He got four acknowledgments. He switched to Allegiance's frequency. "Red
Flight to Allegiance, come in. This is General Antilles, and this is a direct
order. Allegiance, come in. Acknowledge our transmission."
There was no answer. He hadn't expected any. The pilots of Red Flight
were on their own. He switched back to Red Flight frequency. "Announce
readiness. Leader had two lit and in the green."
"Two standing by, one hundred percent."
"Three, ready for a furball."
"Four is green-lighted."
"Up on repulsors." Wedge suited action to words by bringing his Blade-32
straight up two meters. Ahead of him, at the hangar exits, mechanics' crews
cheered, but whether it was for Red Flight's success or merely for the fight
to come, Wedge didn't know.
"What's our first order?" Wedge asked.
Tycho's voice came back immediately " 'Whatever they expect us to do, we
don't do.' "
"Correct, Two. Red Flight, come around one-eighty degrees." He swung the
nose of his Blade around until it was pointed directly toward the thin sheet-
metal rear of the hangar. "Arm missile systems. On my command, fire your
missiles and all speed forward. Readyfire."
Four missiles flashed instantaneously to the rear of the hangar and blew
the sheet-metal panel into oblivion.
Wedge kicked his Blade-32 forward and began climbing as soon as he
emerged through the hole.
His lightboard sensor data was confused, made erratic by the tremendous
smoke cloud he was climbing through, but it clearly showed a half-dozen Blades
hovering over the hangar, noses depressed, pointed toward the exit. Had Red
Flight emerged the way they were supposed to, they would have done so right
under the guns of this ambush party.
Wedge switched his weapons control to rear lasers-then switched them back
again. "Red Flight, hold your fire until we're clear." He put his attention
into climbing as fast as he could.
Had he fired and missed, had an ambusher Blade been hit and exploded,
collateral damage would have punched through into the hangar, toward the
front, just where the Lovely Carrion Flightknife mechanics waited.
His lightboard showed his pilots tucked in so close that he couldn't
detect them as individual signals. Below, the ambushers above the Lovely
Carrion Flightknife hangar were breaking up, beginning their climb in Red
Flight's wake.
Other groups of flyers, circling at some distance, were turning in toward
Red Flight. Two high-altitude formations began descents. Altogether, Wedge
counted at least thirty enemy aircraft arrayed against Red Flight.
Thirty against four. In the past, he'd bullied his way through such
impossible odds, usually through use of stratagems set up well in advance.
Here he had nothing like that working in his favor.
Red Flight was barely a thousand meters up when the first enemies, two
separate half flightknives, neared attack range from overhead. "Loosen up the
formation," Wedge said. "Remember it's me they're likely to concentrate on.
Tycho, stand off, we're not in a normal wingman situation here. Fire at will."
The dozen enemies screamed down at them with lasers blazingeight or nine
of them concentrating fire on Wedge. Wedge returned fire with his lasers but
mostly concentrated on evasive maneuvering. He juked and jinked from side to
side, set his Blade into an axial rotation to constantly change the image he
offered to enemy light-boards, and fired by reflex as targets presented
themselves.
He saw his lasers shear through one incoming Blade and stitch scoring
marks on the fuselage of a second. He felt his own craft shudder as lasers
hammered at his fuselage. Then he was past the div ing wave of enemies, seeing
themseven, not twelveturn in his wake and follow. Behind him, Reds Two,
Three, and Four followed in very loose formation.
Ahead of his flight path at several thousand meters was another blip,
diffusing into a new squad of foes. Below, the fighters who had intended to
ambush Red Flight at the hangar were now joining the Blades who had just
exchanged shots with them.
"I have an idea," Wedge said. "Two, Three, Four, pull back and climb.
Stay within a half kilometer of me. Set one missile each to detonate at a
proximity of two hundred fifty meters. On my command, fire at me, then be
prepared to prey on targets of opportunity."
"Leader, this is Three. Are you crazy? Acknowledge."
"Three, Leader. That's affirmative." Wedge put most of his attention on
heading toward the new incoming enemies, but kept track of two sets of range-
to-target numbers those for the Blades ahead and the ones for those behind.
When the two sets of numbers were approximately equal, and just out of
standard weapons-lock range, Wedge fired one missile at the targets ahead and
then pulled a tight vector to port. In doing so, he rotated axially to expose
his belly to the enemies ahead, his top hull to the enemies coming on from
behind.
He saw puffs of smoke, the beginnings of missile trails, from the enemies
ahead. "Fire," he said. He rotated again to narrow his cross section and
climbed.
And his own pilots fired on him, as he'd instructed.
He felt a momentary chill of fear. What if the missiles malfunctioned?
What if their proximity fuses ignited at a much closer distance than the
quarter kilometer he'd dictated? He'd be dead before he felt the impact.
But three missiles detonated into huge clouds of opaque fire directly
above and ahead of him. His Blade-32 rocked and shuddered as it met the
overlapping shock waves from the explosions, and he heard countless metallic
pings and clanks as shrapnel hit his hull.
A moment later, he was enveloped in fire and smoke. In his mind was a
picture of the three explosions, placing him toward the westmost edge of one
of the blasts; he snap-rolled, emerging belly-up from the cloud, then dove
into it again. There was a moment of clear air as he crossed the open space
between explosion clouds, then he was in fire and darkness again.
There was another detonation nearby, close enough to rattle his fighter
and hurt his teeth. He heard equipment shattering within his Blade. Then he
was in open air again. He glanced left and right, then at his lightboard,
which now featured a crack across its crystal surface.
A moment ago, twenty-three Blades had been aimed at him. Now, only
thirteen remained, their formations scattering, and the other members of Red
Flight were now diving upon them, loosing lasers and missiles as fast as
fingers could pull triggers.
Wedge could see it in his mind's eye, the way the opportunistic fighters
had seen his lightbounce image improve to offer a target lock, the way they'd
armed missiles and lasers and opened fire. He'd risen into friendly smoke
clouds and the incoming missiles, deprived for a crucial second of their
original target, sought out new ones... and found them in the oncoming
friendly Blades. He looped after Tycho, dropping two missiles into the enemy
formation before switching to lasers as he closed.
; "One, Two. You all right?"
"I'm unhurt, Two." He glanced at the board that was supposed to display
damage diagnostics. Text scrolled across it at a rate too fast for him to
read, and he wished fervently that the Blades offered a diagrammatic display
of damage the way New Republic fighters did. "Some damage to my Blade." He
cocked his head as he realized he was hearing a new, persistent noise.
His stomach sank as he recognized it. Whistling. Air was passing through
his cockpit making a constant, unmusical sound as it did so. "I've experienced
a hull breach," he said, keeping his voice unemotional.
If he couldn't patch the breach, he couldn't reach space. Couldn't make
the Allegiance.
Now was not the time to worry about it. Ten enemies still remained, and
his Blade shuddered as he suffered a hit from the rear lasers of the fighter
he was pursuing. He put more of his personal attention to evasive maneuvering
and continued stitching his target with linked laser blasts.
Fire and smoke erupted from its cockpit and it began a slow descent
toward distant grain fields. Nine enemies to go. No, eight. The fighter in
Hobbie's sights exploded spectacularly, turning into a ball of black and red
and gold that would have been beautiful if it had not been fueled by a human
life.
Hobbie's Blade was now trailing smoke, a thin stream of it emerging from
beneath his cockpit. "Four"
"I see it, boss. Still functional."
Tycho pulled into wingman position behind and to the starboard of Wedge's
Blade. Through his viewport, Wedge could see that Tycho's canopy was cracked
and starred, with char marks indicating laser hits.
Wedge swore to himself. Tycho couldn't make space either; a canopy
damaged that way would blow out under the pressure of its internal atmosphere.
And these pilot suits weren't self-contained environment suits the way TIE
fighter rigs were.
That left Janson the only one of them with a spaceworthy Blade, the only
one who could reach Allegiance and tell the story of what had happened to them
on Adumar.
Then Janson's Blade was enveloped in an explosion cloud.
He emerged from the far side of the cloud intact, or so Wedge thought at
first; then his Blade began rolling to port and Wedge could see that the
starboard wing was completely gone. "Punch out, Three," he said. "Janson, come
in."
An enemy Blade diving in from directly above tore his attention away from
Janson. He looped to starboard, causing the incoming Blade to alter his dive
angle to follow. Tycho decelerated, slowing to the Blade's rated stall speed,
and stitched the enemy with lasers from below. Wedge felt a tremendous bang to
his rear quarters but watched, through his rear viewport and on the light-
board, as his attacker exploded. "Good shot, Tycho."
He heeled over until he could see Janson again. Jan-son's Blade was now
sideways, its lone wing pointed toward the ground, and was beginning a looping
descent to the ground.
But Janson was free of it. The pilot was in open air, a meter-square flat
device above him; he hung by straps from it. Wedge nodded; this had to be the
Blade's pilot-descent mechanism, a primitive repulsorlift device that lowered
the pilot at a safe speed.
Safe, that is, unless someone was still shooting at the pilot. Wedge saw
a Blade diving toward the defenseless pilot. He saw Janson pulling out his
blaster pistol, as though a weapon that small could do any significant damage
to a fighter, and open fire.
The incoming fighter exploded. Wedge resolved to find out just what sort
of pistol Janson was carrying and then saw Hobbie's Blade whip through the
new debris cloud, lasers still flashing.
That left six enemies against three damaged Red Flight Blades.
"Stay with Three, Four," Wedge said. "When he reaches ground, land, join
him, and tell him to take you to that club where he ate pastries the other
night."
"Acknowledged, Lead."
"Two, you and I are going to finish this."
"I'm your wing."
"No, drift out in case they keep up the same tactics."
The six enemy Blades had gathered into formation, two triangles, and were
on an approach vector. Wedge saw the two formations drift apart, each triangle
heading toward one of the Red Flight fliers. He nodded; they'd finally learned
something about not just mindlessly prosecuting the most prestigious enemy.
That was too bad; now was not the time for them to get smart.
In these slow-maneuvering Blades, missiles gave his opponents a serious
edge. He had to take that edge away.
He slammed his control yoke forward, diving straight toward the Cartann
streets beneath him. He thought he detected a moment of hesitation in his
enemies before they dove to follow.
It was a gambit he was reluctant to take. Back at the air base, he'd
taken steps not to endanger civilians. He could afford to do so then; that
choice did not have a direct bearing on his continued survival. But now it
did, and he had to make use of available cover... or die.
Below, he could see only traces of lights indicating the outlines of
streets.
But those streets were often blanketed by wires and cables at all
altitudes, impediments that, even if they didn't tear his fighter's wings off,
would throw him into a building side...
intersections. He made for the square light pattern of an intersection.
Columns of light poured past him toward the ground, his pursuers' lasers.
He felt his stern rock from a graze impact. He returned fire with his rear
lasers, was satisfied to see one shot punch through a canopy. It didn't kill
the pilot, at least not immediately; that Blade turned clumsily away, heading
off toward the air base or the forests beyond.
Wedge put his repulsorlifts on at full power and pulled back on his yoke,
a full-strength effort to pull out of his dive. He angled to slide in under
the unseen canopy of wires and cables, hoping he'd correctly calculated their
height aboveground, and a moment later found himself roaring down a mere three
meters above street level. Ahead, a repulsorlif t transport clumsily turned out
of his path.
Behind him, his two pursuers imitated his maneuver. The first one came in
too high; Wedge saw it shudder, then saw its port wing disintegrate from an
impact with one or more of the cables. The Blade spun, its other wing
crumpling under multiple successive impacts, then crashed down onto the
street, skidding forward almost as fast as Wedge was flying. In his rear
viewport Wedge saw pedestrians dive out of the way of the flaming thing, saw
it brush aside an abandoned wheeled transport as though the thing were a
millimeter-thin flatscreen.
The other Blade continued relentlessly onward.
As he reached the next intersection, Wedge yanked the controls hard to
port, turning into the new lane... and reduced strength to his repulsorlifts.
His Blade dropped nearly to the street's surface and continued its spin until
it was pointed
back the way it had come. He brought strength up to the forward
repulsorlifts, canting his bow upward, and slammed his thrusters forward as
hard as he could.
His pursuer whipped around the corner, making better time than Wedge,
coming so close to the building face on the outside of his turn that only his
repulsors kept him from grazing the building. His nose was elevated far above
Wedge's position, the pilot obviously expecting to catch Wedge in his sights
farther down the street.
Wedge fired, his lasers raking the Blade from bow to stern at close
range. He saw the underside of the Blade open up like a seam bursting under
pressure. The Blade wobbled, roared past over Wedge's head, and slammed down
into the street, skidding for a block in the direction it had been going,
knocking wheeled transports aside like toys.
Wedge's lightboard showed only buildings all around him. "Red Two, report
status."
"All clear," Tycho said.
"Let's see how clear we can get. Coming up to join you." Wedge sent his
Blade forward to the intersection, then rose on repulsorlifts until he was
well clear of the ubiquitous cabling. He pointed his nose up and climbed.
In seconds, Tycho joined him from points east. If anything, he looked
worse than before, with laser scoring all along the starboard side of his
fuselage. His cockpit was now shattered; his Blade couldn't hit very high
speeds without wind hammering Tycho. "We're not going to make space, boss," he
said.
"If I recall the maps right, Cartann's border to Halbegardia isn't
outside our flight range," Wedge said.
"We'll use terrain-following flying to stay below their lightbounce
sensors, and"
His lightboard suddenly showed two fuzzy blips moving toward them, one
from Giltella Air Base, one from Cartann Bladedrome. Within moments they
resolved themselves into clouds of smaller blips, two entire flightknives. In
the distance, Wedge could see the running lights of the incoming Blades; they
were closer to one another than they were to Wedge and Tycho, but they would
be on the New Republic pilots within seconds.
The tactical part of Wedge's mind, the one that was often at odds with
the Corellian part, calculated odds and strategy. The answer wasn't good. Even
if they could have ordinarily managed twelve-to-one odds, their equipment was
too badly damaged to let them compete at full strength. Nor did they have time