literally begging the Imperial stormtroopers to get them to the cells as quickly as possible. We could only hope that the guns of the Star Destroyers, fighters, interceptors, and bomber missiles would kill enough of the enemy crew to leave room in the ship's brigs and the detention block for the survivors and the "rescued." That meant we had to try hard…
"Maximum rate of fire!" he spurred on the thrill of finishing off the exhausted ship. He himself cast curious glances at the communications officer, wondering if a message would come from Thrawn ordering them to cease fire and leave the ship in its current state for capture and a prize crew.
But the Grand Admiral remained silent. Yet, just a couple of seconds later, Captain Schneider became certain of the Grand Admiral's plans for this ship, battered beyond combat effectiveness.
The Chimaera without a word brought the full power of its turret guns to bear on the same spot on the charred hulk of the Star Cruiser. A hurricane of green energy bolts from all three Star Destroyers ripped open the armored innards of the New Republic warship with an ease that the metal-rolling factories with their giant cutting equipment would envy. Deck after deck, compartment after compartment, the turbolasers and ion cannons chewed through one "horizontal" layer after another.
Von smiled when he noticed that the graceful lines of the MC80 had vanished as the fire from the Chimaera and Nemesis either vaporized or simply destroyed the main structural frame. The forward section of the Star Cruiser and the scrap metal that had once been the engine cluster became separated, drifting apart in different directions.
If sound could propagate in a vacuum, the watch on the Nemesis's bridge might have enjoyed the crunch of the defeated starship's bulkheads…
But fate had other plans.
The Mon Calamari Star Cruiser, just as Captain Schneider had expected, broke in two. This was accompanied by the now-traditional inseparable companion of ship-to-ship battles, especially their end.
The Overlord continued to gleefully shoot the helpless half. Meanwhile, the Nemesis itself fired on the stern half of the Star Cruiser, causing a massive detonation and the complete destruction of that detached section.
"The enemy is finished," reported the executive officer.
"Excellent," said Von Schneider.
Everything exactly as in a tactic class at the Imperial Military Academy. And every class, regardless of its subject, ended with drilling one simple, infallible, fundamental truth into the heads of future pilots — a truth that no one ever questioned: "No survivors are left behind."
Otherwise, they have a habit of returning more prepared and thirsting for vengeance.
* * *
"Report damage, Captain Pellaeon."
The commander of the Chimaera, tearing his gaze away from the text on his personal datapad screen, expressed extreme surprise. Apparently, he didn't understand how I knew exactly what report he was studying. But it was simple — Lieutenant Tschel had spent the last ten minutes going from one battle station to another, conferring with senior officers in their sections and entering data into the datapad, which had just passed from his hands to the captain's a minute ago. What else could those actions accompany? One of two things: damage control or final preparations before a mutiny aboard a warship.
I was calm about the latter — if such an instigator were to appear aboard the Chimaera, the crew would quietly strangle him with their own hands.
"Breaches in the forward compartments on decks one and three," after glancing at the back of his "favorite," Pellaeon obviously set everything in order. "Two turrets on the starboard side are out of commission; one will be back in service in fifteen minutes. We lost thirteen fighters and six crew members."
Modest losses, considering the scope of the operation.
"Are there reports from the former Republic Strike-class frigates?" I inquired.
"Yes, sir," Pellaeon stood to the left of my chair. "Both are seriously damaged. One is drifting, and most compartments are inaccessible due to decompression. The engineering crew reports that in five to six hours they can restore the main power plant and patch the breaches in critical compartments and rooms. They will need assistance…"
"Send two engineering teams from the Chimaera to the most damaged frigate," I ordered. "The same number from the Nemesis to the other. Do we have data from the disabled Strike?"
"The ship is adrift; rotation has not slowed. No one is answering the rescue team that went to it on a shuttle."
"Send the Overlord to it. Have them use the capture units to stabilize the ship's position and search it. If the starship can be quickly repaired within three days, we should do it."
"Yes, sir, but…" Gilad hesitated. After a moment's pause, exactly one second, he finally dared to ask:
"May I inquire about the reasons for setting such a time limit?"
"The nearest New Republic base to us, which commands a fleet of no fewer than five Mon Calamari Star Cruisers or other combat starships of similar class, is located two and a half standard days' flight from the Honoghr system using a Class 1 hyperdrive," I explained.
"But they don't know we're here," Pellaeon reminded me. "Or do they, sir?"
"Our interdictor cruiser is equipped with an electronic warfare system almost thirty years old," it was now my turn to refresh the enemy's memory. "It has both advantages and disadvantages. I am certain that at this moment, seeing the state of affairs, our opponent is attempting to break through the information blockade and transmit the system's coordinates, as well as the numerical and qualitative composition of our fleet. No more than thirty minutes will pass before they find the optimal transmission frequency and send a short message. Whether it goes directly to Mon Mothma or to the fleet's home base is a rather intriguing question. However, in any case, given all the delays and sluggishness of the bureaucratic machinery of the armed forces under the command of the Bothans, an enemy fleet comparable to ours will not arrive on site earlier than three days."
"Unless Mon Mothma decides to take another fleet away from Fey'lya for her own use," snorted Pellaeon. The captain seemed to be recalling incidents from his tumultuous past when he had to interrupt military operations to satisfy the whim of some dignitary from the Imperial Center. Well… the military machine stalls when politicians start steering it. That rule holds true in any galaxy and any time.
"She will not take that step," I said. "Her position is too precarious at the moment. General Solo failed his mission; on Linuri she will earn no great political capital. By the time Princess Leia Organa Solo's husband returns to Coruscant, serious political battles will erupt in the Senate. Without clear achievements, Mon Mothma will not be able to justify the wisdom of her actions in subordinating two squadrons directly to herself. The New Republic is facing a short political crisis."
"If you say so," Pellaeon spread his hands. "I don't understand politics, so…"
"Reading Lieutenant Kreb's report, Captain, did you not wonder about the reasons for the weak protection of the Imperial Star Destroyer's superstructure?" I inquired.
"In the fleet, those who criticized the ships they had to serve on weren't particularly well-liked," Pellaeon complained. "So we fought with whatever we were ordered to."
"Show your characteristic tact and observation, Captain," I asked. "Draw your conclusions."
"First, there isn't much free space in the superstructure for installing any artillery," Pellaeon began listing. "Second, military doctrine dictates a more active use of the air wing to protect the ship and its command centers from an attack on the bridge…"
"Military doctrine didn't help the Executor survive at Endor," I noted. "Nor the watch on the bridge of the Red Gauntlet, for that matter. Random events grow into coincidences, and those, in turn, into patterns. Such a harmful practice must be combated. As well as finding a way to move our shield generators from the outer perimeter to the internal compartments of the ship."
"The Republicans aren't idiots," Gilad said with doubt in his voice. "External changes to the superstructure design and exposed elements and components will certainly be noticed. Consequently, they'll try to find out what's going on…"
"Precisely why we should place dummy mockups in place of the actual equipment to divert attention from the real installations," I suggested. "A little sleight of hand and ingenuity."
"Hmm…" Pellaeon said thoughtfully. "It might work, I suppose. Although, as I see it, there are certain reasons why the deflector shield generators are located outside the armor."
"Are you sure about that, Captain?" I clarified. It wasn't embarrassing to show my ignorance on this matter. In truth, I hadn't been able to find the slightest hint or explanation about reasons that would prevent placing the deflector shield generators of Imperial Star Destroyers beneath the armor, as the Mon Calamari do. Yes, of course they use different equipment for the same purposes, but… What prevents us, in that case, from thoroughly gutting the Mon Calamari starships after battle and taking what we need? It's more necessary for us anyway.
"Yes, sir," he said sheepishly. "If you'll permit, I'll look into this question in detail with the specialists…"
"That can be done later," I suggested. "We are in a battle, if you haven't forgotten." It seemed Gilad muttered something. "You are completely wrong to try to blame yourself for ignorance in answering the previous question, Captain. Lack of knowledge only harms when no effort is made to fill the gaps."
"Yes, sir," Pellaeon said. "I'll see to it after the battle. Now I'm curious myself. Served so many years and never asked the question… What they gave me to command, that's what I have…"
"An interesting point of view, Captain," I said, barely shifting my eyes toward the tactical monitor, watching as the scans lost the signatures of the torn-apart Mon Calamari cruiser. "Transmit to the Nemesis that they should begin boarding what's left of that ship, as well as dismantling any surviving equipment."
"I doubt that after three Star Destroyers worked over this star cruiser, anything usable for analysis by our specialists remains in those wreckage," Gilad grumbled.
"But we should not neglect the opportunity we have to obtain additional information about the enemy," I stated my opinion. Although, for the most part, I was interested in the deflector shield generators. Maybe Gilad had forgotten, but we have our own Mon Calamari cruisers. Which, even if they have acquired their own set of 'spare parts,' are never superfluous. Especially since if, in the end, we come to the conclusion about using Mon Calamari deflector shield generators on our ships, we will need a large stock of them. Acquiring such equipment officially will definitely be difficult (if possible at all). So… We need to use what's available. "We're done here, Captain. Set course for the Red Gauntlet. Thirty percent speed."
"Are we going to crawl?" Pellaeon asked, clearly displeased with what he heard.
"It will take time for all participants in this event to take their positions before the denouement," I explained. "Note that General Solo's ship is heading for Honoghr's orbit."
"Decided to evacuate to the planet?" a reasonable guess.
"As one possible scenario, we can consider that prospect," I agreed. "However, I am more inclined to think that General Solo decided to use Honoghr's natural magnetosphere as an amplifier to overcome our jamming. If so, he will succeed in clearing one channel for just one second. After that, his communications equipment will fail due to the polarity shift in the power cells. An interesting, yet wasteful method of breaking an information blockade."
Now I've studied that last issue thoroughly — when there's time to plan an ambush, you need to work out every detail. Work out all possible courses of events. Study every possible source of information. From Imperial electronic warfare manuals to messages on smuggler forums in the HoloNet. Moreover, I should set aside time and begin verifying the data mentioned in that last source. Because there is a strong assumption that a significant portion of Imperial secrets have long ceased to be secrets. As they say: 'A new manual is needed.'
"Rather short for a detailed report," the commander of the Chimaera reminded me of my own words.
"When no other chance of salvation remains, you have to make do with what you have," I shrugged. "We won't interfere with that. However, Captain, arrange for our cryptanalysts to obtain a copy of the message that Captain Solo intends to send."
"Sir, I must note that maintaining this course, the Red Gauntlet may eventually exit the system and the range of our communications jamming installations," Captain Pellaeon cautiously suggested. "They might even try to use Honoghr's gravity for acceleration."
"That would destroy their own ship," I refuted the assumption. "The overloads from using a gravitational slingshot would exceed the ship's structural limits. General Solo would never intentionally destroy his own subordinates."
"Corellians are risk-taking guys," Gilad hinted vaguely.
"But not in situations where their risk leads to their own death and the impossibility of locating their own friends and pregnant wife," I calmly refuted the eternal maxim. "Transmit the order to the Death's Head and the Crusader: 'Do not destroy the ship, suppress the enemy's artillery, take it by boarding.'"
"Yes, sir," Pellaeon grunted matter-of-factly, moving toward the combat stations. Despite the fact that we were effectively chasing the Red Gauntlet, it was happening at a leisurely pace. Somewhere ahead and to our right, the ships of the 'battered' group stirred, maneuvering — two escort carriers and an MC80 blackened to the point of a well-burned piece of wood. It seemed the famous smuggler had come up with a new idea — since one of the 'interdictor' cruisers had been destroyed and the other was still trying to fight off the Crusader and the Death's Head, no longer having any serious means of propulsion in its arsenal, why not play a game of 'tag' with us?
Obviously, the trick of concealing the Chimaera's actual possible speed had worked, and Solo believes our engines simply can't put out any more. Or maybe he really hopes to escape. Well, he's about to be disappointed here.
And while there is time, I should analyze the situation.
I have studied the Imperial reference manual on Mon Calamari ships and must say it is completely obvious that the Imperials greatly underestimated the people from Dac.
To begin with, unlike Imperial Star Destroyers, which are equipped with various types of onboard equipment, Mon Calamari star cruisers always use the same gear. Granted, sometimes it's placed in different locations, but those are details. And while various ISDs could boast different weapons and different defense systems, the Mon Calamari are strict about this. So if their ships are supposed to have the Serridge SEAL deflector system, which allows shields to regenerate even under fire (making the only real chance to drop them a concentrated barrage that destroys more shield power than the generator can restore), then that's what they get. And this equipment gives Mon Calamari ships a shield strength of one hundred and fifty points. For reference — even visually identical Imperial Star Destroyers can have shield strength ranging from one hundred twenty-five points to one hundred and fifty. That's taking the Mark I as a baseline. The Mark IIs have a slightly different picture, there's at least some standardization — a stable one hundred and fifty points. Though some ships can have up to two hundred. The Chimaera currently has those latter readings, but they were obtained thanks to a not-so-powerful deflector generator from a Mon Calamari frigate.
Thus, as funny as it may sound, the Mon Calamari fleet is more homogeneous than the Imperial one. Quite the pun, isn't it…
We'll fix that. I am categorically unsatisfied that even in my fleet there are ships that are outright weak compared to their counterparts. How can you use an Imperial Star Destroyer as the flagship of a battle group if, in tactical and technical characteristics, for example, it is not only not equal to the Mon Calamari cruiser it intends to fight, but is actually inferior to it?
Operation Crimson Dawn revealed many problems within the fleet under my command. After the Honoghr campaign is concluded, I should take the opportunity and use the ships' repair time to at least rearm them to the maximum known configuration. Especially since we will soon deliver another 'test subject' to Tangrene.
And also I should work out a number of additional points that have come to my attention one way or another…
And now it is absolutely clear that a decision must be made on the earliest acquisition of 'Victories.' Should this be done through an approach to the Corporate Sector, or by 'hunting' for such ships among the Rebel fleet? I need to think it over. Especially since at least one ship of this type is at the disposal of Prince-Admiral Krennel.
The events of the recent battles clearly illustrate a simple truth: both Captain Kalian and his colleague I-Gor demonstrate excellent training and the survivability of their ships. As well as the short-sightedness of Imperial politicians, who so quickly sent such starships to the outer rim. And then there's that completely unnecessary modification to the Victory-II, as a result of which this type of Star Destroyer gained much less from additional energy weapons than it lost from the removal of its missile launchers.
And besides, Ryan Zion promised to work out a modernization project for my outdated starships. We'll see what comes of it. I don't think it will take much time, since I only asked to strengthen the turret artillery — it's not some drastic overhaul. While keeping the same number of turret mounts, instead of the originals, it was planned to install eight-barreled ones, like those on board Imperial-class Star Destroyers or any other modern ships of the same or higher class. Which should ideally balance the broadside turbolaser salvo of any Victory Mark I to that of an Imperial. Admittedly, at the minimum weapons threshold that existed in the Imperial fleet until now. But even that is one big surprise for an enemy who is not accustomed to considering this type of destroyer a serious opponent. And that's a big mistake. All that was needed was to modernize the type of launchers mounted on the Victories to more modern ones, and to show some imagination in their tactical maneuvering — and the Victories can once again show their sharp teeth.
"Grand Admiral, sir," the commander of the Chimaera approached, clutching a personal datapad in his hand. "Our specialists managed to obtain a copy of the message that General Solo sent. It's text."
"A clever use of the one-second delay in the jamming algorithms for long-range communication systems," I agreed. "Decrypted?"
"Yes, sir," Gilad said briskly, in a tone as if it were his personal achievement. The judgment wasn't without merit, since the combat and special training of his crew is directly the responsibility of the ship's commander. "General Solo reports an ambush by six Star Destroyers in the Honoghr system and attaches the system's coordinates. The message was sent to Coruscant."
"Interesting," I said, extending my hand. Gilad handed over the device. Scanning the lines of the decrypted message, I smiled inwardly. To be honest, I had thought he would first report the presence of a Grand Admiral. I had announced my name when exiting the system on an open frequency specifically to warn the Noghri, as well as to mildly demoralize the enemy, who had been reassuring themselves lately that the Empire had no Grand Admiral and that everything that had happened was the work of one sadistic Prince-Admiral.
But Solo is not respected in the armed forces for nothing. Gilad transmitted the text of his message exactly. The New Republic general did everything to delay us, and I was playing along with him by keeping the Chimaera at a slow pace. He probably thinks he has time for reinforcements to arrive, so he decided to play 'tag' with me using the remnants of his fleet. Correct, because the Crusader and the Death's Head are currently stripping the damaged Mon Calamari star cruiser of its remaining weapons and are about to board. The other Star Destroyers are far away, and even at cruising speed they would need a lot of time to catch up to the Red Gauntlet and the other three New Republic starships.
"Well, Captain," I said, "General Solo has made his third and final mistake."
"I think he'll try at sublight to either break out of the system and make a full communication session with Coruscant, or…" Gilad squinted. "Sir, is it just me, or have they changed course?"
"Your eyesight does not deceive you, Captain," I confirmed. "The Red Gauntlet and the three ships remaining to General Solo are indeed planning to go around Honoghr."
"Sir, we need to increase speed immediately," Pellaeon muttered excitedly. "If they go around the planet, from the other hemisphere we have no chance to catch or stop them."
"You think so, Captain?" I asked.
"Sir, but it's clear," Pellaeon furrowed his brow. "Solo left one star cruiser here. It can't jump to hyperspace because it's in the vector zone of the mass shadow generator, and it can't go around it because its main engines barely provide thrust. But if Solo goes around the planet, he'll be beyond the second vector of the artificial gravity field. And to stop him, we'll have to move the Interdictor, send it around the planet, and deploy the gravity well generators there. I'm sure that's what Solo is planning — either one ship, or all four, will escape."
"Without a doubt, he is offering us a choice between himself and one ship, assuming that the Chimaera is damaged and that no one would deliberately reduce engine power when they want to finish off the enemy," I confirmed. "I'm more than certain that if we now look at the observation statistics on information transfer between ships, we will learn that the Red Gauntlet transmitted to all remaining New Republic starships under its command the same data packet — sensor readings and the battle recording. Solo is betting that at least one of the ships will be able to break through."
"And he almost succeeded," Pellaeon sighed. "Sir, if they recorded the engine performance data of our ships…"
"They recorded it as the first priority, Captain," I clarified. "Do not insult our opponent's intelligence."
"…if this information reaches Coruscant, we can forget about conducting raider operations under Krennel's 'flag.' We'll be identified and no amount of window dressing will help anymore," Gilad finished his thought.
"You expressed yourself with remarkable precision, Captain Pellaeon," I noted. "If Solo had the chance, he would transmit this data straight to Coruscant. And he may do so if he has no choice and has to break through our information blockade. Naturally, we will not allow that."
"Sir, in that case we need to immediately move to cruising speed and try to stop at least the Red Gauntlet," Pellaeon passionately laid out his idea. "The other ships might surrender if they see their general captured."
"I suspect that General Solo has precisely given orders on that count," I said. "And they are exactly the opposite."
"Are you suggesting we just sit and wait?" the Star Destroyer commander marveled.
"Precisely, Captain Pellaeon," I confirmed.
"But they are heading on a course that will give them a chance to leave the system!" Gilad insisted. It seemed he imagined the whole plan was collapsing. Yes, if that happened, it would be rather unfortunate. But the commander of the Chimaera, just like the Republicans, doesn't know that everything is going according to plan.
"You notice obvious facts with astonishing precision, Captain," I nodded almost imperceptibly. "I am sure that the same thoughts are now hovering in the heads of every crew member on the ships under General Solo's command."
"Sir, forgive me, but I don't understand," Pellaeon concluded. "We have practically destroyed the enemy squadron. This is not just a military victory, it's a major political success! If we allow them to slip out of the trap, we will end up in a deadlock. Not to mention that there are at least a legion of enemy troops on the planet!"
"Numbers are irrelevant when dealing with Noghri fighting for their home," I said. "You have surely noted the fact that no one from Honoghr is trying to contact us?"
"Yes," Gilad said after a pause. "They apparently decided we stuck our nose where it didn't belong."
"Probably so," I agreed. "But what is most likely is that the Noghri are currently fighting against the landed troops. No matter how powerful warriors they are, they are having a hard time — especially against the heavy weapons of the Republican landing force. However, we will not intervene at this moment. We will allow the Noghri to realize that, despite their training, in a standard infantry battle, saboteurs and assassins cannot match the skill of a regular army. In the past, they already had experience in combat with regular forces — during the Clone Wars. But in the last thirty years, army military art has advanced far, and the rebels have learned to fight. So on the surface there is now a fierce bloody slaughter between the landing force and the defenders of Honoghr. Whether the Noghri lose or manage to win — either outcome suits me."
"There will be casualties," Pellaeon declared. "And heavy ones at that."
"And following that will come the realization that the matriarchs' decisions about the Noghri's unique path do not withstand criticism from the real situation," I explained. "By the time we finish dealing with the remnants of the enemy fleet, the Noghri will have accepted the idea that they need help. Our help."
"So that's why you announced on the general channel that you came to help Honoghr," Pellaeon realized.
"Yes, that is one of the reasons I ordered it done this way."
"And still we must capture those four ships regardless," Gilad pointed to the engine glows of the two escort carriers, the Mon Calamari star cruiser, and the Star Destroyer Red Gauntlet, holding at a great distance from us. "The stakes are too high."
"Exactly, Captain," I agreed, glancing at the chronometer and calculating the velocity vectors in my head. Yes, it all adds up. It's about to begin now. "Since you're eager, you may order the Chimaera to increase to cruising speed and give chase."
"We will catch up to General Solo's four starships in eleven minutes," Gilad said after giving the appropriate orders. "But within seven we can open fire to destroy. By then, they will be able to exit the vector of the gravity well field. If nothing stops them, they'll jump to hyperspace and good luck finding them."
"Once again, I admire how precisely you note all the circumstances of the situation, Captain," I said with a slight smile on my face. Gilad glanced at me suspiciously, wondering if a subtle mockery had just come from my lips. "I would be grateful if you checked with our cruisers whether they have already set an intercept course for General Solo's ships and whether they will delay them until our arrival."
"Medium cruisers?" Pellaeon's eyes widened. His gaze darted from me to the tactical monitor, which displayed the relative positions of starships in the combat zone. Not finding the three icons characteristic of the 'Strikes,' the captain belatedly remembered my previous order regarding those ships. And also that I had given instructions without his presence. He compared this with the fact that he couldn't find the three 'Strikes' where they had been before…
"The previous order is rescinded, Captain," I said. "It is no longer necessary."
Pellaeon glanced at the tactical display just as three marks appeared on it — medium cruisers approaching "head-on" toward General Solo's ships, opening fire without warning on a foe that could barely offer resistance. The escort carriers had no weapons at all; the Star Cruiser and the destroyer had each lost up to half their turbolasers. And against them, three relatively intact medium cruisers, each mounting twenty turbolaser cannons, an equal number of turbolasers in turrets, and ten ion cannons. Firepower comparable to a Star Destroyer's armament. But fast, swift, maneuverable… And not lacking deflectors, unlike the Mon Calamari cruiser and the Red Gauntlet.
The second act of the Honoghr Massacre was drawing to a close.
* * *
The Chimaera had positioned itself directly opposite the Mon Calamari Star Cruiser's coma, taking broadside salvos from the Red Gauntlet's batteries on its port side while answering with precise, equipment-shattering ion cannons. Helpless green bolts from the Republic spread across the ship's deflector shield, while from the hangar of Grand Admiral Thrawn's flagship Star Destroyer, a line of boarding shuttles stretched toward the sooty hull of the Red Gauntlet.
The Mon Calamari cruiser, which had just completed its turn, intending to bring more of its remaining turbolasers into action, found its deflector remnants collapsed after the second salvo from the Chimaera's turreted guns. At that same instant, it was swarmed by TIE bombers, generous this time of year with proton torpedoes. The starboard side of the MC80 Star Cruiser was adorned with a garland of explosions, gruesomely beautiful, from bow to stern. The rare surviving heavy batteries detonated, the hull plating blistered like bubbles, and the shells kept shredding the crippled ship's innards. Space sucked out the oxygen, but the fire still would not die. Armor buckled and tore away from its backing, exposing more and more sections of the Star Cruiser's internal compartments.
By the time Grand Admiral Thrawn ordered the beating of the helpless ship to stop and focus on boarding General Solo's flagship — while the trio of cruisers launched stormtroopers directly into the escort carriers' hangars — the Mon Calamari Star Cruiser looked as though it had made a high-speed pass through an asteroid belt.
Having set the priority on capturing enemy ships, Thrawn ordered the Crusader to deal with the crippled vessel. The latter's boarding parties finished surprisingly quickly, to many people's surprise, making way for repair crews.
But the repair crews found it deeply unsettling to work on resurrecting a ship whose undamaged compartments were littered with the corpses of crew members who had suffocated when the life-support system was destroyed.