The T4a Lambda-class shuttle had been used for decades by the Imperial Starfleet (as well as the entire military machine of the Galactic Empire) for transporting passengers and deploying small numbers of infantry to designated targets.
It was a solid machine that faithfully responded to all instructions from crew and passengers.
However, this concerned Major General Veers little.
He sat by the porthole, watching the white-blue haze of hyperspace. His mind was clear of extraneous thoughts.
As always, he was busy with work, analyzing the information he had received.
Well, he should have guessed that ground forces under Grand Admiral Thrawn were not in the best shape.
He had a lot of equipment.
Self-propelled guns, tanks, walkers, speeders, artillery… But the overwhelming majority were outdated models from the Clone Wars. Modern Imperial models were in numbers clearly insufficient to consider the units fully equipped.
The lack of industry for manufacturing spare parts and necessary equipment was taking its toll. If there were any spares for the AT-TE walkers, it was in minimal quantities. The Ciutric Hegemony did not have such factories, preferring to buy parts abroad.
Accordingly, two key problems needed to be solved first — get sufficient funding from Thrawn to eliminate these shortcomings. Also, numerous exercises were necessary: personnel had to be trained on a constant basis. Any lull in battles should be used to increase personal professionalism.
The general listened to the quiet conversations his fellow passengers were having.
All of them — the best officers and enlisted men from army units. Walker drivers, artillerymen, tank crews, "Juggernaut" crews… A rather strange company. Especially considering their small numbers. They wouldn't be enough to form a combat-ready unit, and for replenishing losses… The servicemen were too conveniently selected — no more than one or two from each type of ground unit…
Instructors?
Possible.
But for whom, for what?
Does Thrawn have his own ground forces training academy, like Carida?
But in that case, there were too few instructors for targeted army training. Besides, it was foolish to send the best to teach — that should be done by those who could patiently pass on their own experience, not just tell but show, demonstrate it by personal example in practice.
There was an excellent rule for training subordinates, expressed in an extremely concise phrase written in the blood of many fallen soldiers and enlisted men. "Detailed explanation, thorough demonstration, and endless practice." Only with such an approach to training and preparation could yesterday's farmers, moisture farmers, miners, diggers, gas prospectors, and other civilians become cold and calculating professionals who knew what they were doing, why, and how to achieve their goal in the most effective way.
The general continued watching hyperspace, but at the same time concluded that someone was watching him.
After so many years of service, you start to sense such things like a Jedi. When your life depends on how quickly you can identify the positions from which aimed fire is coming at you and how much damage it could do to you and your equipment, hypertrophied paranoia becomes part of your life.
Shifting his focus, the general began studying the reflection on the inner surface of the porthole.
It took a few seconds to make out the face of one of the passengers, who sat in the adjacent row of seats and was covertly examining the cripple in the general's uniform. He wasn't taking part in the general conversations, which mostly boiled down to stories and tales about ground force actions on the planets Xa Fel, Liinade III — actually the only major ground operations conducted by army and armored units under Grand Admiral Thrawn's command.
Maximilian turned his head. Sharply, to catch the observer's gaze.
"Any questions, Sergeant?"
The group of enlisted men, mostly from armored forces, who had been quietly chatting among themselves, fell silent at once, tensely and fearfully glancing at Veers. Who he was, and that he had returned to active service, was known to absolutely everyone in the regular Dominion army. Such things couldn't be hidden, and consequently, no one wanted to risk experiencing the general's wrath.
"No, sir," the sergeant in armored forces uniform with walker crew markings stood up, as required when speaking to a senior officer. "My apologies, I was trying to figure out if it was you…"
Veers instantly remembered who was standing before him. It wasn't easy to make out the features of a man who was glancing at you sideways, especially in a crowd of other enlisted men like him.
But when he was alone and nothing hindered identification.
"Sergeant Roach," the corner of the general's lip twitched slightly. "Come here."
"Yes, sir," the mechanic-driver responded, closing the distance between himself and his former commander to a minimum with three short steps.
Maximilian noted that interest in the situation had appeared among the other soldiers. He killed it instantly when he looked at them intently and appraisingly. The enlisted men decided it would be safer for their own health to continue telling each other about how they easily and effortlessly dealt with "Kuat Drive Yards" mercenaries and pirates.
Mechanic-driver Sergeant Tychus Roach.
"Sit down," Maximilian nodded to the old acquaintance at the seat opposite him, once the buzz of interest had died down.
"Yes, sir," the man replied, drawing a mask of irritation onto the general's face.
"Tychus, I told you after Hoth — in personal conversation, we can do without ranks and titles," he reminded.
"I remember, sir," the mechanic-driver said in the same calm and even tone. "It's just…"
"Nothing has changed, Tychus," the general understood the unspoken question. "No matter what post I hold, whom I serve, or where I am — I am grateful to you for pulling me out of the AT-AT wreckage back on Hoth."
"And also for being one of the few in the years after Endor, when I was branded and thrown away like a used rag," Maximilian added mentally.
However, this rule applied to absolutely everyone who had served in Darth Vader's "Death Squadron" fleet personnel, army, even stormtroopers. The "traitor" brand had fallen on everyone in whose life the Sith Lord had somehow participated. Unsurprisingly, most of those who had not betrayed or defected to the New Republic were now under Grand Admiral Thrawn's command.
The Dominion's ruler hadn't even hesitated to restore the 501st Legion, "Vader's Fist." Though now it was increasingly called "Thrawn's Fist." Not without reason, it must be noted.
"All true, sir," the short, broad-shouldered tanker with piercing gray eyes sat down in the seat before the general. "But we're on duty, and the circumstances…"
He nodded almost imperceptibly toward his comrades. Understandable — they were practically jumping out of their jumpsuits to understand the connection between a simple sergeant and a major general. However, that connection wouldn't be visible as long as Tychus wore his gloves and jumpsuit.
The burns he had sustained while pulling Maximilian from under the wreckage of the AT-AT shot down by the rebels had practically confined the sergeant to bed, depriving him of the ability to continue his career as a walker mechanic-driver. It took several long months of recovery before he returned to active duty. And then Endor came…
And they were all declared undesirable personnel in the Imperial army.
And after almost six years of "unwantedness," staying in touch with each other, the rescuer and the rescued found themselves on the same ship, flying into the unknown… Was it worth wondering if this was part of Grand Admiral Thrawn's plan?
"Did you volunteer?" Maximilian inquired.
"Yes, sir," Tychus replied. "Right after you informed me that you intended to join the Grand Admiral. Then rumors reached me that you were commanding training walker units. I decided to follow you — I'm uncomfortable in civilian life anyway. It's hard to fall asleep when my hands reach for the AT-AT controls."
"It's good that you came back," Veers admitted. When the general had decided to try his luck in the Dominion armed forces, he hadn't called anyone from his former comrades with whom he still maintained contact. That was each person's choice.
"I'm not the only one, sir," he added, lowering his voice. "Everyone who was previously under your command and survived the purges... They are coming back to service. The 'Blizzard Force' is with you again, General. At least — its armored component. I'm not sure about the stormtroopers."
Now this was, one might say, guaranteed good news. So good that it was hard to overestimate.
Blizzard Force was the elite force that attacked the rebel base on Hoth. Yes, they were badly battered, but war doesn't happen without losses. One must be able to take a hit, understand the reasons for losses, and work to ensure they never happen again.
General Veers had taken an exemplary approach to training his subordinates, who had operated under the command of the Dark Lord of the Sith. Each of them, without exaggeration, was the elite of the elite. And that they had decided to return to active service was wonderful. With the help of veterans, the training of recruits would go much better and faster.
"Do you know where they are?" Veers inquired.
"They're going through counterintelligence screening," the sergeant explained. "I was lucky to get through it faster — when the creation of the Dominion was first announced, the flow of volunteers was small, so all the procedures went very quickly. But the bulk of my comrades are still under counterintelligence control. Still, we all understand that they will join the active army soon."
"That's good," Veers sighed, his cheek twitching in an involuntary irritating facial movement. "Thrawn has entrusted me with training recruits, so help with that won't hurt."
"Always ready, sir," Tychus replied. "But... how so? Why to the rear and not the front?"
"These things," Maximilian pointed at his legs, "turned out to be an obstacle to the front line. I'm about as fit to be a tank commander as a pile of crap is to be a rocket. And I don't want to be a burden to the crew."
"You never were and never will be a burden, sir!" the sergeant declared fervently.
"Let's drop the debate," Maximilian ordered. He had already decided for himself. No prosthetics, no implants, exoskeletons, or anything else. He was a man, not a machine. Implanting something into himself was disgusting. And commanding a walker or a unit while bobbing in a repulsor chair for invalids, all while inside the "head" of an AT-AT… That was foolishness. The rebels knew how to destroy these formidable war machines. It might not be easy, but if the tank was knocked out again and someone had to pull him out from under the wreckage, it could cost the soldiers their lives. Back on Hoth, during his rescue, his walker's gunner had died… A good and capable man. Frankly, Maximilian would have preferred to be left to die there, but that those who didn't have to die for his survival would be saved. Nothing like that would happen again.
"Are you still a sergeant?" Maximilian inquired.
"Yes, sir."
"I'll make arrangements and…"
"Forgive my insolence, General," the mechanic-driver's gray eyes turned to durasteel. "'No familiarity. No favoritism. No leniency.' Those were your words. You taught us that. Everything I deserve, I will get on my own — through patient labor, faithful service, and the effectiveness of my tank."
"Hasn't changed one bit," the general inwardly rejoiced. A good sign.
"Understood, Sergeant," Maximilian nodded almost imperceptibly. "No special treatment."
"Yes, sir," a sincere smile appeared on the mechanic-driver's stern face. "The enemies of the Dominion will break out in a cold sweat when your trainees move their machines toward their positions."
"Exactly, Sergeant," Veers nodded in agreement.
But he was thinking about something else.
The AT-AT was developed by "Kuat Drive Yards." It was produced not only there, but also on planets like Carida, Balderona, Antivi… There were many modifications, including for special conditions: snow, desert, oceans…
Thrawn had nothing like that. Only "walkers" standard models. And not even many of those — at most enough to equip a dozen assault corps.
If the Grand Admiral didn't find a factory to produce this type of equipment, and instead focused on equipping the regular army with thirty-year-old "echoes of war," then it was all pointless. There was no need to train a large number of recruits in AT-AT operation if the machines themselves weren't there.
However, that was the Grand Admiral's business. Veers had already laid out his thoughts on what the army should look like in his view. Mandatory conscription for men of a certain age (women only on a voluntary basis). Their thorough training and preparation, as well as using them to fill the planetary defense forces. Contracts for service in the regular army — the one that would engage the enemy — could be offered to the most distinguished.
The Dominion Starfleet was currently manned by the same principle — recruits and volunteers entered service in units tasked with patrolling and protecting star systems, escorting convoys, while only those who had proven their professional effectiveness through action, not words, got onto active fleet ships.
A correct approach, which not only helped save money — the regular army received higher salaries than conscripts and rear-echelon troops. But at the same time, this method allowed, under relatively "training ground" conditions, to prepare replacements for those who would die in battle.
Unfortunately, there were fewer and fewer old, hardened veterans left in the regular forces. Perhaps that was why Thrawn didn't conduct many ground operations, focusing primarily on space battles.
The Empire did roughly the same thing. The only difference was that salaries were several times lower than those the Dominion had established for its regular armed forces. Conscripts, of course, were paid too little compared to the regular army, but that only added incentive for them to prove their usefulness and become true warriors.
In the Imperial Armed Forces, only officers received salaries even remotely similar to what servicemen in the Dominion's regular forces currently get. Lower ranks — soldiers, sailors, sergeants — were all conscripts who had only crumbs — a dozen credits a month at most. The Admiralty and ground forces command believed that ordinary soldiers didn't need to be paid — they were already on full state support.
Thrawn, however, seemed to have decided otherwise.
Well, his right.
A man in fleet uniform appeared in the aisle between the seats. He quickly made his way to Maximilian's wheelchair, which was magnetically anchored to the deck.
"General Veers, sir," he saluted. "The ship's commander ordered me to inform you that we are arriving at the designated point. The access code exchange has been completed. The receiving party has sent you a personal greeting."
"From whom?" Veers frowned.
"No signature or identifier, sir," the co-pilot admitted. "Only an instruction that you will be met at the airlock."
"Acknowledged, Lieutenant," the general replied. "You're dismissed."
When the co-pilot had moved a sufficient distance away, the general chuckled.
"More and more interesting," he said, looking at the sergeant. "First Thrawn assigns me to training units, then sends me to some facility where armored forces training will take place, and now it turns out that this training facility isn't even a planet."
"Sir?" the mechanic-driver frowned.
"I'll be met near the 'docking airlock,'" Veers explained. "Not at a landing pad. We're flying to a ship or station."
The mechanic-driver scowled.
"All the other guys," he nodded toward their fellow passengers, "like me, were told that we would make our own contribution to the training and equipping of the Dominion's armored forces."
"So we've gathered here with a single purpose," the major general concluded. "To train new specialists for ground vehicles."
"Training ground vehicle crews in space — that's irrational, isn't it?" Tychus said cautiously, careful not to offend the command that had given him a chance to return to the army and his beloved work. "Unless we're arriving at a transfer station..."
"We'll find out soon enough, Sergeant," Maximilian summarized.
For a while they sat, discussing tactics and crew training, until a short signal sounded in the passenger compartment announcing that the Lambda was ready to exit hyperspace.
Well, it would be interesting to find out exactly where they were heading.
The general touched the device with his code cylinder, then connected his own datapad to the shuttle's systems to observe the view ahead of the ship.
Seeing the object that their Lambda was beginning to approach, Major General Veers merely grunted.
"One thing is for certain — our destination is definitely not a space station."
"Sir?" he looked at the commander expectantly.
There was no point in hiding what would become known in just a few minutes.
He handed the datapad to his subordinate.
The mechanic-driver — although he was from the ground forces, although his homeland was a distant, not particularly technologically developed world on the border of Wild Space — would certainly recognize this...
"An Acclamator-class assault cruiser?" Tychus tore his gaze from the datapad screen. "Sir, have we been transferred to the space infantry?"
"Unlikely, Sergeant," Veers admitted. "But I'm certain it's clearly a non-standard cruiser. Let's wait until my contact deigns to clarify the situation."
* * *
"Grand Admiral," it seemed this was becoming a habit: Pellaeon, reporting to me that another part of the plan was complete. "The squad leaders report that all units have arrived at the rendezvous point. The Chimaera will join them in thirty minutes."
"Excellent work, Captain," I said. "Inform the destroyer commanders that the meeting will be in two hours. I want detailed intelligence data and ship technical status reports."
"Consider it done," replied the commander of my flagship Star Destroyer. The man stood beside me, relaying the order via comlink. Judging by the voice of the respondent, Lieutenant Tschel still answered his commander with enthusiasm. A solid lad. If he didn't break, he'd make a good starship commander. Trained enough.
I would need to test him for independent command. Not now — in time.
"Has Captain Tyberos reached the Karthakk system?" I inquired.
"Affirmative, sir," Pellaeon confirmed. "Unloading of production-cycle equipment has begun. Chief Engineer Reyes reported that our officers delivered the information on the Scimitar bombers to him. The technical services have already started upgrading the equipment. By the end of the month, the production cycle will be initiated and the bombers will go into production."
"Excellent," I nodded almost imperceptibly, observing the ysalamiri. For a change, it wasn't sleeping at the moment but was eating, sitting in its cage. "Do our people on the planet report anything about Captain Tyberos's actions regarding Orra Sing and Captain Nima?"
"No, sir. Captain Tyberos is occupied with repair work on the Black Pearl; he hasn't encountered those two."
"Good," I said. "Have our people continue monitoring them. Now, about something more important, Captain. The pirate Mere and his ship with a cloaking system. Have we learned more about these facts?"
"Not much, sir," Pellaeon admitted. "Among the Mere recruited into service, most are young ones who can neither remember nor tell us the exact identity of their kin who distinguished himself in the war with the Trade Federation in the Karthakk system."
"Or," I noted, "they simply don't want to talk about it."
"That's also possible, sir," the Chimaera's commander agreed.
"Most likely," I said. "When your kin's name is passed from mouth to mouth, you hear it at least a couple of times in your life. The Mere simply don't trust us, nothing more. They know the name, but they don't want to tell us."
"Should I order the stormtroopers to begin occupation?"
"A prototype cloaking device of unknown design, though valuable technology, is not enough to lose potential subordinates over," I said.
But something still had to be done about it. Every cloaking system is unique in essence.
The technology we use, based on hybidium, is effectively flawed — when the active cloaking screen is up, no signals pass through it. We partially solved this problem with remote relays that are deployed outside the cloaking field. A communication cable connects the relay (or a scout droid) with the cloaked object, allowing almost instantaneous signal transmission and target designation.
We used this method of information transfer and, generally, applied it successfully during the battle with General Solo's fleet at the Battle of Honoghr.
But this mechanism for mitigating the drawback is only suitable for objects that have a stationary, fixed placement, for example, Golan stations. If you try to transmit data this way to a moving object under a cloaking screen, it can be easily detected by observers (due to the movement of the relay with which data is exchanged), which almost certainly leads to the destruction of the starship. Furthermore, the design of a remote relay on a fiber-optic cable is unreliable during movement, and equipping ships with an external antenna for this purpose is simply foolish: an active communication antenna almost always reveals the ship's location due to the specifics of its operating technology. In fact, a fairly common method of triangulating a flagship in an armada is based on this principle: through active message exchange. And to prevent this, on cloaked ships we used spy droids as relays, whose expensive communication systems are protected from tracking.
Obtaining a new cloaking technology will allow us to advance in this matter. The idea of creating "stealth ships" is, of course, not new to this galaxy... And I am still tormented by thoughts that in the events known to me, within a few years, Imperial commanders would have an Executor-class Super Star Destroyer with cloaking systems. And, if I remember correctly, based not on hybidium at all.
"Has Captain Steben finished his work on Yalara?" I clarified.
"Affirmative, sir," replied Pellaeon. "The technicians have already arrived and are inspecting the cloaking device on the planet. A contingent will soon arrive to establish a permanent garrison."
That was excellent. Another base, far from prying eyes.
"Ensure that Yalara has the necessary technical support and protection, Captain," I said. "In exact accordance with my instructions."
"It will be done, Grand Admiral," Captain Pellaeon responded.
Captain, captain, captain... I needed to do something about the career growth of my subordinates. If the same Shohashi possessed remarkable creative initiative in matters of tactical selection and application, then the other Star Destroyer commanders... let's say, I haven't "gotten a feel" for them. They were dutiful, ready to carry out any orders, but initiative was minimal.
Captain Mor might become another candidate for promotion — there was a certain rational grain in his tactical layouts. But still in an embryonic stage — we'll see what happens next. I had given him, as well as other commanders, opportunities for independent talent development, so now it was up to them.
Well, ahead lay the battle for the Oplovis sector. I would leave extraneous thoughts for "later."
"Thank you for your report on the Karthakk system, Captain," I said, casting my gaze on my personal datapad lying on the tabletop. "You may return to your direct duties."
"Yes, sir," the man replied, heading for the exit.
As soon as the door closed behind him, I leaned back in my chair as usual. With a motion of my hand on the keyboard, I called up a detailed hologram of the Ketaris system. A fortress planet, a stronghold of the Republic sector fleet. Too small to hold here without support.
But the planet was also well-defended... A simple assault wouldn't work here...
However, that was already lyricism.
Closing my eyes, I started running through each phase of my plan in my head.
One step after another, the actions of one squad, another...
* * *
"Well," Pent said after the door of the cabin, which had been turned into a makeshift cell by the Fleet Special Forces, hissed shut behind him. "So we stole a ship, hacked Kuat's network..."
"Shut your mouth," Rederick advised him, flopping onto the bunk on his back and staring at the ceiling. "And don't open it until I say so."
"Uh-huh," the Slicer huddled up, sitting on the adjacent bunk. "You know, I figured it probably wasn't because of me that the alarm went off."
"Oh really?" the scout looked at him. "And what are your conclusions based on?"
"On the fact that I couldn't have been wrong," the blue-haired kid confidently declared. "There was no unnoticed security there. Yes, the internal systems and networks of Kuat Drive Yards are well protected, but that's Imperial level, nothing supernatural."
"Then those guys couldn't have left such traces," Rederick stated. "Fleet Special Forces can do more than that. They don't have accidents... ever..."
The scout fell silent, realizing in his mind that he was right. No accidents.
"They did it on purpose," Pent said. "When I was picking the lock on the hangar doors, I saw that someone had already tampered with it. And they did it for the same reason I flew here with you — the computers in the administrative complex don't have HoloNet access. It's a closed network for insiders only. Looks like they arranged a cybersecurity breach in a far part of the station so they could freely dig where they wanted."
"In that case, they didn't need that Raider," Rederick insisted. "They would have stolen it during the time the alarm was raised. Judging by the fact that no one even shot at us before the jump into hyperspace, they have Kuat access codes."
"Well, it seems so," Pent concluded. He paused. "And who are they anyway?"
"Fleet Special Forces," Rederick explained.
"And why did they say they were from the Imperial Starfleet?"
"Because they're show-offs," Rederick snapped. "They decided to show off. 'Imperial Starfleet' is the official name of the Galactic Empire's armadas. A direct translation from High Galactic. After the Battle of Endor, it's not used much in the armed forces anymore because there are enough worries without arrogance and flaunting a pompous language."
"So what?" the Slicer blinked. "What's the problem? You're from the fleet too..."
He might be a genius hacker, but logic...
"There are two problems right away," Rederick said. "First — we're from the Dominion. They introduced themselves as part of the Imperial Starfleet. That means they serve someone from the Remnants. And I have a clear order — not to contact any of them and not to let them sniff out anything about our mission."
That was precisely why they had gone just the two of them.
It seemed the young scout was blinded by conceit and the crown of Grand Admiral Thrawn's victories had gone to his head. And it pushed out the thought that these were actually the commander's victories, not the scout's... Where it had worked to fool the New Republic, it hadn't worked elsewhere.
Sad.
Because the data Pent had obtained must not fall into anyone's hands except the Grand Admiral's.
Same with the kid himself.
Rederick turned his head to assess the boy again.
Middle-aged, skinny... His face had all the signs of a Slicer who had never seen anything but code. And if it came to a choice — causing even greater harm to the Dominion by his failure and Pent's defection to the enemy, or... silencing him... The choice was unenviable, but unfortunately quite real.
Because now the special forces guys would crack the chips — sooner or later. They'd see the stolen blueprints and explanatory information there.
And voilà... The mines that Kuat had long stopped producing since losing Rothana, but carefully kept the secret of, would become public knowledge. At least — Imperial. Not to mention they would know (if they REALLY tried hard) the control codes for the mines...
This was a failure, no matter how you fooled yourself.
The only question now was — who exactly these units worked for.
Blast it, how could they have gotten into such a mess... If it had been any other agency on the spot instead of the Fleet Special Forces, they could have negotiated. Even with the guys from the Ubiqtorate, they could have found common ground if they tried — only the higher-ups there were completely off their heads, but the low-level operatives were quite communicative guys. Well, not all, but you could always find a common language...
But not with the Fleet Special Forces...
"You talked about two reasons," Pent reminded. "But you only named one."
"And the second is that I messed up," Rederick said angrily. "Fleet Special Forces never liked and will never like fleet intelligence. They considered us superfluous, and generally part of themselves. Because in fact, both they and we performed similar tasks. But we — with an emphasis on mission secrecy, while they had everything — intelligence, sabotage, and a lot of other stuff... So a conflict of interest is another problem."
And there was a third — their commander, whose name meant absolutely nothing to Rederick, knew the scout. Rank, name... You couldn't make that up on the spot. Couldn't recall it from memory if you'd only seen him a couple of times... This was definitely someone who knew him well enough.
Makeno... Makeno...
No, searching his memory, Rederick could say for sure that this name was absolutely unfamiliar to him. Same with the man's face. He was seeing any of these guys for the first time!
However, it was worth noting one peculiarity — Fleet Special Forces generally didn't flaunt their names and faces.
That was the nature of their work.
This special unit of the Imperial Starfleet appeared even before the Battle of Yavin.
An experimental joint program between the fleet command and the Ubiqtorate, the goal of which was to create the fleet's own rapid-response forces for reconnaissance and reconnaissance-sabotage operations. In other words, the fleet needed military intelligence for multi-purpose tasks. Considering that at that time the galaxy was already ablaze with multiple rebel cells, the action wasn't without meaning. The Emperor at that time had ordered the fleet and army to deal with the destruction of insurgents. Ships couldn't endlessly cruise space checking every outcry: "There are rebels here!" They sent "specs" Fleet Special Forces teams.
And "smeared ones" fleet intelligence, which was also created. Supposedly for operational responsiveness, but everyone knew the truth — the Admiralty wanted to get rid of the need to interact with the Imperial Army and Stormtrooper Corps when carrying out special operations. But most of all, they dreamed of sending Imperial Intelligence, as well as counterintelligence, to the Hutt — they often worked not only against rebels but also against the crews of the ships they were on. Rarely did any joint mission end without the arrest of someone from the crew.
Naturally, after that, no one ever saw the detainees again. Never.
For this reason, the new unit operated at the forefront of practically all operations and prevented spending huge resources on tasks that a single five-to-ten-man team could handle.
For the training of the Fleet Special Forces, a planet with the code designation D8-Red, located somewhere in the Core Worlds, was used. Where exactly was a big secret. Allegedly, everything was so well organized there that the training methodology could rival even the training of the Imperial Guard. Probably rumors...
The fighters underwent intensive training, including hand-to-hand combat, terrain camouflage, piloting skills for most known air and ground vehicles, and proficiency in all types of small arms. In addition, operatives were taught the basics of intelligence and counterintelligence. It was this last fact that both intelligence and special forces acutely perceived as the cornerstone. Like, if there are two units doing roughly the same activity, why are there two and not one?
No, of course senior officers understood that someone simply wanted a high-ranking position, so adjacent units appeared. After all, this was not an isolated example of the thoughtlessness of Imperial bureaucracy.
Or maybe someone on similar operations to create new units was just laundering budget money. And, most likely, it was happening precisely in the special forces.
Because if the Fleet Special Forces really had good supplies, why was their equipment so poor?
The fighters wore Imperial Army infantry armor and standard stormtrooper helmets. The main weapons were E-11 blaster rifles — the standard stormtrooper weapon. The rifles were supplemented with standard pistols and grenades. No special weapons were observed in the special forces units on a permanent basis. Rare special weapons, like sniper rifles or Verpine shotguns, appeared exclusively on the "specs'" own money.
One way or another, as far as Rederick remembered, a ridiculously small number was trained — a few hundred fighters, maybe. Because it started out well, but at the level of unit commanders, problems already arose — what to do with these specialists.
Rebels were caught according to the old canons of fleet operations, using scouts, while the "specs.".. began to be used to reinforce regular units.
They landed on planets during large operations together with stormtroopers or fleet infantry (which, by a misunderstanding, bore the ancient designation "Marine Corps"). They were used as assault groups to capture strategically important objects and fortifications.
Sometimes the special forces were lucky, and they did what they were trained for — they were inserted onto enemy planets before the main forces landed. And in that case, they could organize the creation and operation of an agent network. They staged sabotage and marked critical targets for the upcoming attack.
But worst of all was something else — the guys were used as guards for particularly important objects. For example, fleet intelligence mocked their colleagues because several special forces groups watched over the Jedi Temple on Coruscant, destroying anyone who showed an unhealthy interest in that structure. A task that ordinary stormtroopers could have handled, but someone in command wanted it that way.
The initiative for further deployment of the Fleet Special Forces was suspended after, in some unknown way, all personnel and equipment of the TIE fighter manufacturing plant in orbit of Nar Shaddaa, which was guarded by a reinforced special forces contingent, were destroyed. A little later, the special forces also screwed up — and again under unexplained circumstances, an Imperial Star Destroyer was destroyed, crashing onto Raxus Prime.
One way or another, it seemed that the outcome of the meeting between the "specs" and the "smeared one" would certainly not be "simple."
Not only did they serve different "masters," but they were also in competing units with strong mutual animosity...
"Rederick," Pent called him. "So what do we do?"
"What do you mean?" the scout asked in surprise. Not because the Slicer knew his real name, but because... No, seriously, what could you actually do while sitting in a "guest cabin"? It's a cell, really, the name is just a courtesy. They're designed so escape is impossible. Even if you really, really want to.
"Well... they took us with them for a reason, didn't they?" the kid offered. "Wouldn't it be more correct for us to... escape, or something?"
"Uh-huh." Unlike his companion, Rederick knew perfectly well how effective Imperial shipboard cells were. "You start digging a tunnel. I'll take a nap, then I'll join you."
"Okay, sounds good... But where do I dig?"
Oh... this day was going to be very, very long indeed.
* * *
When the docking airlock doors slid open, General-Major Freja Covell did something he hadn't done in a very, very long time.
"General on deck!" he barked — a phrase that held specific meaning for the stormtrooper contingent forming the honor guard of two stormtrooper squads.
Nearly two dozen soldiers clad in snow-white armor snapped their weapons to port arms, forming two perfectly straight ranks — straight enough to measure with a rangefinder — saluting the returning legend of the Imperial armed forces.
General-Major Veers' repulsor-lift wheelchair froze for an instant the moment it crossed the docking bay threshold.
The stern face of the old mentor swept across the ranks of Snowtroopers. He recognized their gear without a doubt, the emblem adorning the pauldrons of these specially-equipped soldiers. A gold-and-green "Imperial" gear — the crest of the Dominion.
And superimposed on it — an AT-AT walker caught mid-stride.
The emblem of Blizzard Force.
An elite unit of the 501st Stormtrooper Corps, in which General-Major Veers had fought his last battle — before his injury. After which he had been "written off" as useless ballast.
The Snowtroopers of Blizzard Force.
The aging man's brown eyes ran tensely over the neat ranks of stormtroopers. Yes, General — every single one of them is a Snowtrooper. Yes, every single one is part of the reconstituted Blizzard Force. Yes, these are the very men you served side by side with for so many years.
Freja had spent many weeks tracking down every one he could reach. Bringing the elite back into service for someone who cared about the Imperial legacy. For someone who wouldn't brand the soldiers for their commanders' actions.
There weren't many of them — barely more than a single company — but that was enough to implement the Blizzard Force restoration program. Especially given who had arrived on this shuttle.
The anti-grav field brought General-Major Veers' wheelchair closer to his former student, equal in rank.
Covell met his mentor's gaze. As befitting a meeting with a man he deeply respected, he waited until Veers extended his right hand for a handshake.
The officers and enlisted personnel crowded at the entrance to the deck looked around in silence, trying to understand the occasion for such honors, who they were for, and how to behave in these circumstances.
They hadn't earned it yet.
Do as much for your homeland as General Veers has done, and you too will be welcomed by those who owe their lives to your instruction and training.
One day, everyone who arrived on board this Acclamator today would get the chance to become legends as great as Maximilian Veers was to the older generation of officers. And perhaps among them would be beings just as loyal and respectful of achievements who would organize a ceremonial reception for them.
"General-Major Covell," the legendary commander greeted his former student in a well-trained voice.
"General-Major Veers," the diligent student echoed.
Even if they held the same rank, even if Covell had received his command pips later than Veers, even if Freja's position was in a sense higher than his mentor's — beyond silly drills and deference to rank, there was simple humanity toward an ally and teacher, which should always remain.
Enemies were a different matter.
But here and now, on board this starship, there were only friends and allies.
Thoroughly vetted by intelligence and counterintelligence, time, and mutual support.
"Retrained as a ship commander, Freja?" the mentor asked with a smirk.
"Negative, sir," the greeter replied, unable to contain the joy filling him. A smile, so rare for him, appeared on his lips. "I'll explain everything over a mug of something hot in my quarters, if you don't mind."
"You can speak freely, Freja," Veers said. Easy for him to say. But when you stand next to a legend of the armored forces, a man who raised you from your cadet days, instilled a love for machinery, and taught you to fight so that the enemy fled at the mere sight of your approach — your shoulders straighten on their own, your back won't bend, and all you want in your head is to live up to the example standing before you... After all these years, General Veers had returned...
"Thank you... sir," Covell couldn't overcome himself.
The general sitting before him just chuckled.
"I believe the welcome is over, isn't it, General Covell?" he asked. "Time to get started on the task Grand Admiral Thrawn has set before me and the instructors. Whatever it may be."
"Yes, sir," Freja nodded. From the look on Veers' face, he understood the welcome had pleased him. But it seemed he didn't fully grasp yet... "Just one thing. May I ask you to execute the command, 'About face'?"
Without a word, the legend turned his repulsor chair.
"Center, dress!" Covell barked.
Eighteen helmets turned in a single motion, their dark visor lenses fixing on the two men of equal rank. "Remove helmets!"
Right hands continued gripping weapons pressed to chest plates, while the left arms of the Snowtroopers shot upward with astonishing synchronicity. They touched the lower edges of their helmets, which slid upward as the hands continued their motion.
A moment later, eighteen helmets were held in travel position, clutched in the stormtroopers' hands.
Freja watched as Veers' back straightened, leaning forward. His eyes literally bored into the soldiers, sliding from one stern face radiating the joy of reunion with their commander to the next.
Faces that, despite the years and the short, graying hair, were all identical.
Because Blizzard Force had been part of the 501st Legion.
And, in the end, after the Kaminoan Uprising, that was the only place where the clones of the Grand Army of the Republic remained.
Clones of Jango Fett.
Veers noisily drew air through his nostrils and turned his head toward Covell.
Freja clicked his heels and saluted. Exactly as the regulations required.
"Welcome home, General Veers," he said loudly. "We've been waiting a long time for your return, sir. A very long time."
They looked at each other. Teacher and student. Former subordinate and former commander.
Two generals.
But neither would say that tears of joy appeared in the other's eyes at that moment.
General-Major Veers had lost one family in the past.
But the second one hadn't forgotten him.
Blizzard Force had believed and waited for at least one of their commanders to return and lead them into another glorious battle.
And now he had returned. Their last commander, General-Major Maximilian Veers.
This time — for good.