Pilots were tiring.
Some machines destroyed, others damaged.
Incredibly, but fact: with Grand Admiral Thrawn's arrival, the duration of routine space battles had increased by orders of magnitude.
If Imperial starships used to spend half an hour, at most an hour, on such engagements, now those figures had grown significantly.
Which seemed unfamiliar, even alien, to many new regular fleet servicemembers.
Not so for Thrawn's flotilla veterans, for whom this was just another op.
But in any case, such a standoff first hit the enemy hardest.
If the first hour was Chimaera defense while the rabble attacked, now the sides had swapped.
The star destroyer's counteroffensive proved so successful that, frankly, Tschel inwardly scolded himself for missing how the Mirax and Booster Terrik escape pod saga ended.
Yes, he hadn't joked when saying he'd stuff them in a pod and send them straight at the attackers.
And he'd kept his word.
Whether pirates destroyed them or the smugglers escaped—frankly didn't matter now.
Horn couldn't leave the system—Sentinel and Eternal Wrath stood guard, plus their escorts and strike force.
Not even a Jedi could slip such a blockade.
"Returning to your question on using mass drivers as anti-air," the grand admiral said unexpectedly. "Still interested in my opinion, Captain?"
"Always, sir," Tschel hastened to say.
"Mass drivers are extremely effective weapons—no one argues that," Thrawn said. "Nor that most starfighters, and larger ships too, use deflector shields protecting only from energy attacks, not kinetic."
"Which boosts mass driver effectiveness."
"A credit has two sides, Captain." The grand admiral philosophized. "Laser, let alone turbolaser rounds move at speeds beyond mass drivers. Yes, at comparable speeds, the latter wins on impact mass. The issue is that with the same number of mass drivers on Dominion destroyers as laser cannons, the power draw from the solar ionization reactor skyrockets."
"Which directly impacts the whole ship's power supply," Tschel got it. "Yes, sir, I see now. Shame I didn't get there myself. And that they didn't teach it at the academy, where they beat all the civilian out of me, drilling in the fleet way."
"You're not alone, Captain," Thrawn stated. "The Imperial Remnants, partly understanding, partly rejecting the obvious, are rapidly losing quality in training their fighters. Battles with New Republic cadre will cull a good number of Remnant veterans with practical skills. And their places will go to those of your classmates unlucky enough to not drop from the 'accelerated training program' in time."
"Pity those guys..."
"Hardly," the grand admiral objected. "All adults. Each chose a side per their convictions. No mercy for the enemy, Captain, even if the face is familiar. Especially if familiar. A backstab from those closest hurts worse than death from a stranger's hand."
"I'll remember, sir," the Chimaera's commander rasped, eyeing the tactical display. "Scimitar bomber squadron, attack large transports in the formation center. Enemy's rotating fighters onto them—until we destroy them, this battle could go forever. And I have other plans for tonight."
***
"Scimitar-01" fired proton torpedoes at the battered Mon Calamari MC40a light cruiser, then veered away from defensive fire.
Tomax tried to escape the hurricane of fire from the advancing horde of ships, throwing the craft side to side, aiming to simply break out of the fire sack for a run.
But the opponents, having lost several cruisers and one sniffed-out old Separatist "Rebel," had clearly pegged these unknown, very nimble ships that always appeared nearby before inevitable big-ship explosions as a far greater threat than standard Dominion fighters.
Though, in Alex's opinion, the upgraded TIE interceptors equipped with low-power but actual deflector shields, plus launchers for shaped-charge missiles, had been quite the surprise for the foe.
As had the massed missile salvo from assault gunboats and the Raider-class corvette, which had turned more than one fleet squadron near Kessel to debris.
As soon as their ship's course stabilized, Alex lovingly stroked the laser quadlaser triggers with his thumbs, which he'd "bolted on" during Chimaera's refit.
Tomax had looked askance at this mod but wasn't thrilled that the power for broadside lasers now also fed the aft turret.
But Alex had pushed the change, reminding that now with more Scimitars and them proven in destroying enemy starships, better worry about the stern.
Cracking Scimitar tactics was easy—see them in battle once.
And survive.
Deflectors and PLAE were fine, but in situations like Sluis Van and now Kessel, where the melee of fighting ships demanded the crew get as far from the thick of it as possible and return for rotation, covering the aft was necessary.
Alex sent a burst of green plasma bolts and satisfyingly noted the reactor flare on the little fighter bearing the sonorous name "Z-95 Headhunter."
Even its deflectors didn't save it.
The crippled fighter peeled off, smoking from the ruined wing and half its engines.
The craft dove down and vanished into Kessel's clouds.
The flight engineer—who'd added "flight gunner" to his resume—hoped a soft landing wasn't in the cards for that foe.
But no time to ponder events.
For one downed ship, the enemy had three combat-ready.
And the enemy answered with a firestorm.
Plus a nearby-seeming X-wing cranked its lasers full, hunting gaps in Scimitar-01's defenses.
In moments, Tomax and Alex's ship slipped from the grinder, fully stripped of shields.
The commander bucked the vessel side to side, futilely trying to slip away.
One glance at the panels sufficed to see—deflectors gone.
Now nothing to cover with.
And one quadlaser against four undamaged enemy fighters was basically a signal gun.
But Alex kept firing and scored a hit: one pursuer—a TIE fighter—flared into a fireball and plummeted into Kessel's thin air.
No, that one definitely wouldn't live—flames even jetted from the canopy.
Crimson flashes blinded momentarily, but Alex, undaunted, squeezed the triggers and fired blind.
Vision cleared to find one pursuer's accurate fire melting the gun.
The targeting monitor died.
Now the triggers and remote gun control were just dead weight.
The flight engineer slapped switches, diverting aft dual buffer power to deflectors.
And just in time—the next X-wing pass shattered against the energy shield, no harm done.
Well, except stripping their defense again.
"Commander, we're shieldless," Alex reported.
"You think I don't know!" Bren snapped, and helmet audio filled with the gun's whine.
The pilot was clearing a path through the few foes darting across course.
Few as they were, they still hindered acceleration.
And per instruments, ahead lay only Kessel itself.
"Commander, doesn't it seem like they're herding us..."
"Not seeming! It is!"
So it wasn't imagination—the enemy was indeed driving them to a forced landing on Kessel's surface.
But what to do?
"I won't give them the Scimitar!" the major said, as if hearing his partner's thoughts.
"And I wasn't insisting," Alex noted.
"Fuel status?" Tomax asked.
"Less than a tenth," came the instant reply.
No sense sugarcoating.
With that fuel volume, not only no run—they couldn't even fly straight.
Too much burned in engines during maneuvers amid the enemy fleet.
And nearby, no safe harbor—let alone "friendlies" among small craft.
No rescue coming.
Fuel wouldn't magically appear in the tanks.
So—they'd been herded from Chimaera, boxed in, and prepped for a Kessel landing.
And there, the machine would be studied and disassembled to bits.
Win or lose—the Dominion bomber's data would leak "sideways."
Meaning, internals of the PLAE and craft principles would be known...
No need to guess—in a couple months, the shrewdest black-market traders would sell full schematics, maybe even Scimitar and PLAE parts.
Unacceptable.
So...
"Cabin pyro cartridges checked?" Tomax asked.
"Yes," Alex replied tensely.
So it would be that, which he hadn't wanted to think about since Scimitar launch.
"Chimaera OCC, this is Yatagan Leader," Tomax's voice sounded in the helmet. "Enemy forcing landing. No chance to extract craft. Fuel critical. Ordnance expended. Preparing crew ejection, awaiting pickup at surface point three-seven-seven. Correction scale six."
Which, translated to Basic, meant: take the correction number, divide by coordinate count—three here—and add the result to each digit of the stated coords.
In other words, the real search spot for the pilots post-landing: point five-nine-nine.
Simple and effective.
"Yatagan Leader, understood," the controller's voice came. "Hang in there, boys, sending help."
Yeah, right.
Just like that, sending a lone shuttle through the whole battle for SAR?
"Five-second ready." Bren ordered. "Activate self-destruct."
"Tomax, you know that'll just break the machine, not total destruction?" Alex asked.
Self-destruct assumed at least twenty percent fuel left—then detonation would vaporize the craft.
With eight percent max, best hope was wrecking most structure, maybe the PLAE going critical.
"Do as I say!" Tomax bellowed.
"Ejection ready," Alex confirmed, checking harnesses, pyros, and armed self-destruct indicator.
Under pilot and flight engineer's seats: emergency kit with all needed to survive on surface till SAR arrived.
Nyeah... Lately pilots rarely dropped from sky to ground—FRT mostly fished "lucky ones" from space.
The alarmed swarm of attackers whirled in space as the Scimitar dissolved into Kessel's white mist, suddenly diving straight for surface.
Alex instinctively gripped his seat as the ship tore heavy cloud wadding.
Then dozens of laser beams struck them.
But missed, true...
Hundreds of icy streams screamed full voice, pouring into cracked armor fissures: air hissed out.
Damn!
So they hit after all.
Cockpit depressurized from the enemy's unaimed fire.
If instruments and the stench seeping through the console were believed, they'd taken a solid hit.
Scimitar-01 descended steadily.
Or rather, "unstoppably plummeted."
Tomax clearly tried keeping moderate descent speed to not burn up in thin air.
The wing commander clearly had something in mind.
Somehow he needed to keep the Scimitar intact, not shattered.
Likely because in such thin air, bits breaking off at hypersonic descent wouldn't burn proper, giving foe analysis chance.
But a moment later, Alex grasped the commander's plan for the speed bomber.
Piercing upper atmosphere layers, the Scimitar slid toward ground—right over one of the gigantic air factories.
The factory's colossal engines catalyzed rock and pumped cyclones of breathable gas mix through titan pipes.
And the doomed machine, ceasing to burn, accelerated to design max.
Fuel remainder indicator plunged steadily.
"In seven seconds activating PLAE," Tomax ordered. "On command, ready to jettison cockpit—I won't make it."
"We won't go through the planet!"
"We don't need to. Just maximize impact speed," Bren stated.
Alex got the commander.
Activated PLAE would blow on impact like any warhead would envy.
And the major's target wasn't random.
"Go!" Tomax yelled.
Alex, hand on ejection lever, yanked it up simultaneous with his gut slamming spine as the speed bomber made its final dash.
The two-sentient cockpit, with hideous screech and whistle, shifted vector, borne sideways by solid-fuel rockets carrying both crew and meager gear far from landing site.
The enemy X-wing appearing astern the Scimitar fired helplessly, hoping to blow the craft before target reach.
Failing lock, they opted to destroy it, avoiding too much damage.
But the X-wing's lasers lacked agility to reach critical PLAE systems, safely armored.
Cockpit lateral accel let them, at respectable distance, watch the giant plant pierced by the speed bomber.
For a fraction-second nothing happened, then a massive fire-smoke pillar rocketed up, turning the plant's updraft into a fire tornado.
Into which the X-wing flew.
Wings and engines sheared clean off.
And the pursuer, like a dry fallen leaf in wind, was left to physics, tumbling wildly in vacuum on inertia.
Other aero fittings shattered when the pilot futilely tried breaking free using repulsors, it seemed.
Alex's triumphant yell fittingly scored the bright sight of the flaming ship.
And then Kessel's surface, and the air plant itself, bucked like a bronc.
A huge fire cap, like Alex had seen only in slides of Mandalorian nuclear strikes (and that long ago), rose over the Scimitar wreck.
The shockwave rippling out flattened structures, toppling the weakest into charred ruins of what remained.
The blast spun the cockpit, engines dying against the maelstrom.
Through rising wind howl in punctured hull cracks, trying to affect things somehow, Alex bellowed:
"Try restarting them!"
But Tomax had no time to reply—the Scimitar-01 cockpit slammed into Kessel's lumpy hard ground.
***
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