"Hand me the plane actuator control module," Dia Passik said, reaching her hand out from inside the engine housing without coming out.
The major, also dressed in a tech jumpsuit like his acquaintance, picked up the required part from the cart. "You do know that according to regulations, this replacement is done through the service hatch?" he clarified before handing the electronics module to the outstretched green-skinned palm.
"Yes, and to do that I'd have to remove three bulky assemblies and drain the oil from the engine system," the Twi'lek woman jerked her hand in annoyance. "Are you just going to stand there and stare at me from behind?"
"I still think you should have left the job to the tech team," Kreb stated. "You don't even know the tightening torque for the fasteners!"
"Oh, by the Emperor's black bones, Kreb, you're such a stickler!" Dia arched her back gracefully to avoid the fragile circuits of the upper right engine and popped out. "I'll let you in on a terrible secret — none of the pilots who fix their own fighters ever use a torque wrench! Ever! A regular wrench is enough…"
"But that's idiocy!"
"Not everyone has the credits for that kind of tool…"
"It costs a hundred credits!"
"You can live on that for a couple of months. Give me the module!" Passik scratched her nose with her knuckles, leaving a dirty smear.
"Sorry, but no!" the major refused firmly. "Breaking regulation might work once, twice, maybe three times, but the errors will accumulate, eventually leading to a serious breakdown!"
"Oh, right, sure!" Passik grimaced. "I don't recall Wedge Antilles or Tycho Celchu ever having anything break."
"First — the dead aren't an argument," Kreb countered. "Second, for your information — Rogue Squadron always had a tech crew. And they had Verpine with them! And those guys…"
"Yes, yes, yes, for Verpine, tech regulations are like a prayer to a believer. If you make a mistake, that's it, you're done, the Holy Inquisition will come for you tomorrow and flog you," Passik mimicked someone. "Kreb, I'm not joking. Give me the module before I come down to the deck and take it from you by force!"
Kreb sized up the strongly built but still fragile-looking (compared to him) girl with an appraising glance. "Stop committing sabotage on your own fighter," he asked. "Or I'll complain to the chief specialist and you'll be banned from this repair shop!"
Passik gave him a long, piercing look. Then she silently walked across the X-wing's wing to its end and jumped lightly onto the deck. She walked right up to the major and placed her hand on the module. "You are the most annoying of all the volunteer helpers I've ever had!" she declared.
"Maybe your helpers didn't care how you fastened the wing deployment control module, but I do," Kreb didn't fall for the trick and held the part firmly. "Without the correct installation procedure, after a dozen wing manipulations, the pins will shear off, the module will tear out of its mounting…"
"That's never happened!"
"Because your ships underwent maintenance after every mission! And if the module tears off, it won't just smash your circuit boards, it will also cut the fuel lines, cause a short circuit, resulting in a fire in one engine, which will almost immediately spread to the second through the adjacent housing and…"
Dia didn't hear what happened next — Kreb's words were drowned out by the roar of a siren, accompanied by flashing yellow lights.
"Attention! Scimitar Squadron — combat alert. Readiness — two minutes. Briefing in room seven. Repeat, Scimitar Squadron — combat alert…"
"What are you frozen for, Major?" Passik asked in surprise. "Combat alert is sounded, and you're standing there staring at a half-naked girl covered in oil…"
Kreb was taken aback at first, but reacted in time — a quick attempt to snatch the component from his hands resulted in him simply stepping a step back.
"First — I expected that," he said. "Second — this is an alert for one squadron. Third —"
"You are, in fact, a wing commander," the Twi'lek reminded him. "And you should know where your subordinates are being sent…"
"If the task has been assigned to just one squadron, then only that squadron needs to report for the briefing," Kreb stated. "Obviously, if it concerned me, they would have notified me over the comlink."
He showed the device attached to the forearm of his work coveralls.
"And…" Dia thoughtfully scratched her nose, increasing the area of dirt, which nearly made Kreb laugh, but he settled for a smile. "What assignment could be given to bombers without fighter cover?"
For a few seconds, the major pondered her words, then, breaking into a wide grin, he asked:
"Don't you want to see for yourself?"
Dia Passik found nothing to counter that.
* * *
Definitely, the planet Egon-IX had not pleased Tomax Bren from the very first words of the instructor.
A dead world containing something of great interest to the Dominion.
And that something is sealed within the depths of the dead planet, protected by orbital and anti-air defense weapons.
Along with at least a couple of operational hypervelocity guns, enough to send a chill down to the roots of your hair.
A nontrivial task.
The time window is tiny.
But the pilots of the Scimitar squadron had pulled off stunts like this in their glorious past.
Impossible missions are exactly their level of mastery.
"All systems functional, bomb bays full of surprises, and our hearts full of resolve," he heard Alex's voice.
Cheerful and relaxed, he was trying to encourage the commander of his crew.
"We'll begin when you're ready," he said. "Take your time, Captain. We've still got plenty of time."
The jab had its intended effect.
In reality, they didn't have a spare second.
It was all about to start.
And it was too late to back out.
"I'm fine, Alex," he said. "Just a little nervous, nothing more."
"Because of the hypervelocity guns?" his partner inquired. "There's only two of them, and they're clearly not going to stop us."
Tomax shook his head, as if that were answer enough.
"I've seen with my own eyes how they cut through ships whose hulls are made of beskar alloy like a vibroblade through butter. I once heard a description given to this weapon: 'You can imagine the death this weapon brings. Understand in full detail how its shells tear your armor to shreds and turn sentients into fine dust settling inside the compartments. But only until the moment you yourself come under fire from this weapon. Then you won't even have time to be scared. The last thing you'll see and remember is the bright light of the munitions rushing toward you. And even a single hit from one will be enough to end your life.'"
"Gives me the chills, honestly," Alex admitted. "I don't recall you being an impressionable fellow, Captain. They don't usually shoot at small craft with hypervelocity guns. I'd be more worried about the orbital and anti-air defenses. Those guns will definitely make us sweat."
"I know," Tomax nodded to himself. "It's just… How important must a secret be to be kept under such guard, Alex? We've attacked many different hidden fortifications, but never anything that could be protected by more than one hypervelocity gun. Hutt, one such gun is enough to gut an entire fleet of ships! And here — at least two, and at most, all four of the five known guns produced for the Empire! What could be so important? Setting up defense like that is like placing a Death Star to guard an asteroid."
"Tomax, honestly, I don't care what's down there," Alex said from beneath his helmet's mask. "Didn't Thrawn tell us exactly what we're supposed to do and what we're hunting for?"
"The combat task isn't assigned that way," Tomax shook his head. "We only know what we need to know. No more, no less. The ultimate goal of the operation is Grand Admiral Thrawn's concern. And, you know, I used to have no questions at all about what we did and how. But now… What is the Empire or its followers hiding there that requires such defense measures? I don't like this. Even Palpatine's treasury was less protected than some base in the Ashen Worlds."
"There's an easy way to find out," Alex chuckled, starting up the auxiliary systems of the Scimitar-01. "We'll complete the mission and ask the army guys. Or are you scared, Tomax?"
The face of the Scimitar squadron commander darkened.
"You'll have to answer for those words," he said coldly, hearing the dispatcher's voice granting clearance for takeoff.
"I'm in a bomber," Alex reminded him. "What's going to happen to me in the cockpit of the Scimi—"
The flight engineer didn't get to finish.
The Scimitar-01 burst out of the Guardian's depths and surged forward toward its target.
* * *
"Wow," was all Dia could manage, watching the bombers practically vanish into the vacuum. "Those are the new models that gave you the advantage last year, right?"
The major sat next to the woman in a fairly narrow technical tunnel, where, through a viewport, they could watch the launch of Tomax Bren's ships with their own eyes.
The tunnel was used for calibrating external lighting fixtures, but since they were working properly, nobody was there now.
"One of them," he reported as accurately as possible. "The Scimitar fast bombers."
"Solar panels…" Passik frowned. "I can't recall anything like that in Sienar's developments."
"The corporation wasn't involved in their development," the major admitted.
"What do you mean?"
"Very old designs were used, combined with new technical solutions… And there's no twin ion engine here either. So it's unrelated to the TIE series."
"Are you saying you developed this bomber yourselves?" the Twi'lek looked at him with wide eyes.
"As I said — the designs were still Imperial, but rejected and shelved. Our specialists just refined them and got what we have…"
"Reminds me of the story about the creation of the A-Wing," Dia snorted. "Interesting setup you have here, though…"
"That's why I like serving in the Dominion," Kreb said unexpectedly. "There's always something new… As soon as our enemies come up with some novelty that outclasses our machines, we already have a full-fledged 'answer,' often even surpassing the opponent's ships."
"Yes, I saw how your techs modified the TIE Interceptors," Dia nodded. "Deflectors, launchers… You're doing well here with a constantly modernized fleet. I remember when we first organized the Wraith Squadron, we didn't even have enough T-65s as per regulations. And we had to get spare parts almost on the black market."
"We had a similar situation," Kreb agreed, nodding. "But now we have our own production, all the parts and machines are manufactured and assembled in the Dominion…"
Dia Passik remained silent, watching as the orbital defense cannons pierced the shields and hulls of old cargo ships.
"I'm looking at all this," she said. "And I just can't understand. What's the point of sacrificing still-flightworthy ships to orbital defense forces? I've only heard about hypervelocity guns by reputation, but hoping that target ships would deplete the PCO's ammunition is at least foolish. After all, they could have just been sent for metal recycling, melted down into something useful… In the New Republic, even such an antique would have been put to use."
"They are being put to use here too," Major Kreb said, surprise in his voice. "Isn't it obvious?"
"No," Dia admitted frankly. "I'm sitting here, watching Thrawn feed old starships to the grinder, and I just can't figure out the point… Wait a moment!"
The girl pointed a finger at a series of explosions on the planet's surface, clearly visible from orbit.
"Is that what I think it is?"
"Exactly," Kreb nodded. "That's why the Scimitars are operating without fighter cover. We simply can't keep up with them when the guys use the PLAE."
"And what's that? Do you have some new hyperdrive that works in a gravity well?"
"Military secret."
"Kre-e-eb."
"I can't tell you."
"Kre-e-e-e-eb! Well, how about I don't tinker with the X-Wing myself and let your techs finish it?"
"Don't even try to sweet-talk me. Still not telling you."
"Come on, Kre-e-e-e-e-eb!"
"I'm beskar when it comes to military secrets. If you're interested, you can ask Grand Admiral Thrawn directly."
"Have I told you you're ruthless as a rancor?" the girl asked, looking the pilot straight in the eye.
"Seven times just today," Kreb confirmed.
"You can't intrigue a girl and then tell her you won't satisfy her," Dia Passik declared didactically.
Kreb choked.
The Twi'lek good-naturedly thumped her fist on his back, making his skeleton creak.
"I meant satisfying curiosity," she clarified.
"I understood," Kreb wheezed. "Do you enjoy speaking in such ambiguities?"
"I'm from Ryloth, remember," the girl reminded him. "Ambiguity and borderline flirtation are normal behavior. It's not like I'm a hundred years old to play the chaste matron. And you react so amusingly… I'm sure no pilot in the galaxy has ever made you sweat like I have in a confrontation. So, consider this my little revenge for you being such a good pilot, Major. And besides, a girl needs some entertainment."
"How about I just buy you a torque wrench?" Kreb offered, giving Dia an angry look.
"You won't get off that cheaply, Dominion man," she wagged a finger at him. "But a candlelit dinner…"
The sound of the comlink made Kreb switch to more important matters.
"Attention all flight personnel!" the dispatcher's voice boomed from the tiny speaker. "Battle stations alert. Scimitar squadron is under attack by enemy small craft. Immediate assistance required from all available ships. Launch in three minutes. This is not a drill…"
"Well, now I'm not in the mood for jokes," Dia said seriously, glancing at the planet. "What small craft could cause trouble for the Scimitars, which move at the speed of sight?"
"I don't know," Kreb said curtly, pointing her toward the technical hatch. "But we need to hurry. You first."
"Just admit you like the view from behind," Dia giggled, pecking the blushing Kreb on the cheek. Then she started backing toward the hatch, keeping her face toward the man.
She gracefully pressed her boot on a button, swung the hatch open, and crawled out gracefully.
Kreb followed the same route.
They had just over a minute and forty-five seconds left.
A thirty-second run to his squadron's bay.
By then, the ship would already be warming up.
All that's left is to put on the helmet, connect the LSS, and seal the suit.
"You'd better get back to your quarters," he warned, realizing he would have to part with the girl right now.
There was no need to explain that due to the battle, her X-Wing would likely be moved out of the repair bay to make room for damaged small craft from the Guardian.
No matter how much she clown around, Dia had adapted fairly quickly to the orders reigning aboard the flagship star destroyer.
"Take care of yourself, Major," instead of answering, Dia looked at him seriously, letting him know she could be serious. She just got bored in the company of pilots and crew who lived for war. And Kreb, unfortunately for him, turned out to be someone who was, albeit with a big stretch, still her acquaintance. "Even though you're such a stuffy person, at least when I'm with you, I don't think about the various troubles that have fallen on my head over the past year and a half…"
The major thought that ninety percent of those troubles were his own fault.
A surreal situation.
Seeing the small fist extended toward him, the major hesitated for a second, then responded with a light tap of his own.
No goodbyes.
No promises.
They were both combat pilots and understood perfectly what it meant to talk about things you couldn't guarantee for objective reasons.
Oddly enough, he was in the cockpit within twenty-five seconds.
Five seconds later, his Avenger was outside the hangar, exiting on afterburner into the atmosphere of Egon-IX.
The squadron followed him.
As did dozens of other ships.
In the atmosphere and on the surface of Egon-IX, a slaughter was unfolding that demanded the utmost attention from Major Kreb.
* * *
At first glance, everything was going exactly as planned.
The fourth wave of target ships provoked fire from the hypervelocity guns.
As soon as the first two targets were destroyed, after the well-known interval, the orbital defense weapons opened up.
"Scimitar squadron has engaged enemy small craft, sir," Captain Pellaeon reported, also staring at the tactical hologram.
"Do we know who they are?"
"No, sir. They attacked without warning. Using missile and cannon armament."
Interesting.
Why didn't the enemy use small craft earlier?
The most obvious answer is that our opponent uses droid-piloted fighters, or their equivalent.
Again — the principles of defense organization correspond to an automated approach.
The small craft were only launched when the planet's security protocol was violated, not when the orbital group was suppressed.
Logical from the standpoint that not all the 'cards' of the base's defense system are revealed.
Until the moment we sent an entire squadron, there was no question of the enemy using small craft.
A couple of scouts dispatched along with the droids were met by fire from the anti-air systems, not a launch of small craft.
Therefore, we must account for either heuristic, learning, or specific algorithms from the base's computer, reacting to precise criteria for attacking the facility.
"We've received telemetry from the Scimitar-01," the watch officer reported, handing Pellaeon a datapad with the data.
"What about the other ships?" I asked.
"Destroyed or shot down, sir," the Guardian's commander replied, glancing over the monitor. "This is some new development, sir. I've never seen anything like it…"
Looking at the matrix on the datapad handed to me, I frowned.
There was nothing like this in my memory either.
Not from the studied archives of current machines used by the Empire or other governments.
Something new?
A central cockpit, three planes topped with single cannons.
Launchers embedded along the entire length of the plane's edge.
A design completely different from anything that was widely used by the Galactic Empire.
Perhaps it resembles the V-19 Torrent, except the side planes are directed upward from the keel instead of downward.
Only instead of a cockpit, there's one massive and clearly fast engine, giving the droid speeds on par with a TIE fighter.
Reviewing the recording of the battle, I noted that the machines' actions were formulaic in various situations.
Both at the beginning of the battle and at its end, the enemy doesn't employ anything new.
Consequently, no real-time combat analysis is being performed.
These are fighter droids with non-learning intelligence.
Still, the design seems vaguely familiar.
"No way?!" a surprised female voice rang out behind me. "That can't be!"
Turning my chair, I looked at Dia Passik, who stood on the central platform, her hand covering her mouth in surprise.
She was accompanied by a pair of guards, and the girl's eyes were fixed on the tactical hologram, where the onboard computer was already adjusting the display of enemy ship icons.
"Lady Passik?"
I have no questions about how the girl got onto the bridge — she is permitted practically anywhere on the ship in Kreb's or the guards' company.
The young woman has shown no attempts at sabotage or harming us.
On the contrary, she is getting more and more involved in what's happening, without expressing any desire to leave us.
She has no access to most information about galactic events, but she successfully compensates for this by being in the common officers' mess, where 'HoloNet-Dominion' announcers periodically broadcast the latest news that has passed through tacit censorship.
"Forgive me," she was embarrassed, noticing that her exclamation had attracted the attention of practically every sentient on the bridge: from me to the last stormtrooper of the guard platoon. "I… couldn't contain my emotions."
"Are you familiar with our opponent?" I inquired.
"If I'm not mistaken, these are rocket droids," she said. "Seven years ago, the Rebel Alliance fell into an Imperial trap on Dubrillion and encountered these machines in the Empire's service."
Now it's clear.
The design is indeed familiar — from Republic Intelligence reports related to that mission.
But the description there was distorted and generalized, with no images, which is why I didn't immediately realize that 'tri-wing fighters armed with cannons and launchers' were exactly what we were facing.
"Captain Pellaeon," I addressed the Guardian's commander. "Have our fighters already engaged the enemy?"
"Yes, sir. We're taking losses," he replied and immediately added, "Very significant ones. The Fourth Special Detachment's transport was shot down, but all troopers managed to deploy before the crash. They are ready to continue the mission as planned."
Stubborn men.
They have my respect.
"Recall the air wing," I ordered. "Prepare to deliver an orbital strike on identified enemy targets. Contact Delta Squad — I want those hypervelocity guns silenced so they can't hit us during the unmasking. We'll raze every other defensive line of the base to the ground."
The time needed for the guns to reload had expired.
We have significantly destroyed the enemy's anti-air and orbital defenses, but immediately after the orbital strike on the remaining ones, the central computer will be able to calculate our position and strike the Guardian based on the principle of elimination.
I intend to take those guns with us.
Whether the base itself and its precious contents will survive the orbital bombardment remains a big question, but we are not leaving here without valuable trophies.
However, I also don't intend to capture them 'at any cost.'
No matter how many fire points on the enemy's ground our bombers destroyed, new ones kept appearing.
It seemed that every stone here was a camouflaged laser or turbolaser cannon.
The only way to ensure the safety of the ground operation is to begin orbital bombardment and scorch every square meter of the surface around the base.
But even with the Guardian's arsenal, we'll need at least half an hour for that.
The ship will be forced to repel both the enemy's rocket droid raids and volleys from the hypervelocity guns, not to mention the orbital defense systems that will reveal themselves.
And while the latter and the former might harass, but not destroy, the Guardian — which I plan to reinforce with the remaining ships allocated for the raid — the hypervelocity guns are an entirely different story: they will tear the Guardian to pieces.
So we must disable them before we start the orbital bombardment.
I think Pellaeon understood this, as well as my intentions.
"Yes, sir!"
"Grand Admiral, um…" Dia Passik started.
"Take a free spot," I ordered. "And observe. I don't like losing subordinates where the big calibers will decide everything."
* * *
"Yes, sir, Guardian OCC," Tomax's voice held irritation. The Scimitar squadron commander was at the briefing and had seen the drone reconnaissance data.
He, like any other professional, knew well that thorough knowledge of this most valuable information could save his and his pilots' lives.
"Are they trying to be funny?" Alex asked angrily. "We're pulling out of the fight?"
"That's right," Tomax confirmed, rolling his ship onto the right plane and firing a burst from the forward guns at an enemy machine. "They're preparing an orbital strike on the base."
"Oh, so we lost eleven fine men for nothing, slamming our proton torpedoes into the orbital and anti-air defense guns?" Alex fumed.
The cockpit was filled with the roar of the high-speed bomber's mechanisms working at full capacity, performing an unfamiliar fighter mission.
If the enemy hadn't damaged the PLAE with a missile, they would have been out of here in one jump long ago.
And Alex would have even been grateful to Bren if he'd repeated his 'joke' with the sudden acceleration, which had nearly made the flight engineer leave the contents of his stomach inside his helmet.
But here, in the atmosphere of Egon-IX, a true hell had erupted.
Hundreds of enemy machines, leaving hangars camouflaged as rocks and piles of debris, attacked in enormous swarms, literally mowing down everything in their path.
Missiles and laser cannons from enemy small craft, combined with barrages from anti-air defenses, instantly filled the space over the attacked enemy base, leaving most pilots no chance for escape on the first strike.
The Scimitar-01 and its crew were only fortunate because the enemy's counterattack began at the moment they were in the third echelon, having made a short sprint after striking the orbital defense systems and exiting the danger zone.
Currently, two battlefields had formed over the objective.
In the echelon between three and five kilometers, a battle was raging between the Guardian's arriving air wing, while below, the Scimitar-01 and attack gunships were hammering enemy positions and the endlessly revealed enemy fire points.
To say it was 'hot' here was an understatement.
This was a real aerial slaughter.
Usually, Dominion aviation held the attacker's position and dictated the rules of engagement to the enemy, but in the current situation, the roles had changed in an unexpected and most unfavorable way.
The rocket droids didn't have extreme speeds or maneuverability, but they moved like fighters, and their armament and missile load practically matched attack gunships.
Rocket droid.
"Not for nothing," Tomax countered, shaking off a rocket droid from his tail during a turn and letting Alex finish off the last one with his laser cannon.
"An orbital strike will leave nothing here but a scorched and baked desert of slag!" Alex insisted. "Why the hell did we get involved in all this in the first place if we don't want to take this object intact?"
"Thrawn changed the plans due to the high number of casualties," Tomax Bren replied.
His pre-flight jitters had passed.
Almost all the pilots in his squadron had been lost — only a couple of ships managed a hard landing.
But if the Guardian was going for an orbital bombardment, then the landing operation was crossed out.
This in turn meant that the downed crews could be trapped, if they could even get out of there.
As a pilot, Commander Tomax could not allow such losses on his side.
Not today.
Not now.
Never.
"Hey, what are you doing?!" Alex's voice screamed in his helmet. "The order was to withdraw, not fly toward the surface!"
"We still have half our proton torpedoes in the bomb bay," Tomax explained. "I'm not abandoning the pilots on the ground! Look! Ground enemy groups are emerging from the ruins!"
"Bantha poodoo!" Alex swore. "Thrawn should be thinking about that, not us! Besides, our commandos' Raider landed three kilometers from here!"
Tomax recalled that "landing."
Rocket droids had shot down the ship in midair, having detected the craft with its stealth hull.
The ship might have hidden from the base's scanners, but not from the optical sensors of the rocket droids.
"Patch me through to the Guardian's OCC," Tomax declared, clenching his teeth at the sight of the enemies bearing down on him.
They were pursuing the assault gunships retreating under the protection of interceptors.
A significant portion of the rocket droids had already expended their kinetic ammunition, so they had returned for rotation.
But their places were taken by machines that had risen from camouflaged hangars.
Laser shots laced the air above the cockpit: the first wave of bandits opened fire.
With the first shot from his fast bomber's cannons, he destroyed two enemy ships.
The rest turned away and, weaving from side to side, began to retreat, pursued by the accelerating Dominion interceptors.
"Captain Bren, an order was given to return."
Those were the first words from the Guardian's OCC.
"Sir, I know all about the orbital bombardment," Tomax hissed, steering his craft away from the enemy's barrage. "Connect me with Grand Admiral Thrawn. I have a plan!"
"Captain, disobeying orders..."
"Give me Thrawn!" Tomax yelled. "I know how to destroy the enemy's air force!"
Then, with a quick motion, he switched to proton torpedoes.
The enemy rocket droids had bunched up during their retreat, which offered a chance for a good shot.
Two proton torpedoes detonated in the enemy formation, destroying two machines and turning their wreckage into shrapnel.
Having spent two out of sixteen munitions, Bren destroyed or disabled seven enemy machines.
A second later, Tomax and his craft were racing mere meters above the ground; the Scimitar's exhaust stripped a thin layer of soil from the rock, leaving massive dust clouds in their wake.
A vertical mountain slope loomed ahead, and then, as the rocket droids he was pursuing during their retreat made a sharp turn, it too veered to the side.
The life support system forced air into Tomax's suit to prevent him from losing consciousness from the G-forces.
The captain grunted from the tremendous effort, trying to keep his hands on the control stick.
"Thrawn on the line, Captain Bren," the earpiece reported. "I'm listening carefully."
"The enemy has deployed a second wave of rocket droids against us," Bren said quickly. "The first is rotating. They expend their missiles, fight with cannons for two minutes, then withdraw to positions. They have a small fuel reserve, so they try to shoot down with barrage fire and mass missile launches in the first few minutes."
"Yes, we noticed that too."
Tomax opened fire simultaneously with his co-pilot, and two droids — one ahead and one behind the Scimitar-01 — vanished in blinding flashes of explosions, the first of which blackened the bomber's sides as Tomax flew through a cloud of superheated gas.
"I've broken through the close-range barrage," he reported. "I have telemetry on their hangars."
"We'll use it to deliver an orbital strike."
"Sir, I've counted over fifty downed pilots on the ground. They'll die under that order. I want to take out the hangars myself."
The Grand Admiral was silent for two seconds.
"You'll lock the first wave of rocket droids inside the hangars while our fighters strip the second wave of its ammunition," the Grand Admiral deduced. "Can you handle it?"
Tomax pulled his protesting Scimitar into a steep loop, raking the gun turrets that had risen in his path with fire.
He roasted one and turned the second into a fiery torch.
"I already have three hangars in my sights, sir," Bren reported calmly. "I see enemy ground groups moving toward the pilots. Companies of droids, sir. I simply cannot sacrifice the pilots. The mission objective, as I understood it, was a ground assault. An orbital strike could wipe out everything here."
"We've already lost half of the Guardian's air wing, Captain," Thrawn told him. "I am not prepared to lose more lives in this battle. I am giving you a chance to succeed. Fail, and we begin the bombardment. At the slightest threat of destruction, withdraw using the PLAE. Is that clear?"
Tomax opened his mouth to correct the Grand Admiral.
And immediately closed it.
Tell the truth — doom himself to having the operation canceled.
He couldn't do that.
"Understood, sir."
But the pause that hung between the question and the answer did not escape Thrawn.
"Is your PLAE in order, Captain?"
The Grand Admiral's insinuating voice cut into his veins like a live wire.
Bren felt beads of sweat roll down his face.
Nearby, a TIE interceptor, smoking from both engines, scraped across the surface.
Tomax executed a quick turn with an ascending spiral around the crash site, and managed to see the pyrotechnic charges blow the canopy, and a figure in a black flight suit climb out of the "eye."
The pilot, shooting at B-2 battle droids that appeared over the ridge, took cover behind rocks, returning fire.
"In full working order, sir," he lied. "It's hot down here, sir. May I proceed?"
He had to wait a long two seconds for Thrawn's response.
Icy drops ran down his back, soaking through his undershirt.
A sour smell of sweat began to fill his helmet.
"Proceed, Captain."
The permission came along with the crash of tension falling from Tomax's shoulders.
* * *
The schematic flickered with telemetry of sustained damage.
The designated component was highlighted in red, which meant...
"But he lied," Captain Pellaeon, standing next to the control console, said, looking away and glancing at Dia Passik.
The girl, realizing she had said that aloud, reflexively covered her mouth with her hand, looking at the Guardian's commander with an apologetic gaze.
Pellaeon looked at Thrawn, but the Grand Admiral pretended not to have noticed anything.
He did not order the mission aborted.
He did not intervene.
Understood.
The explanations fell to the commander of the flagship.
"That is true," Pellaeon confirmed. "Captain Tomax Bren did indeed distort objective reality."
"But he won't be able to escape if everything goes wrong!" the girl insisted.
"Captain Bren took a deliberate risk," the Grand Admiral explained, continuing to study the tactical hologram. "He understands that an orbital strike on the base's defensive systems will not allow the downed pilots to survive. We cannot miss the chance to suppress the enemy's defense systems and also inflict casualties on the enemy's ground forces. This will facilitate the subsequent ground assault."
"So... your pilot is risking his life just to save fifty clones, whom you can produce as many as you want?" Passik was taken aback.
"Clones?" the Grand Admiral repeated, turning his chair toward the Twi'lek. "For each of us, they are battle brothers."
"But you are ready to sacrifice them!"
"The death of fifty to save the lives of a thousand?" Thrawn repeated. "Yes, I am prepared for such sacrifices. Captain Bren is not. That is the difference between how a strategist and a tactician perceive the battlefield. Even the most ruthless pilot with an Imperial past is not untouched by human feelings. I believe you have already had the opportunity to see that for yourself, Lady Passik."
"But... if he doesn't do what he wants, then his life will be wasted!"
"Indeed?" Grand Admiral Thrawn's right eyebrow rose in surprise. "Honor is what distinguishes career soldiers from those who enlist for revenge, for money, for power. Captain Bren knows he will not be able to sleep if he does not do everything in his power to try to save the downed pilots. Major Kreb would do the same. And, if you recall, there was a similar case in Wraith Squadron — a pilot broke off from combat to try to save his partner and friend. He did not succeed. And during the rescue operation, he realized it would not work. But he did what he believed was right. Every one of us faces a choice in life — to act and answer for the consequences, or to cowardly step aside, reproaching ourselves for cowardice."
"But alone, surrounded by enemies... that's certain death!"
"We will all die," Thrawn stated. "Sooner or later. And only we decide what kind of death it will be — the death of a hero or a coward. One should not become a soldier to live a long, quiet life. For only through this can one attain true immortality, Lady Passik."
"What do you mean?" the Twi'lek frowned.
"As long as the names of heroes are remembered, they are immortal," Grand Admiral Thrawn explained. "To be a warrior is to live forever, Lady Passik. That is the entire difference between us and our enemies. We have already immortalized our names."
Captain Pellaeon caught the bewildered look on the Twi'lek's face as she turned her head, peering at the faces of the bridge crew.
But everywhere she saw only one thing.
Warriors of the Dominion.
* * *
Switching to his forward lasers, Tomax swept across the enemy droids, thinning them out and easing the situation of the unknown clone of Major Kreb.
After that, executing a barrel roll to the right, he fired a burst into a rocket droid that flew past him.
Is it worth blaming the Grand Admiral for intending to capture something valuable, but everything going against plan?
The brevity of the orbital strike is explainable — in this way, the Guardian will also cover the enemy's ground contingent.
Thus, if the base withstands, there will be a respite for the ground operation of the 501st Legion.
But the pilots shot down on enemy territory certainly won't be able to escape the trap on their own.
We need to ensure the enemy loses the ability to return the rocket droids to the battlefield.
Tomax looked at his wrist chronometer.
Two more minutes and the second wave will rotate.
Time to act.
"Arm the warheads!" he ordered. "Set them to detonate on loss of contact with the craft or on impact."
"Done!"
Rocks usually block the frequencies of remote detonators, so there is no point in using that method of detonation.
Impact, of course.
But the hangars, as far as Tomax could see, were not built to ship standards — there were shafts connecting the doors to the interiors.
So, if a proton torpedo flies into that "bottleneck," the telemetry will be cut off inside.
The explosion will cause the tunnel to collapse and block the hangar's contents.
Tomax meticulously checked all detection systems.
The kilometer to the first target felt like the longest distance he had ever traveled in his life.
Anti-air laser cannon bolts pounded against the deflector, behind him the rapid-fire laser roared and Alex's cursing carried.
The closer to the target, the worse it got.
But Tomax simply could not fire the torpedo from close range — the enemy could send a droid to intercept or shoot it down with laser cannons.
Then the whole plan would go down the drain.
A battered rocket droid crossed his field of view, firing a burst at him.
Thus forcing Bren into a loop that ended with the enemy's destruction.
The hangar turned out to be camouflaged as an old drainage culvert of such diameter that a Corellian corvette could easily fly through it.
Tomax thought that this junk was exactly what was not needed for true "happiness."
He feigned a withdrawal from the target, performed a turn with an ascending spiral, which he broke off on the first loop.
And immediately launched two proton torpedoes into the maw of the huge stone pipe protruding from the massive cliff face.
The first munition blew up a rocket droid that got in its way, but the second darted where it needed to go.
Staying put was the stupidest idea.
Tomax set course for the second hangar.
Staying here would have been suicide, given the dozen rocket droids that had burst out of the neighboring hangar.
With a full combat load.
And at the same time, a triumphant cry from Alex caught his attention — they were fired upon by a rocket droid that had emerged from behind the nearest hill.
A concussion missile, designed to defeat enemies with shockwaves, detonated very close.
The cockpit windscreen spiderwebbed with cracks, decompression rushed in from various sides, but Bren did not give the enemy a second chance for success.
Executing a loop, Tomax saw a torrent of fire and dust erupt from the culvert, and its arch collapse, permanently blocking the camouflaged hangar's doors.
He forced himself to exhale.
Sweat streamed down his face, and he couldn't wipe it off because of the helmet.
"Report to the Guardian that the first target is destroyed," he said, heading for the second point. "Alex!"
Only silence came from behind the pilot's seat.
Seizing a moment, Tomax glanced at the rearview mirror, installed for such purposes.
And found the limp body of his co-pilot in a black flight suit, pierced in several places by pieces of transparisteel from the canopy.
Tomax glanced at the crew life support monitor.
First a wave of heat, then cold washed over him...
Drops streamed down the stern face of the Dominion pilot.
But this time it was no longer sweat.
Moving the engine control lever to the correct position, Captain Tomax Bren switched the guidance computer for the proton torpedoes to his own control.