Wraith Squadron (9 page)

Kell said, “Are you really a Jedi in training?”

“No. I have just a little, a very little, control over the Force. But I’ve been working on it for years and haven’t improved on it much.” She managed a wry smile. “The Force is weak in this one.”

Satisfied that his forehead was as close to normal as he could make it, Kell discarded his napkin. “Have you ever met Luke Skywalker?”

She nodded. “He put me through some exercises. A lot of them, really. And he was so nice when he told me he didn’t think I’d ever progress very far in my control of the Force. That this dream I’d had for so long was never going to come true.”

The scarred pilot said, “You know, if I had even the tiniest control over the Force, what I’d do with it?”

She shook her head.

“On those long missions, I’d scratch that little spot in the center of my back I can never reach …”

She stood up fast enough to rattle her tankard of lum. “Go ahead, make fun.”

“Oh, come on. You think Skywalker doesn’t do that?”

“I don’t have time for this. I have things to do.” She
headed off toward the exit, her stride suggesting she was furious.

Phanan twisted to watch her go. “Can I walk you to your quarters?” he called after her.

“No!” She didn’t look back.

“Can I help you with your things?”

“No!”

“What can I do for you?”

“Shoot yourself!” Then she was out the entry way.

Phanan settled back in his chair, looking morose. “I’ve done that a couple of times. Shooting myself. Accidents. It’s not fun.”

Kell glared. “Thanks, Phanan, Face. That helped a lot.”

The scarred pilot shrugged, apologetic.

Phanan ignored him. He looked around, raised his hand. “Waiter? Hey, you, the bucket of bolts. We could use some service, right now.”

Kell grinned. “Phanan, you just named your own punishment.”

The next simulated mission was an ambush on a volcanic world. Kell escaped that one damaged but alive. He heard that Runt had once again been vaporized without scoring a kill, and that Lieutenant Myn Donos, senior ranking pilot candidate, was not required to undergo the scenario; Kell wondered why.

On another simulator mission, Kell was paired with Runt again. In the exercise, Green Squadron and a squad of TIE interceptors converged on an asteroid field; Green Squadron was to defend the space station concealed there, the interceptors to find and destroy it.

Eight klicks from the engagement zone, Runt let out another wild, warbling whoop and kicked his thrusters, moving out ahead of his wingman.

Kell centered his targeting bracket on his partner’s X-wing. It went red, the computer giving him the tone of a good lock, a split second later.

A moment later Janson’s voice sounded in his ear. “Green Five, what are you doing?”

Kell tensed at the sound of that voice and silently cursed himself for doing so. “Just trust me on this one, Control.”

Runt’s irritating war cry cut off. Then he said, “Six to Five, are you going to fire on us?”

“Negative, Six.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“Getting your attention. Do I have it?”

“Yes, Five.”

“Then get back in formation. Right now. I’m lead, you’re wing. Do you read me?”

“Yes, Five.” Runt decelerated a notch, returning to his proper position behind Kell.

Runt was good until battle was well under way. Then, when he and Kell each had one kill, he belted out his war cry again and rolled out of formation, attempting a pursuit of two interceptors.

Kell hastily said, “You have lead, Six,” and followed.

When the lead interceptor tried to peel off and circle back behind Green Six, Kell used his trailing position to cut a tighter circle and vaporized the Imperial craft. It took him a standard minute to pull up abreast of Runt again, and in that time Runt smoked his own opponent with a torpedo.

Kell keyed his comm unit. “Five to Six.”

The war cries ceased, but it was a moment before Runt replied. “Six here.”

“Just checking. Try to rein your pilot in whenever you don’t need him; he’s too noisy.”

“We read you, Five.”

“Good. Keep the lead; I’m on your wing.”

Kell ended that episode with only two kills; an interceptor smoked him with a pop-up shot from behind a rapidly twirling asteroid. Still, he didn’t feel too bad about it; he was actually getting through to Runt, forcing him to respond.

Kell’s canopy seal broke and the simulator canopy opened. Beyond were bright light and Janson.

Kell’s gut went cold and he suppressed the urge to stay under cover. Intellectually, he knew he was in no danger from Janson, but he still felt a jolt of fear every time he saw the veteran pilot. In spite of it, he clambered out of the simulator and stood before the squadron’s second-in-command.

Janson barely glanced at his datapad. “Average earnings this time around, Tainer. But some unorthodox tactics in”—he hesitated over the words—“personnel management worked pretty well. Some bonus points there. Let’s bring up the win-loss ratio a little bit next time; otherwise pretty good. Any questions?”

“Yes, sir. Was it a program that vaped me, or a pilot?”

Janson managed a tight smile. “There’s pilot ego for you—unwilling to accept that a standard program took you out. No, you’re right. It was a pilot. You’ve heard of him. Wedge Antilles. Likes to sit in on these missions from time to time. Dismissed.”

The training took its toll on the roster of candidate pilots.

Chedgar was gone the next day, the victim, Kell believed, of his own paranoia about officer conspiracies against him. The Quarren named Triogor Sllus was washed out two days later, for backhanding a Mon Calamari candidate named Jesmin Ackbar—the niece, Kell learned, of the legendary Admiral Ackbar. A human named Banna, a decent but not extraordinary code-slicer, was caught “improving” his recorded scores; his bunk was empty the next day. Others vanished with no explanation, and Kell wondered if they’d all failed at their last chance at a piloting career. He wondered if he’d be next.

At one of the pilots’ DownTime gatherings, he discussed this with other surviving candidates. “When I arrived to try out for this squadron, I thought I was the only one at the end of my rope as a pilot. But it looks more and more as though all of us are walking in thermal boots on thin ice. Am I wrong?”

Most of the others looked sober. Ton Phanan didn’t; he
smiled with diabolic humor. “I have a bit of a problem with luck in combat. Unlike most of you, I’ve seen some of it—”

Tyria snorted. “Braggart.”

“But in five live-fire missions, I’ve been shot down twice and landed successfully three times. Not a good ratio. Between that and all the new prosthetics, I’m sort of an expensive proposition for any commander.”

Runt, his big eyes solemn, said, “We know why we are here. We lose track of ourselves. But Lieutenant Janson says we are doing better, with many thanks to Kell.”

Kell smiled. “You’re worth it. One day you’ll be able to toggle between minds as though they were channels on the holoprojector. Tyria, Face, it’s you two I don’t get. You two don’t act like screwups—”

Phanan glared with his good eye. “Unlike the rest of us, you mean.”

“That’s right. You especially.”

Far from being offended, Phanan grinned at the rejoinder. “Just so that’s clear.”

Face leaned back, relaxed. “I bought my way into the fighter corps, Kell. That’s what my first commander said, and he’s right. I used my own money to purchase an A-wing, under kind of odd circumstances, and to get the training I wanted. Flew two missions with Colonel, I mean General, Crespin’s Comet Group and had to punch out or eat a bomber torpedo. Bought an X-wing next time just for variety … and ended up back at the base run by Crespin, just my luck.

“The general thinks I’m a dilettante who did too much good for the Empire in the old days ever to make up for it. Maybe he’s right … but when he told me I’d never amount to anything, I snapped back at him like an idiot. I said I was just following in his footsteps. Well, that was it for my career. Until this opportunity came up.” He shrugged.

“You’re that rich.”

“Not rich enough to keep buying fighters, no. I hope to be accepted as a real pilot someday. Enough so that if I lose this snubfighter, the Alliance, rather than my personal accounts, will replace it.”

They all turned to Tyria, who looked uncomfortable under their scrutiny. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she said.

“Fair enough,” Face said. “But tell us this: Does whatever it is that brought you here fall within the parameters we’ve been talking about? Something may have wrecked your chances for advancement?”

She was silent, but nodded.

“Interesting,” Face said. “There’s something else. I noticed one of the quartermasters delivering Lieutenant Donos a hard-shell case that suggested ‘laser rifle’ to me—”

Phanan smirked. “There’s another vaped career. You know that sim run on the volcano world? I heard—”

Kell’s comlink beeped. As he reached for it, each of the other pilots’ comlinks also signaled for attention. He turned away from them and activated it. “Flight Officer Tainer.”

The voice was female, impersonal, and, he suspected, recorded. “Your presence is required immediately in the X-wing squadron briefing amphitheater. Repeat, your presence is required immediately in the X-wing squadron briefing amphitheater.” There was a click as the speaker disconnected. Kell heard the comlinks behind him all repeating the same message.

He looked at the others. “I think we have a unit roster,” he said.

6

The briefing amphitheater was a white dome. Several dozen seats were assembled along the wall of one half of the dome; long curved tables, a dais and lectern, and a holoprojector curved along the other half.

Tyria sat at the end of one row of seats. Phanan smoothly moved in to sit beside her, but Kell, uncharacteristically awkward, bumped him out of the way with his hip and sat there instead. “Oh, sorry, Phanan. Were you there? I didn’t see.”

Phanan smiled, unperturbed. “Perhaps you need an optical enhancement. I could arrange for you to lose an eye; then you could put in for one.”

“Thanks, no.”

Ten pilots arrayed themselves among sixty seats; then Wedge Antilles and Wes Janson entered the chamber. The door closed behind them. Kell felt his ears pop as a pressure seal activated.

Janson took a chair by one of the long tables; Wedge stood before the lectern and holoprojector. Without preamble, he said, “I’d like to congratulate you on surviving our initial culling process. We had forty-three candidates; you ten survived. We’d actually hoped to have twelve, a full squadron
roster of new pilots, but to put it simply, you ten were good enough and the other thirty-three weren’t.”

Wedge glanced down at his datapad for a moment. “Now to what we’re here for. You ten, plus Lieutenant Janson and myself, are forming a new squadron; that much you know. What you probably don’t know is that we’re doing something a little new.

“Rogue Squadron, the last time it was reorganized, was built with pilots who had a number of intrusion skills. Our new squadron is the reverse: a full-fledged commando unit augmented by X-wing fighters.” He looked among the ten pilots, making eye contact. “As much as anything, it is your secondary skills, some of them barely acknowledged in your records, that have earned your places here. We’ll be doing as much work on the ground—sabotage, subversion, intrusion—as flying.”

Phanan put up a hand. Wedge acknowledged him by pointing. Phanan asked, “Assassination?”

Wedge hesitated over his reply. “If you can find a way for us to infiltrate and surgically destroy an Imperial base without our enemies being able to call it assassination, I want to consult with you after this meeting. Other than that, under my command, members of this unit will never be assigned a task like picking off a speaker at an assembly or walking up to a target and knifing him.”

“That’s fine. I just wanted to know. I actually don’t mind assassination.”

Wedge gave him a cool look before continuing. “At the moment, we are designated Gray Squadron. Put in recommendations for a permanent name; if I see one I like well enough to choose it, the submittor gets a three-day leave on Commenor.

“Now, our roster. Most of you know one another. Because of our shortfall of pilots, Lieutenant Janson and I will be flying with Gray Squadron as well as being in command. Janson, incidentally, is a crack shot with hand weapons and fighter weapons systems; anyone who wants some extra weapons training should consult with him.

“Our next ranking officer is Lieutenant Myn Donos.”
Kell looked over to where the emotionless Corellian pilot sat, well away from the other nine. “In addition to his flying duties, Donos is our sniper.

“The rest of you are all of equal rank. For this briefing, I’m going to dispense with the tradition of arranging you by the date of your commission or by your specific flight experience; instead, I’ll rank you by your scoring during our pilot training. So first among equals of you flight officers is Kell Tainer. He’s our backup mechanic when we’re away from our support crew and is our demolitions expert. He also served with distinction among the commandos who helped take Borleias last year.”

Tyria gave Kell a wide-eyed look. She whispered, “Did you really?”

He shrugged. “I planted charges while my buddies returned fire against unfriendlies. Somebody thought it called for extra recognition.”

Wedge cleared his throat to regain everyone’s attention. “Next, Garik Loran—” He was interrupted as Face stood and took a bow; several of the pilots offered mock applause. Amused, Wedge gestured for him to sit, then continued. “Face is one of our insertion experts, proficient in makeup, speaks several languages other than Basic—”

Face called out, “Don’t forget, master actor.”

Wedge nodded amiably. “And sometime cook. You’re peeling tubers on kitchen duty tonight. Do you have anything else to add?”

“Uhhh … No, sir.”

“Falynn Sandskimmer knows a lot about ground vehicles, and is a Y-wing ace.” All glanced at the dark-haired woman from Tatooine; she stared back, an expression somewhere between hard-edged and actively hostile. Her look made her features, which under ordinary circumstances would have been attractive, rather forbidding. “In the absence of our support crew, she’s also in charge of acquisitions.”