At the very moment when the main viewport of Red Gauntlet's bridge—once seeming so unbreakable—sprayed apart in a shower of fragments under the deadly barrage from a TIE Interceptor's rapid-fire cannons, Han Solo spun around to call out to the Star Destroyer's commanding officer.
His keen Corellian eyes didn't miss that the captain and the unseen Interceptor pilot were exchanging mutual salutes of respect. And that sparked a few thoughts in his mind…
But he had no time to react—four laser cannons (and clearly a late-model Interceptor!) spat green fire, turning the transparisteel into shrapnel. A pocket of negative pressure yanked Han off his feet, trying to drag him through the ruptured viewport. He went crashing onto the deck, nails scratching helplessly at the polished surface of the command walkway. Mentally, he cursed the droid scrubbers who'd left the deck so slick.
His mind worked fast, razor-sharp.
Grabbing with one hand at the edge of the left "pit," he forced himself to ignore the agony caused by someone's personal data pad slamming into his head—and the booming racket of the Interceptor's cannons, which were ripping apart crucial bridge systems and the crew stationed there. He managed to seize the edge of that lifesaving depression.
Nearby, a few young ensigns were screaming, swept past him into the vacuum outside. They wouldn't be as "lucky" as the ship's captain, who'd been vaporized by four laser shots. And to be fair, the Imperial pilot's precision was worthy of note—he'd unleashed multiple rapid salvos. Those cannons had obviously been upgraded, if they could shred transparisteel, which was typically stronger than equally thick durasteel.
Some panicky fool managed to open the turbolift doors, and the escaping air suddenly doubled its force. Han nearly passed out from the wind battering his face. His ears popped, and his head thundered with pain as though a Corellian had mistaken an anvil for a pillow in the midst of a workday nap.
Straining every muscle, ignoring the possibility that the sadistic Imperial pilot was deliberately hovering just outside to keep blasting away, Solo somehow dragged himself closer to the pit's edge. Each console panel typically had at least one handle—he just needed to reach one, get a firm enough grip so he could wedge himself into the pit's grating and find some footing…
A searing blow to his lower back forced him into a helpless roar—his pained shout a mixture of Basic and a couple of other languages he knew. His fingers nearly slipped at the exact moment he seized that precious handle…
But his will to live was stronger. If he died, the entire squadron died. There had to be a chance, some possibility.
His biceps burned like he'd been competing in a weightlifting match with Chewbacca, forced to hold up an airspeeder as a dare. Yet he had no choice—failure meant everything was lost.
Groaning, he finally caught the edge of the pit's grating, transferring some of his weight—
And in that same second, the metal flooring wrenched loose with a hideous crunch, nearly taking off the tips of his fingers. With a hollow clang and ear-splitting clangor, that useless hunk of deck plating went hurtling through the massive gap that used to be the main viewport.
Desperate, Han reached out and grabbed a thick power cable. The bulk of the wiring tore free from its mountings, which were immediately sucked out the ruptured viewport, but the conductive cable itself remained in place. A stable handhold, thank the Maker.
Now to pull the old smuggler's trick—provided someone below realized they needed to seal the bulkheads and stop the oxygen loss. That's the only way he'd avoid asphyxiation any second now.
Wrapping the cable around his legs and gripping it with his left hand, Han pried out his blaster pistol from its holster with stiff fingers. The streaming air tried to yank the weapon right out of his grip, so he had to wrestle with physics just to remain armed (and alive).
His eyes were watering in the wind's onslaught, but he managed to sight the emergency panel mounted on the wall. He had to stick his head and right arm out of the pit to see it—just enough to give the Interceptor pilot a perfect shot if the man noticed him. But the TIE jock was too busy methodically destroying vital comm consoles in the other pit, turning the Star Destroyer into an ungovernable hulk.
Han aimed and squeezed off a shot at the emergency panel—and missed. Blackened scorch marks marred the bulkhead.
He tried again, missed again. Third time was the charm—desperation had a way of sharpening aim. The melted device belched sparks and steam, short-circuiting in a shower of electricity. The lighting on the bridge flickered, replaced by a dull red emergency glow.
Gritting his teeth, Han angled to glance at the TIE Interceptor's cockpit. To his horror, he realized the next volley of green laser bolts was directed his way.
He flattened himself closer to the floor, trembling as he watched the enemy pilot blast every vital system in the pit, turning Red Gauntlet into a ship with no centralized command. Only hope was that some other post onboard realized what was happening and switched to backup controls.
At last, with a deafening roar, thick durasteel plates slid into place where the viewport had been, bringing the decompression vortex to a halt. Almost immediately, more dull thuds echoed—the Imperial pilot kept firing, no doubt counting on eventually punching through this not-so-thick replacement plating. A question of persistence. And that TIE jock clearly had sadistic determination. Imperial Interceptor pilot—enough said.
As the air currents died, Han collapsed painfully onto one knee. A fountain of agony tore through him, and he let out a torrential stream of curses. Automatically, he re-holstered his weapon. Limping on his wounded leg, he reached the pit's edge, hopped on his good foot, grabbed the ledge…
Fresh waves of muscle pain screamed through him, but he had zero time for self-pity. From his Academy days, Han recalled that Interceptors could be equipped with missile launchers—he could only hope this sadist didn't have such toys.
Hobbling toward the turbolift doors, he tried not to look at the ruined bay that had once bustled with watch officers. Now, he was the only one left. A lone Rodian's corpse was caught in his seat harness, minus half its head thanks to the missing computer console that had apparently blown right across the station.
Han keyed the turbolift controls. Miraculously, the Imperial pilot hadn't annihilated them completely. The battered car still sealed its doors.
Hissing in pain, overwhelmed by the fate of all who'd been sucked out into space, Han descended just far enough to reach the auxiliary command deck. Twice he worried the damaged repulsorlift mechanism would fail, sending him plummeting. The half-dead repulsors squealed in protest, but they got him there.
He emerged onto the deck and brushed aside the medics rushing to him.
— Seal off the bridge level! — he ordered, dragging his injured leg and wincing with every stab of pain, past the doors leading to the backup command center. — Any senior officers left alive?
— Assistant watch chief Pe… — stammered a pale-faced young man, trembling like a leaf in the wind. Eighteen? Twenty? Maybe… twenty-two?
— Then you're in charge, Assistant Watch Chief, — Solo rasped, slumping into the nearest chair. — Get us out of here. We'll regroup with the damaged carriers. Get a message to Coruscant about what's happened. Any ships out there… We'll hold them off as long as we can. Let's hope we can cripple them enough so that whoever comes after us can really thrash 'em.
— After us? — the wide-eyed officer looked like a startled bantha.
— Yeah, — Han gratefully accepted a painkiller from the medic and shot it into his leg with a pneumatic syringe. Blissful cool relief spread through him. — I don't know who this Thrawn guy is, but he sure had our number. No doubt Page's people on the planet are in the same mess. Best we can do is force him to stick around as long as possible, until our reinforcements arrive. Ah, Hutt's bones, he played this so well! He took out all our corvettes that could've otherwise kept his fighters from swarming us. Oh, Fey'lya—if I make it back, I'm gonna yank every last hair off that Bothan tail of yours for ordering X-wings aboard carriers. So pass it along to all ships: we're pulling back to the carriers. We'll try…
— Sir, — an older comm sergeant interjected. — We're trying to raise a long-range signal, but can't. The jamming is too strong…
— But internal system comms work fine? — Han reeled.
— Yes, sir!
— What the… — Han scowled. — Huh. I've seen that type of jamming once or twice. I bet we can still break through it. I recall a couple of old tricks… Hey, what's that thing?
He pointed to the battered shell of an Imperial "Viper" probe/droid, lying inert in a corner of the auxiliary command deck. Judging by the tampered plating, someone forcibly opened it, as evidenced by the cables sticking out…
— One of our fighters brought it in during a rotation—accidentally rammed it, — explained the comm sergeant. — Corvette crews reported two types of recon droids in the area where they were destroyed: some actively roamed the battlespace gathering data, others hovered near the planet's moon. This one, — he pointed at the lifeless Imperial wreck, — was one of the latter. We dragged it here to examine its data bank on better computers. It bothers me that the Imperials plugged a data-transmission cable into it, the kind used for high-speed direct data links…
— Huh, — Han said, waving at the half-scrapped remains. — First, get that hunk of junk off my deck. Nothing good ever comes from these things. Second, so the Star Destroyer was feeding info about our corvettes' movements to the "mobile" droids, which relayed it to these "stationary" ones, which then sent it somewhere via cable. They obviously didn't want even a second's delay…makes sense if they're guiding torpedoes at maneuvering targets but don't want to be spotted… — Han rubbed his head. — But wait, that's weird. Did we figure out what that "stationary" droid was linked to?
— Based on how data was "extracted," clearly some vessel with a massive onboard computer, — guessed the comm sergeant. — Possibly a dedicated recon ship…
— That explains it, — Han exhaled loudly. — So the Imperials had ships parked in the moon's orbit with minimal sensor signatures. They never used active scans to guide their torpedoes, so our corvettes wouldn't detect and destroy them. Recon ships usually aren't heavily armed…
— But the pilot who delivered that droid said there was no ship at all—just empty space, — the sergeant countered.
— Probably they stayed far off, with that "stationary" droid on a huge data tether. One way or another, at least we know their trick now.
— Could it have been a stealth ship? — asked the assistant watch chief. — I heard the Separatists had them during the Clone Wars, ships hidden by cloaks, launching proton torpedoes…
— My friend, — Han gave the officer a pat on the shoulder, — if the Empire had a fleet of invisible warships, believe me, the Rebel Alliance never would've lasted more than a few months. They spent trillions on building Death Stars, yet never bothered adding cloaking shields to keep them invulnerable? No, cloak fields are just stories Imperial propagandists spread to keep folks trembling about some invisible unstoppable punishment. And if you dozed off in your history lessons, let's concentrate on pivoting our wounded boat around and see if we can get a message out to Coruscant—or the nearest base. I suspect we just need a short text, a couple of words, and their jamming algorithm won't catch it…
***
Grand Admiral Thrawn's face was utterly blank, like the mask of an ancient stage actor.
Calm, impassive, with eyes flickering like demonic fire.
He lounged in his chair, gazing quietly as Chimaera's gunners methodically pummeled the flagship of the enemy fleet's main drive systems.
Red Gauntlet, sputtering surges of unstable thrust from three massive Class-I thrusters, still tried to run. But Chimaera, plus Death's Head on its port side and Judicator to starboard, were gaining. Thrawn had had to bring Judicator into the main formation because her port side was riddled with battle damage and her artillery mostly knocked out. She couldn't continue as the "outer flank chaser." Swinging her all the way to the other flank would've taken too long, so Thrawn simply swapped her with Nemesis. Thus, as the improvised "net" closed around the enemy fleet, his Star Destroyers could each bring the maximum of their artillery to bear.
Nemesis, having been deployed to capture the damaged New Republic Assault Frigates, was catching up. Because that trio of Star Destroyers was holding at half speed while Nemesis advanced at cruising velocity, Captain von Shneider's ship was nearly alongside them. Similarly, from the port side of Death's Head, Crusader maneuvered closer.
Corellian corvettes and Crusader II, taking advantage of their higher sublight speeds over the heavy-armed capital ships, showed no rush to chase the enemy. Instead, like children told to sit with the grown-ups at a holiday feast, they remained in the space between the Star Destroyers—just in a lower "flight echelon"—covering the lower hemisphere.
Reports on the destruction of enemy fighters confirmed that three-quarters of the Republic's starfighter complement had been wiped out, but they still had five squadrons of X-wings left, which could potentially strike back at Thrawn's fleet.
Pellaeon, reflecting on Thrawn's earlier comments, saw how the enemy craft were ducking into the bays of their line ships—rotating squadrons that were doubtless going to launch a fresh wave. Now those ships were falling back. Outside the viewport, the battered New Republic flotilla attempted to regroup, possibly linking up with another battered cruiser to resist Thrawn.
Yes, they were running—an act of desperation.
Of the four line ships that originally arrived, only two Mon Calamari Cruisers remained operational. These flanked Red Gauntlet, battered by the slaughter wrought by Black Squadron; the flagship now had nothing left but a few turret emplacements—only one starboard turret apparently functional. But the ship's battery deck still posed a threat, so ignoring it would be foolhardy.
Another cripple, the earliest MC80 that had been damaged, finally extinguished its fires. The once-sleek, pearl-white hull was scorched black.
Crusader had blown its hangar, and the crew had barely avoided being ripped apart by a chain reaction of starfighter fuel and munitions stored there. The flight deck was a write-off—likely burned to a crisp. Even if it somehow escaped now, courtesy of Crusader's anti-ship missiles, it was heading for the scrap heap.
With huge gashes in that once-pristine hull, burn marks, plasma deformations, the entire port artillery gutted, that battered ship was a walking advertisement for the expression "They put prettier corpses in their coffins out on the Rim."
Chimaera's turret batteries were pounding Red Gauntlet with a sea of green fire. The aft portion of her superstructure was in ruins—there wasn't a single uncompromised deck left. One Star Destroyer destroyed, a second on the verge of being torn open. Its speed would drop further, maybe a third. Sure, they'd try to compensate with their four auxiliary thrusters, but Lieutenant Kreb and his men had crippled them thoroughly during the initial retreat. The enemy now faced a grim choice: either abandon their flagship and regroup with the other battered starships, or see all three cripples consumed by Thrawn's unstoppable barrage. After that, it would be the turn of those damaged escort carriers and that third, limping Mon Cal cruiser.
Pellaeon eyed the tactical display, a broad grin stretching across his face.
— The enemy is making their third mistake, — Thrawn said. — They intend to hold us back with the Mon Cal cruisers while Red Gauntlet tries to break away.
— Sir, — Lieutenant Tschel spoke quietly to Pellaeon, — the Interdictor reports that the enemy is actively attempting to breach our jamming barrier.
— Our…? — The Chimaera's commander frowned. Then it hit him.
That was the same Interdictor they used at the military depot assault, fitted with older Separatist-era hardware to jam communications across a star system. Short-range transmissions were unaffected, but anything long-range was blocked.
Pellaeon glanced at Thrawn. The Grand Admiral calmly watched Death's Head and Crusader clamp down on one target, while Nemesis and Judicator finished off another. The corvette escorts circled protectively around each Star Destroyer. Imperial fighters and Interceptors pestered the enemy's battered starships, harassing turbolaser gunners.
— Open a channel to our cruisers, Captain, — the Grand Admiral said. — Patch it to my panel. We have a new mission for them—one that will decide the outcome here.
The wheel of fate turned, the battle continued, ushering in another stage of violence and reciprocal "justice."
The Honoghr Massacre raged on…
***
Under a barrage of white-green energy from two Imperial Star Destroyers, the Mon Cal cruiser's deflector shields collapsed, exposing its battered hull to merciless fire. Once pearl-white plating darkened with carbon scoring. Hull breaches appeared, venting streams of air mixed with rubble and bodies, paint scorched away, metal warped. Then blue ion bolts flickered in from Judicator on one side and Nemesis on the other, and a dozen concussion missiles from nearby TIE bombers completed the devastation. Crewers cheered as flames poured out through an expanding rent in the foe's hull. Now the starboard side of that MC80 was just as charred as the port.
Von Shneider turned:
— Why isn't battery seven firing?
— The battery commander reports a direct hit smashed the targeting suite. Techs are trying to bring it online and…
— Are the local gun computers intact? — the Nemesis commander demanded.
— Aye, sir…
— Then have the gunners recall their Academy lessons and quit relying solely on the fire-control suite! — Von Shneider snapped. — Every gun that can bear must open fire!
He jabbed a finger at the main viewport:
— I want that cruiser destroyed!
The Mon Cal warship and Nemesis's portside guns unleashed simultaneous salvos, focusing fire on each other's flanks. The invisible hemisphere shielding the Star Destroyer's port side turned faintly pink on the tactical screen, shifting to a blood-red glow when the enemy's ion bolts lashed through. A bluish crackle ran across Nemesis's hull. Two of its heavy turbolaser batteries exploded, and Captain Shneider saw at least a pair of gunners flung into space as their battered turrets burst.
Nemesis retaliated, repaying every blow with interest. Another volley broke through the cruiser's deflectors near its ravaged hull plating, burning black scars across the Mon Cal hull and bursting open new pockets of flame. Space drew out belching smoke, vanishing only after the locked-down compartments inside ran out of oxygen, burning up the contents—fabric, equipment, insulation, organic material…
Ion cannons joined in, piggybacking on the turbolasers' success. Ion bursts rippled across the foe's hull, devouring any exposed electronics. Communications arrays, sensors, everything turned to dead lumps—blinding the enemy's crew, sector by sector.
Green spears of energy blew off the ship's main hull protrusions with the speed of Jawas at a free droid auction. Shredded plating, drifting debris, dead bodies—those were the monstrous footprints of space warfare swirling around the MC80.
Nemesis's starfighter wing worked in sync with the ship's gunners, trashing the cruiser's engines and mopping up the last few X-wings still trying to protect the drifting husk.
The starboard gunners of Chimaera, apparently bored with pounding the helpless New Republic Star Destroyer, joined the brutality, targeting the same battered cruiser. A triple volley of green beams from all three Star Destroyers tore through that battered MC80 as though it were a piece of scrap at a salvage yard. Deck by deck, compartment by compartment, turbolasers and ion cannons gnawed away each "horizontal" layer.
Von Shneider grinned as the once-graceful shape of the MC80 collapsed. A direct hit from Chimaera's and Nemesis's combined fire apparently destroyed its main structural support. The cruiser's bow and stern drifted apart, each half drifting on its own.
If there were sound in vacuum, the crew on Nemesis's bridge might have savored the shriek of the Mon Cal cruiser's bulkheads…
But fate decided otherwise.
Just as Captain Shneider expected, the ship split in two. That triggered the usual "finishers" these battles often produced.
Judicator gleefully kept blasting the crippled forward section. Nemesis hammered the aft portion until a massive detonation obliterated it entirely.
— Enemy vessel is finished, — the first officer reported.
— Excellent, — Von Shneider replied.
All by-the-book, as taught in Imperial Academies: you never leave stragglers. Otherwise they come back thirsting for vengeance.
***
— Report our damage, Captain Pellaeon.
Chimaera's commander tore his gaze from his personal data pad, displaying utter bewilderment. Seemingly, he wondered how Thrawn knew precisely which report he was reading. Of course, it wasn't hard—Lieutenant Tschel had been gathering updates from each battle station, compiling them in that pad, which he'd just handed to Pellaeon. In a moment like this, what else could it be but a damage-control report?
If some mutineer had tried an uprising, the crew would've strangled them quietly. So it had to be about damages.
— Holes in the forward compartments, on decks one and three, — Pellaeon said, glancing at Tschel's notes. — Two of our starboard turret batteries are offline, though one should be functional again in fifteen minutes. We've lost thirteen fighters and six crew members.
Those are modest losses, considering the scope of our operation.
— Any word on the captured Republic Assault Frigates? — I asked.
— Yes, sir, — Pellaeon shifted to stand at my left. — Both are severely damaged. One is adrift, most compartments sealed off due to decompression. The mechanics say they can restore main power and patch critical breaches in five or six hours, with help…
— Assign two tech crews from Chimaera to the more heavily damaged Frigate, — I instructed. — Same number from Nemesis to the other. Any update on the disabled Strike cruiser?
— It's drifting, still spinning. The rescue team's shuttle gets no reply.
— Dispatch Judicator to secure it, use tractor beams to stabilize and investigate. If it can be repaired inside three days, we'll do so.
— Yes, sir, but… — Pellaeon hesitated, paused a full second, then asked:
— May I ask why the three-day limit?
— The nearest New Republic base with a fleet of at least five Mon Cal–class ships or a comparable force is two-and-a-half days away from Honoghr at Class-One hyperdrive, — I explained.
— But they don't know we're here, right? Or they do, sir?
— Our Interdictor uses a thirty-year-old electronic warfare system, — I gently reminded him. — It has advantages, but also flaws. I'm sure the enemy is frantically trying to pierce our info blockade and transmit this system's coordinates plus the composition of our fleet. Within thirty minutes, they'll likely find an optimal frequency and get off a short message. Whether it goes to Mon Mothma or some other fleet outpost is an open question. Either way, thanks to bureaucracy under Bothan control, no major response can arrive before three days.
— Unless Mon Mothma decides once again to yank a fleet from Fey'lya, — Pellaeon huffed. Possibly recalling old times when he had to abandon missions to appease Imperial politicos. Politics hamper military operations in any galaxy.
— She can't risk that now, — I said. — Her position is too fragile. General Solo's operation here has failed; at Laynuri, she gains little political capital. By the time Leia Organa Solo's husband gets back to Coruscant, the Senate's in for a serious struggle. Without tangible successes, Mothma can't justify her direct control of two fleets. The New Republic faces a short political crisis.
— If you say so, — Pellaeon muttered. — I'm no politician…
— Reading Lieutenant Kreb's report, Captain, don't you wonder why the Destroyer's command tower is so vulnerable? — I queried.
— The Navy doesn't usually reward you for critiquing your assigned ship, — Pellaeon sighed. — We just fight in whatever they give us.
— Show your usual tact and perceptiveness, Captain, — I gently pressed. — Draw some conclusions.
— First, there's little room in the tower for extra weaponry, — Pellaeon started. — Second, the doctrine says we use our fighter wing to protect our bridge from direct assault…
— Executor at Endor got no help from that doctrine, — I noted. — Neither did Red Gauntlet's bridge crew. Random happenstance becomes coincidence, then a pattern. We must fix that, along with the notion of moving the shield generators from exterior domes to internal compartments.
— The Rebs aren't idiots, — Pellaeon said doubtfully. — A major external structural change would be obvious, so they'd guess something's up…
— Hence we'd place decoy "domes" in the old spots, to hide the real shield systems, — I suggested. — A bit of subterfuge.
— Hmm… might work, — Pellaeon mused. — Though presumably there's some reason those domes are external.
— Indeed, Captain? — I prompted. In truth, I'd never found a convincing explanation for why the Empire can't simply do what the Mon Cal do, burying their shield generators. Maybe we can salvage a few. Our own captured Mon Cal cruisers are fitted with some, but more spares never hurt.
— Yes, sir, — he admitted awkwardly. — If it's all right, I'll get with the specialists…
— That can wait, — I said. — We're in the middle of a battle, or did you forget? — He seemed to grumble something at that remark. — Don't beat yourself up for not knowing, Captain. Ignorance only hurts when one refuses to fix it.
— Yes, sir, — Pellaeon replied. — I'll ask them once it's all over. I'm curious myself. I've served all these years without ever asking why. We just accept what we're given…
— Quite a perspective, Captain, — I said quietly, glancing at the tactical display. The battered Mon Cal ship's signature was blinking out as it broke apart. — Inform Nemesis to board whatever's left of that cruiser, salvage usable systems.
— After a triple Star Destroyer barrage, what's left to salvage? — he grumbled.
— We can't skip even the slightest chance to glean valuable intel about the enemy, — I said. Though mostly, I wanted their shield tech. Pellaeon might have forgotten, but we do have our own captured Mon Cal vessels. Extra parts are always welcome, especially if we intend to mount Mon Cal shield generators on our own ships. We can't buy them on the open market. — We're done here, Captain. Plot a course for Red Gauntlet at thirty percent thrust.
— Crawl speed? — Pellaeon frowned, clearly displeased.
— We must let everyone take their positions for the final scene, — I explained. — Notice how General Solo is heading for Honoghr's orbit?
— Maybe they're planning to evacuate onto the planet?
— That is one possibility, — I agreed. — But more likely, he plans to leverage Honoghr's magnetic field to break our jamming. If so, he might only get a one-second window, after which his comm gear will burn out from polarity shift. A curious but wasteful approach.
I'd studied that scenario thoroughly—time enough to plan a trap. You have to consider every possibility, from Imperial EW manuals to smuggler forums. Might be that many old Imperial "secrets" are no longer secrets. We need a new manual.
— Not much for a detailed report, — Pellaeon reminded me of my own words.
— When you're out of options, you make do, — I shrugged. — We won't stop them. But do have our intercept teams get a copy of whatever Solo transmits.
— Sir, if they circle the planet far enough, they'll slip beyond the Interdictor's second gravity cone. They might jump to hyperspace… or accelerate with a gravity slingshot.
— That would destroy their own ship, — I countered. — The G-forces would exceed its structural tolerance. Solo won't commit mass suicide, not while searching for his pregnant wife.
— Corellians can be reckless, — Pellaeon noted warily.
— Not if it means certain death, and failing to find his family, — I calmly rebuffed the old stereotype. — Signal Death's Head and Crusader not to destroy his ship; neutralize the enemy's guns, then board.
— Aye, sir, — Pellaeon mumbled, stepping to the crew stations. Despite us "chasing" Red Gauntlet, it was a slow pursuit. Off to starboard, a cluster of battered ships—two escort carriers and a scorched MC80—started maneuvering. Possibly that scoundrel had a trick or two. One Interdictor out of action, the other hammered by Crusader and Death's Head… The latter might not be able to move at all. So maybe it's time for "tag."
No doubt our feigned low speed was working; Solo likely assumed we couldn't push the engines any harder, or maybe truly believed they could outrun us. He was in for disappointment.
Meanwhile, I have time to reflect.
I'd skimmed Imperial references on Mon Cal craft. It's obvious the Empire grossly underestimated them.
Imperial Star Destroyers can vary widely in armament, shielding, and so on. But every Mon Cal cruiser carries the same standard tech—usually the Serridge SEAL shield system, enabling them to restore their shields even under fire. Only a massive barrage can overwhelm them. Meanwhile, Imperials vary. An ISD I might have shield power from 125 up to 150 points. An ISD II might stand at a uniform 150. Some might push 200, like Chimaera does now, courtesy of that borrowed Mon Cal generator.
Ironically, the Mon Cal fleet is more uniform than the Imperial one. That's a paradox.
We'll fix that. Even in my own fleet, some ships underperform compared to others of the same class. Hard to form a cohesive battle group if your flagship can't stand toe-to-toe with the Mon Cal ship it's supposed to fight.
Operation Scarlet Dawn exposed many weaknesses in my forces. Once the Honoghr campaign ends, we'll use the repair downtime to properly rearm and standardize. Soon we'll have another "test subject" delivered to Tangrene, after all…
Also, we'll keep an eye on additional points. Time is short…
I'm now certain we should acquire more Victory–class ships quickly—maybe from the Corporate Sector, or by capturing Rebel ones. Admiral Prince Krennel has at least one. The last few battles show how skillfully Captain Kalian and Captain I-Gor handle those ships, underscoring that discarding them to the "frontier" was foolish. And the so-called Victory II mod caused a net loss of capability, removing missile launchers for a marginal energy weapon upgrade.
Meanwhile, Ryan Zion promised to propose modifications for our older ships. We'll see. I only asked for heavier turret artillery, not a full rebuild. Replacing older single turrets with eight-barrelled versions akin to an Imperial–class is enough to let a Victory produce "Imperial-grade" broadside salvos, at least at the lower end. The Rebellion doesn't consider a Victory a major threat, which could be quite the rude awakening. Pair those improved turrets with updated missile launchers and creative tactics, and the "Victories" can bare their claws again.
— Grand Admiral, sir, — Chimaera's commander reappeared, data pad in hand. — Our specialists intercepted a copy of General Solo's message. Here it is.
— A smart use of the jam intervals, — I agreed. — Decrypted?
— Yes, sir, — Pellaeon said with obvious pride. As a commander, he was responsible for the specialized training of his comms crew. — General Solo warns of an Imperial trap of six Star Destroyers at Honoghr, plus the system coordinates. The message is headed for Coruscant.
— Interesting, — I murmured, holding out a hand. Pellaeon passed me the device. A quick read, and I smirked inwardly. I half-expected him to mention me personally. After all, I did broadcast my identity upon arrival, partly to reassure the Noghri and rattle the Rebels. But apparently Solo stuck to reporting cold facts, skipping mention of a "Grand Admiral." Likely he wants to buy time, hoping our slow thrust means we're vulnerable, giving him a chance for reinforcements. Red Gauntlet's battered, but maybe he thinks we'll flail about. Crusader and Death's Head are busy disarming that disabled Mon Cal Cruiser, preparing to board it. The rest of our Star Destroyers are far enough away that even at cruising velocity, it'll take them a while to catch up. So he's playing cat-and-mouse.
— Well, Captain, — I said, — General Solo has made his third and final mistake.
— I suspect he'll try sublight flight to exit the system and get a proper link to Coruscant, or… — Pellaeon squinted at the display. — Sir, it looks like they just changed course?
— Your eyes do not deceive you, Captain, — I affirmed. — Red Gauntlet and three allied ships now intend to pass around Honoghr.
— Sir, we need to accelerate at once, — Pellaeon said anxiously. — If they circle the planet, they can slip away behind it, out of the second gravity cone. Then we must move the Interdictor around the planet, redeploy the gravity wells. That's exactly what Solo wants—some or all of them will escape.
— Indeed, he's forcing us to choose between him or that cripple, suspecting Chimaera is damaged and we wouldn't intentionally slow down if we wanted to finish them, — I said. — I'm sure the moment we check data exchange among those four ships, we'll find they each have sensor logs from the entire battle. Solo's hedging his bets that at least one ship will break free.
— And he nearly succeeded, — Pellaeon sighed. — If that data on our engine performance gets out…
— He already recorded it, Captain, — I said. — Don't underestimate him.
— …once Coruscant sees it, the false-flag ops disguised as Prince-Admiral Krennel are done. They'd spot us. Our ruse is kaput.
— Excellent summary, Captain, — I praised. — If Solo could beam it to Coruscant, he would. If forced, he might try again. Obviously, we can't let that happen.
— Then we must hurry—pursue Red Gauntlet right now. The others might surrender if their general is captured.
— I suspect Solo has told them otherwise, — I said. — Quite the opposite orders.
— So we just… sit and wait? — The Star Destroyer's commander looked baffled.
— Indeed, Captain Pellaeon.
— But they're moving onto a course that could let them escape! — he insisted, appalled. As though the plan were unraveling.
— You're stating the obvious, Captain, — I said with a faint nod. — I'm sure the same thoughts are in each New Republic crew member's head.
— Sir, forgive me, I don't understand, — Pellaeon admitted. — We've practically decimated their flotilla. This is a military—and political—coup for us. Letting them slip away puts us in stalemate. Not to mention the legion of enemy troops landed on the planet!
— Numbers mean little when facing Noghri defending their home, — I observed. — Surely you've noted that they haven't tried contacting us?
— Yes, — Pellaeon hesitated. — Likely they think we meddled where we shouldn't.
— Possibly. Or more likely they're busy fighting the landed Republic troops. No matter how skilled the Noghri are, going up against a modern regular army with heavier weapons is no joke. We won't intervene. Let them realize that assassins and saboteurs aren't enough against a properly trained fighting force. Sure, they tasted that in the Clone Wars. But that was thirty years ago, and the Rebellion learned a few things since. So a bloody slog is unfolding on Honoghr's surface, and whether the Noghri ultimately lose or prevail, either is fine by me.
— There'll be heavy casualties, — Pellaeon said quietly.
— Yes. And through that, the Noghri matriarchs will see how "culturally independent" stances fare in real combat. By the time we finish dealing with the enemy fleet, the Noghri should realize they need help—our help.
— So that's why you broadcast a message "coming to Honoghr's aid," — Pellaeon deduced.
— Precisely, among other reasons.
— Still, we do need to seize those four ships, — he said, gesturing at the four distant engine glows of the two carriers, the battered MC80, and Red Gauntlet. — The stakes are high.
— Indeed, Captain, — I agreed, eyeing my chrono while computing velocity vectors. The time was now. Everything was set. — If you're that impatient, you can order Chimaera to accelerate to cruising speed and chase them.
— We'll catch Solo's four starships in about eleven minutes, — Gilad said after giving that order. — We can open fire in seven. By then they could slip outside the second gravity well. If nothing stops them, they'll jump to hyperspace and vanish.
— Once again, your analysis is on point, Captain, — I said, smiling slightly. He eyed me warily, suspecting sarcasm. — I'd be grateful if you check with our cruisers whether they've set an intercept course to hold off Solo's ships until we arrive.
— The… medium cruisers? — Pellaeon gaped, scanning the tactical display. He didn't see the three icons representing the Strike-class ships. Then he recalled my earlier order to them. So that's why they're not where they were…
— Consider the previous order canceled, Captain, — I said. — No further need of it now.
He glanced at the display just as three Strike cruisers appeared head-on to General Solo's ships, opening fire without warning. The carriers were all but disarmed, the MC80 and Star Destroyer had each lost half their turbolasers, and they were now facing three fairly intact Strike cruisers—each wielding twenty turbolaser cannons, as many turrets, and ten ion weapons, basically equaling a Star Destroyer's battery. But faster, more maneuverable, and with shields, unlike the battered MC80 or Red Gauntlet.
Act II of the Honoghr Massacre was coming to a close…
***
Chimaera loomed behind the stern of the Mon Cal cruiser, bracing its port shields against desperate starboard fire from Red Gauntlet, returning volley with precise, crippling ion bursts. The Republic's green salvos splashed helplessly across Chimaera's deflectors. From the flagship's hangar, a file of assault shuttles stretched toward Red Gauntlet's blackened hull.
The Mon Cal cruiser, having just turned to bring more turbolasers to bear, lost its last shields after a second barrage from Chimaera's turrets. Immediately, TIE bombers swooped in, generous with proton torpedoes. A ghastly chain of eruptions lit the MC80's starboard side, from bow to stern—rare surviving heavy guns went up in fire, hull plating bulged, and the ordnance plowed through the cruiser's innards. Space sucked out the atmosphere, yet fires still burned. Armor buckled and peeled away, revealing new compartments.
By the time Grand Admiral Thrawn ordered them to cease battering the helpless ship and focus on boarding Solo's flagship, the trio of cruisers had already landed Imperial troops in the carriers' hangars, while the Mon Cal cruiser resembled it had just run through an asteroid belt at max speed.
Thrawn assigned Crusader to board that battered starship. The commando teams finished surprisingly fast, clearing the way for the repair teams.
But those poor souls found it gut-churning to resurrect a hull strewn with the corpses of those who had suffocated when life support failed.