Марта Уэллс - From a Certain Point of View

—

Few pilots liked simulator training, considering it a criticism of their flying abilities. But Red Squadron assembled on time, with minimal grumbling. Even the rookies guessed that the frantic pace of preparations meant imminent action.

“At ease,” Wedge said. “The pirates have compromised our security at a time when we’re still waiting for high-value Alliance personnel to arrive. That gives us two alternatives. The first is we jump to the backup muster point and hope the missing can find us. The second is we destroy the pirates.”

Zowlie was staring at him eagerly, while Frix and Tarheel had their arms crossed. Kott was chewing her fingernails, eyes wide.

“We’ve chosen to destroy them,” he said, to nods and murmurs of approval. “Tomorrow at oh-eight-hundred.”

Elar and Scotian exchanged a quick glance.

“These mission parameters aren’t ideal,” he said. “But nothing is right now. It’s our job to give the chancellor some breathing room so she can fix that.”

He paused, giving the pilots a chance for objections. But they stayed quiet.

“We’re going to sim a pincer maneuver,” he said. “Two flights of three birds coming from each direction, converging on their base. Our mission objective is straightforward: total destruction.”

—

When the Contessa found Wedge, the weary members of Red Squadron had departed for their quarters, leaving the tactical suite empty—except for one tank tumbling wildly on its gimbals, from which muffled yells could be heard.

“I thought the exercise was over,” the Contessa said.

“I asked Janson to run a quick additional sim.”

“With what mission objective?”

“The parameters changed mid-exercise,” Wedge said. “Now the goal is to see if Wes can locate and deactivate an aerosol dispenser emitting tauntaun musk while experiencing heavy g forces.”

The Contessa just blinked at him before turning away.

“Pilots,” she muttered.

“Anyway, let’s leave Wes to it,” Wedge said. “You were watching the exercise?”

“I was. You’ve picked good flight leaders, and your plan is sound. My advice? Talk a lot. Keep the rookies listening to you and watching what’s around them. Once the blood starts pumping, they’ll lose situational awareness, and tunnel vision will kill them.”

Wedge nodded. “I will. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. And you’ve earned something else, Red Leader.”

Wedge cocked his head at her.

“I come from a world you’ve never heard of,” the Contessa said. “My family ruled it for centuries. I’d like to think we were benevolent rulers, but our word was still law. When the Empire sent an ambassador, we refused her and thought that would be the end of it. Five years later everyone in my family was dead and our subjects who’d greeted the Empire as liberators were enslaved. I no longer use my birth name, but I still call myself the Contessa. It’s to remind me of everything I thought would protect me and didn’t.”

She put her hand on Wedge’s shoulder. “We all have something like that, Commander. Remember it’s no better than a charm around your neck, or crossing your fingers. Protect your people, pick your targets wisely, and hit them hard. It’s all you can do.”

—

Wedge’s X-wing came out of hyperspace with a bump and a squeal from R5-G8. A moment later the starfighters flown by Sila Kott and Tomer Darpen arrived to port and starboard—in perfect formation, he noted.

“All wings report in,” Wedge said.

The pilots ran through their call signs, from Keyser Salm (Red Two) to Cinda Tarheel (Red Twelve). Zowlie was breathing so hard that his words dissolved into static.

“Red Nine, take five deep breaths,” Wedge said. “Better. Now stick with your flight leader.”

“Copy that, Red Leader. Deep breaths!”

“Red Eight, we’ll make the target run,” Wedge told Scotian. “Cover us.”

That was the plan they’d simmed—his flight and Janson’s would hit the targets on the landing field, with Scotian’s and Elar’s flights running interference. But he knew plans only survived until the first laser blast.

“Ix, Cinda, tighten up,” said Scotian. “Keep them off Red Leader’s back.”

“Landing field’s locked in,” Wedge said. “Watch your vectors—Wes’s and Bela’s flights will be coming in at twelve o’clock. Stay out of their flight path.”

An alert buzzed in his ears.

“Commander,” said Kott. “Three bandits at point two-seven. Looks like Z-95 Headhunters.”

“I see them—stay on target. Scotian? Engage.”

Laserfire flashed around him, the brightness making him blink before his viewport dimmed to compensate. Kott’s X-wing bucked and swerved to port.

“Stay with me, Sila,” Wedge said. “Red Eleven, any signs of a hangar on the landing field?”

“Too far out to tell,” Janson replied. “But torpedoes are armed.”

“Red Leader, multiple bandits incoming from below,” Scotian warned.

A Z-95 shot past Wedge’s bow, followed by an ungainly fighter cobbled together from patchwork parts. Wedge banked smoothly away from them, peppering the pirates with laserfire to keep them honest, then swung back onto his approach vector.

“Stick with your wings,” he said. “Engage, but don’t get lured away. Sila, Tomer, on me.”

Within another minute the engagement had devolved into a brawl, with pilots talking over one another and space lit up with explosions. Wedge tried to make sense of the alerts and shouted warnings, then gave up—as with any dogfight, there was too much to track. All he could do was talk to his own wings and rely on the other flight leaders to do the same.

His screen flared crimson, warning of a weapons lock. Wedge rolled to starboard, throttled back his engines, and then snapped his fighter back to port. The pirate who’d been chasing Wedge found himself dead in his sights instead, and a moment later Wedge flew through the bright cloud that was all that remained of him.

“I got one, I got one!” yelled Zowlie. “Gonna take out his buddy!”

“Penn, maintain formation,” warned Elar. “Get back here now. ”

“Almost there,” Zowlie said, and Wedge could hear his excitement. “Oh! Wait—”

“We lost Penn,” Elar said. “Grizz, do not engage. Stay with me.”

“Stay focused,” Wedge said. “Wes, time to target?”

“Thirty seconds,” said Janson, and Wedge heard the strain in his voice. “We lost Red Ten.”

“Red Six KIA,” Scotian said grimly.

Red Ten was Barlon Hightower. Red Six was Ix Ixstra. Wedge forced himself not to think of their faces.

Flashes dotted the asteroids. Wedge spun his X-wing through a corkscrew turn, throwing off a bandit’s aged interceptor. A moment later Darpen’s laser cannons reduced the pirate to scrap.

“Nice shooting, Red Seven,” Wedge said.

“Red Leader, positive ID on the hangar—and lots of scurrying around on that landing field,” said Janson. “Torpedoes locked. Watch my six, Salm—it’s a lot of demerits if you get your flight leader killed.”

“I’ve got you, boss,” said Salm.

“Sila, down!” Wedge yelled.

Wedge spun out of the path of an onrushing Nighthawk fighter, juking to port and then catching the craft amidships with a barrage of laserfire. He could hear Kott’s breaths coming short and fast over the comm.

“You’re okay, Red Three,” he said. “We’re almost there. Wes?”

“Torpedoes away,” Janson said. “Bela, get me a damage assessment.”

“Hangar’s a crater. But looks like one bandit got out. Some kind of modified freighter—and her engines are hot.”

“We can’t let that bandit jump,” Wedge said. “Sila, Tomer—full throttle and follow me.”